I darted down the hall, grabbing the company fire axe on the way, and burst into the parking lot behind the building. Where was my car? Crap, I thought, I hope it didn’t get towed.

Suddenly I heard a horn blaring at me from across the lot. I looked up to see my 1997 Honda Civic racing maniacally toward me at a highly uneconomical speed. Behind the wheel… was Zombie Karl Marx.

What the? “That’s my car!” I screamed as I somersaulted out of the path of the speeding vehicle of death.

The zombie screeched to a stop and leaned out the window with a cackle. “Everything is mine,” he snarled in broken English, “including your brain.” With one lumbering motion he had the seatbelt off and the door open and was leaping through the air, teeth bared, in the general direction of my skull.

“Not so fast, Red!” I hoisted up the axe like a baseball bat and swung victoriously. The blade was happy to separate Marx’s head from his shoulders, but not before spraying fresh zombie blood across the front of my best Polo shirt.