I arrived at the house around 3:30 and left the car in the driveway. “Honey?” I called as I ran up the stairs. I rounded the corner into the bedroom with more than a little trepidation.

There on the bed sat my wife Nicole, reading a Clancy novel with a cup of coffee and a bag of gummy bears on the nightstand. “Oh, Chris, you’re home early!” She had no beard. She didn’t speak with a Russian accent. She weighed about what one might expect for a woman carrying around nine months of fetus inside her.

Thank God for maternity leave.

“Honey, we’ve got to get out here,” I urged. “Now.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Zombie invasion. I’ll explain later.”

Suddenly I heard a weedeater start up just outside the window. “What was that?” I shouted.

“It’s Thursday, the landscaping guys are here. Calm down.”

“No, that sounded too close.” I marched to the window to find someone had climbed the trellis and was staring right back at me. Someone named Zombie Karl Marx. In a John Deere cap, wielding gas-powered lawn equipment.