I grabbed the mug from the nightstand and heaved open the window. Zombie Karl Marx had the crazed look of an undead Soviet landscaper in his eye (and the infested look of an angry maggot horde in his beard).

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked, throwing the scalding liquid in his face. It sizzled, searing his decaying flesh away from the bone like the worst kind of chemical burn.

“Hey, I was drinking that,” protested Nicole.

“From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” I rebutted.

Zombie Karl Marx was screaming what I could only assume were very naughty words in Russian. I gracelessly wrestled the weedeater from his arms and pushed the monster from the trellis with my free hand.

He fell, zombie limbs flailing, for about a second and a half before partially impaling himself in the back on an in-ground sprinkler head. The corpse began to bloat as it filled with water. I turned away.

“Baby, it’s not safe here,” I told my wife. “Don’t worry, I sort of have a plan. Now let’s go.”