“We’ve got to get out of the suburbs,” I told my very pregnant wife as I escorted her to the car. Thankfully the vehicle was still in the driveway.

A mob of undead bearded housewives was forming in the cul-de-sac. One of them spotted us and the group began to lumber forward.

“What’s causing all these zombies?” asked a worried Nicole.

“The specter of communism,” I said grimly. “The only safe place is as far from the city as possible.”

We stepped in a wide circle around the inflating corpse of the Zombie Karl Marx that had fallen from the trellis. It was swelling to the size of a small shed and suddenly burst as we passed, like a huge gory water balloon. Sprinkler-drenched chunks of stomach and kidney rained on us from across the lawn.

“When doing yard work on a hot summer day,” Nicole observed, “it’s important not to get dehydrated.” She was always looking out for the hired help.

We got in the car and I threw it in reverse, plowing through the crowd of approaching Zombie Karl Marxes before heading out.