Part 2: Post-Gallows Humour

SOME ADVICE

You have to enjoy the little things, or you'll go insane. Savour every twinkie, so to speak

Forget when you can

Know when to quit

Don't refuse help from a friend, or withold it from a stranger

Never ever pretend to be a zombie. I've know people who'd shoot them on sight

 Just to let you know, I'm not one of those. You may have read my thingymajig about my first hand to hand encounter with a zombie, and would know that I'm not cut out for combat. I have to wait for them to actively bother me..... mainly because I'm lazy but also, call me a hopeless romantic (this isn't going where you think it is) I still hope for the ending of Shaun of the Dead. I'll let you be the first to domesticate a zombie, though. You can skip the middle bit, if you like, and go straight to the end.

   Anyway, this time I'm going to talk about my first winter with zombies. Some background on western mountain winters: he wind blows relentlessly with a kind of cold that pierces right into your bones. A face left uncovered in the wind hurts. You learn to keep covered in the fells, and you end up looking kind of like an arab in the desert. It doesn't snow often, but the rain freezes on contact with the ground, and when it's like that, it's wise to stear clear of the roads. On the other hand, it does provide a fantastic oppertunity for some post-gallows humour.

   Last October I remember well, that was a good day. Me and my friend had been staying in an old quarry-house on the fell, and when you look out at a grey sky, after days of monotony and boredom, to see the rain freezing on contact with the window sill, it's impossible to keep the ideas out of your head...especially if you are both teenagers.

   Wrapped up from head to toe, wearing make-shift slate armour (surprisingly effective, although a little heavy. We only wear it on our fore-arms because that's where most people get bitten) we made our way up the fell, caught ourselves a herdie, and carried it down to town, with 3 stops in mind: the lumber yard, DIY shop, and the bowling alley.

   We arrived at our chosen battleground. The hill glistened madiningly at us, promising fun. Wearing cheap crampons from the DIY shop (not that we actually had to pay for them) we tied a rope from the same shop to the sheep and slid it down the road until it lay suspended a couple of metres from the bottom. My friend then took out two pieces of wood and clapped them together in a crude facsimile of gunfire. Sure enough, the zombies came.

   And the fun began.

   A dozen or more zombies gathered at the bottom of the icy road, and each time as they tried to reach the sheep, forewards they'd fall and slide back to the bottom. The runners were better. I remember one: he took a few steps back, and then ran, full speed, at the hill. He took maybe two steps before going road runner and face planting the road, sliding to the bottom and kcocking over the gathering croud like skittles.

   This is where the trip to the bowling alley came in. In a duffle bag at out feet lay 13 bowling balls, we each took one out, nodded to eachother, and took aim at the zombies at the bottom of the hill.

ZOMBIE SKITTLES

Ice is somewhat a puzzle to zombies

Zombies take "try and try again" to a whole new level

Zombies make a very strange noise when hit by a high velocity bowling ball

Full flips by zombies are not unheard of

 Watching a zombie try to keep its balance is akin to watching a drunk try to perform the Riverdance