Just before sunrise, they come.
We hear them in the streets, moving sluggishly, bags of bottles clinking as they shuffle hopelessly through the suburbs, hungry.
They take their time, they have all the time in the world, they are dead to us.
We pretend to sleep, but we can hear them outside, rummaging. Eventually our cell phone alarms sound and we get up, make some coffee, turn on the morning news, eat a hearty breakfast, shower, change.
How different our morning routine is from theirs.
We know if we just don’t make eye contact and walk quickly and briskly to our cars, get in, start the engine and leave, chances are they won’t approach us.
But still, it’s hard not to look as they tear open our rubbish bags and start sifting through our leftovers, driven by a hunger that is unrelenting and is satisfied only by eating scraps we couldn’t manage because we ate until we were full to bursting the night before.
The zombies come on Thursdays, it’s easier to think of them that way.
Just don’t make eye contact and everything will be fine.