Late last summer, I was headed back to North Carolina after a trip out to Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, and Idaho where I'd met my sons for a few days of riding -- they stayed in Washington when we moved here in 2007. When I got to the Mississippi, I found most of the bridges were still out from last year's floods. As it neared dark, I spotted an abandoned farm house looking lonely and surrounded by very tall grass. I turned around, rode through the grass where I thought the driveway had been, and parked around back where I set up my tarp, ate a can of beans, and went to bed.
A couple of hours later, I woke to thunder and lightening. A few minutes after that, the rain began to pour down. It was purely black all around. I heard one animal tear the life from another, presumably smaller, one. I felt disquieted which made sense in the thunderous din.
Then the screams began. At first I assumed someone was murdering hitchhikers in the old house. (It was so close to dark when I pulled in, I'd only glanced inside the place, saw its ruinous state, and assumed it was indeed abandoned.) What could I do to save the hitchhikers? I couldn't even distinguish my hand from the darkness.
In the darkest regions of my mind, I remembered my sons telling me all about . . . Zombies. That did it. My 57 year old heart went to the brink of self destruction and my mind ran away with me. I just trembled as quietly as I could and prayed. When the zombies are really there, right there in the black yard with you, but you can't see anything, what good are preparations?
Either the prayers worked, Bearshark the Bonneville T100 kept the zombies away, they didn't see me in the dark, or, maybe, I decided, it was a screech owl.