“Ugghhhh…” a hungry zombie sighed somewhere off screen.
“Where is he?” Nathan cried, his Xbox controller rattling in his hands.
“I don’t know… but he’s close!” JD replied.
On the TV, Nathan and JD’s characters hid behind a storage crate. Blood was everywhere, decorating the grey floors and walls. Something, like glass, fell and shattered.
“Darn, I’m out of ammo.”
Wave after wave of zombies barraged the two, helpless figures. Stuck on a zombie ridden aircraft carrier, there was no place to run.
“Get him with your knife then!”
“Okay, I’m going to check behind the crate.”
Nathan toggled his character to the edge of the giant box. He let a breathe, and turned—
The zombie jumped down from the top of the crate. His blue, dry hands thrashed and bashed against Nathan.
“Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!” Nathan screamed as he jabbed the zombie with his knife.
“Hold on!” JD whipped around the edge of the crate, carrying a rocket launcher.
“Where did you get that?”
“Don’t ask, just watch out!”
The entire earth slowed down for a split second. A football sized cylinder spiraled towards Nathan and the zombie. Nathan threw down his controller and covered his eyes. JD smiled.
Then the screen became one, big, red, cumulous cloud.
Sometimes, as a Dallas Baptist University Writing Center consultant, I come in contact with Grammar Zombies. The other a day, one slumped into the Center. Her face was pale and black bags, large enough to store baby carrots, wrinkled under her eyes. She placed her essay on the table, fell into the chair, and pointed at the paper.
“Uggggg…” she said, the smell of Red Bull bombarding my nostrils.
“Sorry,” I responded, “could you please repeat that?”
I glanced at the paper. The girl’s professor had left a note: “Please do not use first or second person.”
I turned towards the student and asked, “Is there first or second person in this essay?”
“Arrrgggbaa,” she moaned, shrugging her shoulders.
I read the first sentence. “I really love Cajun food; it’s to die for.”
Written by Ben Jones