Ehrm… Okay, here we go: this is going to be the most surreal blog post ever published on “A Slight Apocalypse. Not so much because of its content, but rather more because of the weird events taking place all over the world. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about - raving, blood-thirsty zombies have a knack for getting noticed.

The first time I noticed something out of place was a couple of days ago. I heard some sort of chanting coming (or so I believed at the time) from the chapel down the road from my house. I was wrong. The source of the various incantations weren’t crazy Christians hailing the Allmighy Lord and Son. I couldn’t spot a single living thing in the Chapel, but when I listened closely it seemed as if the cemetery itself had come… alive…

This chanting only lasted a couple of hours before it stopped. When I told my friends what had happened, they told me I was a loony and that I should probably pay a visit to my good friend The Medicine Cabinet. That’s why I didn’t say anything more about it until today. Yeah, well the jokes are on them now!

As the bell rang midnight the living dead arose from their eternal sleep and decided that breakfast was required. Fortunately for me, I’m a light sleeper and I normally don’t start counting sheep till some time after the new day arrives. I was watching yet another episode of Angel (one containing a zombie actually), so when I heard grunts and shrieks outside my bedroom I mentally signed it off to my brilliant surround-sound system. But when three of my windows got smashed simultaneously and three maggot-eaten heads peeked inside, my mental illusions got shattered as well.

As I’m sure you’ve experienced, there are three things that always, ALWAYS, soar through your mind when you’re attacked by zombies: 1. WTF? 2. OMG! 3. That’s disgusting!. The order of them are moot, but everyone gets them. My inner dialog went something like this:

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? (accompanied by a very manly high-pitched yelp)”.

“What do you think it is, stupid? It’s a fucking zombie, that’s what (yes, even my inner voice happens to be sarcastic).”

“But zombies doesn’t exist. At least not here, in good ol’ Norway! I’ve clearly been watching way too much corny movies as of late.”

“To that we may agree. However, it’s seems pretty obvious that these are real, live zombies that are here solely to eat you.”

“They’ll eat you too, you know. They love brainzzz and you are my personal inner wise-ass, so you’ll be the first one to go. Me, I’ll probably run around headless for a while like a decapitated chicken, spurting blood all over the walls.”

“Mom won’t like that.”

“Fuck Mom! I’m about to be eaten alive here, do you really think I care the slightest about tapestries???”

“I would if I were you…”

“You are me.”

“Exactly, that’s what I meant.”

“No, it clearly wasn’t.”

“Hah! But how cannot I be that since I said that I was me since you myself said that I was none other than a part of entity to which we both belong?”

“Stop using all those fancy words, dammit! We’ve got more important matters on our hands than arguing whether or not I should spend my last moments ruining my mom’s favorite wall-tapestries.”

“Correct. So what should we do, then?

“Kill ‘em?”

“A fine idea. You do it. Now! What are you waiting for?”

“(…) What should I kill it with?”

“There are knives in the cabinet.”

“Yeah, lets chop them to pieces with some rusty, knock-off Ninja knives. That’s just brilliant.”

“You got a better idea in this head of ours? I don’t think so - and I should know, seeing as I AM YOUR FUCKING HEAD!”

“Right. Knives then.”

So that’s what I did. Not that it helped a lot. They kept walking around even when I had severed they rotten heads from their rotten bodies and flung them out the window. If you think a normal zombie is dumb, you should see a headless zombie. Man, if I wasn’t in mortal peril I might even have taken the time to mock them with a snarky comment.

My mom and dad live in the top floor of our house, thus leaving the entire ground floor to me. Going outside seemed like a poor idea. The cemetery is after all only a couple of hundred meters away and I knew some of the dead, old people that had rested ever so peacefully there. They were mean bastards every single one of them and being zombie couldn’t have improved their moods much.

Going upstairs was the soundest plan I could come up with. There were my parents, one of which is master with the shotgun and the other one can perform marvels with a kitchen knife. The zombies had declared war on our home, but Lotta and Co wasn’t going down without a fight.

Our house is full of big windows which the zombies could easily shatter with a well aimed punch. We decided to abandon ship and take the fight to them. Heck, you’ve seen the movies. When the zombies come a-eating, people always run and hide until they’re found and has to make a last stand. We weren’t too keen on last stands - they tend to be so… final, you know?

I picked up my double-barrel shotgun and threw a rifle onto my back. I filled my pockets full with bullets and shells and grabbed that machete my father brought back from Italy once. My mom picked up her kitchen device of choice and papa only brought his semi-automatic shotgun. Trust me, you don’t want to mess with my dad when he’s angry. You just. don’t. do. it.

Peter Jackson would have been proud of our zombie-killing skilz. We hacked and slashed and blasted undead bastards until only small pieces remained of their rotten bodies. It was a gore fest like no other. Soon we had cleared our property of all zombies, but the screams echoing through the valley indicated that not everyone had been quite as adept when it came to killing undead relatives. We had a choice: either we could stay at home and defend with all we had, or we could load up my dads car (which is a big and blue Mitsubishi truck) and go a-slaughtering. Of course we chose the latter.

My mom, not being as good with guns as me and my father, took the wheel. I sat in the back seat, window all rolled up and my dad sat in the front, looking like terminator or the Incredible Hulk or some other kind psycho super hero who likes to bath in zombie intestines. As I said: you don’t wanna mess with da’.

We were too late to help our closest neighbors. It didn’t bother us much that they’d been infected by the zombies (at least we think they got infected. You can never be cautious enough when you’re killing undead) because they have always been a nuisance. Killing ‘em was easy pickings.

The Dread Blue Wagon of Death rolled through our village, giving everything we had in our fight against zombies. However, they just kept coming and coming and soon we were almost out of both shells and gas. It was time to return to base to reload and resupply.

And here we are. My dad and mom are sitting on the roof with long-range rifles, giving the makers of counter-strike a run for the money when it comes to head-shots. I got appointed with making contact with the rest of the world, hoping that the army could come and lend us hand. Alas, the army is occupied elsewhere. According to news reports, Tromsø is nearly burned to the ground in an attempt to kill of all the zombies that came cluttering out of the various cemeteries. Oslo is a battleground and the rest of the world is no better.

The world is ending, people. The long awaited apocalypse is hear. We’re all going to die eventually, but lets not think of the future. In the future we’re all dead. I won’t stop killing these zombies, but I’m fully aware that I’m losing. No one will come and save us - all that stands between me and undeadness is a sinister mom with a bloody carving knife, a horrifyingly efficient dad and my own shotgun.

And I’ve only got two cartridges left…