With the recent sad passing of George A Romero, I've come to reflect on the amazing achievement of leaving a whole genre behind for the world to enjoy. While the news has become a showcase of his greatest contributions, I can't help but see striking similarities to my toddler's worst tantrums. (NB: Not to be confused with meltdowns. Clarifying post coming soon!)
The piped music of the shopping centre is thrust into the background. Everyone is staring with abject terror at the lumbering body forcing its way through the crowds, as people scatter like bowling pins. His force is unstoppable and his will, iron.
Destruction is inevitable.
First your eardrums will go. The screams will make way, with a *pop*, to fog your brain with high-pitched screeches. Fight-or-flight is giving you too many options:
Try to blend in? Pretend it's not happening? Tackle it head-on?
You're panicking but you do your best to avoid bodily fluids; rampaging snot and furious teething drool are thrown around. As is the Boots display stand. Other mothers instinctively guard their child for fear of the contagion spreading.
Then the decision is made for you. Their raging eyes are locked on target.
The future is doomed, your saving grace and motivation is to not become one of them. Do not succumb to the blood-shot rage. Save yourself!
As a last-ditch attempt you try to bribe and lure them with what they really want (this time it's a sticker book, as opposed to brains). But just like an unreported zombie bite, you roll up your sleeves to pretend everything is fine. After that carnage you just want some quiet, but something gnaws inside because you want a scream and a reward, too.
Maybe some Walking Dead and brains... I mean, ice cream...