Killing zombies in a riverfront apocalypse

 

I'd avoided the actual killing of zombies up until this point, but now I was face to face with an undead Rick Johnson, armed with only a flimsy steak knife. He was freshly dead, so all that tripe about stabbing them in the brain and them quickly going down was not applicable. His skull and sinews were very resilient, not some rotten eggshell that was easily penetrable. 

I stabbed him in the eye and kept trying to find that sweet spot in the back of the eye socket. But he kept on struggling full force as the knife bent and slid around, missing its target. The whole process was taking an unbearably long time and was making me squeamish. I finally got him to go down, after slowly, deliberately pushing the steak knife all the way through to the back of his skull.

Prior to that I had been in the river, which, in itself, was a bad idea. It was flowing too fast, and there was a raging meat grinder of a waterfall, that one would certainly get sucked into, just a quarter mile downstream. I was there wading in waist high water, attempting to talk my friend Rob Peavey out of going that way. 

In my attempt to dissuade him, as I described what would happen if he lingered in that part of the river, my exact description of events began to happen to me. I was inextricably sucked toward this class 5, unsurvivable funnel of churning death. 

Once again, as inevitable death approached, I found myself teleported to a different locale, within the same zombie infested reality, unaware of how I'd gotten there. I found myself holed up in a house with several other people, one of whom had left the door open just enough for Rick Johnson to gain entry.

I felt really bad after killing him. Being so freshly reanimated, it was like killing a normal human being. I didn't get that whole zombie killing emotional pass. It felt like I'd just killed my friend Rick with a steak knife, which was a pretty nauseating, guilty feeling.

I've been having terrible insomnia lately, waking up in the middle of the night for hours after getting to bed at the already late hour of 1:30 or 2. Last night Whiskey barked for the first time in more than 6 months. Longer, possibly, I don't know. 

I can't remember the last time he barked. But this was a deliberate, albeit raspy and out of practice bark of territorial invasion. He did this on 2 separate occasions, and I went outside both times with a flashlight to see what he was objecting to. All I found was a cat in some proximity to the backyard, but certainly nothing that he wasn't used to seeing every day. 

The guinea hens were all lined up, perched on the back fence. Whatever it was remains a mystery, although I did chase the cat away for good measure. I have to check on the guinea hens, since the cat is obviously going to persist at his attempts to hunt them down. I may have to take things up a level by repatriating him to his home next door and sealing off the perimeter.