They raged through the town. Eyes clouded over, maggots crawling on rotting flesh, feet dragging on the ground as they shuffled down the street, moaning and groaning, hungry for brains.
The townspeople locked their doors and boarded their windows, but the zombies tore through them like paper. They smashed windows and walls, and soon screams filled the night air.
Soon the creatures had covered most of the wooded village. The only place left to ravage was a tiny little house at the edge of the wood, home to a sweet little grandmother. Hearts sinking, the few families left watched as the monsters approached the home of the woman they all knew and loved, and braced themselves for her screams.
A minute passed. Then ten. Then twenty. And soon, the neighbors began to remove their fingers plugging their ears. There were no screams, no wailing. Staring at each other in befuddlement, they pressed their faces to their windows. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight outside.
Standing in the middle of a pile of limbs and guts, hands on her hips, a machine gun slung over her shoulder, was the 90-year-old grandmother. One small scratch peeked out from under a kitten-patterned band-aid, but other than that she was no worse for the wear. She beamed down at the villagers as they stepped out of their houses, mouths slack. “Anybody up for some chocolate-chip cookies?” she said sweetly.