i've heard reports of a 70-80% chance of a zombie pirate fleet somewhere off the apostles headed directly for duluth.

I just showed this to my husband saying how funny it was.  He replied, "Zombies are not funny.  Zombies are dangerous."

snow or zombies ... a shovel still works

They don't freeze, but as we have learned in various movies, they slow down considerably, thereby increasing our chances for escape.

that might actually make a decent zombie flick, zombies and blizzards, is that form lurching at you through the snow a zombie, or your best friend all bundled up?

I'm with HBH on the swimming part, doubt it's a serious threat, but hey, 'famous last words' so I'm on the lookout for sure.  Pretty sure they'll be close to useless on land for a couple of days with all the snow drifts ... at least at my house, I'm too lazy to shovel.  And I doubt any of the absentee landlords in the Hillside are gonna be burning up the highway from the twin cities to come and shovel at other places around here, so I think we're safe for awhile.

I'll be chasing them down with my snow blower.  I apologize in advance for any splatter on my neighbors houses.

I still say the hillside is a likely safe/safer zone.  So, no offense, but I dispute the 90% takeover projection.  The city of Duluth won't be running plows here (except on lake, 6th and Mesaba, for the commuters) until long after every alley in woodland and congdon is pristine.  So either way they are going to move much faster in other parts of the city, plus as we are all a bunch of criminals here in the city core (or so I've read in the DNT comments section) I think they will meet stiff resistance here by bored gunslingers with no one to rob over the holiday.  No offense Barrett, but I think you got the prediction wrong. Slightly wrong, I don't doubt light impact in Hermantown and Proctor at all, there's nothing there, (great schools though,ask any realtor).

can zombies drive snowplows? I see a brianbarber illustration coming on

Doesn't matter if they are the rage zombies of 28 Days or the traditional Romero/Max Brooks zombies.  Winter will slow them down.  Traditional zombies will freeze only to thaw out in the spring.  The 28 Days zombies are essentially living humans, just with their thought process taken over with rage.  Exposure to the elements will slow them down as well.  The upper midwest would be a haven of zombie free safety during winter until the spring thaw.

I tried those brain cookies and they work on zombies! We invited a couple in to eat. They love them. One tried to eat me though. But then we threatened to kick him out and he hasn't done it since. Hey bob! Don't touch the xbox!

If that isn't an homage to the introduction to Under the Fang, I don't know what is:

***

My testament.

It is written on yellow paper, a scrap I found in an upstairs room. The girl with brown hair spoke a few words this afternoon. She said something about hiding her kitten in a closet. Mr. Bramson heard her. So did Mrs. Carrick. Then the girl with brown hair curled up in a comer and started screaming. It's almost nightfall now, and she keeps screaming. Mr. Bramson found a knife in the kitchen. It's very sharp. The other women say they think they can calm her down, and Reverend O'Neill is holding his crucifix and praying with his eyes squeezed shut. I hope they can make her stop screaming, before the light's gone. But if they can't, I'm glad the knife is sharp.

I wanted to write down some things. I will fold this paper up and put it into a hole in the wall, and maybe someday it will be read.

They've won.

They came in the night, to the towns and cities. Like a slow, insidious virus they spread from house to house, building to building, from graveyard to bedroom and cellar to boardroom. They won, while the world struggled with governments and terrorists and the siren song of business. They won, while we weren't looking. And now that we see them—now that we know them—it's much, much too late.

The ancient hoards are the conquerors now, and we who survive are living under the fang. From Moscow to Tokyo, New York to Los Angeles, they have come to power. I have a question: What will they do with this world they've won through years of nighttime combats and bloodsucking in the dark?

We have a shortwave radio. It's Dr. Kelsing's, actually. He keeps the batteries. His wife never says much. I think she's about to crack, because she cries all the time. Myself, I'm done crying. There's no use in it anymore. Besides, I think they can smell tears. Anyway, we listen to the radio and we find out what's happening in other places. Some humans have joined them, become their pets and slaves. They need humans, to watch their hiding places in the daylight. Some humans will do anything for a taste of power, even power reflected from those who cast no reflection. We heard an interesting broadcast from Switzerland. They've got a center there, up in the Alps. It was a science broadcast, and it talked about the hybrids their doctors have created that merge us and them. In Rome one of them calls himself the new Caesar. He's started the Roman games again, and I have to say I couldn't listen to most of what was going on. In one of the so-called entertainments they had humans with no arms fighting other humans with no legs. The winners, I guess, got bitten while the losers just got dead. Is that what the human race has come to? A desperate scrabbling in the dirt, like crabs and grasshoppers?

Well, they won't take me alive. I swear to God they won't. But we still have hope. It tatters away a little more every day, like an old battle flag, but without hope we'd all need sharp knives.

We've heard the stories. A few bands of brothers remain, scattered in the desolate places. They keep fighting and hiding, just like us. Dr. Kelsing told me he heard not all of them are drunk on blood all the time. He said some of them—a few—have pity for humans. Some of them, he believes, might be trying to help the human cause. I don't know about that. Every bloodsucker I ever saw was only interested in getting his or her rush. They do have their politics, though they can't seem to agree on anything except feeding time. Their kingdoms rise and fall, their cities become fortresses, they declare war on each other, and God help the human herds who get in their way.

Let me write this down and make it clear: It's not a good time to have warm blood flowing in your veins. To them, that blood is like heroin and crack, speedballs and Nuke and Blue Crescent all mingled together and calling them. To them, our blood is the damnedest drug you ever could imagine. We're full of what they need to get through the day. Lucky us.

Love among the bloodsuckers? Is there such a thing? We were talking about this today: me, Reverend O'Neill, and Mr. Applebaum. Maybe they know something of love. Reverend O'Neill thinks they might. Hate there certainly is, and plenty of that. They've taken over the television networks, the satellite systems, the radio stations, the newspapers, and the magazines. Everything's geared to the graveyard shift these days. They've created their own fads and sports, their own fashions and mythologies. They make movies and write books in a bizarre mockery—some would say a twisted memory—of what it used to be like to be a human being.

Where and when did all this begin? Everybody has a different opinion. I believe it was a government experiment gone wrong. Mr. Bramson believes they've been working up to this fever pitch for a thousand years. The Careys believe it has something to do with the ozone layer. That new kid, who wears the heavy gauze wrapped around his neck and wrists, believes it's a disease, like a plague. He's the one who brought in the sack full of hand grenades.

These bloodsuckers aren't like the ones who used to be in the movies, who used to slink around wearing black capes and turning into bats. No, these suckers are real. They know computers and lasers, space stations and Star Wars. They know advertising and how to sell to the masses. They know Nautilus machines, steroids, and Nikes. They know too damn much, because, after all, they used to be us.

One thing they don't know is mercy. At least, I've never seen any of it from them.

So where do we go from here? Do we die as cattle, hanging from our heels and bleeding into designer bottles? Do we rise up and try to fight, or is fighting a useless dream? Where do we go, in a world transformed into a cauldron of black magic, dark hearts, and unholy desires? Is there any true hope for us, crushed under the fang?

Or would it be easier—and so coldly sweet—to offer our throats and wrists and let the humanity rush out of us in a red tide, so we can learn what it's like to live forever?

I don't know.

The light is going away now. Going away, much too quickly. It will be chilly, when the sun disappears. The other women are still trying to calm that girl down, but I think she's gone over the edge. I don't think she can come back. I see it in Mr. Bramson's face and in the Reverend's too. Blue light is lying on the blade. If we have to draw straws again, I'll go out of my mind.

The ruins in this part of the city are like jagged teeth. We lie under them, waiting.

Why doesn't God hold back the night? Why?

They'll be prowling, soon. Prowling in their packs, looking for an easy high. We have the hand grenades. I can smell the fear, starting to leak out of everybody's pores. Mine too. The light is going away.

Stop that screaming. Stop it. Stop it, stop it, or we'll have to stop it for you.

Like we had to stop my husband when he went over the edge.

Being human in these days is a terrible responsibility.

What shall we do, if the screaming won't stop? What shall we do?

Night is falling now, falling over the cities and towns, over the fields and forests. Night, that time of dreadful trial. In the dark, someone will have to pick up the knife.

And now my testament is done.

Well... there's that Star Wars reference though...

Zombies freeze, no problem.