Everyone Un-Died + My Gardener Bit Me: The Oral History of the Zombie Apocalypse

The Light Of The Goddess

Lila Fernandez, 30

Aromatherapist

I knew there was another problem when everyone un-died and my gardener bit me.

Not that things were going so great even before that. Like everyone else, I went home after the powers-that-think-they-know-everything said the Robot Apocalypse was over and we could all return to our lives.

Which was pretty hilarious. What lives? Yeah, great, they got the power back on, but where was my wi-fi? Where was my Hulu? And what happened to Alexa? Am I really supposed to walk around the house turning my lights on and off by hand? Talk about winning the battle but losing the war!

Anyway, I was meditating in my sacred space surrounded by my Reiki-charged herbal votive candles when some rude person started pounding on my front door. I assumed it was one of those grubby homeless people looking for a handout, so I told him get lost so I could go back to pursuing enlightenment. But he wouldn't stop so I grabbed a can of Mace — made from all-natural, certified organic ingredients — and went and opened the door.

I was totally surprised to see my gardener Óscar standing there. First of all, he had died like two weeks ago. I heard he'd been killed in a piñata accident or was knifed at a soccer game or some other way that brown people usually die. Long story short, my hydrangeas were starting to look a little scraggly.

Second of all, Óscar was on time. For, like, the first time ever. And while I don't believe in perpetuating racial stereotypes, even when they're totally true, let me just say than when being dead makes you less lazy? That's what we call a teachable moment.

I was, like, "We've been over this, Óscar. You know you're not allowed in the house. Use the neighbor's bushes if you need to go." And he just looked at me with these empty, watery, bloodshot eyes and went, "Rrrrrr." Which was really weird, 'cause he usually rolled his R's, being Latino and all.

I started to shut the door, but then he tried to stop me and he was stronger so the door flew open and I fell backwards and he fell forwards and then he bit me on the upper thigh. Luckily, he didn't manage to break the skin — which is what happens when you grow up in a country without dentists — but he did get his, like, dead-guy slobber all over a perfectly good pair of Lulu Lemon Speed Shorts.

Ew! Ew! Ew!

I mean, like, say what you want about the robots, at least they weren't gross. And when they did their business, they were quick about it — got in, got out — kinda like my ex-boyfriend, except without all the annoying apologizing. "Sorry, baby, but you're so hot, I couldn't help it!" Sometimes being so desirable is a curse. Ya know?

My point is that, yeah, the robots would slaughter a bunch of people, but then they let you get on with your day. It's called manners.

Plus, the robots used these laser energy thingies, so most of the corpses didn't smell all that bad. Have you ever smelled a roast pig at a luau? It was like that. Which reminds me: It's been forever since I've had a decent Mai Tai.

But Óscar smelled awful.

Even for a gardener.

Even for a Mexican gardener.

I Maced him in the face, which did absolutely nothing — I can't wait til we get Yelp back because I'm going to rip that organic Mace company a new one! I'm talking negative a billion stars! — and Óscar, he was, like, grabbing me and trying to bite me again. Which was totally self-defeating by the way. I mean, the first step in getting reincarnated is admitting that you're dead. Denali is not just a mountain in Alaska, as the saying goes.

[NOTE: That is not how the saying goes.]

And by the way, does anyone know how to get dead-guy slobber stain out of swift ultra light fabric? 'Cause I sure don't. I didn't almost graduate from Sarah Lawrence so I could do my own laundry. I had graciously offered Phillipa — excuse me, I'm told she changed her name to Mirabel for some weird reason — anyway, I told her she could be my house cleaner again. At a discounted rate, of course, since she only has one arm now. She got all huffy with me, but I was like, "Come on, Phillipa, would you pay full price for a car that was missing a wheel?"

So, I was feeling all hash tag metoo with Óscar all over me without even asking for my consent or at least giving me a roofie so I wouldn't have to live with the memory of being groped by a guy with a leaf blower.

Now, I don't believe in violence. I'm a Buddhist and the Buddha teaches that all life is sacred. You know, within reason. He obviously didn't mean bugs or Jill Stein or baristas who think they should be tipped for just handing you a cup you have to fill up yourself.

But Óscar, despite what he thought, wasn't alive so I kept kicking him in the head until his skull caved in. Which you'd think would have been the end of it, but he still wouldn't let go. So I grabbed one of my Reiki-charged candles. It was the Creativity Candle, with cinnamon, iris and rose oils, but that didn't seem right in this instance. Neither did the Motivation Candle, because I wasn't sure which one of us it would motivate. The last thing I needed was a can-do dead guy powered by sunflower, myrrh and frankincense.

Then I found it: My Protection Candle!

With my hands shaking, I held it up and chanted with all my might.

The light of the Goddess surrounds me!

The love of the Goddess protects me!

This very expensive candle better be worth the money!

And you know what? It worked! As soon as I said those words, Óscar suddenly turned and ran away! Which just goes to show the awesome power of prayer.

Oh. And fire. I might have dropped the candle on Óscar's pant leg and his coveralls went up like an exploding oil derrick — probably because of the residual tequila fumes — and fell down dead, or re-dead, I guess, near my koi pond.

Either way, it just goes to show that miracles can happen to anyone.

Or, at least, me.