The car slid off the road and into someone’s yard. And that someone came shambling out of his house. I squinted, making out the swarms of fl ies following him through the front door. Th e man was naked from the waist up, as if maybe he’d been lying in his recliner, having a beer, watching his favorite football team snort cocaine and run interference when some fool came driving up onto his lawn. Now he was coming toward the car. His face was rotten fl esh, his head badly ripped apart, and you could see into the gorge, his bloody brain. A substance similar to jelly curdled out his ears, and a putrid cream, more like a creeping yeast, dribbled from his nipples to mat in his chest hair. I screamed like an eight-year-old girl watching Th e Exorcist all by herself in a big empty house at midnight. I expected this rotten dead dude to reach into the car and tear me apart like a rag doll. But instead, he said, “Howdy, mister. You’ve reached your destination.” His voice was damply husky. “You’re in the Land of the Dead.” He grinned, and there were maggots squirming in the gaps between his rot-black teeth. I screamed again as I stepped on the gas. I still had no traction, because I was in the dirt. Mud sprayed all over the place, hitting the windshield, the house, and the swarms of fl ies retreated a bit. Were they afraid they’d get dirty? And that man with the exposed brain was still coming toward me. He was getting closer and closer and closer, stumbling like the zombies in those Romero movies. You know the kind—they’re so plodding, you can’t fucking believe the other living-meat cast members can’t outrun them. And yet I wasn’t exactly getting away swiftly, was I? Yeah, it’s always easier from the armchair nightmare’s perspective. Th en the car jerked forward. It started moving. I wobbled onto the road, did a donut on the blood-drenched surface of the street, and turned the car in the opposite direction. “Come back. You belong here,” the man said, spitting worms. Read more. . .