“Arm yourself!” he hollered. I grabbed the biggest sword I could find. “What for, Mr Watkins?” I asked.
“Zombies, that’s what!” he cried. Of course my sword wasn’t actually a sword, but a broom handle; his was an umbrella.
The two of us, weapons in hand, swung wildly, as we chopped the heads off the zombies. When the battle ended, we celebrated.
“A round of beer for everyone” he said. Beer wasn’t really beer either, but ginger ale that my mom had set on the table in the backyard.
Later that day Mr. Watkin’s wife came and got him. Again.
This tale of bravery and senility was brought to you courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to check out the other stories at the link below.