Escape from the Zombies in the Village by the Potomac

Terry Gross was not having a good day. She had failed to find any food beyond the Safe Zone perimeter. And then she had been unable to locate a new well for fresh drinking water. She had, however, managed to shower nude beneath a wondrous waterfall. She had also pleasured herself as birds and other woodland creatures watched amazed.

One raccoon even let out a loud shrieking noise to coincide with Terry’s beautiful completion.

And now here was Scott Simon, former host of Weekend Edition Saturday, bursting out of the woods and into the village where Terry lived in a small hut, surrounded by other small huts. Scott looked disheveled and confused.

“Zombies?” asked Terry, nonchalantly.

“What else?” answered Scott, tiredly, taking a seat on the muddy ground. He was wearing knee-high leather booties and he was holding a spear fashioned from a stack of unused NPR promotional bumper stickers.

Scott grabbed a hunk of raw meat and began to chew. Since quitting his job as host of Weekend Edition Saturday in order to fight zombies and vampires full time, his appetite had increased thrice-fold. It was ferocious. Blood dripped sexily down his strong chin. It pooled at his feet. Terry loved Scott’s feet. The blood only made them that much more sensual, even if they were hidden by knee-high leather booties.

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Terry, putting down her knitting needles. She was knitting a sweater for the cold, Northern Virginia nights, which sometimes brought temperatures in the summer down to the mid- to high-70s.

“Sure, go for it,” chirped Scott, taking another large, animal-like bite of meat. Blood was still dripping down his chin, but he did not seem to mind. The scraggly man-beard would keep most of it out of his beautiful mouth.

“Last night, when you were lying betwixt my thighs, after you had made love to me, after we had talked about many issues, including local politics, what were you really thinking about?”

Scott laughed long and hard. He was used to Terry’s incessant questions about all matters sexual but this one was way beyond the realm. Terry really was absolutely insatiable!

“I was thinking of you, baby,” answered Scott, who was now polishing his sword with an old 88.5 Jazz Radio fund-raising towel. He finished and then stuck it back into the NPR tote bag he used whenever fighting creatures bent on destroying him.

Terry whispered, “Scott, I like it when you pay attention to my most womanly parts.” Terry began to unbutton her smart two-tone stretch-wool blazer from Saks Fifth Avenue, the only store still open after the apocalypse. Terry was wearing her typical outfit: blazer, slacks, white pantyhose, comfortable sneakers that were easy on her bunions and that made walking enjoyable. The entire outfit was sharp but not too sharp as to attract unwanted attention. It did the trick. Terry was down to unbuttoning her bra when Scott stopped her. He wasn’t going to get caught by zombies with his pants literally down by his ankles again! Last time had been such a close call! At just the thought of that, Scott giggled. But in a manly way.

“Now just hold on, woman,” Scott said, sticking out his right palm as if to say, Stop! “There will be plenty of time for the sex thing later,” Scott continued. “But right now we need to take care of some bizness.”

Scott had been pronouncing “business” as “bizness” ever since interviewing LL Cool J, a young African-American rapper, actor and reality star, whom he had not previously been familiar with.

Terry nodded sadly. Love making would just have to be put on hold.

Terry and Scott walked quickly over to the thatched hut of Robert Siegel, senior host of NPR’s award-winning All Things Considered. Siegel had recently been badly hurt by a flying dragon named Stardust, and unfortunately was now missing an arm. Also, he was nude.

“Knock knock!” announced Terry and Scott, after they both arrived at Siegel’s hut. They giggled. They had said “knock knock” at the exact same time!

“Come on in!” screamed Robert. He was lying on a straw mat, with broken bifocals perched on his handsome nose. Also, he was nude.

“Nice package!” exclaimed Terry.

“Cash on delivery!” said Scott.

Everyone smiled. It was fun to make each other laugh. It felt good. Meanwhile, Robert stroked his erect ziz, which meant “penis” in Navajo, a language he had heard about on A Way with Words, public radio’s lively show. But more out of nervous habit than anything else.

“What are you reading?” asked Terry, inquisitively.

“New collection of John Updike poetry,” Robert replied happily, extending a greeting with his one remaining arm. He continued to stroke his hard ziz.

“Updike’s poetry is absolutely terrific,” opined Terry. “But I did not know that he had any poems left!”

“There’s always poems left!” quipped Scott. All three laughed long and hard. When they were finished, they heard a piercing scream, emanating from just beyond the perimeter of the village’s Safe Zone.

“That sounds like Diane Rehm,” shouted Scott, holding up his shield made from recycled issues of unread Congressional Quarterlies.There were thousands.

Diane screamed again. It was haunting.

In a former life that now seemed so long ago, Diane Rehm was host of the esteemed Diane Rehm Show, out of Washington DC. In this world, however, Diane was a werewolf fighter, among the best that this new country had to offer. She was also a magical fairy who lived deep in the woods and performed enchanted spells that put to sleep anyone within hearing distance. She had that way about her.

Terry, Scott and Robert Siegel ran from out of the hut to see what was going on. Robert was still wearing his bifocals and clutching his impressive chogi, which also meant “penis” in Navajo. He was also hopping. He had one leg. The flying dragon Stardust had also taken care of that.

“Diane!” screamed Scott. “Are you okay!”

“I’ve been bitten!” screamed back Diane from the woods. “I’ve been bitten by a zombie!”

Just then, a zombie came rushing from out of the woods. He looked terrible and smelled even worse, most likely because he was no longer alive. He was wearing pleated khakis and a blue oxford work shirt. He was E.J. Dionne, an NPR political commentator. Next to him stood another zombie. It was Peter Sagal, host of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. Or at least he used to be. Now he was a zombie.

Terry, Scott and Robert stood before the approaching zombies. Well, they thought, at least this isn’t as bad as the last zombie invasion made up of former Republicans bent on destroying NPR once and for all!

Suddenly, Terry removed her blazer from Saks Fifth Avenue, and then her T-shirt that read: EVEN ZOMBIES CAN’T STOP ME FROM READIN’. This was one fight she had to perform topless!

As the sun set against Terry’s glorious pair of breasts, nipples erect, pointing north, the wind began to howl and so did the zombies. Diane Rehm also howled. She had undressed in the woods, just like Terry liked to do. Although they could not be seen, Diane’s breasts were also glorious, but her nipples pointed south. No one knew why. It was a mystery.

The sun began to set. And—


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