A young boy in a zombie-repellent orange t-shirt blows pensively on what looks like a whistle. But it’s actually a small frag bomb, which he hurls into the crowd of raging undead milling in the distance, dismembering a half-dozen groaning zombies and one undead cow. His friend clings to him for dear life and observes the hungry crowd in the distance as the exploded flesh of the zombies is blown across the whole decaying congregation.
Meanwhile, a nervous grandmother approaches from behind with something strange concealed under her headscarf. “Are you alright, madam?” asks the boy. To this, she growls maniacally like a tortured wolf, menacing them with her gangrened hands and wretched yellow nails. Just then the headscarf falls to the ground, revealing her swollen zombie brain pulsing up from her open skull.
“Run!” shouts the boy. But it is too late. They cannot go forward, lest they become appetizers at a zombie picnic. And they can’t turn back, for she is upon them.
Suddenly a strange man who’d been looking knowingly the other way bursts onto the scene and withdraws a glistening scimitar. “This zombie grandma’s getting ahead of herself,” he says. Then he raises his wide blade to the sky, and with one deft motion cleaves her undead body at the neck. Her rotting head rolls down the gentle slope of the street and into the crowd, where it’s ravaged by a hungry pack of rancid corpses.