It pushed the door open slowly, shuffled in, arms outstretched, just like in those movies her grandson liked so much. Eunice was too old to be scared; even in her youth she hadn’t been the type to panic or faint.
It took some doing getting out of the recliner, and even more doing getting all the way into the kitchen without her walker. She managed to make it, though, with enough time to spare to grab her grandson’s Louisville Slugger.
When she finally spoke, Eunice’s every word was punctuated by a blow to the zombie’s head. “This… is… my house!”