Leafy greens covered the trees around Mike. He shifted the gas filled backpack, hoping it would be sufficient. The blowtorch and chainsaw were standard equipment since the zombie apocalypse. Somewhere in here was a whole forest of mobile undead trees. Ravenous, leafless, oh, and of course brainless, the zombie trees struck without warning. Last night they grabbed the best damned dog Mike ever had. He was going to destroy them.
A strange sound drifted with the wind, rising and falling with the lilting sound of a song bird. Mike followed the sound, keeping alert for the telltale creaking and moaning that the undead trees made, and a sharp eye for leafless trees. If this led to his death, so be it. The song grew more distinct and he began to catch odd lyrics about a brook tripping and falling and praying larks. Beyond a stand of bamboo, in a wide clearing, Mike spied a nun perched on a large rock.
“Come closer, Mike. I assure you I am very much alive and unafflicted with zombieism.”
“Do I know your name?” she said, with a big grin. “Rover, of course. My name is Sister Mary Margaret. No time to talk. I’ll lull the trees. The rest is up to you.”
She picked up her ukulele and began strumming the melody to “My Guy.” Those zombies never stood a chance. A sharp wind cleared the smoke from the smoldering deadwood. With a wave, Sister Mary Margaret flew away carrying her ukulele.