As the snow receded and the lake melted, every morning I would brace myself before I went out into the backyard. 

There I would find them twitching against the fence, or wriggling between the dead stumps where our trees used to be. 

With a sigh I would pick up my shovel and go out and smack at the grasping fingers, the blinking faces. 

It was bad enough fighting off a zombie apocalypse the first time. Why couldn’t the damn things stay buried?