We are all Infected

It's an overcast Spring day,
the ground saturated and
squishing under our boots.
My four year old daughter
is helping me clear what's
left of our perennials, lying
dead in the dirt, making
room for the new shoots
to rise up from the earth.

A six foot cedar fence
separates us from the
wider world where the
obvious evils lurk and
probe for an opening.
I hear a twig snap and
see shadows flicker
between the slats.
She laughs, guileless.

Curiosity draws me to
the perimeter to take
stock of the situation,
peering through the gap,
when an undead eye
appears inches from
my face, and jabs my
chest with its rotting finger.
We are all infected.