The Case of the Cursed Curfew

A screaming star came across the sky. It was a meteor, about the size of a water buffalo but less hairy. It slammed into a billboard on the side of Route 1, and now drivers have no idea to turn left at the next light to get to McDonald’s.

More importantly, the meteor unleashed an alien virus that turned humans into flesh-eating zombies. The virus spread quickly, but thanks to the zombies’ ridiculously slow gait, most people survived by simply walking away from them.

The zombies only came out at night, so the authorities enacted a curfew from sundown to sunup. It was during this curfewed time that people gathered together in a single dwelling each night to toast their survival and the halcyon days when neighbors did not crave each other’s brains.

During one of these shindigs I met Paul, the man in charge of supplying the night’s beer. But as the sun sunk beyond the hills and the door was deadbolted six times, Paul looked at me with a panic I haven’t seen since I accidentally walked in on my sister’s friend in the shower with my waterproof video camera recording.

“Ace, I left the beer in the truck!”

We stared at each other, judging which was more dangerous: telling the party guests there was no beer, or venturing outside with the bloodthirsty zombies.

Six disengaged deadbolts later, Paul and I raced down the driveway to his truck. The zombie horde, fresh from their day-long slumber, quickly picked up our scent and started after us, their tattered clothes whipping in the wind. Thankfully they marched as fast as elderly snails, so we made it easily to his F-150 and locked the doors as they surrounded us.

Being a pessimist, Paul said, “Guess we’re stuck here all night.”

Being an optimist, I answered, “At least we have the beer…and all night to talk. So, how’s business?”

“My 24-hour diner? Because of this darn curfew, I’m losing money hand over fist.”

“If the zombies catch you, you’ll be losing both your hands and your fists.”

“Since the curfew is from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m., I’m only open half my usual time. Needless to say, business is horrible, especially since my old regulars are now half-dead flesh eaters. Do I have any coverage to reclaim my loss of business income?”

“This is the first zombie-related insurance question I’ve ever received. And just like that zombie’s arm right there,” I said, pointing to a woman climbing over the hood, “I’m stumped.”

How would Ace survive this question?