The lone zombie shambled toward the clubhouse, where we watched, armed with nine irons and pitching wedges. I turned to Adam and said, "Par three, buddy."
"You're on, Sev," Adam replied, and grabbed a bucket of balls, ran out to the porch, and teed up.
His swing was a bit off, and he hooked it, but the ball stayed on the fairway. Not bad, considering the threat of gruesome zombie death that potentially loomed.
"Okay, this time I got him!" Adam shouted, and teed up another ball.
This time, his shot was picture-perfect, and the ball whizzed through the air, nailing the shambler square between the eyes. The head caved in like a soft melon, and the living dead creature crumpled to the ground.
"Nice shootin, Tex," I yelled. "Now, get the hell back in here and grab a bite to eat before you become the bite that's eaten!"
Adam grabbed his bucket and ran back to the clubhouse. He locked and barred the door, and together we pushed a filing cabinet across the threshold.
"How many balls do we have left?" he asked.
"Not enough," I said. "There are never enough."