Boston was dressed up
It isn't every day that you walk into a train station full of zombies, unfortunately. But last Saturday I did. Absentmindedly, lost in my own thoughts, hidden between the musical comfort of my earphones, I pushed open the door to the North Station. As usual, I was assailed by the station's usual public-restroom acrid smell as I walked down the hallway. The station had its usual crowd: businessmen, bums, scruffy students, and those shady people who hang out in public places for no apparent reason. I walked past a businessman in a suit, an old lady in a purple fleece sweatshirt, a homeless looking man in blood soaked rags... wait, what? Double take. He had scars across his face, purple bruises under his eyes, white pasty skin, and a trail of bloody gore from his mouth and down the front of his shirt. Had my long awaited zombie apocalypse finally begun? Did this mean that I didn't need to finish my masters? No, wait a second, what was that? A vampire? Zeus? a convict? And some...