I thought maybe I’d want to eat people, as they do in the movies. Everyone was dead though, and when I bit into my wife, she hardly flinched, and I was not satiated because the dead had nothing for the dead.
The five-day Monopoly marathon was over, there was still nothing to do, undead or otherwise, so I tried to get drunk; obliterated, actually. But when your blood no longer pumps and your stomach and liver and brain can no longer be flooded with vodka, you are doomed to an eternity of crushing sobriety, and that, in the end, is the worst part of being a living dead.
Unsure of what to do after the fever passed and we no longer hungered for human flesh and brains and blood, we broke out the Monopoly board. With no use for sleep, with no need to piss or shit, and with no desire for food of any kind, we played and played and played; three days later, I had hotels on the orange properties.
I lumbered back to my home and wondered as I walked, is this the way I move now? When I walked through the open door, there stood my family, equally perplexed by their new lifeless bodies, with the word “undead” hanging on their lips.
My face within inches of the broken mirror, I stroked my dead, gray skin and was grateful that, for however long I’d wander the earth in this post-life state, I wouldn’t have to shave. And my hair — my hair was intact.
I refused to believe what I had become, or what I had done, until I found the cracked mirror on the sidewalk among the silenced wreckage once known as Derwood, Maryland. There I was, growling involuntarily, staring back at a gray-skinned fiend with milky green eyes, blood crusted around my cracked lips, and more of the red stuff soaking my formerly pristine white T-shirt.
The coroner felt suddenly uneasy as she opened the door to leave the room full of freshly dead corpses awaiting autopsy. Turning around slowly, her heart stood still at the sight of all ten cadavers sitting upright on their tables, black body bags still zipped over their mangled, reanimated remains.
Benny hunted ghouls in the Shriners’ cemetery, doubting they existed. When a Fez tassel slapped his face and a corpse gnawed on his skull he believed, briefly.
“What happened to the good old days when you didn’t have to worry about reserving a spot in an underground vault to protect you from global super-tsunamis, zombie outbreaks and total nuclear fallout?”
“You mean the days when people pooped in a pot and flung it out the back window and then died in massive numbers from fecal diseases?”
I think I know why I despise vegans so much.
They are practically as far away from being a zombie as possible.
They love you for your brains and your stamps.
Zombie postal worker.
Tragedy marred an otherwise peaceful and routine zombie flash-mob in Vancouver, BC, when a troop of heavily armed schizophrenics laid waste to the costumed celebrators with guns, torches, and clubs.
Said police, this is what comes of crying wolf.
It finally happened!
The guttural voice chanted “the restless dead weary of their bondage”.
It’s Grandma on the phone!
I stand on the balcony in the best cold weather gear money could once buy, hefting a pickaxe and looking at the frozen things on the common below.
They said the Zombie Apocalypse would be the end of us all; all we had to do was hold out until Winter hit Montreal.
I ran as fast as I could through the narrow hallway, hearing the herd of undead behind me, snarling and groaning, the sound of their shuffling feet making me panic even more. I was about to make to the exit when I felt a tug on my leg; I fell.
When the Zombie Apocalypse came, the first to die were the writers. [290 BLANK PAGES FOLLOW].