Don’t tell anyone I said this, but most zombies are idiots.

            Most of my friends would give me shit for saying that. They’d tell me it endorses the stereotype among the living that we’re just a bunch of shambling, unfeeling monsters, but it’s true. It’s not our fault, though; that’s just what happens when every asshole and his mother is out to shoot you in the head. Man, that’s something the living fucking love to do. I get it, I guess. I mean, if I was gonna shoot something that was hungry for my giblets, I’d shoot for the bitey parts too. But shooting us in the head doesn’t, like, put us down or anything, at least not permanently. What it can do, however, is instantly make us functionally retarded.

            So far I’ve been pretty lucky. I mean, I’ve met a couple of gravers who’ve taken headshots and come out okay, but it’s pretty rare when catching one between the eyes doesn’t leave us walking into trees. Most of the hits I’ve taken over the years have been gutshots from freaked-out hillbillies, or rounds to the chest from former cops trained to put down perps with triple taps to the heart. Survivalists can be a pain in the ass, though. Movies have cemented the whole “headshot = killshot” mentality for those guys, and they already pop boners at the thought of lining up their crosshairs over some dude’s head anyway. Luckily, anyone who’s ever attempted a brain-plug on me was usually too off-balance from their presumably raging erection to properly line up their sight.

            Since my brain is pretty bulletless, I’m a lot smarter than most of my brethren. I mean, I’m not particularly smart. I may not even be the smartest zombie around. But, you know, I like to think of myself as pretty clever, at least when I need to be.

            The pain in the ass part, though, is that I can’t speak. Don’t know why, just can’t. I figure maybe I was in the ground a little too long before I rose, so, I dunno, maybe some crucial neurons got too shriveled up or something? I’m not a biologist, how the fuck should I know? I’m not the only one who can’t speak, though, not by a long shot. Most of us can’t talk, actually, but that’s mostly because a lot of us can’t get past the “shamble everywhere and groan” part of the day.

            Ugh. I’m so starved for conversation it’s unbelievable. Of the few things I can remember from being alive, I remember I used to hear about new mothers getting frazzled after listening to nothing but baby speak for six months. Shit, they should try going thirteen years hearing nothing but “aaarrrgghh” all day long. That shit gets old. Fast.

            Ah, crap. Fred’s following me again. I don’t think Fred’s his real name, but he’s one of those sniff-your-fingers-stupid zombies I told you about just now. And I can’t talk, but I can make vague sounds, and Fred seems to understand me the same way a Labrador understands words spoken with cheerful inflections. Fred dresses like he used to teach community college a long time ago, but what was probably a round of buckshot to the back of the head has rendered Fred inordinately fond of chasing sticks. As he gets closer I wave one in front of his face, and he immediately gives it a glazed look of anticipation. He follows it back-and-forth like a snake charmer’s flute, and if he had a tail he’d wag it. I hurl it, and he goes down on all fours and runs after it. When he catches it he starts chewing on it, like he always does, and that same look of disappointment crosses his face when he realizes he can’t eat it. Sometimes I wonder if he confuses those things for arms. Maybe that’s why he starts chasing them so eagerly.

            “Sorry boy,” I say, like I would to a dog. I feel bad for the poor dumbass sometimes. “I’ll find ya something to gnaw on soon.”

            Or, really, that’s what I try to say. What comes out is more like: “Raaarrrgghhhh, raarraarraaagghhhhhaahhhagahhhh!”

            Fuck I need somebody to talk to.

Chapter 2

            Fred and I are wandering around at the top of a hill. There’s a slaughterhouse around here somewhere, a big one. The meat’s rancid but, really, what’s gonna happen? We’ll get botulism? And anyway, it’ll work in a pinch if we can’t find any breathers to munch.

            I don’t know why, but we get hungry. We all get hungry, I mean, and we’re hungry a lot of the time. Our bodies work, you know. Mostly, anyway. I mean, probably not as well as they should, but…you know. We digest food, we heal…at least to the point we were at when we rose, though we obviously don’t, like, re-grow anything if we lose it. We feel emotions, as long as our brains can still let us. We even taste food when we eat it. The only thing we really can’t do is die, at least not without a fuckton of effort. Seriously, it takes a lot to put us down, even if we’re the ones trying to do it. I’ve known a few stiffs to get that way, actually. Lost souls who wandered off to sit in fires till there was nothing left.

            I feel bad for the ones that get that way. I get down too, sometimes, but you know what? Fuck that noise with the fire. Being a zombie sucks sometimes, but I’m pretty sure being on fire is way, way worse.

            In case you’re wondering, yeah, we eat people. I personally have eaten…like, well, probably more people than you’d care to hear about. When there’s human meat available, and we haven’t been fed for days, we can get so wrapped up in our hunger we go into a straight-up mob mentality. When that happens, frankly, there’s no stopping us.

            I think it goes back to our ability to heal. Our bodies are constantly trying to repair the damage from, you know, being dead people. And human meat is probably the most compatible source of…um…”spare material” to make repairs with. ‘Course, I could be talking out of my ass, but I can’t figure out any other reason why we go so apeshit over breathers, but only casually graze when we come across a butcher shop somewhere.

            So Fred and I are hungry, and I haven’t noticed any breathers around, so I’m heading down to the slaughterhouse. Fred’s ambling behind me, oblivious to when I stop, and he knocks my ass down. I look up just as he screeches to a halt. He sees what I see, and he looks back at me with what’s as close to glee as he can muster.

            People. There are people down there. Fresh people. Just down this hill.

            Fred tenses up to charge, but I smack him on the head with a stick and drag him back into the tall grass with me. Fred can almost pass for living, at a distance anyway, and he might be able to get in close, provided they don’t see the back of his head for a while. But if they saw Fred they might see me too, and there’d be no way of disguising what we are then. I’m…I’m a lot more conspicuous looking than Fred is.

            If they saw me, they would outright lose their shit. They would shoot me up like all the cool kids were doing it. There’s two kinds of zombies, see: zombies, and fucking zombies. And I’m definitely in the latter category. I don’t have a whole lot of skin left, and there’re some parts of me where fucking bone is showing through. I have eyes but you almost can’t tell, and I’ve been described by at least one fleeing breather as a “skeleton with meat on it.” With all the open wounds you’d think I’d look more red, but I’ve actually got kind of an all-over green hue to me.      I’m pretty jacked-up, is what I’m sayin’.

            Fred’s starting to whine impatiently, and I sympathize. He’s hungry, and you’ve never been hungry until you’ve been zombie hungry. But there’s something else I’m feeling while I watch the two breathers load their pickup with feed corn from the old holding pens. Specifically, something I feel when I notice the woman loading corn into the pickup.

            I don’t remember much from being alive, but I know that sex was a part of it. An awesome part of it. I get the feeling it wasn’t too frequent, but the flashes I recall make me think those few times were pretty major events in my life.

            Man, I wonder if I was a boob guy, because her breasts look awesome in that Hard Rock Café shirt. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all fuzzy-wuzzy about her. I recognize that some of what’s going on is a sense of longing, but even with this trip down nostalgia lane, for the most part I long for her breasts the same way a homeless guy would long for a rotisserie chicken. Maybe deep down inside I’ve found a way to be horny again, but for the most part, I’m hungry. So goddamn hungry.

            But…the guns. She and the portly guy with her both have pump actions slung over their shoulders. Fred isn’t concerned about that, but I hold on tight to his collar, and swat him on the nose when he insists on trying to bust loose.

            “Dammit, Fred, quiet! We’ll get our chance!”

            Rarrrarrrrrghh, rrarrrr! Raaaarrrr!!

            Fred whimpers, but I’ve got a good grip on him, and he’s not going anywhere. Finally he makes a blunt pout and settles down, watching the living load their food. Man that guy is fat. The vague sexual feelings I have for the woman are totally absent when I look at this guy, but my interest as a hungry, hungry boy is double for this dude what it is for her.

            But they’re armed, and they have transport. This is gonna take some non-shot-in-the-head style planning.

***

            So I turn Fred loose, and they shoot the living shit out of him.

            Oh, Fred’s okay. It’s happened to him before. I mean, yeah, they fuck him up pretty good, but, you know, he’ll make it. Just, like, without a pancreas now.

            So Fred’s down, and strangely he stays down. I don’t know if it’s from physical damage, or if maybe he just forgot we don’t die, which happens with him sometimes. But he’s down, and the breathers are wary of staying here for too much longer. They start doubling their pace.

            I’m trying to crawl through the grass unnoticed. Fred was supposed to keep them busy, but they dropped him pretty quick. The dumbass is still on the ground, a good thirty seconds after they shoot him. They’re nearly done, and I still have about thirty feet to cover.

            “Psst! Fred!”

            Rerr. Rhar!

            “Fred!”

            Herr!

            I look around, grab a few rocks, and chuck ‘em at Fred. Four of them bounce off his face before he starts to stir again. I knew it, the moron forgot he’s already dead. He reaches up and feels at the new orifices he’s acquired, and looks mildly surprised that he’s moving.

            “Fred!” I whisper, pointing down the hill. “Food!”

            Rer! Rar!

            Fred looks around, notices the humans, and his eyes grow wide with that all-consuming, zomboid hunger. Immediately he’s back on his feet, making for the breathers.

            I crawl as quick as I can while they tear into Fred again. Luckily he seems to have his bearings this time, and he’s not going down easily, at least not until the chubby guy takes out a knee. Then he’s down again.

            “Miranda, it’s too hot here! We gotta get the hell outta here!” McDouble throws his shotgun over his shoulder and makes for the passenger seat, loading rounds to give the woman cover fire. I see her fumble in her pockets, pull out a weighty key ring, and jump inside. The truck roars and farts smoke from its tailpipe. As it zips past, I stick my arm out from the grass and poke a steak knife I like to carry in my ribcage into the front tire. I can already hear it hissing as they roll out.

            They drive out of sight, but we’ll catch up to ‘em, no sweat. I stand up, dust myself off, and walk over to Fred. He’s laying motionless, and I nudge him with my foot.

            “Hey, dumbass! Get up.”

            Rarrggh! Arggh!

            Fred blinks, sits up, looks himself over, then looks up at me with a vague look of amazement. I bend down, help him up, and together the two of us start trailing the truck.

            Fred’s having a ball. His newly gimpy knee keeps twisting him in weird directions, and he lets out a big, dumb laugh every time he has to regain his balance.

            Man. Life must be great when you’re a fucking idiot.

Chapter 3

            Yes! Truck with a flat, dead ahead.

            The breathers aren’t inside, but I’d figured that much. I quicken my pace, ‘cause one nifty thing about being dead is you don’t get tired, ever. Fred’s a few paces behind me, laughing idiotically and spinning in a weird way on that pinwheel leg. He’s keeping up pretty well, surprisingly, but even if he falls behind I plan to let him eat his share. He’s still my friend, after all, and besides, I’d say he’s definitely earned this meal. Still, I hope I reach them first. It’d be nice if I could put the two we’re chasing out of their misery, before the frenzy sets in and I stop caring. Eating people alive is an ugly mess, and I’d just as soon avoid it. I’m a flesh-eating monster, sure, but that doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole about it.

            Oh, shit, I can smell them. The fat one, anyway, and that’s enough to get my heart beating. I know that’s weird to hear from, like, me, but like I said, our bodies work, even if they don’t really need to. If it’s any consolation, heartbeats are pretty rare for us, and even mine comes and goes.

            But oh, man, that smell. This dude hasn’t thought about deodorant in a long time, and he couldn’t get stankier if someone crammed a ham sandwich in his buttcrack. Ohhh God I’m hungry I’m hungry I’m hungry…

            I leap, and fear makes the tub of funk’s knees give out. My teeth are in the back of his neck and I’m biting, biting till I hear that sweet sweet fucking sweet crunch of bleeding muscle and then the food the food the foo-…

            There’s a shotgun blast, and I look up to see Fred flip over from a round to the chest. He’s okay, really okay this time. He’s got the frenzy too, and he immediately forgets the damage and scrambles to help me eat the struggling fatty.

            I hear shambling footsteps in the brush by the road, know that other zombies are coming out to investigate that sweet, sour onion smell our jiggly friend is giving off. His screams cut off as “Miranda” pumps a few rounds into the shrubs, probably hoping to keep a few of them back a bit while she takes off. She could’ve have saved herself the time and ammo and just taken off. No one notices the gunshots. No one cares.

            There’s food to eat.

***

            I eat until I’m potbellied, only stopping when I realize there’s no more room to swallow. Whew. Goddamn!

            Fred’s still chowing down. He’s fond of the softer parts, and he’s having to scrabble with a few other shamblers for the dude’s sweetbreads. An old instinct that I suspect was born of Saturdays in recliners propels me to rub my paunchy gut, and I wander off into the brush.

            We don’t really feel full, but I do feel that satisfaction I get when I no longer have to deal with that damn hunger all the time. If I was alive I’d stretch out for a nap. As it is, a walk will suit me fine.

            I think about the juicy man I just helped devour. I think about the woman, and I think about her juicy bits too. I’m kinda surprised, though, because it’s a whole different set of juicy bits I catch myself wondering about with her.

            Whatever. It starts to rain, one of those weird spring rains where a full on shower shows up before the clouds do. I don’t mind the rain, but I do have a latent instinct to find shelter when I’m caught in it. Besides, if I get too soggy I can feel water sloshing in me for days, and that’s always weird. It’s like wearing damp underpants, but, like, times ten.

            There’s an old barn up ahead, one of those big, brown, unpainted triangles you see a lot in country calendars. I wander inside, part of me expecting to sit down but the rest of me never really following through with it. I stand there, hearing the rain and wondering just how wet and clingy that Hard Rock Café shirt is getting.

            Then I hear something shuffling in the stalls. Something quick and frightened, something that desperately doesn’t want to be there. Because it knows it’s alone in here. Not alone with something predatory. Alone with something worse. Alone with me.

            I wander over, because even though I’m not hungry it’s still not a bad idea to grab a breather when we find them. I kinda feel bad for whoever’s hiding in the hay, but I can’t let ‘em off just ‘cause their timing’s bad. One of ‘em might not seem like a lot, but they always bring more, and I’ve seen my share of zombie encampments burned to the ground because one breather got away and spread the word that gravers were nearby.

            I see a mound of hay quivering. Whoever’s tucked inside is wishing they could just not exist and damning the betrayal their nerves are working on them. I take a few heavy footsteps, see straws flitting to the floor from all the shaking. I almost hate thinking about what I’m gonna have to do to ‘em.

            I reach out, and the hay explodes.

            Straw goes everywhere, and I hear a quick series of light but powerful thumps. It disappears into the dark, but it flashes through the daylight long enough for me to notice a stumpy, fluffy little tail. A rabbit, so cute you just know it probably spends a major chunk of its life in mortal terror of anything that ever feels hungry.

            I hear the rain simmering down, hear Fred “Raarrgh!”-ing, probably for me. I don’t know why he likes me so much, but I feel obligated to go back out and find him anyway. I shamble out of the stall and make for the barn door.

            That poor rabbit must be having a bitch of a time finding its way out of here. I can still hear it thumping around.

            Damn. It sounds close. I look around, intending to hold the heavy barn door open for it to escape, when something hard pokes me between the eyes.

            Oh. Her.

            Well well well. That shirt did get wet. I have time to think about how good it looks that way, think to myself that t-shirt designers should design all their medium women’s shirts to be worn soaking wet. I bet they’d make a fortune.

            Then there’s a flash, which is odd, ‘cause the clouds still haven’t rolled in yet. Where’s that lightning coming from…?

            My head snaps back, I lose my balance, and I fall. I notice the t-shirt swooping away from me, the glint of a pistol as it’s lowered to the side.

            Oh, FUCK. Fuck me. It happened. It really fucking happened. I can’t fucking believe it.

            There’s a whistle through my skull. It stops when I hit the ground. Goddamn it.

            Headshot.