The smell of blood was the first thing that hit me as I woke. I sat up and realized I was on the ground of an outdoor bistro I knew well, but tables were knocked over and plates and wine glasses littered the floor. Where was everybody and what happened? Did I really blackout so soon? My last memories were with Louis. We ate lunch and had a few cups of saki at our favorite sushi place and then downed a few pints of ale at The Stout before ending up here, our favorite wine bar. We had only been dating for a few months but things seemed to be going really well. Where was he? I tried to call him, but no answer. I stood up and suddenly felt queasy, clutching my stomach. I remembered feeling very ill earlier, and wondered if it was something I drank. I went through the gate that led out into the street. As I walked, people seemed to hurry out of my way in a fright but I paid them no mind, I had to get to Louis. I looked at the street sign: Washington Street. I wasn’t far from home but I would rather find out what was going on first. Maybe he could help me piece back together the rest of the afternoon. I’d only been to his apartment a handful of times but I knew it was somewhere in the neighborhood because we weren’t far from the bar. I turned a few corners and walked until I happened upon familiar territory. His place was just ahead. I went inside and found apt. #406. Smoothing my hair, I looked down and realized the smell of blood was coming from me - I was covered in it. I gasped, bewildered, then it all came flooding back: me viciously attacking a woman in the bathroom, the people rushing out of the place in a panic after seeing me, my boyfriend running away. I opened the door. Right away, Louis saw me and started screaming, yelling for me to get away from him. Seeing him triggered some urge inside me as I shrieked and rushed at him. He was pleading “No, no, no” as I grabbed him by the shoulders and started bashing his head into the doorframe, trying to get to his brain.

I remember when the zombie apocalypse started. It was small, spreading from one town to the next. By the time the military mobilized, it was too late. I actually used to love zombie movies. Sometimes I’d even wonder what went through the minds of those shambling undead. Depending on the movie, some of them still remembered something of their other lives, some didn’t. In one, they would sneak by the undead by shooting off fireworks which would totally absorb the zombies’ attention. I can understand that. I love fireworks. At first, I was terrified of getting infected. Movies always said you had to be bitten, but not this time. A scratch, a splash of blood that hit you in the wrong spot, breathing in some particles. This disease spread like wildfire and hit just about every continent at once. Though I heard that Australia and New Zealand had managed to keep themselves safe with total isolation. Hawaii and the Faroe Islands too. Good for them. My wife hates zombie movies and was happy to point out that any zombie apocalypse would only be a short problem, because bodies decompose and eventually they wouldn’t be able to walk around anymore. She had a point, only in this reality, the decomposition was very slow, so slow in fact, a newly ‘life deprived’ zombie could still pass for living for days, maybe almost a week. The world didn’t stand a chance. That reminds me, I really should try to find her again. When our apartment building was overrun, we had a plan to escape through the sewers, but so many were running in the end that we got separated. The trouble with the best escape plans is, you really can’t prepare for every contingency. Like your next-door neighbor knocking on your door looking for his cat. I couldn’t tell that he was already dead, I wonder if my wife noticed it first. It wasn’t in the way he walked, though his speech was slow, almost listless. No, it was his eyes. Vacant and haunted. Like someone who really needed a good night’s sleep. That was three weeks ago. My wife and I would even have discussions on the rare times I’d be able to coax her into watching a zombie movie with me, about what would be the worst thing about being one of the shambling undead. She decided it was forgetting about those you loved. I countered with the smell…yuk. But no, it wasn’t the decomposing bodies, the diminished eyesight as your eyes started to rot, or even the overwhelming need to eat the flesh of the living. It was the damn insomnia. The undead don’t get to sleep! Jeez, I’d give anything for a good night’s rest or just being away from all these others all the time. Personal space! Zombies don’t respect it at all! But this morning I caught a familiar scent, and that was something. Damn…I wish I could sleep. Time to look for my wife again.

Mia's vision cleared up after she awoke. The drug effects wore off, and she found herself inside a basement—the basement of Doctor Calvin Armstrong, whose back was facing her at his workbench. She grunted from the leather belt holding her wrists and ankles. "Ah, you're awake." Doctor Armstrong was relieved. He spun a wheel stool over and came over to inspect her. "Now," his nicety quickly disappeared, "Why does a rat journalist like you want to expose this community?" "You're turning people into zombies—human lives. And for what?" "I know you're just doing your job," Doctor Armstrong sounded disappointed, "but you're not seeing the big picture here. This is for survival. To strive for a normal life." "By eating our people?" "Not people!" Doctor Armstrong jumped out of his seat. "Zombies! We have perfected the formula to get the nutrients needed from them. We no longer run from them—we embrace them!” She was disgusted by the doctor. "You're sick!" And then spit on his face. The smile and spit wiped away from Doctor Armstrong. He smacked her across the mouth, and he muttered poison while climbing upstairs. It bought Mia time to loosen the belts and slip out of the chair. Pictures of her lied on the workbench with the question, "Zombie?" There were also tools he had left, which she had helped herself to the scalpel lying next to her photo. "I should've tightened the straps harder." Doctor Armstrong said, walking down the steps, syringe in hand. He cautiously came towards Mia. "Put the knife down. We can talk about this." But talking didn't happen after his next step; Mia lunged and stabbed the scalpel into his legs. "Mother fucker!" He yelled, dropping to the floor. Mia ran up the stairs, ignoring the doctor's screams, and his wife and son, who met her at the top. Terrified at what she could do, they kept their distance. She thought of them as vile, but not worthy of her time, for she went to the front door and stood frozen upon opening it. Homes were lined up inside the gated community. Each home had its own fenced-in herd of zombie food supply. Caged in isolation, waiting to be picked for the next feast. It was sickening, Mia thought, for she had to tell what was happening, but a prick in the back of her neck put a halt to that as the world went dark again for her. Inside the cage, Mia woke up to Doctor Armstrong's son looking in from the outside. She was with the zombies. The boy looked at her with hungry eyes, ready for her to turn. From the prick at her neck, her skin began to decay. Her heart racing, terrified. And soon, her senses would go away. She would start to forget and become hungry for the boy, just as the rest in the cage were. Mia, herself, was gone, but Mia, the dinner choice, was ready for the Armstrong family.