Where to flee? That’s the question. Join the Amish? Seek adoption by an uncontacted Amazonian tribe? Sentinel Island? Can zombies climb Mt Everest? Enlist in a survivalist cargo cult?

Alaska, Siberia, Norway, southern Chile, Canada, and Antarctica will find out that zombies don’t mind the cold. Bahrain, Mali, and Las Vegas will go bust finding zombies don’t mind the heat.

With their massive populations and huge cities, India, China, Bangladesh, and many African countries will have a real knack for dying in huge numbers and will fall hard and fast.

México and the Central/South American countries might be a good bet since the houses are concrete made and the walls and windows are covered in metal spikes to prevent robbers. Canada and Australia might have enough land mass-to-population ratios to hold out for a while. North Korea is pretty isolated, as is Mongolia. Island nations such as Hawaii, Japan New Zealand, Micronesia, and Pitcairn will be totally fine, that is until the first infection creeps in. Then, with limited space, they’ll find out that totally fine turns into totally fucked real quick. You get the picture.

Places with well-armed populations like Somalia, Afghanistan, and Yemen will have a better chance of staving off the zombies and an even greater chance of killing each other amidst the chaos.

Which brings us to the good, ol’ (Dis)United States, where there are places to flee to, but everyone’s armed to the teeth and most of the population lives in suburban or urban areas, where food and supply chains will immediately collapse. The East Coast states will be the worst off due to high population density.

All the magic thinking bullshit control methods will be utterly helpless. The military deep state/CIA types will overhaul the CDC and form the Department of Zombie Services (DZS), overseeing all domestic law enforcement agencies in order to ‘promote epidemiological surveillance to watch for changes in disease vectors that could cause zombieism.’ Permanent martial law will be declared, extinguishing the last semblance of freedom and turning the land of the free into a national internment camp.

After a hastily rolled-out vaccine — fueling paranoia and rumors of both the virus and the vaccine being part of a New World Order overpopulation control plan — no medical cure will be found. Anguished loved ones will be forced to turn in their infected family and friends to the nearest DZS center. People will just disappear.

At a critical tipping point, there won’t be enough people alive to maintain society’s functions. Internet/medical care/security/electrical grid/down to the most basic government functions will go down the toilet. Farming of food will be drastically reduced by lack of gasoline, as will transportation of food. When people get hungry enough, the food riots start. Even more infrastructure will be destroyed. And the bullets will run out.

California and Florida will simultaneously break off from the (Dis)United States and form two giant, floating circus clown islands, and there will be much rejoicing. In a stunning role reversal, The Hutu and Tutsi will join hands across Rwanda and sing ‘We are the World’ while sending care packages to shitholes like Martha’s Vineyard and Beverly Hills. With an increasingly divided populace life in the USA will start to resemble the entire oeuvre of The Purge.

The newly infected will burst forth from shopping mall food courts like hordes of morbidly obese piranha. Infected corpses will walk into beautiful, gilded restaurants like the ones on 5th Avenue and Rodeo Drive, eat a brain or two, then take giant, flaming shits on the table … and leave no tip. Theme parks will become the most horrifying places on earth. Unsuspecting tourists will wait patiently in line only to have their eyes gouged out and eaten by batshit tweakers dressed as cartoon animals … and there will be no Fastpass. Congress will revert to a debauched, blood-soaked vile shithole and no one will notice, whatsoever.

Without their paid-off praetorian guard, the filthy rich will be defenseless, and entire communities of gated megamansions will be set ablaze. Almost overnight, everyone will be homeless and the biggest status symbol will be a shopping cart with four working wheels. After one final, failed crap shoot selling uncovered calls on medical vaporware crypto stocks, flocks of hedge fund shitheads and Wall Street powerskeezers will take gorgeous swan dives from atop gilded skyscrapers, creating immaculate exploding organ splatter art onto concrete canvases.

When the shitshow starts in earnest, the world’s population is hovering around the 7 billion-ish range. After 100 days in, sparse ham radio reports estimate less than 60 million uninfected and plummeting fast. Soon there will be only tiny groups of hunter-gatherers, scrambling for food and dodging zombies.

Unable to face their lost delusions, starving masses, and hordes of zombies converging everywhere, our dear leaders will be forced into a grim, final solution: a 1,000-megaton thermonuclear seppuku reboot, ending the Anthropocene and paving the way for the next super species to rise out of the ashes. Cockroaches 2.0.

All this because I, Douglas Sterculius Tesh, The Conqueror Bookworm, armed only with a heaping viral load of bad breath and a ravaging brain disease, got on a plane to Manila and changed the history of the entire world. Forever …

… And my high school guidance counselor said I’d never amount to anything.

Res ipsa loquitor

The Rule of Thirds will abide: one-third of people are pussies and will give up at the first sign of distress and die on the spot. Another third will die fighting in the streets like dogs. The final third will flee to their pre-planned secret sex cult underground bunkers until they realize too late that one-third of their sex partners are already infected. Spontaneous organ donor societies will spring up and become the staple of the post-zombie apocalyptic economy.

People will start digging up Graves to talk to loved ones and the hopelessly Woke will tell us not to discriminate against people who identify as the undead, even if they’re trying to eat our brains.

Tropical cruises will be like playing Resident Evil in a conga line. Train trips to Buson will be a vacation hotspot. Submarines will be like playing hide-and-seek in a wax museum inside a broom closet.

The surviving populace will disengage into their own online islands while the internet’s still functioning. Gamer groups with names like POE: Purity Of Essence/Peace On Earth, 3s Company/4s a Buffet, and The Good, The Undead, and The Ugly will spend their last remaining days engaging in brutal flame wars about the worst way to go. Being disemboweled consistently ranks high. If your partner turns into a zombie while you’re having sex will it turn you into a zombie? The Rapture, armageddon, cannibalism, the Day of the Lord, necrophilia, the second coming, Vishnu, White Zombie, Aztec human sacrifice, and George Romero will be the most googled things on the internet. Will we go to heaven or hell or wind up as puppets in a Brothers Quay film for all eternity? ‘It’s the end of the world and we know it’ will be on all the playlists at the rave parties. People will just give up on life completely and welcome our feline overlords.

Every night, large gangs of public masturbators will howl at the top of their lungs outside city hall while spraying geysers of diarrhea blood out their assholes. As institutional power structures fail, cartels, gangs, and militias will rush in to take their place, vying for as much of what’s left of the resources as violently possible. The thin line between Security/Military groups rogue paramilitary gangs and common criminal street gangs will blur. Chaotic lawlessness will reign supreme and this will be the golden age for the psycho-sexual sadist serial killer. All of a sudden, Covid doesn’t seem so bad, now does it?

The downfall will happen at the speed of flight, infecting at a rate of forty plane rides per hour from Ninoy Aquino airport in Manila times every connecting hub, accelerating around the globe within forty-eight hours. We are the new bats and birds.

And from then …

… Strange reports of beheadings in airport bathrooms. Outbreaks of hyperviolence in taxis, ubers, subways, train stations, prisons, hospitals, office buildings, movie theaters, restaurants, convention centers, klan meetings, blood banks, retirement homes, schools, universities, churches, military bases, and sports stadiums. Anywhere a lungful of misery can slough off and infect.

Then, the Real Fear kicks in as social order breaks down exponentially, like those two-for-one livershot benders at Fianchetto’s. Ludic insanity. Social ruptures. A massed cataract of unsaid superstitions released into the ether. Everywhere will be the land of unlimited bullshit and fantastical rumors will become commonplace and nobody will be able to tell what’s real, anymore.

At first, the undead army will be confused with the hardest of the hardcore skulking homeless and false reports of fentanyl use will skyrocket nine-thousand percent. Then, persistent rumors of brain parasites being carried by house cats. Hokey snake oil bullshitters of varied degrees will fill the information void with desperate, cockeyed schemes: mainlining bleach, huffing hand sanitizer, wearing five layers of disposable surgical masks on top of a prophylactic face shield to wipe your ass. Sunlight kills the virus. Pet a Brahma chicken doused in Lysol. Purchase voodoo dolls from a Haitian witch doctor on the darkweb. Sunlight amplifies the virus. The only way to ensure a zombie is “dead” is to burn the corpse. Zombies won’t attack gingers ‘cuz gingers have no soul.

None of the bullshit will work, because at its core, a virus is a truth serum. A parasitic miracle of quasi-death. A zombie. It doesn’t care what anybody thinks, and no amount of kicking, screaming, lying, denying, ignorance, hatred, or love is going to stop a billion years of evolutioneered perfection.

Undead masturbating carnies will stalk all the underpasses and fairgrounds. Every day will be the day of the dead. Carrot Top will be promoted to our lord and savior. Swimmers at local pools will be forced to tread water for days until the National Guard arrives. Local health clubs will be for undead trendy fine dining. Is it possible to live on a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean? Cat videos will be shadowbanned by the CIA. Marathons will take on a new sense of urgency and world records will be broken.

Everything’s in flux as the harried flight attendant sticks me on the next puddle jumper to Manila next to a pixie-face mother with piper-cleaner fingers and her little lass lost in a video game trance.

Fight it.

The flight from Caticlan to Ninoy Aquino International Airport is about fifty minutes as the Filipino Eagle flies. It’s going to be close. Manila is one of the most congested cities in the world. Perfect for my needs.

The mom’s elvish, almond-colored eyes dart from me to her child. She frowns, then grabs another handi wipe from her travel bag and assiduously wipes down the retractable tray in front of her charge. “Peanut allergy.”

Uh, oh. What gives? Was it the disheveled clothes, the uncontrollable sweats on my half-shaved face, or the perma-raging zit smack dab in the middle of my forehead? Stay calm. Act casual. Fight it.

The ATR-42 40-seater bursts down the runway and we punch past the cloudline, hurtling through gravity.

Doug’s right. Pre-symptomatic and a shell of his former self, but right. My eight percent is quickly overtaking his ninety-two and falling fast. Soon he will be no more, but he will be right.

And we’re going to pay for it. Horrifically. Because sharing is caring. Let’s face it. I will be gone soon, too. Psychotic. Unable to string coherent sentences. Only feral groans and grunts while my body sloughs away as I tear into some poor soul’s carotid artery. And then … a little piece of me will live on. Forever.

The zombie apocalypse is locked, loaded, airborne, and ready to deliver its precious cargo straight from my defiled lungs to the unwitting masses. We’re going global. Every person my heaping viral bad breath comes into contact with is a potential ticking time bomb and ally, consecrating a brand new era in post-humanist relations with the undead.

We are the new bats and birds.

Hands tremor. Losing control. “Relax.” No sense braying like a donkey while shooting liters of blood from my mouth, nose, and eyesockets all over the aircraft. A deep breath. “This will all be over terribly soon.”

The pixie woman forces a nervous grin my way, then tugs at her daughter. I already know I look like death warmed over, lady … Soon you will, too.

No goofy quips, Doug. Not even to lighten the mood. ‘Hi. My name is Travis and I am the Moonstar.’ Sometimes …

… Less is more. I smile back. Don’t worry about me staring at your daughter, ma’am. I’m only admiring the shape of her skull. Packed with precious nutrients.

Fight it.

Ah, the bones are chilled. The conquering worms feasting. This is the undead life. And fuck the living. Their ending’s not going to be pretty, but that much was pretty much guaranteed from the start.

There’s change in the air. Hot damn. I can feel it in my bones. Never driven a boat before. Kinda fun. I’m in charge. Finally. Plunging headlong into the wild flight of my future, burning down bridges of sober reflection behind the lobes of doubt festering in my brain. Don’t worry you fuckin’ idiot. This will all be over soon. Terribly soon. And it ain’t gonna be pretty, but that was pretty well guaranteed straight from the beginning

The boat slamming onto Panay’s beach startles me. As does the wiry, freaked-out Filipino screaming meemie soldier training the M16 between my eyes for the perfect kill shot. Dang it. This is what I get for missing that damn jetty by over fifty yards. Dumb ass. Think fast.

After stammering a bit, I spew out a word salad entree explaining how he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and I’m actually harmless and not part of some half-assed weirdo to be reckoned with using extreme violence. I am, in fact, the victim of rogue milf separatists, or freedom fighters, whichever you prefer, milfkrieging themselves into a full-scale terrorist invasion all over Boracay. The sitrep is dire. They must be stopped. Poor tourists can’t even get drunk and kiteboard anymore.

It was all bullshit, of course. But if bullshit makes the world go round, can it make it stop?

After a blather of histrionics and broken Tagolag, cooler heads prevail, and he grudgingly walks me into Caticlan airport. I’m plunked down into the first row of plastic chairs at the departure gate, which has been transformed into a sort of triage center/impromptu command post for what looks like an impending assault on Boracay by Panay’s volunteer guard.

After I’m padded down a male nurse checks my vitals: temperature, blood pressure, stick out your tongue, cough. The scattering of shell-shocked tourists decidedly ignores me with their vacant, thousand-yard stares like I’m a two-legged chancre who’s violated the sanctity of their controlled chaos. Ouch. The stethoscope shoots chills down my spine. A profound breath while I peer at the TV on the wall.

Breaking news! North Korea. King Jung il has died. Millions bawl their eyes out in an apoplectic fit of mass grieving. Is this the carefully choreographed pageantry of pure madness before the impending shit storm? But never fear, a brand new God, shaped like an apple dumpling and armed with a bowl haircut, has arisen to lead the most isolated country in the world. Humanities best bet?

Fight it.

After passing muster, I’m led to the ticketing booth, where I plunk down my remaining rainbow-colored funny Filipino funds sans one lonely, unwrinkled peso for the next flight out. This vacation is definitely over. Thank God. Now I’m older, dumber, and more dead-ass broke than I could’ve possibly imagined, racking up over 10k in plastic debt thanks to a fake charity I didn’t even know about. But I now know one thing for certain: humankind will remember me. Forever.

A few more meters. Glen yanks out a long push pole. Got it. All my strength. Awkwardly, up and up and over the port side. Relief and a hug. “Glen, you magnificent sonofabitch!” He creases a long smile and signs back at me. “I knew you’d come back! I knew it! You da’ man! The one last good man!”

He fires off sign language, then scowls at the shoreline.

How to explain? “No. Everyone’s dead. Traci, Joy, Jon, everyone. Trust me. Just trust me. Whoops.”

A zombie jumps into the water from atop Willy’s Rock, then bobs towards us with aching swim strokes.

Glen and I look at each other. “Right.”

Glen grabs the helm. The motor kicks into life.

I lean over the side and gawk at the flailing zombie practicing his drowning skills.”Fuck you! Fuck you, you brain-eating sonofabitch!”

The wind whips up as the boat slices crests through a trough and circles around. Fight it.

Once he’s got her full-tilt on a southern tack, I feel myself yelling over the motor’s banshee screams. “Panay. You’re heading to Panay, yes?”

Glen nods.

“Yes. Panay. We’ve got to warn Panay. Then Manila. Then the whole world.” I make a guiding arrow karate chop pointing dead ahead. “So, for sure, this is the way to Panay, right?”

He smiles and gives the thumbs up.

“So, fifteen minutes, straight ahead, right?” Fight it.

/I’m dreaming of a white Christmas/with every Christmas card I write/

It’s my turn to smile with a thumbs up. “Excellent.”

/May your days be merry and bright/And may all your Christmases be white/

Glen is a fixture of concentration as he guides the boat through the rolling waves. A quick step towards the captain’s chair.

Fight it.

“No hard feelings.” My arm tilts the flare gun point-blank right up into the nape of his neck. Trigger pull and a horrific scream. The shell penetrates and bursts, conflagrating into a molten pumpkin orange illuminating his skull from the inside out.

The boat lists in circles as he jerks away from the controls, frantically slapping at his melting face. So much struggle. All for naught. A swift kick and he’s overboard.

Better.

I jump to the helm and straighten the ship. No sense getting off track. There is important business to attend to. A glance back at my wake. Glen’s a blood clot-red fireball bobbing helplessly in the Sulu Sea.

Dreaming of a White Christmas replays in a festive feedback loop. I don’t even know half these complicated control gauges and buttons I’m adjusting, but so far everything’s on track. For once.

The humid wind licks my face and both my hand’s tremble. What’s gotten into me? I can’t help but grin.

Can zombies swim? We’ll find out. Into the water. From knee deep to chest deep. Not cold, but chilling. Hold the flare gun up, nice and dry, and scissor-kick past the Virgin Mary statue towards the gnarled rocks pointing out to mother ocean. Fight it.

Chest deep with bobbing waves slapping my face. Get up. Onto the rocks. Nope. A fail army masterpiece of awkward movements. Too slimy to climb. Try it. Worth a shot. Load the flare gun. A fiery arch shoots out over the blackened, undulating carpet before a brilliantine explosion. A false second of hope that fades just as quickly into the nothingness as before.

A glance around the algal-stained rocks and peer past Mary’s statue. Shamblers skulk the shoreline. Waiting. Dog paddle to the other side. Another glance. More shamblers shambling. Okay. Let’s stay here. Then a runner dashes into the surf. Then another. I watch the zombie drowning theory play out in real-time. Ungainly swim strokes lurch them through the tide like three-toed sloths caught in the Amazon’s seasonal floods. One of them catches Willy’s Rock’s stairwell. If it makes it to the top I’m as good as caught and truly fucked with a capital F. Not the bold escape plan I was hoping for.

Fight it.

Reload. Aim. Fire. The amber starburst explodes harmlessly against the Virgin Mary statue as the zombie staggers by. “Tits!”

Aim higher. Reach into a shirt pocket. Reload. Last flare. A runner peers down from the sheer drop from up top of the crag. Fight it. No. “Fuck it!” I can’t take this, anymore. This has got to end. Now. Place the flare gun in my mouth. Out with a fiery bang. Three … Two …

Squeeze the trigger. This won’t hurt. One …

A faint, purple glow.

Familiar, lilting notes:

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas/Just like the ones I used to know/

… So this is death: A 1940s Christmas special. Who knew? A stray glimpse out to mother ocean. Uncaring, wave shadows surmount themselves in a ceaseless charge toward the shore, backlight by a ghostly purplish light silhouetting a familiar … bangka. It’s …

“Glen!”

He’s unmistakable, standing tall in his captain’s chair and signing his ass off while guiding his squid fishing boat towards me. “Glen! Mother of all shitpops! I always had faith in you!”

/Where the treetops glisten/and the children listen/

Kick off the rocks. Spit out salt water and dog paddle to salvation as the vessel merges into the shallows. “I, I knew you’d come back!”

“Duck. I has been dead since before I was born. Nothin’ special, Chust dead an’ lovin’ it. Death finds a way. Is gots staying power. You can’t fight it, runs from it, hide from it, negotiate with it, buy your way out of it y you sure ass can’t pretend it ain’t lookin’ for ya’. It never quits. Let’s face fuck the facts, Duck, we is all chust dumb, naked apes eh-scared shitless over our inifinitely limited ability to resist death, so we concoct a lifetimes of neurotics to cope.”

“Gus?”

“Si, Duck?”

“It’s time we split apart, together.”

The laugh of a drunken hyena clutching a cigarrillo between broken teeth. “Dat ends of time table drawer with cinco-points star. Is gots chust the salvacion you needs, evened if only for a little bits.”

“What? How do you know — “

“Last call. Gustradamus, over y outs. Phfffffffuuuuuuaaaaaaaaahh!”

CLICK.

SILENCE.

I feel … disembodied. My gringo spidey sense is tingling as if an electric eel is gnawing through my spine. Fight it.

My arm guides itself towards the ornate drawer with the five-pointed start on its handle. ’Tis the season of miracles. An old WW II flare gun and a handful of shells. “Hot damn.”

Rustling outside the window. “Oh, Fuck.” Friend or foe? Runner or shambler? Who Can It Be Now?

Darting and dodging behind cover of trees and darkness, I wend my way to the shoreline next to Willy’s Rock. Where to go? South towards the port? Or … who knows, maybe the jetty survived the storm intact? Maybe help has already made landfall and is fighting against the forces of brain-munching evil while I’ve been hunkered down in abject fear, hiding from my salvation?

South five strides, then a dead stop. Trembling shadows uproot themselves from the treeline in the distance. O …

… kay. North it is. Yes. That’s the ticket. Wend my way past the West Cove Ruins, reconnoiter the Shangri-La Hotel. Then, if that’s a no-go zone, seek refuge at Puka Shell Beach. It’s isolated. Best place to wait it out.

North it is …

… not. Down the way on the beach. Way down towards where Lambros Point’s ragged jawline meets the sea. Clots of movement. And they’re heading my way.

My hopeful possibilities are diminishing rapidly. Thirty-some-odd yards away, lighted by the flailing embers belching from the smoldering church, shamblers emerge from the shadows of palm trees. Then, a runner. “Oh, Fuck!” Decision made. Willy’s Rock it is.

Reach for the gun. Reach. Reach. An inch away. Three runners burst inside. Shoot. “Ahhhhh! You fuckers!” Keep blasting. Body fluids spraying through gaping holes. They’re down like so many cords of wood. “Goddamnit! Leave me alone! I’m trying to kill myself, fuckers!” Gun to mouth. Pull the trigger. CLICK. “Fuuuuuuuck!” Throw the spent gun at the doorway. It’s reverted to a glorified paperweight, now.

This is it. It’s time.

“Goodbye cruel world.”

Nothing. Not a damn thing but my breathing and the rhythmic wet drip drops falling from a corner ceiling crack. I was alive, but now I’m still born again. Fight it.

Step off the stool.

“Fuck!” I crash to the ground as the knot gives away. Get up. Rub the pain from my elbow after it clipped the dresser. “Fucking Glen. Ah. Ow! Goddamnit!” Swing it around like a spastic baby chicken wing trying its first flight. “Fucking funny bone.”

Pain and laughter. Speedwalk desperate figure-eights. “I can’t even kill myself right.” What to do? What to do? Search the mountains of debris on the rusted shelves. There must be something. Pure knick-knacks and bric-a-bracs. Useless crap. “Shit!”

Find something. Anything. Something to give me hope. A way out. Fight it.

The closet. Ah, nope. Nothing but gaudy shirts and shitty suits. Unless …

… oh, no. I pull out the wire coathanger and straighten it. Shaking my head. Could I? Fight it. Now point it towards my left eyeball. Do it. This won’t hurt. Slowly. Slowly. Now … jab! “Ahhhhhhhh!”

The familiar ringtone: Charly Garcia’s ‘Botas Locas’.

“Is last call, Duck!” Video poker funtertainment sounds. The clinking of ice cubes against a rum and coke drinking glass. A social skid mark a world away. “I chust set a personal record for jellied shots.” A belch.

“Uh, that’s nice, Gus, but you caught me at a really bad time. I mean really.”

“Aye, Duck, you sounds consterpated. ¿Que pasó?”

Fight it. “Zombies.”

“More Zomblies, Duck?”

“Yes, they’ve got me surrounded. I’m fucked with a capital F from all sides.”

“Aye, nada is that bad.”

“Gus! I’m gonna jab a coat hanger through my left eyeball.”

“Phfffffffuuuuuuaaaaaaaaahh! “We all got that death sentence sooner or laters now don’t we, Duck?”

“What?”

“Face fluck it all, Duck, the history is a human slug trail of miserable dung beetles fighting for da’ top spot of da’ shithole heap.”

“What the fuck is this shit, Gus?”

“Inversed psycholotry.”

“Inversed? Gus, I’m dead serious.”

“Aye, don’t let me stop you.”

“I can’t fight this shit and I’m on my own. I need some good news for a change.”

“Aye, you mean like some sorted of cavalry to rescued you?”

“Hell, yes! That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Duck, if the whorl world is goin’ into a hellacious hand casket on accounts of some mind-flucking fungi, they ain’t no safe space to rescue to. Not a ones. No first world. No third world. No one-third world. No turd world. They is all shiftholes y no ones is safe.”

“Nice pep talk.”

“What can I say, Duck? Maybe I is goings pro-death in mi old adage? Ya’ knows, if we is plucky to survives longs enough we get to watch all our friends y familia die y all our nightmares will come true. Aye, the death always wins y fluck da’ underdog. Thinks about it. everything and oh for alls times. Y peoples talk mad mierda about them 1972 Miami Dolphins.Phfffffffuuuuuuaaaaaaaaahh!”

“What about the immortal jellyfish?”

After some tension-encrusted seconds, she lowers her weapon and stares out at the moonlight reflections on the ocean. Then, softly, on the cusp of a whisper. “I’m sorry, Cyril. So sorry.”

She slumps her head and slowly walks like an automated Robotnik, lost in some shaken, dreamlike catatonia on a tack towards The Alamo.

After a wayward glance for any rogue zombies lurking in the shadows, I shamble over to Nathan. The outlook is grim. I look down at the fucked up Raggedy Anne/Andy doll lying dead in the sand, smeared red lipstick lips puckered frozen in a mirthless smile, arms tucked to his sides like a mannequin, fashionable skirt and hairy legs splayed out like he croaked making snow angels in the sand. The blood sucks out of the spot over his left breast, oozing into the shoreline. Beyond salvation.

The crack of a gunshot. Not at me. From The Alamo.

“Ahhh!” That damned woven doll with the face of an old, bearded man with an oversized nose with one nostril falls on me as I walk into The Alamo. Thrilled it’s not something ripping my neck, I chuckle while admiring his goofy grin under the wide-brimmed sun hat before scooting past the rusted metal shelves filled with disorganized heaps of non-necessities.

“Oh, no.” Traci’s corpse is seated in the rattan Peacock chair, blood-drenched mouth agape with a clean exit wound to the back of the head. And then there was one. I’m all alone. No more society. No more backward glances. No more derision. No one to help. No more hope. Feels like an electric eel swallowing itself as it slithers up and down my spine. Fight it.

I turn my attention to the full-sized bed flanked by two grey marble end tables, each sustaining a shrine of votary candles. The frayed rope is swaying slowly from the ceiling cross beams, with a wooden three-legged stool perched underneath. Damn shame. She goes to all that trouble to give herself a nice hanging death and then … probably at the last second … fuck it, just bite the bullet. Poor girl.

I reach down and pick up the gun. A deep breath. It’s come to this. Hands tremble. What’s next? “Fuck it!” I stuff the barrel down my mouth. Time for a light snack. Something in a .38 caliber, lead flavored of course. Pull the trigger.

“Ahhhh!” Fight it. Jerk the barrel out. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuckity fuck!” Hyperventilating. Pacing twisted figure eights. “Fuuuuuuck! I’ve got to end it! End it! Fuckinggodfuckingdamnit!”

That rope slowly dangles from the ceiling, calling me. Yes. Set the gun on the dresser. Push up on the dresser and step up onto the stool. Grab the rope. Time to make my hangman’s noose. “All right Glen, let’s do this. Wrap the rope around … pass the end through … back out of the loop … tighten. There.”

A big, deep, last breath. “Fuck it. Goodbye, cruel … what the fuck?”

Out the window. Nightmare sounds and silhouettes. Zombies racing in the dark towards the door. No. Not eaten alive. Fight it.