I wake up and I'm wandering aimlessly through abandoned gas stations and empty roadside dinners. I wake up and I'm walking down a dark, midnight highway. I wake up with blood dripping down my mouth, no memory of how it got there. That's it. My body's taking over. And it wants food. Flashes. All I have are flashes. I wake up on the road at night, cold and alone, and I'm strolling past a green sign that reads 'DON'T TRUST THE ARMY – WHERE IS OUR FOOD?' spray-painted white against some street name. I wake up and it's morning. I'm penguining alongside dozens of zombies through half torn buildings and houses with no roofs. Ground Zero. It's not a pretty sight. I don't know how I got here. Walking past collapsed bridges like peninsulas over then Schuylkill River, I have no more than glimpses of rational thoughts sparkle here and there in between the haze. If I didn't know Pennsylvania was where it all started, the landscape would have let me in pretty quick. Philadelphia looks like a city that's been on crack for the past six months and refuses treatment. I wake up behind a dumpster in an alley, feeding on bits and pieces of what's left of a smelly dog carcass. I wake up on the third floor of a building, looking down at the desolated view under my feet through windows framed by pointy, broken glass. I don't know how long it's been. How long I've been wandering. Could be days. Could be weeks. I make way past the Rocky Steps, decorated from top to bottom with corpses and limbs and dried blood. I penguin purposelessly through the afternoon. Everything is gray. This. Sucks. Other zombies pass by me, now and then. I hear their voices. Sometimes they make sense. I'll catch a 'Holy fuck, I'm hungry,' and a 'Where are all the humans?' and a 'Dear God, Jenna is a bitch,' as they bobble away. Other times it's just noise. Screams and mumbles and grunts. This. Really. Sucks. Like. For real.

Past the Sylvester Stallone statue, I stop under a tree. Under the early morning light, a dead neon sign reads 'Bill's Honky-Tonk Bar' over revolving doors. I walk in. I take a look inside. It's incredible. It's filled with light and people dancing and laughing. A woman with a kind smile opens her arms to me and says 'Come on in, girl! The apocalypse is over! We have the cure, sandwiches and beer!' I walk in and everyone cheers me and Damian's smiling on a far table, clapping. No, just kidding. The place is destroyed. A dead bartender rests his dead head on the bar. Stools are broken and pieces of wood lie around on the floor under dust. I take a seat at the edge of the counter. "Hey, Bill. Give a shot of whiskey and a fair woman."

I nudge the bartender. He doesn't move. I sigh and drop my head to the counter next to his. Maybe I'll die now. "Hey, you mind sharing?" I raise my eyes. A broad-shouldered zombie dude has the stool next to me, eyes on the dead bartender. "Go for it," I mumble, barely able to get the grunts out. "Thanks." The zombie pulls out an arm and chews on it. It's supposed to gross me out – but damn if it doesn't look tasty. "You all done with him?" he asks. "I don't eat humans." "Well, no wonder you look like shit," the zombie says, chewing. He offers me a piece. "Go on, you need it." I look at the smelly, dried-blood-covered forearm he extends my way. "No, thanks." "What? You're one of those people?" "Those people who don't want to be cannibals?" He chuckles and shakes his head. "Dude. The world's gone. There's no cannibals. There's just food or dying. Have a piece." He puts the piece of rotten flesh in front of my eyes again. I struggle to get my head up. I look down at it. "You'll feel better," he says. I would. I really would. I'd stop forgetting my name every five minutes and blacking out. I'd be able to stand on my two feet for more than five minutes at a time. The fog and headache would be gone in an instant, one bite. "He's already dead, anyway. What's the harm?" the zombie says, biting onto a finger and sucking the skin out of it. I take the forearm and study it, rolling it around my hands. I smell it. It smells like shit and amazing at the same time. I think of Levon. I wonder if he's alive. Probably not. Probably dead somewhere between Philadelphia and New York, chasing his dream of a safe port that doesn't exist. Chasing ghosts. I bring the forearm close to my mouth. "There you go," the zombie says. "No one cares, go ahead." No one cares. No one cares. No one cares. Damian's dead and Levon's dead and no one cares. And I need to eat. Fuck it.

