“I dated a girl once that was 1/4 zombie.  On her maternal grandmother’s side.”

Smokey coughs out laughter that reeked of cigars and halitosis, which would stink worse if it didn’t remind me how alive we were.  Dental plans lose their priority on the totem pole once the **** went down.  Same with my 401(k) and my college savings plans for my little girl who would’ve turned 18 in a couple years, were she not bitten, diseased, and suddenly no longer affected by age.

Do zombies age?  Or is my Michelle going to suffer for eternity with an ashen complexion, an appetite for human flesh, and an acne problem?  Are the marketers of Clearasil working on solving that dilemma?

Had it only been two days?  My iPhone says it’s Wednesday.  Help’s supposed to arrive by the weekend, if we can make it that long.  But is the weekend Saturday or Friday evening?  Details like that have new importance, and maybe we’d know more if their end of the conversation abruptly end when their line went dead.  Considering we hadn’t heard from them since Monday, I figure they probably went undead.  I thumb away from my calendar page, scroll through screen after screen looking for something to inspire a way out of this hell.  iZombieApocalypse?  There’s not an app for that.

My compatriot chain-lights himself a new cigar, and offers me the stub of the old one.  Cinder at one end, phlegm on the other.  Pass.  I don’t give a rat’s **** how you can’t fall asleep with one of those between your teeth; I’m not getting one anywhere near my mouth.  I’d made it sixty-something hours already with little more than a half hour of guarded sleep, learning how tied together paranoia and hysteria were with insomnia.  No complaints here.

Smokey mutters something about half a brain and a Canadian bomb shelter, but as bad as my school history might be, I can’t think of any wars north of the border.  Maybe Nordiques need somewhere to hide until really big hockey fights blow over?  The thought makes me chuckle.  In the last two days, I’d dispatched so many lumbering masses, I figure I’ll put together a top ten list and send it to Letterman, y’know, if both of us survive this mess.  Top ten things to use to kill a zombie: #4. Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue.

I pop open another Red Bull, ignore Smokey’s warning that “caffeine was going to kill me,” and chug the nastiness.  There’s a reason humans have the desire to stay alive.  I mean, there’s some purpose behind the survival instinct.  There has to be, right?  Why else am I putting myself through this ****?  In case I change my mind, I keep one bullet in my shirt pocket, a la Barney Fife.  I feel almost as intelligent.

I’m delirious.  My shoelaces make me laugh.

Kelly knocks on the door.  Or it could be girl scout cookie season.  Three quick knuckle raps, then three bangs with her open palm, and three more quick raps.  It was her idea to morse an S.O.S. so we wouldn’t shoot her when she unlocked the door.  Not that I’d use my bullet on her; it would ruin the whole “if I was the last woman on earth” analogy she’s so fond of using.

“Still breathing!” I answer. 

The latch clicks and she enters with two shopping bags overflowing with groceries, accented with a French baguette sticking out of the top.  Ha.  My life has transcended from a horror to a romantic comedy.  I’m overjoyed.

She slips through the door and locks it behind herself.  “Hungry?”

“What took you so long?”

I don’t know why Smokey and her don’t get along.  Maybe he put the moves on her during my nap?  If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he killed her dog.  In his defense, the stupid thing never stopped yapping until he chucked it out the window.  Actually, come to think of it, it kept barking until it hit the ground.  I probably shouldn’t have laughed so much.

“Roads still clear?” asks Smokey, which earns a snort and hacked loogie in his direction.  It dawns on me that we may the three least sexy people with working circulatory systems.  Our hourly checks out the window had shown no movement since early this morning.  The factories remained silent; forklifts, moving trucks, and every other engine remained eerily motionless.  Dead.  We might have had more reason to celebrate, except for the reminder of yesterday’s stillness.  When the rest of our group rejoiced and explored that mess with the belief it was over, our numbers were whittled from twelve to our current trio.

Zombies can handle sunlight; they prefer dimness, but they’re not scared of bright lights.  Hell, these things don’t fear anything.  Kill one, a dozen more come right behind it.  Yesterday, there were times my trigger finger got so sore, I’d almost wanted to let one of those bastards chew it off.  Would that make me sympathetic to cannibalism?  Are there zombie chefs out there who have mastered cuisine d’human?  Do we taste like chicken?

The open can of tuna fish Kelly hands me is as appealing as the thought of being cooped up in here with these two for three more days.  I may need it to survive, but the more I think about it, the more I may put my pocket bullet into action.

My watch informs me it’s half past four.  Another hour or two before the sun goes down.  And here I am eating tuna from a can.  Immersed in oil.  Good god, Kelly didn’t even get the kind in water. 

“How’d you avoid them?” I ask.

Kelly sucks a sardine through her smile.  “Lucky, I guess.”

Yeah.  Luck.  Because we’re the lucky ones.  Part of me thinks this weekend’s solution will come in the form of military jets and an H-bomb.  Better off to burn out than to fade away.  Heh.  Were it not for the sprinkler system on this giant box building, we’d have fried up yesterday morning.  I think I’d smell like bacon.  Only thing they managed to do was deactivate the dumbwaiter and set off the fire alarm.  Not that we’d be a high priority rescue. 

I wish I had a boat.  Some big **** yacht to take out on the ocean, miles off coast.  Take it down the Caribbean, maybe.  Then I can coat myself with fish guts and dive overboard in shark-infested waters and get eaten properly, the way nature intended.

I curse myself for cutting my finger on the jagged edge of the can.  Fish oil stings. 

Nothing to do now but wait for the inevitable, whatever that may be.  This hideout is as safe as any place in the city, I suppose.  Yeah.  The most populated place on the planet – talk about an all-you-can-eat buffet!  Up here in a loft overlooking the warehouse, staircase jerry-rigged by Smokey to launch any undead he sees.  There’s the one advantage to being caught up here with a Canadian trapper, I guess.  But they’ll figure it out eventually.  Or charge in full force. 

I just thought of something else to do.  I’m taking a nap.