No running water. No electricity.
Zombies beat at my door. They’ll have to tear my lifeless body from
this place I now call home. I live and breathe anxiety, my nerves
coiled tight from constantly being hunted. I think I’m
going insane.
“Screw you, zombie pigs!” I yell, my body leaning out the
kitchen window. They lumber towards me, so smug in their matching
blue-gray uniforms. I give them both the finger, then snap the
window shut.
“Official notice to vacate,” one zombie cop says, pressing
the sealed letter against the dusty pane.
“Damn squatters,” says the other.
