There was a time when the place where I hang my hat was called the Big Easy.

Home to everything from Mardi Gras to the Saints to the butchering of both French and English that we call a language, Louisiana was seen by the rest of the country as a sinful little slice o’ heaven.  Most of this perception hovered over New Orleans specifically, of course, but I’m quite convinced that the majority of the United States population didn’t know that there were cities other than New Orleans in the state.

It’s been a while since the term “the Big Easy” has been tossed around, though.  Life isn’t easy anywhere these days, I imagine, but I can only guarantee you that it isn’t here.  For as long as there’s been a Louisiana, its inhabitants have had to deal with questions about voodoo and zombies and all those unsavory subjects.  It’s a part of our culture, sure, but folks, not all Louisiana natives dance around in circles while decapitating chickens and chanting.  If you ask me, voodoo is just a bunch of crap swirled around with a stick of bullshit.

‘Course, now the problem is there actually are zombies wandering around all over the place.  That kind of kills off the credibility when you try to tell someone that voodoo isn’t real.  You try to tell these people that the undead are everywhere, not just in Louisiana.  You calmly point out that the dead are roaming around eating people in parts of the world that have never even heard of this particular religion.  They just look at you and shake their heads before saying, “But there are zombies out there!”

You hate to admit it to yourself, but after a few of these encounters you start hoping that the next victim of the zombies’ gnashing teeth and insatiable bellies just so happens to be the person standing before you.

I apologize if I’m going against some of your beliefs about New Orleans, but I was a resident here before this zombie shit went down and I was not a voodoo priest, a musician, or a bead maker, and I did not live on the bayou.  I was an investment banker.  Sure, the job was usually quite dull, but it paid the bills and it was a stable career in a not-so-stable economy.

Now I find myself employed in the only fields that actually matter these days: scavenging, personal security, and home improvement.  Scavenging provides me with food to eat, clothes to wear, and weapons to defend myself.  Personal security allows me to not get, you know, eaten by zombies.  The third one, home improvement, is a bit of a stretch, but I wasn’t sure what else to call boarding up windows and doors.  Carpentry, maybe?  Woodworking?  Lumberjack?

It’s the scavenger role that has given me the most headaches.  I don’t mind nailing wood across entry points into a house.  If I minded defending myself I’d be dead by now.  But when it comes to finding items that I need to stay alive and have some semblance of comfort, I tend to fail miserably.

I’m running low on food?  The first ten places I check end up being stripped clean.  I need toothpaste?  Not a single tube to be found.  The chain on my bicycle breaks?  Looks like I’m walking from that point on.

On the one hand it gives me hope.  If these things aren’t where they were a few weeks earlier, it means that there are other survivors out there.  It is rare that I actually see these people, but the evidence of their activities is somehow comforting.  On the other hand, though, what the fuck, people?  I called fucking dibs on the stuff in this neck of the woods.  Fucking dibs.

What do I have to do, lick the stuff?  Urinate on it like a dog marking his territory?  I swear to God that I’ll piss all over those cans of baked beans if I have to.

Where my scavenging has really been lacking is in the weapons department.  Do you remember those zombie movies from back in the day where the hero would find everything from letter openers to bazookas laying around?  Yeah, in real life, that doesn’t happen.  I’ve managed to pick up a single handgun (I barely know which direction to point a gun, so don’t ask me for specifics about it) and a variety of household items such as a hammer, a mallet, and a number of screwdrivers.  If you were expecting assault rifles and grenades, I’m sorry to disappoint you.  I’ll let you know just as soon as I discover the secret warehouse of a black market weapons dealer.

Since I don’t have anything in the way of extra ammunition, it’s been a good thing that I haven’t had to fire the gun all that often.  In fact, I’ve only pulled the trigger once.  I learned two things from the experience: these things are a lot louder than I would have guessed from watching Cops, and I’m probably a terrible shot at anything outside of point blank range.  If I had the gun in a zombie’s mouth I’d only give myself a 50/50 chance of hitting my target.  I was an investment banker.  I had no idea how to properly use a firearm.  Shooting people was always reserved for police officers and gangbangers and former Vice Presidents.

See, folks, that’s what we call a segue.  A poorly executed one, perhaps, but a segue nonetheless.

Since I can’t sleep and you obviously can read, I’m going to tell you all about a little scavenging trip that I went on, oh, just over a month ago.  It led to me firing a gun that wasn’t attached to an arcade machine for the first time in my life.  It’s a tale of love, of loss, of redemption, and of finding new underwear.

Okay, so, there isn’t really any of the first three, but underwear was definitely involved.

I’m not sure exactly when I gave up on there ever being a rescue attempt made by the government here in New Orleans.  I know that the revelation didn’t come quickly to me; for a long time, I clung to the hope that a group of badass Marines would show up in a black chopper and lay waste to the undead horde with machine guns that never ran out of ammo just like in the movies.  I was so sure that the same people that had completely fucked up things post-Katrina couldn’t possibly refrain from coming to our aid in a timely manner again.

There’s being wrong, and then there’s being wrong.

I had been one of the fortunate ones that had stayed inside the city.  I’m guessing that’s going to need some explanation to make any sense.  You’d expect that the higher population areas would mean more zombies, right?  If you guessed that, you’re both right and wrong.  In the vast majority of cities that would probably have been the case, but New Orleans worked a little differently.  When the first large groups of zombies began to appear, it seemed like everyone had the same idea: get out of town.  Almost everyone attempted to flee into the swamps and bayous, thinking that they would be safe if they could just get to someplace isolated.

The problem with that theory was that the zombies simply followed the food out of New Orleans.  To compound the problem, they were actually more dangerous in the surrounding areas than in the city proper.  Tall grass and high water allowed them to move undetected at times.  A fellow survivor that I met briefly right after this occurred informed me that people were being bitten without even knowing there was a nearby threat.  There were marshes and lakes full of the undead just waiting for the living to pass by.

The mass exodus from the city had left the city streets relatively safe.  I can’t put enough of an emphasis on that “relatively” part.  There was still quite the population of zombies wandering around New Orleans, and it was still extremely dangerous to leave a secured building or give any outward indication that you were residing in a specific place.  I’m just saying that it could have been a lot worse.

When I had realized that New Orleans was going to remain my home for the foreseeable future, I made a list of everything that I would need to survive.  It was a shorter list than I had initially thought that it would be, and despite my poor skills as a scavenger I managed to locate most of the items in just a few days.  The food was a constant need, obviously, so every morning I would go out into the undead-filled world to look for sources of sustenance.  Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to build up something of a stockpile in the two-story jazz club that I had converted into a living area.

Just over a month ago, though, I realized that I had left something off of the list.  I had quite a few different outfits that were my size that I had procured (that sounds so much better than “blatantly stolen”) from a men’s clothing store, and I had even thought to bring back a bunch of packages of socks.  When you live by the bayou you learn really quick that you need clean and dry socks to stop rot from creeping up between your toes.  There was even a nice neat row of shoes and boots that I had waterproofed sitting at the bottom of one of the closets.

What I had forgotten to write down, though, was underwear.  Now, I understand that a lot of gentlemen tend to lean towards briefs, but I’ve always been a boxers man myself.  I had to keep my sperm count up just in case I ever wanted to have kids, after all.  Besides, every so often I liked to, ahem, “air things out” if you catch my meaning.  My boys didn’t like to be caged in, they liked to be free.

That rot thing I just mentioned with regards to the socks?  It also applies to underwear.  Imagine rot creeping up into your unmentionable places.  In its own way that’s more horrific than any walking cannibalistic corpse.

This never even popped into my mind until I woke up one morning and climbed up to the building’s roof to collect my laundry.  I had strung clotheslines between the chimney and an old satellite dish and pinned my garments across it to allow them to dry overnight.  When I pulled my boxers off, though, I noticed that they had become very worn and frayed.  There were also slight discolorations and stains.

No, you pervert, they didn’t get there from any extracurricular activities that I may or may not have been doing while wearing them.  That’s disgusting and I take offense that you would ever think that.  On the off chance that you weren’t thinking along those lines and you are now since I brought it up, well, um, oops.

The stains were from my body sweat, of course, and the wear and tear was simply from using them for so long.  For my own comfort and to avoid having mold attempt to creep up in my nether regions, I would have to go collect some new underwear.  That’s right, I was going to have to make my way through streets and stores overrun with zombies so that I could retrieve fresh underpants.  This wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned my day going when I had rolled out of bed.

I went back downstairs to make breakfast.  It wasn’t anything mouth-watering, just some dry cereal, but apparently it was supposed to be the most important meal of the day so I went through the ritual of chewing and swallowing.  Once I had finished eating and washed out the bowl in a bucket of water, I got dressed and considered my extremely low stock of weapons and things pretending to be weapons.  I shoved the handgun into my belt, of course, and I also decided to bring along the heavy mallet.  It would sound a lot cooler if I stated the reason I took it over the hammer is because of its stronger stopping power or the brute force that I could bring to bear with it, but the honest reason was I couldn’t afford to lose my hammer.

I dumped the contents of my backpack out onto my bed and zipped it back up.  There were times in the past where it would have been fatal not to have both of my hands free, so I made sure to always bring my backpack to carry my findings.  There might have been an incident before I had found the pack where it had been necessary for me to shove cans of ravioli down my pants so that I could climb a ladder; this story already involves enough of things under my pants, however, so I won’t go into more detail.

Right when I had moved into the jazz club I had boarded up the front door beyond all hope of ever being opened again.  There weren’t any windows on the first floor of the establishment so I hadn’t needed to worry about those.  There were only two ways in and out of the club, one of which was the heavy wooden door in the kitchen that was bolted shut.  I chose to go with option number two: the hatch leading back up to the roof.

This particular neighborhood of New Orleans was quite old, and the buildings had been built so close together that I was able to step off of my cozy little home’s roof and right onto the next door bakery’s.  From there it was a short little hop over to a cafe that just happened to have a fire escape that I used to get down to the street level.  One side of the alley was completely blocked by a dump truck that I had strategically placed, but at the other end was a wooden fence complete with a swinging gate.  I walked over to it and peered out from between two of the boards.

As usual, the few zombies that were wandering aimlessly in the street were nowhere near the fence.  Why is that usual, you ask?  Is it some sort of black magic that I use to keep evil spirits away?  That’s quite the stupid theory you have there, but no, I am not a mystical warlock.  The street itself was slightly sloped towards the far side of the road, so eventually the undead would move down the small hill simply because it was easier to walk downhill than uphill.  There’s a lesson in there, kiddies: even the living dead could be a bunch of hippie slackers.

Oh, and don’t do drugs.

I unlocked the gate and pushed it open.  It moved almost silently on its well-oiled hinges.  I always made it a point to maintain my escape routes; it would have been completely (and fatally) embarrassing to be running from a group of zombies only to find that the gate was rusted shut.

I slipped out through the opening and carefully shut the gate behind me.  A quick glance around showed that I hadn’t been noticed yet, so I quickly headed down the sidewalk towards my destination.  Over my not-so-tasty-but-apparently-vitally-important breakfast I had considered exactly where the elusive boxer shorts could be found.  There were only two places that had come to mind: the same men’s store that I had “purchased” my previous clothes from, or the gigantic SaveMart about a mile further down the road.  I had attempted to obtain supplies from the SaveMart in the past and had found it to be completely overrun with the undead, so realistically there was only one real choice.

Peters Brothers had started out carrying only suits and ties, but over the years it had expanded to carry all aspects of men’s clothing.  Since having taken up residence down the block from it, I had managed to find everything from jeans to winter coats in its racks.  If any of the three brothers and any potential shoppers were still alive I would definitely recommend them.

As I approached the building I noticed a lone zombie shambling around in front of the door.  Its back was turned to me, so I gripped my mallet tightly and tip toed towards it.  When I was less than a foot away I raised the mallet and brought down as hard as I could into the back of its skull.  Either I didn’t know my own strength (unlikely) or the walking corpse had rotted quite a bit (much more likely); the back of its head exploded in a shower of blood, tissue, and bone.  I somehow managed to avoid the majority of the splatter, but like the genius that I am I accidentally stepped in some of it as I continued to the store’s door.  I raised my foot and scraped what I could on the stone step.

I paused.  There was a lot of blood on the step, more than could have come from one bashed in skull with a side of splattered brain matter.  And I was pretty sure that when I had visited the shop just two weeks earlier there hadn’t been any blood at the entrance whatsoever.  A rather unpleasant scene in the bathroom involving a man who had hung himself with an extension cord, yes, but nothing at the front of the store.

Had the zombie I had just killed (rekilled?) wandered over towards the store randomly, or had it been drawn here by something that had happened?

Was there something inside that presented a life-threatening danger to me?

When I washed out my bowl after breakfast, did I remember to clean the spoon as well?

Find out next time, same zombie time, same zombie channel!

Nah, I’m just fucking with you.  I’m clearly going to tell you since I’m the one who actually initiated this story in the first place.  I’d have to be a major jackass to lure you in only to leave you hanging.  Luckily for both you and your curiosity, I’m only a minor jackass.

The part that was slightly confusing was that the blood was only located on the step.  There wasn’t a single drop of the red stuff on the door or glass.  Speaking of the glass, it was still perfectly smooth without so much as a crack.  I couldn’t figure out how the violence could be isolated to such a small section of the storefront.

I never did find out the answer to that particular question.  The zombie apocalypse was like that sometimes, offering up mysteries by the truckload but being stingy as hell with the solutions.  It’s something that you learn to live with.  If you don’t, it’ll drive you crazy.

I pushed the store’s door open and went inside.  The light streaming in through the windows was enough to brighten the front half of the establishment, but as usual the back portion was cast in shadows.  I stood still in the doorway until my eyes adjusted to the gloom, listening intently as my peepers got up to speed.  There didn’t seem to be anything amiss, so I went about my shopping.

If we’re attempting to be completely accurate here, I suppose that “shopping” isn’t really the correct term.  That would imply that there was an exchange of currency for the goods that I was taking.  “Stealing” might be a more accurate term, or perhaps “grand theft underpants”.  Although now that I think about it, I’m not sure that you can steal from someone that’s dead.  If the guy was dead on the toilet, did that make the store his tomb or something?  Had I been reduced to grave robbing?”

I really need to start getting more sleep.

When I reached the rack that was supposed to contain the boxers and other undergarments, I stared stupidly at it for a moment before my brain registered that it was empty.  The only packages remaining were tighty whities adorned with pictures of cartoon characters; they were either designed for young boys or midgets reclaiming their childhoods.  Stupid empty display, did I fucking look like a midget trying to reclaim my childhood?

Not one to panic or take my rage out on a helpless clothing rack, I walked over to the swinging doors leading to the store’s small backroom area.  I pushed them open and carefully maneuvered my way through the dimly lit room to the back door.  Opening it, I took a quick glance outside to make sure that there weren’t any uninvited guests prowling around before propping it open to allow in the sunlight.  I turned back to the stacks of boxes lining the walls and began to read the labels.

After ten minutes or so, my eyes fell on a rectangular box with the word “Boxers” written on it in marker.  According to the faded label the enclosed undergarments were even in my size.  With a complete lack of dexterity, I pulled the box out of the stack it was sitting in and unsuccessfully dodged the packages that came tumbling down.  One of my assailants caught my shoulder awkwardly and I knew that I’d have a bruise in the morning.  The things I did to comfortably clothe my manhood.

I pulled the tape off of my spoils and flipped open the flaps.  Inside was the treasure that I had risked life and limb for: eight packages of boxers, each containing three pairs (one each of red, blue, and gray, if you’re the sort of person that is that detail-oriented).  I greedily opened my backpack and shoved all the plastic bags inside, a strange smile on my lips.  I wondered if this was what cocaine smugglers felt like.

As I was securing my booty (ironically consisting of things to secure my body’s booty) by zipping back up the pack, a cloud passed in front of the sun and blocked out the light illuminating the storage area.  The shadows danced as if possessed by the spirit of Tito Puente.  I sighed heavily.  Judging by the actual shapes of the moving shadows, it was either an incredibly psychotic cloud or it wasn’t a cloud at all.

Goddammit, there was something standing in the doorway, wasn’t there?

I peeked over my shoulder and saw a man-shaped figure staring at me.

“Ah shit,” I muttered to myself as I put on the backpack.

Obviously I wasn’t in any real danger.  A single zombie wasn’t exactly something to crap my pants over, although now that I had a change of underwear I could be a bit more liberal with soiling myself if I so desired.  They moved so slowly that unless I was stupid enough to become trapped by a large number of them I could simply retreat.  I stood up and turned to head back into the showroom and out the front door, knowing that at any moment my friendly neighborhood Peeping Tom would raise his arms and begin that low moan that I had come to know so well.

From behind me came a hiss.

Wait, what?

With my hand pressed against the swinging doors, I half-turned and watched as the zombie stepped into the room.  It moved with a much smoother gait than any member of the undead that I had ever seen.  The hiss came again, and I wondered if something had happened to its throat or vocal cords that made it unable to moan.  I pushed open the door behind me and for a brief moment its face was illuminated enough for me to make out details.  One of its eye sockets was completely crushed, the flesh and bone resembling a gory crater, but it was the remaining eye that had my full attention.

The eye was completely silver.

Something was very, very wrong here.  The zombie stopped and seemed to consider me for a moment, its jaw visibly working as it tilted its head slightly to one side.  It finally opened its mouth and shrieked.

It didn’t moan.  It didn’t even do that hissing thing again.  It shrieked.  I had never had any experience with the word “bloodcurdling” before, but I found that I was now able to put it to good use.  It was a bloodcurdling shriek.  Suddenly I was feeling ice in veins and shivers along my spine.

What was this…this thing?  It was clearly a card-carrying member of the Fraternity of the Undead, but I had never encountered one like this before.  It wasn’t a slow lumbering idiot like all the zombies that had come before it.  It was something else entirely.  It was almost…feral.  It was a true predator.  I have no idea why that description popped into my head, but even weeks later, I know that it was an accurate assessment.

The zombie shrieked again, and suddenly it was moving towards me.

The zombie didn’t shamble towards me.  It didn’t drag itself in my general direction.  It didn’t even stumble forward.

The fucker ran.

I suddenly found myself being charged by this abomination of an undead (more abominable than usual, anyway).  The speed at which it ran would have made it almost impossible to avoid even if I hadn’t been standing there in complete shock.  I was caught completely off-guard, though, and the zombie barreled into me at top speed.  We went crashing through the swinging doors and fell to the floor in a heap.

I barely moved my face out of the way as its jaws came snapping down.  It wasn’t just fast, it was strong as hell, too.  Its arms lashed out and pinned my shoulders to the floor.  Instinctively I kicked upward, and amazingly the desperation move worked.  The zombie lost its grip and rolled off to the side.  Even though adrenaline was pumping through my body so hard that my left eyelid was twitching, it still managed to get to its feet just as quickly as I did.  It was like being face-to-face with a bipedal panther.

I think.  I don’t exactly have a lot of experience fighting wild cats that walk upright.  Or any wild cats, for that matter.

I belatedly realized that I had left my mallet lying on the storage area floor.  Briefly considering the gun still stuck under my belt, I realized that the zombie wasn’t going to give me time to pull it out, figure out where the safety was, aim, and fire.  As it lunged at me again I grabbed the first thing that I saw and swung.  That object turned out to be one of those mannequin busts used to display ties, and it made a dull thunk as it collided with my dance partner.  The blow wasn’t anywhere close to being lethal, but it was enough to make the zombie stagger backwards a few steps.

That was all the encouragement that I needed.  In a move so epically heroic that Batman would have been envious, I spun around and ran just as fast as my legs would carry me.  What, did you expect me to maybe engage my new nemesis in some sort of titanic combat where only one of us would survive?  It would have fucking torn me apart.  I was a banker, for God’s sake, not a gladiator.  A strategic retreat was the only course that offered a chance of survival, and I strategically retreated the hell out of the clothing store.

From behind me came another one of those bloodcurdling (I’m really starting to like that word) shrieks.  A new warning bell was gently chiming in my head, but I wasn’t sure exactly what it was trying to warn me of.  I had come to rely on these little subconscious proddings as they had saved my life on numerous occasions.  Even as I took off at a run towards home I scanned the nearby streets in an effort to figure out what my brain was trying to warn the rest of me about.

Within seconds I had it: the other zombies, the undead that weren’t seeming nearly as fearsome now that I had encountered the Extra Strength version, were all making their way towards me.  I stopped counting rotting heads at two dozen; there were apparently a lot more out and about than I had originally thought.  Their arms were outstretched and the standard moan was coming from their mouths.

The shrieking from Super Zombie must have gotten their attention.  I still had a few moments before they reached the sidewalk, though, so I coaxed all the strength I could from my legs and ran onward.  I risked a glance over my shoulder and immediately regretted it; my silver-eyed admirer had emerged from the store and had taken up the pursuit.  Turning my eyes forward, I concentrated on the spot where I knew the gate waited for me.  This was going to be close.

My legs were just starting to raise the white flag when I made it to my destination.  Without looking back, I flung the gate open and practically threw myself inside.  The one-eyed ninja zombie was right behind me, though, and it attempted to dive through the opening as I was slamming the gate shut.  It was a split second too slow, and the edge of the gate smashed into its face.  The impact knocked us both on our asses, and despite the pain I immediately jumped back up and closed and locked the gate door.

The gate was about ten feet high, but I knew that it would only provide me with a very temporary respite.  My entire body began to ache like a sore tooth as I mounted the fire escape.  I tried to climb the metal stairs at an urgent pace, I really did.  The problem was I was completely winded at this point and it felt like my feet were made of lead when I lifted them.  There had been a time when the zombie apocalypse began that it felt like I could live on adrenaline alone, but too many restless nights and fearful days had taken their toll at the worst possible time.

I had gotten maybe halfway up when a loud screech informed me that the zombie was headed my way.  Without stopping I looked down through the metal mesh that made up the fire escape and saw that it was climbing over the fence.  That was another new trick that I hadn’t seen before.  When confronted by a high obstacle most members of the undead were stopped in their tracks.  Not this one, though.  This one pulled itself up and over the wooden planks far more gracefully than I could ever have hoped to.  It bared its teeth at me and headed for the bottom of the stairs.

What the hell was I going to do?  Even assuming that I could keep ahead of this abomination, my current course of action was going to lead it right back to where I lived.  I might be able to get inside and hide from it, but that fucking shriek it liked to make would ensure the undead would surround my home.  Worse, if it saw me go through the roof hatch it might decide to follow me down.  In fact, I would say that scenario was pretty fucking likely.

I reached the top of the fire escape and hauled myself up onto the roof.  Could I toss the thing off the roof and kill it, maybe?  Judging from how fast and strong it was, it was more likely that I would be the one attempting to imitate an umbrellaless Mary Poppins.  I could hear the clang of feet on metal as it climbed after me.  There wasn’t a whole lot of time left before I would be face to mangled face with Speedy Gonzales once again.

I drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  The gun.  My only option left was the gun.  I walked to the far side of the roof and drew it from my belt.  I had no idea what kind it was; I had taken it from a dead police officer that clearly didn’t need it anymore.  I toggled off the safety with my thumb and raised the weapon to point towards the spot where the zombie was going to have to climb onto the rooftop.  It felt heavy and awkward in my hands, and the sweat that was forming on my palms wasn’t exactly helping matters.  I did my best to ignore my discomfort and pulled back the hammer.

Without another one of its shrieks or even a polite knock, the zombie climbed over the lip of the roof.  It looked around for a moment before spotting me and slowly approaching.  Its mouth opened wide, and I got a good look at its damaged teeth.  Whatever had done the damage to its eye socket had struck it with enough force to break every tooth on that side of its mouth.  Assuming that it still felt pain, that must have hurt like hell.

It either sensed that I wasn’t much of a threat with the gun or it was simply overcome with a desire to consume my tasty-looking skin because it broke into a run.  I closed one eye and attempted to hold the gun steady, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t keep it pointing straight.  I instinctively took a step backward and startled myself when my foot bumped into the risen section of the roof separating me from a very bad fall.

And then I dropped the gun.  I dropped the fucking gun.  The shaking and the sweat tag teamed to cause me to lose my grip on it, and it fell from my hands in what seemed like slow motion.  I saw the sunlight reflecting off of it as it floated towards the ground no faster than a feather.  I watched as the handle struck the concrete first before it did a flip and hit the ground once again at an odd angle.

To complete the surreal scene, the gun fired.

I still have no idea how that happened.  As far as I can tell, there was no logical reason for the weapon to discharge.  The trigger wasn’t pulled, that was for certain.  Like I said before, though, I’m not a gun nut.  I know nothing about how the things work.

The charging zombie suddenly threw itself to the side and landed hard about fifteen feet away from me.  Imagine my shock when a pool of dark blood began to form under its head.  No way.  No fucking way.

I slowly approached the now-motionless body.  Irrationally I wondered if this was some sort of trick, or if it was playing with its food.  As I stood over it, though, I knew that it actually was over.  There was a hole in the back of its head where the bullet had exited.

I want it put on the record that I am not a religious man.  I haven’t stepped inside of a church for anything other than a funeral or wedding since I was ten.  As I stood there on that roof considering the odds that had been defied over the last minute, however, it was hard not to wonder if maybe all that God mumbo jumbo that I had ignored for so long might have something to it after all.

Nah, fuck it, it was sheer dumb luck.

Probably.

Maybe.

In a daze, I stumbled back over to the gun and picked it back up.  After three attempts with suddenly numb fingers I managed to put the safety back on and tucked it back under my belt.  I don’t actually remember going back to my building’s roof or descending the ladder that led inside.

What is crystal clear is the memory of me joyfully sliding a new pair of boxers on.  It’s the little things in life that bring the most joy.

It’s been over a month now and I haven’t seen any more silver-eyed zombies with track and field aspirations.  I don’t know whether it was an aberration or if there are more of its kind wandering around out there, lurking in the shadows until someone foolishly goes looking for new underpants.  All I know is that since my encounter with it I’ve only seen your average run-of-the-mill shambling zombies.

I’m more than okay with that.

What’s disheartening is that there seems to be more of the undead out on the streets every day.  My guess is that they’re starting to make their way back into town from the swamps, which is good news for the people that have managed to survive out there but bad news for city folk like myself.  More teeth plus more grasping arms is a rough equation to be on the wrong end of.

Well, this is where we part for the time being.  I’ve got some errands to run and I just can’t see myself scribbling away on a notepad while I’m dodging walking corpses simply for the joy of your company.  We might talk again if I stumble across some fresh paper and pens.  Until then, stay the hell away from New Orleans, because things are already bad here and if a certain running silver-eyed freak taught me anything, it’s that things are probably going to get a whole lot worse.