I know the zombies are coming for me. I don’t need to turn around or stop running to verify that. The zombies always come for me. Shambling, moaning, miserable, little fucks; always hobbling forward, arms outstretched like they want a hug. But they don’t want a hug; they just want a nibble behind the ear. And not in that sexy way, but in that ‘ow-my-brain’ way. It’s been said they like the hipothalamus best, but how the hell do they know where my hipothalamus is? I don’t even know where my hypothalamus is. If the fuckers like the baser parts of my brain, why don’t they eat dogs or squirrels or any other stupid little animal without the ability to break into a post-apocalyptic, abandoned gun shop and blow their stupid heads off. Not that there are any gun shops in this part of midtown. Stupid liberals. Man, this internal monologue is hard to keep up while running at this pace; I hope I find a car soon. Not that anyone ever drives in midtown.

Hey, that sounds like footste…

Ow, my brain…