I looked up at the moaning, six-foot tall undead wearing a white jumpsuit. It had probably been a mistake to KJ at a bar this far into the red zone, but the money was good and I’ve never run into my friends here.

“Morrre! Bluuu Mooon,” it moaned.

My stepfather had bio engineered the vaccine that had stopped the raging hordes ten years ago. His uncle, brother, and father had been turned just before he had escaped his own raging mother. The vaccine made them docile, almost friendly, and it had saved humanity. I’d always wondered which gene had been altered to make them crave Elvis karaoke more than brains?

I tugged on my earphone and yelled, “We’ve already done On Stage up through Double Dynamite. You know if I play something from before 70, one of you is going to rage me!”

It’s dead, white eyes spun in agitation and it started pounding on my cage. The other undead started shuffling toward me, arms raised and moaning “Mooonn!”

I love my wife, and I love my kids, but Elvis isn’t worth my brains.