Someone once asked me what I wanted to be doing when the end of the world came.
I said: I want to be cooking.
It was easy to tell that she was fresh, her skin still supple, her lips not yet gray. She looked alive, the open wound in her neck with bits of meat and bone peeking out the only telltale sign that she might be otherwise. She was rummaging through a trash heap when we found her. We assumed for food—those things seem to do nothing but eat. She was alone—a rare thing since the dead, for some reason, like to wander in packs. Like Erwin used to say, people are like sheep. Doesn’t matter if they’re dead or alive.
Erwin subdued her, no problem. The dead may be strong even when they’re by themselves, but Erwin has always been bigger and stronger than the average guy, so it was no troub
