Day One: Introduction

You may ask yourself how it is possible that a zombie could be writing this; the proposition is, of course, absurd. I admit I was not a scientist in life (I certainly have not become one in death - or, should I say, undeath? I suppose that word is considered more appropriate) and cannot offer any learned opinion. Speaking from strictly anecdotal experience, most of my brothers and sisters are more concerned with lumbering, groaning, and devouring human organs. Even I am not immune to such desires. Earlier today I found myself partaking in a particularly scrumptious morsel of skin that had been aging in the sun for some time, as the best sort of fare should, and found it delectably ripe. It is one of the most common misconceptions about us, that zombies will not ingest decaying meat. Certainly, we have enough decency not to consume one another, but say an arm falls off in the course of a day, or perhaps a bullet nicks off an ear- do you think we should let these little gifts go to waste? It isn’t simply an appetite, but a necessity. The laws of thermodynamics demand that energy be supplied in some form or another, and despite what some of our undead gurus and yogis would have you believe, we can’t subsist on sunlight alone. Yes, we can’t die, per se, but our bodies do slow down without proper fuel, and we’ve been known to enter states similar to hibernation, like lizards when they are without food long enough (perhaps an echo back to our most primordial reptilian state eons ago). And so with this in mind, clearly you can be more sympathetic to our unquenchable predilection with eating your brains.

But I digress, because none of this answers our central question, namely how it is possible that I am here, writing this so that you may read it. I would not say that I am evolving. Even now, my brethren are making for an office building where a group of survivors has been discovered, and there is a burning need to go and join the horde surrounding them. I clearly have not been elevated above these most base pack instincts. When passing a house, though, while on the way to assemble with my kin, I noticed the flickering of a screen near the window – the monitor of a computer – and I was overcome with an urge almost as strong as my compulsion to feed: to come, and sit, and tell our story. Perhaps it is divine intervention. Perhaps it is the fountain pen that was jammed through my right eye just yesterday by an enfeebled writer (the old man was particularly chewy and unpleasant). Perhaps it is because we simply have a story that needs to be told. Whatever the reason, I am here now, and I hope you will take the time to read, to appreciate us a little more, to understand that maybe we’re not nearly as terrifying as you imagine.

I hope you have time to keep reading, at least. We’ve already infested a good portion of the southwestern edge of the continent, and I understand that we’re hoping to make New York City in time to see the ball drop on New Year’s.