Since this morning Joel and I have managed to cross the street, work our way through the hospital, and found our way to the roof. There are five doctors up there, three living, two dead, all conscious, one a ghost and one a disembodied zombie head that the “expert in mortuary health” insists upon keeping. I haven’t been able to see a ghost since last year, since the ritual that is now leeching my red blood cells also blocks my psychic channels. I can’t fathom how I can see him. I have my mini-laptop up here and the wireless access is solid; we’re in contact with other doctors on the roofs of other hospitals in the city, and we’ve been passing around the Zombie Repellent like sunscreen while mortuary science guy asks me incredibly dumb questions about mystic applications and why the hell I’ve been living the way I have been, as though it’s his business.
Getting through the hospital was…weird. There’s a new breed of zombies on the loose, fast ones. I don’t like fast ones. That said, that isn’t what we found in the hospital. I can’t say we actually found zombies…we found pieces of them…very active pieces of them. It was like someone was holding an audition for the Thing in the next Addam’s family remake. I stepped up on a loose hand going up the stairs, and two flights up got kicked in the shins by a disembodies leg, ostensibly for stepping on the hand.
I would have preferred to head straight to the roof, but Joel insisted we make our way into the lab and get my test results. He doesn’t know that what I’m being treated for is zombie-related, he just knows it’s autoimmune. But by his logic, now is as good a time as any for me to stock up on medications. The boy is thinking like a looter already. I am a terrible influence.
He’s actually been getting crankier with me, today. He’s informed me I have some ’splainin to do, because of course, today of all days his neurons reassert themselves into normal memory patterns and I think he knows I’ve been drugging him.
Joel’s method for testing me for “zombie creep” was to dump a bottle of Zombie Repellent over my head and ask me if I felt depressed. Not a great test, as I’ve been depressed for the past year. Of course, now that homicidal rage is a symptom… Come to think of it, that’s not a very Joel thing to do.
I swear, if that mortuary science jackass makes one more stupid comment about me I’m going to arrange for that disembodied head to bite him in the ass and then eat his brains myself.
