The ghost is a man named Doctor Z. I like him. I always like ghosts. They make more sense to me than the living. But now I’m an extra sad, a different sad as things run out of my body in the most public humiliation I’ve had since junior high.
There aren’t many souls left. The slow zombies, they have no souls. The souls are off in a bottle somewhere. The fast zombies, they’re trapped inside themselves. Somehow that’s worse.
And Joel is almost satisfied that a barium enema on a roof top is almost sufficient punishment for routinely drugging him for the past year. Almost. But at least he doesn’t want to shoot me in the head anymore.
I feel more like myself than I have in the past year. Like I could start cracking jokes. Or cracking heads. God, I could go for some meat, that zombie head looks kind of tasty. Not the human heads, just the zombie head.
