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The world is in chaos. A zombie plague has devoured every nation on the planet. New York City is no exception. Imagine eight million zombies. Shoulder to shoulder. Walking the streets, looking for their next meal. The residents of one apartment building have bonded to keep themselves safe from the onslaught, but their inevitable demise lurks right outside their window, a constant reminder of the doom that awaits them. Forced to remain in the safety of the building, the tenants find themselves at each others' throats. When they spy a lone teenage girl who walks among the hordes, unattacked by the undead, their world opens up.
He shouted to the crowd below. One looked up as the jizz-bomb bounced off his empty eye socket. Alan laughed. “S’matter, Gomez, you don’t like daddy milk? ” He stepped away from the window, no pants, just a sweat-sodden T-shirt. Not since junior high school had he masturbated to his own art, and it didn’t feel good. This was not how he’d envisioned his thirties. But then again, none of the current climate fit the vision of his future he’d had in his past. By thirty he was supposed to have had at least one solo show in Soho, Paris, and London.
He pounded a few times, rattling the pebbled glass with Bender’s name and logo painted upon it. “Bender, c’mon! It’s me, Abe Fogelhut! You in there? ” No answer. Abe cased the hall, then elbowed the loose pane out of the frame, the glass crashing to the linoleum beneath. Taking care not to cut himself, he opened the door, experiencing the giddy thrill of breaking into his neighbor’s business as well as a jolt of bowel-tightening fear. “Bender! ” Nothing. Abe gave the unlit room a quick once over, then stepped in, flicking on the overhead fluorescents, which buzzed in protest.
Come in here! ” Abe was trembling all over. He leaned back out the window and shouted at the departing beam of light. As it receded down York the horde seemed to spread out before it, creating a path. “Hey, wait! ” he shouted, his frail voice swallowed by another burst of thunder. In his ferment he launched into a convulsive coughing fit, his watery eyes following the light until it disappeared from sight. Now his coughing tears mixed with tears of despair. “What’s the commotion? ” Ruth whined. Though she was shrouded in darkness Abe could picture her bitter, disbelieving face.
As if. Still, it smells nice. ” As Alan took a few whiffs from the bottle it hit him that the stench of the undead didn’t bother him any more, even when his sense of smell was rekindled by a pleasant odor. The renewed appreciation for scent made him hungrier, and he ate a can of peas. Then a can of baked beans, including the disgusting wad of pork. Staring at his work in progress, he sat down on his couch and noticed he’d only given Mona four toes on each foot, like some cartoon character. “That’s stupid,” he muttered as he slipped into dreamless slumber.
Today, much like the day before, and the day before, and the day before that. He’d arranged his frail, emaciated body into a semblance of comfort in the threadbare upholstered chair, parted the dingy chintz curtains, opened the dusty venetian blinds and took his position as eyewitness to nothing. The throng milled about—same old, same old. Nothing ever changed. Even the ache in Abe’s empty belly had quieted to a dull numbness. He’d actually welcome the sharpness of the hunger pangs, but you can get used to anything.