As I trudged my way down the alley, I could smell the fetid stench of decaying flesh. I knew my time had come. I rounded the corner, and there he was. My subject stood at 5 feet 4 inches but was currently crouched over his latest prey. In his life, his name was Jeremy Ficklestein. He was a father of three, happily married to a lovely wife, whose body was found without its organs and, inexplicably, its chest. His children were still missing, though it is safe to assume that he had them as an after-dinner snack the same night he engorged himself on his wife.

As I approached, he simply continued to feed, oblivious to my presence. I patiently waited for him to finish his meal, readying my notebook and recorder. Finally, when he’d sucked the last bit of marrow from the victim, he turned around and faced me. I greeted him, and asked him if he would like to follow me back to my apartment for a little chat. He grumbled. My proficiency in Zombinese told me that he accepted. So I led him down the street to my loft, prying the boards off the front door and allowing him to enter first before closing and bolting it back up.  Then I slid the file cabinet in front of the door.

After we were both situated comfortably in my office, I in my swivel chair and he on the floor next to my desk, I rolled around to face him, as he was staring absentmindedly at my painting.

“Ah, I see you like my paining,” I said. “It’s an original van Gogh. I nicked it from the museum downtown,” I added. “After all, what use do they have for it? They’re all dead!”

Jeremy was silent.

“So being a zombie, that must be hard, yes?” I asked.

“Mmmmrrrrgggghhhh,” he growled.

“Could you repeat that?” I hesitantly requested.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh,” he replied in an aggravated manner.

“Ah, I see. What would you say is the hardest part of doing what you do?” I inquired.

“Grrummph,” Jeremy answered in a low tone of voice.

“Ah. Yeah, the job market is pretty tough right now,” I said. “Do you see a lot of discrimination, or would you say you get treated the same as every other being of decaying flesh, like a hobo?” I continued.

“Mffrgh,” he replies licking his lips.

“I guess that does give you a slight advantage, you being able to eat their brains. How successful have you been with this method of eating your competition’s brains? Would you say it is beneficial, or do you think that it makes you look weaker, in the end?” I continued asking.

Jeremy shouted, “Braaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiins.”

“Oh, sorry,” I jumped. “I didn’t realize you were hungry. Can I offer you a sandwich?”

“Braaaaaaaaaiiiins,” he shouted again.

“Ah, terribly sorry, I don’t have any bran bread. Would you be okay with wheat bread?” I politely asked. Jeremy gurgled. “Right then. There you go,” I said while serving him bread. “Now please, tell me how you prefer to get around. I would imagine rigor mortis can’t be helpful when getting from place to place,” I opined.

“Braaaaains,” he growled again.

“You drive? That’s nice. What kind of car do you drive?” I asked.

Jeremy replied, “Brains.”

“I see,” I exclaimed. “So, you drive a Smart Car. I would assume you are environmentally conscious, then. Tell me, what does a zombie such as you think about while he’s driving?” I continued.

”Laaaaaaaaaanes,” the zombie replied in a bored voice.

“So, you like to remind your fellow drivers the rules of the road as well! I believe we are kindred spir– sorry,” I quietly added.

Jeremy was annoyed, “Fgrh.”

“Well, when you’re not driving, how do you deal with the rigor mortis? Do you just tough it out, or do you use crutches?” I asked.

“Caaaaaaaaane,” the creature mumbled.

“Fantastic,” I replied. “Though, that looks like a femur… whose is that?” I curiously inquired.

“Coltraaaaaaaaaaane,” he said, grinning again.

“I never liked him anyway. While we’re on music, what is your favorite band?” I redirected the course of my interview.

“Traaaaaaaaaain,” said he, to which I replied,” Ahh, Train. I remember when they first got turned into zombies. Their career really took off after that! Only Pat Monahan could turn being zombified into a multi-platinum album. “He sounds much better as a zombie,” I added.

At this point, I heard scraping at the door. I knew my time with Mr. Ficklestein was coming to an end, so I wrapped up with a couple quick questions.

“What is your favorite bird?” I rushed to ask.

“Craaaaaaaaaaane,” he replied.

“What is your favorite state?”

“Maaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiine,” he answered.

“What is your favorite animal?” said I, getting more anxious by the second.

Jeremy replid, “Maaaaaaaane,” roughly translated as “lion.”

“What is your favorite kind of flammable gas?” I said, concluding my interview.

“Propaaaaaaaane!” he angrily shouted.

As I finished writing everything down, I heard a crash. I raced to my computer, and began typing. Even as I type, my limbs are being gnawed by an undead nurse and my landlord (who is not actually undead, I just haven’t paid my rent in three months).

Make sure to pick up our next issue, as I describe the everyday life of a zombie from a first-person perspective.

By: Chris Pilcher

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