Turning right on the alleyway and cross the side door, I climb the narrow staircase to apartment 015.

"Jeff. Jeff. Jeff!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming, don't knock the door down."

Jeff greets me with a grumpy expression on his face, stepping aside to let me in.

"Any food out there?"

I step in and throw myself on the ripped couch, tired. "Saw half a torso and an arm on a Seven Eleven parking lot."

"Did you take it?"

I don't answer.

"You didn't take it, did you?" Jeff asks, closing the door. "You could have brought some for us, at least."

"Shut up, Jeff."

Jeff is not a vegan. Neither are Kathy or Toby, my other roommates. They do, however, share the decency of only eating people who are already dead.

Or so they tell me, at least.

"You gotta eat, Eve," Kathy tells me, crossing her bedroom door and making way for the mirror. "You look like shit."

"It's true, you do look a little too skinny," Toby contributes from his mattress on the corner of the room. "Still hot, though."

"I'm not eating people," I say. "And shut up, Toby."

I don't participate in this 'as-long-as-they-were-already-dead-it's-fine' logic of them, but I don't condemn it either. It's gross, but at least they're not hurting anyone.

And, to their benefits, they don't get the constant headaches like I do. The weak legs all the time, the bad skin (even for zombie standards) that comes from zombie vegan malnutrition.

Seriously, picture a 500 calorie diet forever. Now take 450 calories from it. And fill that 50 calorie limit with pigeons and rats.

That's being a vegan zombie. That's being me. So excuse my language here and there. There'll be some fucks and shits and and stuff like that. Don't hold it against me, I'm a nice girl.

You'd be cranky too if you were always hungry.

"You could at least eat dead people, like we do, Eve," Jeff says, pouring himself a glass of blood. By his side, a limbless, pale human carcass rests on an old metal desk, its chest and abdomen carved here and there from a week's worth of Toby, Kathy and Jeff's meals.

"I had a friend who tried the whole vegan thing," Kathy continues, putting on earrings, still on the mirror. "Went crazy from the hunger. Couldn't talk, couldn't walk straight. It was pretty sad."

"What happened to him?" Jeff asks.

"He died."

"Well, he wasn't exactly alive before, was he?" I argue.

Getting up from his mattress, Toby makes way past me to the body on the table. "If Eve doesn't want to eat, fine. More for us. Heey!"

Toby pulls his hand away from Jeff's slap.

"You've had more than your share last night, Toby," Jeff says. "This has to last us all week."

"But I'm hungry!"

Jeff pulls a dirty sheet over the body. "Then call Domino's. This is for me and Kathy."

On the mirror, Kathy's trying out different dresses, posing them in front of her body and looking at herself from all different angles.

"Ugh. Nothing looks good with rotten skin."

I close my eyes so I don't have to roll them.

I gotta find some food.

And new roommates.

What number are we at? Three? Feels like three. I'm going with three.

Zombie fact number three: What sounds like grunts and incoherent babble to normal people is actually conversation. Zombies talk. All that chit-chat back at the apartment? To a non-zombie, that would just sound like grunts. But we understand each other. As soon as you're bitten the grunts come alive. Into meaning. Words. And you can talk to other zombies.

Which sounds nice, but really, most zombies are assholes, so it's not much of an advantage.

Case in point:

"Hey, sweetie."

A pack of Aberzombies and Fitch in ripped shirts watches me from the front of Hollywood Boulevard's abandoned McDonalds as I pass by.

"Where are you limping off to?"

I keep penguining, ignoring the douchezombies. My feet drag past stars on the floor. Past Carmen Miranda and James Dean and the Backstreet Boys.

The Backstreet Boys have a star on the Walk of Fame. Can you believe that?

"Damn, girl! Whoever bit you did a fine job. You look good in dead."

I give the douches the finger without looking back. Their voices fade as I keep walking.

About the Backstreet Boys, I'm not complaining, mind you. They're awesome. I even had plans to marry Kevin, when I was younger.

I wonder if any of them are zombies now. I don't think they had what it takes to survive this long without turning or dying.

Maybe AJ.

I penguin past Buster Keaton and Marlon Brando, looking left and right in the hopes of spotting something I can eat. I stop by the remains of what was once the Hollywood and Highland Mall.

Meh. They do have a food court.

Leaving the clear, sunlit silence of the street behind, I step past cracked glass windows fronting candy shops. Step past tumbled down mannequins and skeletons on my way inside the mall. Climb the stairs past a huge sign reading 'OMINGDALES'. Climb the stairs past a turned over Coke machine. Climb the stairs past half-decomposed human bodies. Climb the stairs. Climb the stairs. Still climbing the stairs.

Seriously, about zombie fact number one. The slowness is real.

It's super boring.

I reach the top of the stairs. Finally. I look around. Does this place have a food court? A pet store? Anything I can eat that doesn't think?

Bouncing my way deeper and deeper inside the mall, I scan left and right. Nothing.

Dear God, I'm so hungry I think I might --

"Back off!"

I look to my left. Just under the escalator, a half-open door reads 'STORAGE ROOM'. It's dark inside.

Huh...

"I said back off!"

Squinting, I'm able to make out a human figure. A bit out of shape.

The figure steps forward. A young man, not more than seventeen, comes to light, holding a .22 pistol with all the confidence of someone whose only experience with weapons comes from online Call of Duty sessions. Non-zombie.

A survivor. That's interesting. They're pretty rare these days. And this guy doesn't look like one. He's not sporting the full beard and scars and those crazy eyes that read 'I've killed my mother when she turned. And I liked it.'

This guys' eyes read 'I pre-order Funko Pops and boast about it on Reddit.'

"Don't take another step! I'll shoot!"

"Dude, I wouldn't have even seen you if you hadn't said anything," I say, though I know all he's hearing are grunts. "And I can see your gun has no magazine."

"I'm serious! Back off!"

He's got a piece of cloth tied around his forehead and the smell of someone who hasn't showered since Y2K was a thing.

Then again, the smell might be me. Did I mention that in zombie fact already?

Well, quick zombie fact: zombies stink.

"Go away!"

I roll my eyes and resume my penguin walk towards the food court. I won't deny that the mere fact that a guy like this managed to survive for six zombie-apocalypse months is intriguing. But I've got no time for this. I have to find food.

"Yeah, that's right!" I hear his voice. "You go on your way, freaking zombie."

"Go to hell," I yell, without looking back. He won't understand it. It's just for me.

The second floor food court of the Hollywood and Highland is a big open space, like a giant circular balcony, surrounding a fountain bellow on the ground level. I used to love coming here with my parents, back when I was younger (and alive). It's a big place, but it doesn't have that kind of claustrophobic feel of regular malls, where you can never tell if it's night or day because there are no windows because they wanna keep you there forever until you're broke. It's wide open here, fresh air and blue skies and all that.

I pause to take it all in.

All right. Where is the food?

California Pizza Kitchen? No, there's never anything there.

Hard Rock Café? Meh. I hate their burgers.

I'd try Trastevere, but my shirt and ripped jeans outfit doesn't really spell the business casual look they go for.

Walking past these places, I try to remember what they looked like, back before all this. Ghosts of polo shirt wearing men and cotton-dress moms and kids licking ice cream fade in all around me. Families around the rusty, broken tables. Tourists flashing away photographs of every corner. Wannabe actresses and actors serving drinks and milk-shakes and burgers all around, ears open for movie-talk, in the dumb hope that big shot producers actually have lunch at food courts.

As if.

Some things still look like they were just left behind. I still get impressed by this. Making way past the scenery, I spot dirty molded glasses still on bar counters across dusty glass doors. I spot purses hanging from the backrest of chairs and dirty plates on metal trays like they might still be taken away by some busboy. The poster for the last movie ever played in the Chinese Theater, still resting silently behind glass on the wall. The specials fronting the Italian restaurant, faded but still readable in chalk. All this life, like it might have just been put on hold -a game someone paused to go pee.

In front of an ice cream hut, I stop when I spot the pigeon.

All gray and black and unaware of the zombie a few feet from it, it lands on the railing, framing itself just under the 'Hollywoo' sign in the distance.

I wonder at which point during the end of the world did that 'D' fall. And what's the story behind it. Did someone just took it home? Placed it over their fireplace? Cause that'd be awesome.

"Hey, little buddy," I whisper, locking my eyes on the bird. It turns an unimpressed look my way.

So slow you could hear my heart beat if it did, I get closer. And a little closer.

"Don't fly away. I'm not a threat. I'm not bad. I'm just going to eat you, that's all."

The pigeon steps sideways on the railing. It flaps its wings. For a second I think it's going to fly away, but then it stops.

Yes, yes. That's it. Nice and easy.

I crouch in slow-motion for the brown take-out paper bag between my feet. On my hand and knees, I reach the railing. The bird looks down at me with black, indifferent eyes.

If you shit on my head, I swear to God...

Ok, up. Slow. Up. Slow. Slow, Eve! Here we go, that's it, almost there. Raise your hands, open the bag wide... aaand -

Bingo.

I crumple the opening shut. The bird spasms and thrashes inside, trapped.

Now for the hard part. Actually eating this thing.

I know what I said about the urge, and it's true. I'm not saying I don't want it, or that it doesn't taste good. Pigeon is no human meat, but it's damn tasty. Especially alive like this. My mouth loves it.

The trouble is my mind. The psychological effect of biting a bird to death is no picnic, let me tell you. Ruins your meal.

Imagine if every time you had a burger at In-n-Out, the meat mooed in pain. The taste's still good, but somehow it gets a lot harder to enjoy the experience.

I peek inside the bag. Pigeon keeps fighting to set itself free. Ok, let's do this.

"Sorry dude," I say, bringing the bag closer to my mouth. "I'm gonna hate this more than you."

I close my eyes, cringing. All right, on the count of three. One... Two...

"Well, if it isn't Cutie McUndead."

I look up, startled. For a second, I forget I'm holding a bird in a bag, and the pigeon takes its chance. It manages to set itself free, flying away over my head up into freedom towards the sun.

"Woah, nice trick," Aberzombie dude says, watching the bird fly away. "How'd you do that?"

"Thanks, jerk. That was my lunch."

The three zombie dudes from before. In reversed baseball caps and bloody, ripped branded shirts.

"Then let me make it up," Aberzombie leader bro says. "How about we have lunch together?"

"I didn't know they made Whey Protein for zombies."

He pauses. The smile runs from his face. "Yeah, it's a bummer. I really miss working out."

"God." I roll my eyes, limping towards them. "If you excuse me -"

"Woah, woah," Aberzombie says, holding my arm. "Where are you going?"

I pull, but his grip is tight. His two friends close in on me.

"Let me go."

 "No," Aberzombie replies, simply.

I wait.

"Ok. So we're just going to stand here," I say. "That sounds like fun. Do you guys know any games we could -"

 "Why don't you tell us where you keep your food?"

 I roll my eyes. "I'm a vegan, you idiot. Why d'you think I had a pigeon in a bag?"

 "I thought it was a magic trick," one of the other zombies say, uncertain.

"Shut up." Aberzombie pulls me closer. "Pretty girl like you has got to have a home, right? You don't look like the kind who sleeps under awnings. Why don't you tell me where you keep your food?"

"Are you purposely ignoring the things I'm telling you? Or are you just dense? I. Don't. Have. Any. Foo -"

The slap hits me like a fire truck to my face. I feel my cheek burn.

"Don't lie, princess," Aberzombie grunts, pulling my eyes back to his. "Now either you tell me where you live or we'll -"

The noise pulls all of our heads towards the ice cream hut at the same time. A loud thud, like something metallic colliding against the floor.

A trash can rolls over from behind the hut. A grunt follows.

We're not alone.