"I'm a good zombie! I'm a good zombie!" I scream, as the shotgun blasts again and again all around me. The bald dude takes a step forward, and I peguincrawl my way across the self- checkout computers. Cringing under another blow, I roll down behind the main counter.

"What the hell is it doing?" the man asks. I raise my hands above the cashier, one touching the other perpendicularly for 'time out'.

"Grrrrr!" I grunt. The shotgun blasts again, and I pull my hands back down in a hush.

"That's the weirdest freaking zombie I've ever –"

"She's.... ok."

I turn around. By the tumbled Mountain Dew display, Levon is dragging his body past the broken glass doors, forcing words out of his mouth like he's drunk.

"Dad, there's a zombie boy there!"

The bald guy turns the gun towards Levon. I grab a piece of receipt paper and a pen by the cashier and start writing.

"Not... zombie. Normal... boy," Levon gasps, from the floor.

The man takes a couple of steps towards him. "Who are you?"

"The zombie... behind... counter," Levon mumbles, on his hands and knees, "not... dangerous... cool... girl."

He collapses face first on the floor, his hand extended in front of his body like he's waiting for rescue. I peek over the counter. The man turns my way.

Trying hard as I can to smile, I rise, showcasing the paper in front of my chest.

I'm cool =D.

The man stares at me for what feels like seventeen weeks, gun still pointed straight to my chest. He frowns, then he unfrowns, then he frowns again. His kid takes a step forward.

"I say shoot her anyways, dad!"

"Well fuck you, too," I say, still smiling.

"We've been on the road for four months, now," Patrick says, sliding his back down the wall to the floor with us. "Got all the way from San Diego to here. Walked most of the way."

By my side, Levon's sleeping under the window, the moon cutting a piece of his face in bright silver. He looks peaceful.

I scribble to Patrick:

Where are you going?

"New York," Patrick replies, simply. "They have a safe haven there, my friend Jeremy told me. He was in the army, before it all –" he pauses, taking a deep breath. "Listen, I gotta ask... are all zombies like you? Can they all think and talk?"

Yes, I scribble.

"And they still go around killing people?"

I shrug.

"Jesus..."

We found antibiotics, after everyone had time to calm down and Patrick was finally convinced I would not eat his son. We also found bandages, and, in another amazing act of kindness by the universe, Patrick told us that he was a doctor.

Well... a veterinarian. A retired veterinarian, actually.

Levon was reluctant, but Patrick actually managed to get the bar out of his leg and bandage the wound pretty well. We didn't find any anesthetics, though, which I suppose is why Levon is still passed out.

Is there really a colony... New... ork? I scribble. It's getting hard even to scribble, now.

"So said Jeremy," Patrick answers me. "There better be, because otherwise..." Patrick looks from me to his son, asleep with his head leaned on Levon's shoulder.

"We're taking a plane there," he continues, reaching into his backpack and showing me a map. "Palm Springs International airport is only thirty miles away. Jeremy told me the army had some twin engines there they left behind, with gas and everything. That's our best hope, at least."

Can... you... fly?

"Well, no," Patrick replies, with a sigh. "That's why we haven't gone yet. We need a pilot. And the closest I ever got to flying a plane was that one time I didn't spot a bump and my Fierro went cruising into the air half a block, haha."

He laughs like he doesn't really mean it. I pick up the pen again, but I can't think of anything to write.

My mind. It's hard to concentrate.

Is this what starving feels like? I feel like I'm high all the time.

(Which is not so bad, when you think about it.)

"I can fly," Levon mumbles, his eyes still closed under the window.

"What?"

Dreaming, I scribble.

Levon blinks himself awake, looking down at the paper in my hands. "I'm not dreaming. I can fly planes."

"You can?"

"Yes. My father made me take courses... back before... everything. He was a pilot. For AA."

Patrick's eyes go wide like a kid who just heard Christmas has been canceled and replaced by Monster Truck and Ice Cream Day. "Holy shit!"

Levon raises his gaze to me with difficulty. "Told you New York was a good idea."

He closes his eyes again, and his head falls down over Patrick's kid's. He snores loudly.

"This is great news!" Patrick says, with a smile at me. "Did you hear that, crazy zombie girl? We're going to New York!"

I nod. I'm happy and all, but I can barely put the words he's saying together into coherent meaning in my head. I manage to grab the pen and scribble, Going... sleep, before sliding myself to the wall by Levon and resting my head back.

"Yeah, yeah, all right," Patrick says, still smiling. "You kids rest. It's going to be morning soon, and tomorrow we're flying the hell out of Zombiecountry!"

"Grrr," I grunt, feeling the world around me disappear in the mist of sleep.

"-- is no shelter. There is no food. If you are in a safe house, stay put. Repeating – We have abandoned headquarters. If you are hearing this, do not come to New York. The Temporary Army Shelter has been compromised, and we were forced to leave the building. There is no shelter. There is no food. If you are in a safe house, stay put. Repeating –"

I open my eyes, still half-asleep.

In front of me, Patrick is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, looking straight ahead at a small black box. Outside, the blue-black darkness above has started giving way to the first rays of dawn behind the horizon, painting a patch of the sky in faint pink.

"-- There is no food. If you are in a safe house, stay put. Repeating –"

I try to blink the scene into focus, but already I feel my thoughts drifting back to sleep mode.

My eyes start closing again, almost against my will. I think I see Patrick turning around to face his kid before I drift off.

"He's dead."

I open my eyes and immediately close them again, using my hand to block the sun.

"He's dead, Eve."

Squinting and struggling, I pull my head up. Sometime during the night I must have slipped down to the floor, because that's where I am now.

"What?" I ask.

"Eve, wake up," Levon's voice reaches me again.

I pull my body up, rubbing my eyes. Levon is standing a couple of feet away from me, right in front of Patrick's kid, who's still lying against the wall same as last night.

"Eve... he's..."

I get up.

Holy shit.

The kid's face is peaceful, like he might just be asleep. Looking closer, though, I can see he's not breathing, and his skin is a pale shade of blue.

Patrick is nowhere to be found.

"What happened, Eve?"

"He killed his son. Then he killed himself," I whisper to myself.

"Jesus Christ. It doesn't look like he was bitten. And we would have woken up, right?"

I look from the body to Levon, trying to focus. He's walking in circles, hands all over his hair and face.

"We need to get out of here," Levon says. "Whatever killed him might be back. We need to get to the airport. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, Eve."

I frown, stopping my eyes on him.

"The airport!" he yells, impatient. "New York! We need to go to New York!"

Oh, shit, Levon. Shit, shit, shit a giant shit then eat it and shit it back again.

I crouch for the paper and pen.

"Jesus Christ," Levon repeats, throwing another look at the boy's body, then averting his eyes. "This is so fucked up."

Leaning the paper against the wall, I write: There is no colony. The radio --

From behind me, Levon starts crying. "I can't take this anymore. I can't take it. I can't. I can't. I don't wanna die, Eve."

I turn around, holding the paper close to my chest as he cries.

"What?" he asks with a sniff, looking down at the paper. "What is it?"

I look from the paper to his tear-stained eyes to the body of Patrick's son against the wall.

Shit, Levon. Shit.

"What is it, Eve!? What did you write?"

I crumple the paper.

"Nothing," I say. "Come on. Let's go to New York."

Grabbing his hand, I lead him towards the exit. Outside, on the way to the car, Patrick's body rests just by a FedEx store, half his head blown, his hands still wrapped around the shotgun. A small black radio sits on his lap, silent. Levon doesn't see. We get in the car in silence.

Zombie fact number sixteen: Life sucks.