The memories…they’re there…they’re just so hard to focus on. All I know now is the hunger, the gnawing at the blackened husk of my soul for delicious flesh. Those who still feel all that choice blood coursing through their veins simply can’t understand the need, the drive that consumes us. Back when I was living, before I became rotten and putrefied, I was many things; a teacher, a husband, a father, a home owner, an upstanding member of society. Then the plague came. I was home trying to board up my family within the best wall of defense I could manage…it wasn’t enough. A hand-less arm, ripped down to jagged points of bone, broke through my shoddy woodwork and caught me in the side. All those horror zombie movies say you have to be bitten to catch this undead hell, this hunger consumed numbness, but in truth all one of has to do is break skin to spread our gospel. I fell quickly to the floor; hot buzzing filing my body like a million little bee stings on my very being. My vision started to blur and turn reddish as I saw my wife kneeling over me. Oh sweet Sharron, you beautiful, darling fool, how could you not have grabbed little Ginny and ran for all you’re worth? Once the famine of flesh took full hold I could do nothing to stop it. I didn’t even want to…all I cared about was quieting the screaming for sustenance ringing in my ears…I still had ears then. I left nothing of my family but well cleaned bones on the floor. My family and my home left bare, skeletons of what we once were. I think I feel something about that, something like the emotions I used to feel when I was living. There are no emotions anymore, only hunger. Even these memories are fading as I push onward trying to curb my insatiable appetite. My skin slowly decays as chunks of rotten dead flesh fall from my frame here and there. The only thing that keeps me going is whatever is inside me now. I don’t know what caused this, but it seems to be bringing us all together. Memories are disjointed, but once all the living flesh was gone I started walking as if toward a great beacon on the horizon; my fellow brothers and sisters also have heard the calling and make their way as well. I feel nothing for their rotten, wrecked bodies as they hobble, crawl, and drag themselves toward whatever is calling us. I feel nothing for myself…I don’t care if I “live,” I don’t care if I “die.” Whatever is left of my cognitive center reasons that I should be praying for some sweet release from this hell, but I couldn’t raise that much of a stink even if I wanted to. I only WANT one thing and woe to any of the living flesh whom I come across.