Eve

Chapter 1

There's a bunch of zombie facts I've put together in these three months since I've been infected. Sort of like a list of things that caught me by surprise – things I didn't expect would happen once you're bitten by one of the assholes.

First zombie fact is the speed thing: being a zombie is slow. I can't run. I can't even walk, I have to do this silly penguin walk everywhere I go.

It gets exhausting, really.

There's a lot more. A lot about your life changes once you become a zombie, and very little is stuff you'd think about when watching The Walking Dead.

Because when we conjure post-apocalyptic scenarios around the bar table, we always picture ourselves as the survivors. Daydreaming, we imagine ourselves running around with the best of them, the quintessential gang – the kind, white-bearded doctor, the funny fat guy, the ruthless-but-secretly-kind-at-heart-action hero type. The annoying little kid. And you, right in the middle. I've always pictured it like that. Beautiful Eve, barbed wire wrapped around a baseball bat resting on her shoulder – that's how it was, in my head. Eve, getting by in the wild. Killing zombies left and right. Cool as shit.

Truth is, eighty percent of us got infected in that first week. I lasted a bit more – four months, give or take. Right now? Probably around ninety-eight percent of the population are zombies.

And those two percent that are still around? Those are the people who didn't bat an eye when it came to bashing their kids' head to death when they turned. People who had no problem turning to cannibalism when there was no more food. Men and women comfortable enough around a shotgun that you just knew that first zombie they shot was not their first time killing something.

Army men. Soldiers. And psychos. That's who made out alive. For the rest of us, it's zombielife from the bite on. And it's not what you'd expect from movies and comics.

Case in point – I'm a vegan.

Let me explain what that means.

About a week ago, I was penguining my way down Hollywood Boulevard, brushing past other zombies, turned over cars and torn apart billboards of old TV shows and all that crap, scanning the streets for food. Pigeons, stray cats, unlucky squirrels. Whatever.

That's my life now, by the way. I wake up, I say good morning to Jeff and the others, I leave, I look for animals I can eat. I limp like an idiot all around what's left of Los Angeles looking for something without a consciousness to put in my mouth and chew. Something that doesn't have a name or a favorite TV show. And, more often than not, I come home empty handed and empty-stomached. It's hard, out there. And getting harder by the day.

Somewhere around Fairfax, I heard the sound. Like crying, coming from an alleyway not far to my left.

"Is someone there?" I asked, turning to look. I couldn't see anything, but the sound was still there, loud and clear.

Baby crying.

I'm not one to give a crap about other people, mind you. If this whole zombie apocalypse thing taught me anything, it's eat or be eaten. Literally.

But it's a baby crying in the middle of broken-down, zombie-riddled Los Angeles. You just know I'll have trouble sleeping at night if I don't check on it.

I limped my way into the alley. The crying grew louder as I approached, but I couldn't see anything that looked... babish. It was one of those asshole sunny LA days, you know them? From seven AM to seven PM it's just sun, sun, sunlight beating your face like an abusive husband, not a damned cloud in sight. Clear blue skies and burning hot on your shoulders. And still, with all the light, I couldn't see where the crying was –