People say that a Christmas card shows a lot about how a family wants to be seen. Just imagine if, every day, your mom posted images of you and your family. You’d have thousands of visions of what your mom wants you and your family to be. But they’d always look like a scrapbook of someone else’s life.
‘Makes sense.’ Ben paused. Then he started laughing helplessly.
I gave him a sidelong look. ‘What?’
‘My mother would be so offended right now. How dare I get attacked by zombies at her funeral? I should have had the decency to do it tomorrow.’
‘Technically, you’re not at the funeral anymore. The funeral ended when the last of the mourners went home.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Nope. I’m supposed to go home, eat casserole, and be sad.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’ I looked down at the zombies. ‘You hear that? You’re getting in the way of casserole!’
The zombies moaned. Ben laughed. We waited for the police to arrive.
All in all, just part of a day’s work.
The world isn’t so good with funerals anymore.
Deaths, sure; we have plenty of those. We can give you death in any shape or size you want. Good death, bad death, slow death, fast death – the modern world is the fucking amazon.com of dying. Maybe it wasn’t like that before the Rising hit and the dead started to walk, but hey, guess what: All that shit happened, and now we’re rats in the wreckage, living and dying in the aftermath of our parents’ mistakes.
We walked toward the end of the hall, neither of us speaking. I was so lost in my thoughts about Lidia that we were almost in front of the last cell before I heard the rhythmic scrape-scrape-scrape.
Abandoning all pretence, I grabbed Oscar’s hand. We exchanged a terrified look before the last few steps and peering inside the dark cell. A filthy cot was bolted to the wall on the right, directly below the sad excuse for a window letting in a weak ray of moonlight.
But my eyes went straight to the figure crouched in the corner, scraping at the floor.