For an instant I saw before me the young girl this used to be.
To write is to stand at the edge of a bottomless well, unafraid of falling in.
So here I am writing my zombie story and my lead character decides to betray me.
I was a spectator who had gotten free admission to a freak show.
I turned to her, my whole body hard with tiredness and regret.
I thought if I loved you enough I could change you. I was so stupid.
Remember. Observe, assess and act. No hesitation. No remorse.
I like to think she hates my guts a little less every hour.
She played me with a bad hand, and I fell for it every time.
‘Can’t you see what they are?’ I said. ‘They’re all dead.’
I heard them tearing at it. It was the sound of mortality.
The people inside the gym didn’t stand a dead drunk’s chance.
People talk about survival. What they mean is killing the other guy.
His eyes were like two wafers of slate, grey and lifeless.
Creating characters is easy. It’s getting them to behave that’s the problem.
Did you ever think it won’t be the undead who kill us, but ordinary people?
Her voice was small and distant, like she’d already left the room.
It’s amazing how fast you can write when there’s a gun to your head.
If you’d saved the girl, you’d be a hero. Next time.