I’m constructing myself a nice four footed rationale for why the world’s not ending. Grandma in her faded pink blouse is only half what she used to be, her bridge hand only ligature. She recognizes me still, I know.
Among the rest of the neighbors, no one has brought a dish. The currency of a society is someone always brings something to eat. That’d be me, I suppose. I’m so hungry I could eat my own hand.
The process is to very casually descend into stomach. There isn’t any reason why Zombies must eat living human flesh. Seems like a little putridity would be easier on the chew, esp. if your jaw wires are showing.
Grandma found her old oven mitt. I’m a little restored. Nice work, Mysterious Planet-Wide Zombification! Way to show your true colors.
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