86'd

In the movie by the Italian, it started with a sailboat listing up the east river. The nypd that boarded it was attacked by a zombie from below deck. I began like that, with no explanation. That's all I remember.
It was on at the Sweetwater in Williamsburg, now long gone. Dennis was there. We drove the Impala my papaw left to me, which I had given to Dennis, wedged like a grey brick across Canal and over the Manhatten bridge. It was daytime and cold. Regulars, bikers and punks drunk early on a Saturday. I got us lost, like always, trying to find the place.
Dennis left for Dudzinski's wedding on Long Island, and I stayed and got drunk, left around dusk and took the wrong train deep into Brooklyn. One night like a hundred other, wandering wide and lost in the city, staring at the sidewalk, making people nervous waiting for the train.
I'm glad I never saw how the city might look over-run with them. I tried never to let myself daydream it. A year later the Impala threw a rod. I moved away from the city. I could forget about the trains and the direction they took underground. I could forget about fortifying that apartment, ripping out the stairs and the fire escape. Where exactly my circular saw was. Somehow they never came for me there either.
Somehow I never wrecked that car. There never was a boat that floated in from the ocean with an abomination in it's heart, but there was me, shambling through China town, bleeding as the sun rose.
None of it was enough.