By Barbara Barnett
Illustrated by Frank Schurter
Daniel crossed the Michigan Avenue Bridge, heading north. A wistful yearning clenched at what remained of his gut. 
Up ahead, the shell of what had once been Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, and below, the Chicago River as it ambled toward Lake Michigan. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the clot of bobbing bodies clogging the river like sockeye salmon jockeying for position in a crowded stream. Better still, Smart Cars futilely trying to change lanes on the Dan Ryan Expressway—during Rush Hour. 
The vantage never failed to depress Daniel, but it had become ritual to trek this route. This hour. Every day. Their route. His and Alexandra’s. Two weeks, and already it was a complete nightmare to be undead. Worse to be alone and undead.
He sniffed the air craving even a distant echo of her scent. Eau de Alex. Instead, the air hung heavy with the usual—the putrid stench of decay and death. Must be fresh meat down there in the river today. 
Daniel had learned the tells in his short tenure as a…he still hated to admit it…a z… a cadaver. Not ideal, as monikers go, but... He managed a sigh, nearly losing his balance as every bone in his decaying body quivered and heaved. 
Chicago’s “finest,” the Z-Squad, must be out in full force on its weekly “serve and protect” sweep of Downtown, machetes poised for the nearest undead neck. No wonder the river was more body than water. He glanced around, suddenly wary. At least the choppers weren’t flying; he’d be a goner out here, unprotected on the bridge in broad daylight. “Damn!” 
Daniel froze. A mob! Not the cops. Neighborhood militia dudes. They were worse than the Z-squad. Decapitate first, ask questions later. And they were running right at him, special sickle-tipped rifles aimed right at his head. Man, they were fast—much faster than he could hope to be in his…condition. No way he could run from those red-beret-wearing terrorists. 
How had he forgotten Rule #1 of cadaver-hood? Never wander alone. Full Stop. Stay with your pack. Never mind he didn’t have a freaking pack. Not yet. 
Ducking behind a concrete post, Daniel rasped in a shuddering breath as the red berets crossed Michigan toward much richer prey—a gang of past-their-prime undead shuffling along the other side of Michigan Avenue. Phew! Close one. 
He’d seen it before, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the scene, watching in horrified fascination as the red berets slew their way through the not-entirely-dead. One dead-head and then another plopped and spattered onto the river bank below before joining the waterborne traffic jam toward Lake Michigan. So much for Rule #1!
Finally, across the bridge, Daniel looked around, trying to get his bearings. The slaughter had gotten to him more than he thought it would. He needed to find someplace to escape, if only for… La Rosterie Chicago! Right in front of him. “Their place,” Alex had always called it until he did too. Perfect for a quick latte, midway between their offices. Man, he missed her. He knew this was no time to get emotional. Dare he…? Did he have the nerve to…? Didn’t seem right. Not after… 
The door, only half on its hinges creaked open before him; hadn’t even touched it, had he? An invitation. Still he hesitated, remembering the last time they’d been there. He, nitro cold brew; she, frappe-whatever-she always got. Something with caramel. Damn, on the verge of tears—again. Don’t torture yourself. She left you!
The fug of dust-filtered sunlight and who-knew-what-other detritus blurred the atmosphere into something out of a 1940s film noir. Ah, there it was—their table, still in the corner. Sort of. 
Sure, it was wrong side up and festooned with blood and unidentifiable bits and globs of flesh. He flailed his arms toward the corner, reaching out awkwardly as the rest of his body followed. Then he noticed the grunts and indecipherable mumbling echoing behind him. He wasn’t alone.
Turning toward the noise, he saw. Cadavers in various states of decay, piles of lifeless limbs in battered gore-strewn plastic lawn chairs and cherry wood café chairs glazed with fresh brains and guts; they groaned in morbid synchronicity — sick whales in a mournful fugue of lost love. What in the name of Dante was this anyway? Some sort of meeting? Had he met up at last with the Z-Resistance? Not that he was especially keen to do it. No. He’d heard the horror stories about that lot.
One guy in the center faced the rest, gesturing like a broken marionette. Must be the leader . Yeah, a meeting.
Then he saw it, that poster. He’d seen them all over town plastered to light poles and boarded up storefronts. “Join Team USA — Undead Support America: Get Back on Your Feet Again.” Right . So that was their game. Well, there was no freaking way he was joining that bunch of self-affirming losers!
On the other hand, he had nowhere else to go, and with the red berets out in force, what harm could it do? Taking the last remaining seat in the semi circle, he nodded to the group, his head bobbing uncontrollably. Well at least it was quieter in here, a pleasant change from the eat-or-be-eaten world out there: screams from the living, screams from the dying and the moans and howls of the undead —a John Cage symphony in C-minor.
The man seated at the center scrutinized him. Yep, the leader— a real pro at the Z-game . The way he sat in the chair, straighter than the others and not flopping around like a dead fish. Must be a long-timer from the early days of the Zombie War to be that coordinated—and that emaciated. Practically no skin on those bones.
“Welcome to USA: Undead Support America. For the two of you who are new to our group—” The leader bobbed his head toward Daniel and the girl on the end. “Our job is to help you through the relationship difficulties of your new non-life, and any feelings of guilt you might possess because you…turned, shall we say, before your significant other.”
Who was he kidding? Daniel thought, eyeing his companions—has-beens all.
Well, except for that girl sitting at the end half-hidden behind a post. Her long hair—what he could see of it—was a dull auburn and her one good eye was blue, well more like a hint of faded blue—a perfect match to the delicate shadings of the translucent blue-gray of her skin. The other eye was swollen shut. She’d been in a brawl, no doubt about that. A fighter to the end. 
Then he saw it, that poster. He’d seen them all over town plastered to light poles and boarded up storefronts. “Join Team USA — Undead Support America: Get Back on Your Feet Again.”
Daniel guessed it hadn’t been exceptionally long since she’d turned.  Maybe a week. Ten days at the most. He’d become a surprisingly good judge of decrepitude, and she still seemed fresh. And, there was something compelling about her, something that called to him—or, rather his groin, which stirred, unbidden, startling him. Must be an involuntary reflex—or something. Maybe it was the embroidery on the hem of her jeans. Boho, just like Alex’s. Embarrassed, Daniel flopped his hands into his lap, willing them to be still.
Why couldn’t she move just a bit so he could really see her? C’mon. Don’t be shy. 
Damn. The leader was glaring at him. 
“Ahem. You there. This is for you newbies, so listen up!”
Was it that obvious? “Sorry. “
“Just like any other loss, you are going through what we professionals call the ‘Five Stages of Grief’: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance. You can’t really find a new love until you learn to accept that your life…your existence…is irrevocably altered. We hope to get you to acceptance quickly before you are forever scarred — emotionally. And as you know, for us, forever is, well… forever .”
What sort of insanity was this? Oh, right. He’d seen one of those Team USA infomercials—before, when he was on the living side. Group therapy for the not-dead. It seemed equally ridiculous from this vantage. 
He had to get out of there. ASAP. But how to lurch his way to the door without creating a fuss? Not too likely. As if to put a fine point on it, half the group glared at him, all except for her . She was still half hidden. If anything, she’d moved back an inch or two from the circle. Was he imagining it, or was she also planning an escape from the cuckoo’s nest? 
Maybe he should stay. For now.
Besides, it would take forever to get back home again. Sure, he’d been trying to build his shuffling speed daily, proud that he was now able to manage the 30-minute half block. Still, it had taken four hours to pitch, stagger, and roll his way the half-mile from his apartment to Michigan Avenue, down the street and through the inevitable obstacles: burnt out automobile carcasses, errant limbless torsos, decaying headless bodies, heads without their bodies—the cruel victims of terrorist zombie-killer gangs and Z-squaders. No, he decided. Safer in here. At least he’d stick it out and see what USA fuss was all about.
“Undoubtedly you’re conflicted about dating again, especially so soon,” the leader continued, “and you might find suitable dating material repulsive, but I admonish you to take a good hard look in the mirror and abandon that organ-strewn river of denial. Trust me, none of us are exactly dating material. So, get over it or live out eternity alone.”
Daniel didn’t need this guy to remind him. The horrified stare on Alex’s face that dreadful morning still felt like a chain saw to the heart.
“But it’s alright. Really, it is. USA is the place to unburden yourselves of…your grief. Get on with it. Adjust to a life of eternal decrepitude, and you’ll be much better off.”
Well, maybe it was just what Daniel needed. Couldn’t hurt, his grandmother would say. He hadn’t gotten over Alex on his own, at least not so far, and he wasn’t overjoyed at the idea of pining after her in perpetuity. He sighed, trying to listen.
“And by the way, please make sure not to unburden yourselves of dangling limbs or sloughing skin, unless you clean up your mess before you leave. Eat it; perhaps offer it to someone else in the group — a lovely icebreaker. Who knows? It might be the start of beautiful friendship.”
“Before we go around the room, I want to remind you that what is said at your USA group stays in your USA group. Consider this a safe environment for all cadaverous beings. Now, shall we begin?”
A low moan escaped involuntarily from between Daniels shriveling lips. Grief. Yep, he had it bad. Two short weeks ago—or was it three—he and Alex were surviving it, the war. All they had to do was hold on a little longer in their happy little hidey hole of a house in the Gold Coast. Their lottery numbers finally had been drawn, and they were only two days away from their antiviral shots. Finally! A little luck, and their last $100 thousand cash, and they’d made it to that coveted, prime place in line. So much for the old 401K. 
And then... They’d been out on a walk, celebrating. Feeling invincible. Too f-ing invincible. He’d never seen it… her …approaching, Daniel corrected himself. 
Man, that zombie chick had been quick for a cadaver, but Alex was quicker, wielding her saber high and swift. A combination of Wonder Woman and Zorro; the poor Z-chick never had a chance. Alex had put those college fencing medals to perfect use that day, and within seconds Z-chick’s head was rolling down the pavement towards the intersection, accelerating, and dodging detritus like a slalom skier. 
Safe . But then Alex’s hand clamped over her mouth just as Daniel felt the warm trickle of blood cascade down his face and down his chest. Maybe it was the Z-chick’s blood. He’d been spattered. Must be it. Mustn’t it?
Alex’s eyes glazed over, wide pools of bewildered terror as she pointed to his head. Daniel didn’t understand; her words tumbled over each other into a salad of nonsensical chatter amid the surrealism of a universe turned topsy-turvy. Then she was screaming, an awful keening sound, loud enough to rouse the undead from the next neighborhood. 
He flailed his arms, trying to tell her she didn’t understand, trying to explain it wasn’t his blood. Couldn’t be his blood. Could it? 
He took a tentative step toward her, extending his arms. But recoiled, backing further and further away, no longer pointing at him, but at an object on the asphalt.
“Holy sh—” was all he could manage. It was his ear! His ear ! The damn zombie had done him a Vincent van Gogh. He’d seen it happen before, and knew he was as good as undead. 
Daniel’s entire world collapsed at that exact second. 
“Alex—” Daniel wailed her name, but it was too late; she’d backed her way into their building, disappearing behind a mountain of furniture—a barrier no zombie could breach—leaving him on the outside to writhe alone on the pavement, dejected and alone without so much as a fare-thee-well.
He’d waited hours and hours at the door, realizing she must have slipped out the back while he was shambling after a snack-sized gopher. Daniel had hunted her all though the neighborhood, her scent lingering in his nostrils. It was over. Really over. Then why the hell could he not forget her? Despise her? Get on with it—as Mr. Team USA said?
He sighed at the memory, returning his attention to the USA leader, who was still droning on in the same somnambulant voice. Daniel rolled his eyes as best he could while he listened. 
“Perhaps you were tempted to devour your loved one, maybe just a small bite, and now you regret doing it — or not doing it, finding yourself alone in this brave new post-zombie apocalyptic world.”
Daniel could certainly relate to that. He’d been tempted. Real tempted. To bring Alex over with him to the undead side of things. But he wouldn’t do that to her, not by force. Besides, she was always too quick for his petrified reflexes. Fucking rigor mortis! Maybe there was a point to this USA thing, after all.
“As we go around the circle, I want each of you to state the length of time you’ve been undead — please no use of the Z-word or any other pejorative: no lame brains, meat bags, rotters, or zed-heads. Many of our members are quite sensitive still and haven’t yet acclimated to the reality of their deplorable lives.”
Daniel would have to watch his language. Half the time he still thought of himself as one of the living. But he didn’t want to offend anyone, especially the redhead on the end. Damn. Still hiding. Why the hell was she so shy? She was no worse for wear than anyone else in the group.
“Share with us what stage of grief you are in: denial, anger, bargaining, depression or acceptance. Oh, and no names, if you please. And one other thing. If you have not yet grown accustomed to using your vocal chords in their deadened state, feel free to simply gesture, moan or grunt. We’ll get the idea. Now. Who would like to go first?”
Not one hand went up. Maybe he’d put everyone into a sleep-like trance. Of course, no one actually slept, but he’d heard a rumor of such trance-states among the undead. 
“No one?” asked the leader, “Fine. Then I will start, just to warm you up, if, indeed you had that ability, that is.” He coughed a bizarre impression of a guffaw. “Well. I was “cadded” in the first wave. Last year. I am embarrassed to say I ran away when our house was attacked by a rather swift and organized group of undead. I’d never seen anything like it, at least not back then. I could only watch from our garden, horrified as they encroached upon her. I should have done… something …but what chance would I have had against the zomb…er…cadavered horde? So, I ran. Just ran.” He stopped, dabbing at his eyes with a bloody handkerchief.
“There they were…that mob of zom…cadavers…waiting for me on the driveway, lounging on the hood of my Jaguar. And she just stood there, bitten but unaffected, hands on her hips, staring at me from a safe distance. An immune, she was, I now realize. Her and the kids. By the time I stopped writhing and came to my senses after they’d done with me, she was gone, leaving me only this note. But it’s in an envelope I can’t seem to manage opening…” 
He pulled a slimy envelope from his shirt pocket and revealed a lack of dexterity he’d hidden well until that moment, futilely attempting to tear the plastic fiber. Either his wife had been stupid or just plain cruel. Petrified fingers just weren’t capable of that sort of deftness. You just don’t do that to a guy! Grunts went up all around the circle in sympathy. They’d all been there. And he thought Alex had been hard-hearted. Sheesh!
Someone snapped his teeth, suggesting that he might bite open the envelope. The leader smiled wanly. 
“Good thought,” he chuckled…more a moan than a chuckle… “I was afraid of destroying the letter, or what’s left of my teeth.” He shrugged before sighing deeply. “But no matter! I have finally reached acceptance — only last week, in fact. Janet will never come back to me, and I am a stranger to her, like we are from different worlds. I understand that now.” He sighed, again dabbing at his eyes. “Who’s going to be next?”
Would Daniel ever achieve “acceptance?” That’s an awful lot of stages to go through, and he was half-stuck at first. 
Maybe he was wrong about Team USA after all. It wasn’t all bullshit. He looked around the café. No. He couldn’t do it. Not here. Not at their place. Too many reminders. His gaze fell on a broken cinnamon shaker and remembered Alex’s favorite coffee concoction—Dirty Skinny Chai Latte. Two shots of light roast. Iced. With cinnamon on top. Maybe there were other USA groups in the neighborhood that didn’t meet at one of their…
“Buh…buh…ite.” It was the girl on the end. She was still hidden behind that damn post. Was she going to tell her story? Somehow, he needed to know. He sucked in a shuddering breath and riveted his gaze on her. Now this was a story he wanted to hear.
The leader offered encouragement. “Take a deep breath, dearie. I know this is your first time here. So, slow down and the words will form. Why don’t you come out from behind that post, dear? Let us see your pain.”
Oh STFU, would you? On the other hand, Daniel would not mind at all actually seeing her.
The girl drew a long breath, and her body was wracked by a coughing fit. Everyone moved away in case something dismembered and went flying. She didn’t really look far gone enough to lose a random limb, but you couldn’t be too sure. And no one really wanted to get hit in the head by a flying leg and do an Ichabod Crane! With no head, where would you be then? This wasn’t Sleepy Hollow, after all; it was Chicago. And once you had no head, you were…dead.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and the room darkened from dim to practical blackout. He could barely see. Anything. And just when the girl was beginning to come out of her little shell. Damn.
“Go on,” said the leader. “Never mind the storm out there. You’re safe here. We’re here for you, aren’t we, gang? ZFFs, that’s how we like to think of each other here at USA.”
She tried again, slower this time, stuttering. “B…bit last week... screwed by the CDC. Supposed to get a va…a vac… a sh…sh…shotttt...bogus… F ‘em. Didn’t work.” Soggy sobs gushed from her direction. Tears? She still had her tears! Man, she really was fresh z-meat. Her teeth chattered, echoing through the room. And more coughing. 
Grunts and moans all around the small circle, and the seated undead of USA swayed in reassurance, stamping their feet in a drummed rhythm. How horrible. What if that had happened to…to Alex? No, he refused to believe it. She was safe—vaccinated and settled far, far away from Zombieland Chicago. Daniel froze as a powerful desire to help her lanced through him.
He hadn’t experienced that sort of visceral…feeling since…before. Yes, his heart no longer beat, but it raced none the less—a phantom in his chest. What should he do? If only he could see her—or anything at all for that matter. 
The storm passed, and sunlight filtered once again through the boards covering the windows. Still dark, and Daniel’s vision was no longer reliable, but he could at least see again. Sort of. She’d moved; dragged her chair into the circle.
She was looking right at him. At least it seemed that way. 
He hesitated, momentarily unsure, before moving to the seat beside her, a calming hand placed on her arm. She was obviously distraught — and inexperienced. Even more of a newbie than he. She was fragile, and not only physically. At any moment she might shatter into a million pieces. 
He moved his hand down her arm, only barely aware that he’d reached the origin wound. The bite that did her in. The telltale sloughing skin coming loose in his palm was a dead giveaway. He ignored it as it flowed through his fingers, falling away, putrid gelatin onto his lap. 
The stirrings of arousal, mingled with sympathy and prickled beneath the tatters of his jeans, now bathed in her viscous bodily fluids. He was glad she probably couldn’t see him clearly in the dark gloom of the room. But damn, he wished he could see her, her gaze tragic and soulful, deep liquid chasms meant only for him.
“I…turned my back on him,” she finally continued quietly. “Cast him from our house into the…hell of the und…the zom…cadaverous…horde. It was too late for him, and I—”
Another female spoke, her head bobbing uncontrollably in agreement. “Was there anything you could do? To save him, I mean…without…you know—?”
A sob broke from deep within her chest. “I didn’t know… I thought only to run…I’m…” She lost control, her body convulsing from tears that could no longer pour forth. “I would give a…ny anything to find…”
Daniel put his arms around her, drawing her head to his chest. Her story sounded so familiar, so… Compassion lurched through his intestines.
“Bargaining!” The leader slapped his thigh, creating a cloud of dust rising from his trouser leg. “You see, fellow cadavers…fellow zombies. Bargaining. She has only been undead for a week and she’s already at bargaining. Past denial, past anger. Brava, dearie. How many of you are still stuck in denial?”
Two hands went up—both men. 
Well, that much is obvious, thought Daniel. The men had done a piss-poor patch job—slabs of pancake and greasepaint flaked from their faces like half-peeled vanilla wallpaper. He rested his chin on top of the girl’s head, patting her shoulder, holding her tight against him. “There, there,” he groaned, his voice a low rumble of moans. 
“Face it, you two,” said another group member. “The sooner you get on with it, the sooner you’ll find survival a happier state.”
A confused expression crossed the face of the more decrepit of the two. “Survival? I thought the survivors were those we left behind—the not-undead—” He flailed, grunting as he sought of the word. “The living,” he said finally.
“Then what am I, chapped liver…I mean, chopped liver? You call this not surviving?”
“Well—”
Daniel tried to tune out the increasingly heated arguing, focusing his attention on the woman sobbing against his chest. She felt so comfortable there, not just dead meat. Something…
“You see,” interjected the leader, “it’s a matter of perception, my fellow undead. Don’t let the living get you down. That’s why you’re here. Who’s at ‘anger’?”
Five raised their hands. The leader nodded knowingly. “Be prepared to stay that way for awhile. But do temper your appetite for brains, particularly the amygdala. All that L-dopa isn’t good for anger management. And if you want to find love again—”
A sob broke from deep within her chest. “I didn’t know… I thought only to run…I’m…” She lost control, her body convulsing from tears that could no longer pour forth.
Excellent
The leader steadied his arm, directing it with difficulty toward Daniel. “You. What’s your story—?”
Daniel looked up. The leader was pointing to him. He really didn’t want to talk. He was fine just holding the woman, feeling needed. “Who, me?”
“Yes, tell us. It will help.”
The redhead nodded against his chest. Looking up into his eyes, giving him the courage to let it out.
“My name is Da—”
“No names, remember? When did it happen?”
Daniel cleared his throat, feeling part of his esophagus fall away uncomfortably into his stomach. He retched. “Two. Two weeks. I…I suppose I’m at depression.”
“Excellent.”
Daniel glared; he had a sudden urge to rip the head off the leader. Excellent? F-you! “I lost my wife. Day before we were supposed to—”
The redhead uncurled herself from Daniel’s chest, sitting up. She placed a calming hand on his arm; it felt so…right. So…familiar. Her eye, intense — a cold laser, an admonition, a prayer comforted him as he continued recounting the worst day of his life.
Suddenly, just as he got to the worst part—the abandonment, the absolute betrayal, the redhead ripped her hand from his arm nearly knocking him from the chair.
 “Daniel?”
He looked down, and at last recognition churned through the slow haze of deadened thoughts. Alex? How? It was unbelievable. 
“No! It’s not… possible. Alex is in Canada. The Yukon. Didn’t—” Oh my God! No. No. No! “We bought—”
Alex! Had he known if from the time he’d set his eyes upon her and found her not repulsive, but a vulnerable beauty? Had he realized it already as she lay in his arms, just like she had a million times before? He jumped clumsily from the chair, teetering and startled, his body thrashing erratically as he tried to regain control. Wait just a freaking second. She betrayed him. He wanted nothing to do…
“Daniel? Could it be—?” She too rose and shuffled her way towards him.
“No! he waved his arms wildly. She’d destroyed him! “Get…away from me! You let me—”
Alex eluded Daniel’s thrashing arms, tumbling backwards into her seat, her head dipping erratically like a bobble-head doll. She was crying again.
“Daniel,” she moaned between sobs, “I was frightened—”
“You abandoned me! Go away!” He lashed his arms like a drunken Ferris wheel, keeping even the idea of her at a distance. Yes, indeed. That’s where he was, all right—‘anger’! 
The leader rose with a grace that impressed Daniel. “Now, now. Anger is one thing; but you two are obviously made for each other. Now that you’re both—”
“No freaking way!” Daniel turned his back on both of them, not hearing Alex as she attempted to creep up behind him. She touched his shoulder and he whipped around ready to strike out, furious. “No! I won’t—” But then she caught eyes, holding them in a vise. “No!” 
He refused to let her do this to him again. He raised an empty lawn chair, hurling it across the room; the undead came to life, ducking out of the way before they lost their heads. About to pick up a second chair, he felt Alex behind him, her arms forcing him to turn around and face her. And then they were embracing, bobbing fitfully, trying to find each other’s lips.
“Oh my God, Alex! You don’t know how many nights I’ve—”
“I was so worried—”
“But how—”
“This is our place, you know.”
“Yes. I don’t know how or why, but something told me—”
The leader interrupted. “Ahem—” 
“Yeah, for God’s sake, you two, get a room!”
“You know each other?”
Fate. Fate and coffee. Daniel ignored them all, their voices merging into senseless grunts as he anchored his arm on Alex’s back, guiding her into the chaos of the street. It all faded away: the blood and body parts, the shufflers, the crawlers dragging themselves along the slimy pavement no arms or legs — like oversized slugs. None of it mattered. Not any more. 
To hell with ‘em all. Undead Support America; The five stages. He only needed one ZFF and that was Alexandra. Nothing mattered anymore. Let the Z-squad come. Let the gangs roam around them and fight each other until no one else existed in the entire post-apocalyptic mess of a metro area. Alexandra had come back to him. Life…non-life…was going to be okay. They were going to be okay. 
Daniel shambled himself onto one unsteady knee, careful not to dislodge his kneecap. Looking up into the blue of her eye, the so appealing gray-green of her lips, he’d never loved her so much as he did then. “Would you share the rest of your undead existence with me, Alexandra?”
Damn, she was weeping again, the goop was flowing into his hair as she stood above him. “Of course I will.”
“Hey, honey,” Alex moaned seductively into Daniel’s intact ear as they shuffled towards the Michigan Avenue bridge. His groin responded lustily, surprising him; he didn’t know being undead could be so sensual. Thank God for involuntary reflexes. He wanted to take her right then and there. “Know anything about doing it Z-Style, Daniel?” 
He smiled knowingly. He’d seen an infomercial about that too. There was definitely more to this undead thing than eating brains and shuffling aimlessly through the streets of Chicago. “Let’s go home, Alex.”