I don’t know what happened. Disease? War? Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? I guess it’s not so important. Once you’ve arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.

The suburbs where Julie and I nested for a night, once upon a time in a mildewed fairy tale.

The strangest thing about her is her eyes. Though the rest of her body is putrid, her eyes are incongruously whole. They stare at the ceiling with a fierce intensity, as if somewhere inside her she is lifting impossible weights. People and places and a lifetime of memories. A thousand tons of raw human soul hauled up from the depths.

The letters are stars. The words, constellations.

I’ve always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

But no, “R.” No sleep of the innocent. Not for you. Did you forget? You have blood on your hands. On your lips. On your teeth. Smile for the cameras.

Has your life gone on long after the thrill of living is gone? Are the dreams in which you’re dying the best you’ve ever had?

I don’t understand it, sir. What’s the point of trying to fix a world were in so briefly? Where’s the meaning in all that work if it’s just going to disappear? Without any warning?

To be or not to be, that is the question: to go on living, fighting against this sea of troubles, or to die and end everything? Why be afraid of death? To die is to sleep, no more. Perhaps to dream? Yes, that’s the problem: in that sleep of death, what dreams will come?

The darkness of the room is pulsing with gunfire, and by our standards we are grossly outnumbered – there are only three of us to every one of them – but something is tipping things in our favor. Our manic speed is uncharacteristic of the Dead, and our prey are not prepared for it. Is this all coming from me? Creatures without desire usually don’t move quickly, but they’re following my lead, and I am an angry whirlwind.