The zombies are dancing in the rain, when the clouds break, the morning sunrise always looks like a bloody egg perched high over the oil-slick parking lot of a rainy police station, a sea of broken and useless electric cars, a George A. Romero classic playing on the top floor, the boarded up houses, a truckload of supplies wrecked and forgotten about, the harsh gravel and staggering gait of the undead, a survivor torn apart by the horde, a pack of well-dressed plague carriers with gnashing, rotten teeth, Typhoid Mary and her ribbons singing in a bathtub, the hospital overrun, a drug-delirium and a half-eaten, crawling corpse leaving a blood highway on the freshly waxed floors, my room is the size of a coffin, I can hear the torrents of rain, an electrical storm is raging and how the security guards are swarmed, a few pop shots and the rib cage of one victim is held above the quartet of ghouls like some strange war trophy, the battlefield being the hearts and minds of this dying, unloved city.
Unhooking wires and monitors that no longer keep me alive, the unnerving shatter of the glass and brittle bones with a combat shotgun, a heavy drum magazine, the heroes shrouded in white smoke appear in riot gear, a flashlight beam scans the open doors that look like the empty eye sockets of some giant shark, the distressed courtyard scene of horror and the unfolding arms of a small African Acacia tree down below, the illuminating pharmacy light and a pair of severed legs resting on a wooden bench, zombie movies have fascinated me since my childhood, the poetic end of the world, the madness and decay of a sprawling city and hospital monstrosity that devours everything, the sickly patient stumbling around like a dazed and defeated prizefighter, her blood drips from the nose in dark red, and clotting terminally ill waves, the starving, howling, apocalypse.