The Walker

“Didn’t you get the memo?” she asks the old-school corporate zombie.

She steps down into the yard, and the walker who’s been rattling their windows all day lurches forward, twitching.

His left arm is broken straight through, hanging by a bundle of skin and tendons. She looks away for a moment, taking a frustrated breath.

The phlegm in her throat needs reprieve, so she spits. A dusty splatter wets the dirt between the walker’s ragged shoes.

The zombie gapes incredulously, and bellows a number of rudimentary sounds in a string.

“Almost a full sentence!” she replies, cheerfully. It’s dusk and she’s taking a step in the walker’s direction, wielding the corporate memo.