This is a two-man show. OK, two women show, one to get the goods, one to keep the motor running. The street is nearly empty; the dead having wandered downtown. It won’t last long, though. They come and go in waves. The building is fifteen stories full of old dead, but what I want is on the third floor. Thank God. If this were a movie, it’d be at the top. And we’d be white men, of course.

Two guns, silenced, and all the clips of ammunition I can carry. Let’s go! I slip quietly into the first floor. Three dead spot me and look confused. One is watching a broken flat-screen TV hanging from a wall. Another is sitting on the floor with an old game controller between its hands. The third is on the couch with a broken beer bottle in his hand. They look comfortably numb and don’t seem inclined to move. I give them a wave, then up the stairs I go. At the top of the stairs, a nasty little dead kid is holding a zombie teddy bear. She looks a little more interested in me. Daddy, what else did you leave for me? I put a bullet in her head. Several nearby dead turn to see what all the fuss is about. Hint: it’s me. Before they can react, I move up to the third floor. On the landing, there is a trio of dead folks who make a shuffle at me. I give them a trio of bullets. Yes, I’m that good

I walk on down the hall, counting the doors. Three doors down, I creep into an apartment. I quickly close the door behind me, pass through a short hallway to the living room, and find the safe. Above me, there is a lot of commotion. Word has gotten out that something fresh is nearby. I kneel before the safe. Spin, spin, spin; left to two, right to four, then left to two again. The safe pops open. Had this been a movie, the combination would not have worked, or the safe would have been empty. And I (a white male) would have already had sex with the token female eye-candy. Twice. But this life is not a movie, and the door opens, revealing what I came for: six kilos of cocaine, four family-sized bags of crystal meth, and a pound of Mr. Horse. I grab it all and shove it into my black duffle bag.

The dead are now aware of me and extremely focused. Something a few floors above me screams. Ugh. A Sprinter. Now the rush begins. Before I can make it out of the living room, a crowd of dead are banging on the door. I see the frame start to splinter, and the door gives way. The dead all try to rush in at once, falling over each other and jamming up the entrance. This works in my favor and keeps the Sprinter from getting in but blocks me from getting out. I look out a window: thirty feet down. I pull out one of the bricks of cocaine from my bag, poke a hole in it, and take three hits from my pinkie nail. That should do the trick. Cocaine back in the bag, I run toward the dead still clogging up the doorway, spin on my toes, and head for the window.

Smash! I believe I can fly. Which I can—for at least three seconds, then gravity pulls me down. Free falling. Crash! Right onto the top of a car. Roof crushed, my shoulder dislocated, but I feel good. Tomorrow’s gonna hurt. The dead finally break free of the door and rush after me, tumbling out the window in a lovely cascade crashing onto the car roof and street—time to go.

Drugs in hand, I jump on the back of the motorcycle, and my partner guns it. The Sprinter is out the window, onto the ground, and back up in a flash but falls behind quickly. Bye, bye, love. We are out of here.