In the front yard: One zombie, a man — well, what once was a man — wearing only bedroom slippers and tighty-whitey underwear.
Marcus snickered. “Would you look at this guy?”
“Yeah,” Carla said. “Hey, I think that’s that guy, you know, always coming into the grocery store. The one that’s always hitting on me.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think. Yeah, that’s him.”
“Oh,” Marcus grabbed the baseball bat, “fuck this guy. He’s mine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s already dead! Anyway, it’s not like he’s my type.” She peered out at the half-naked corpse, tottering across the grass. “Especially now.”
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