I caught the kids playing with bones. Leg bones for hockey sticks, a skull for a ball. I made them knock it off. They didn’t understand why. They’re just zombie bones, Dad.
I don’t know why it bothered me as much as it did. Everyone’s adjusting, changing, adapting to the way things are now, but not me. I look at the handfuls of rotting dead we find pushing at our stockade walls every morning and I still see people. Horrifically mutilated, cursed and pained even in death, but people.
They won’t trust me with guard duty. I don’t blame them.