It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t FAIR!

Carl had worked so hard to overcome his sickness. Months of therapy, thousands of dollars in pharmaceutical dead ends, and who knows how many brain cells killed by years of self-medication? And before that, how much time and effort had he spent indulging his obsession? Breaking into crypts in the wee hours of the morning, only to emerge hours later, hair tousled, clothes disheveled, smoking a well-earned cigarette? Carl shuddered to think how many times he’d stumbled into work reeking of rotting flesh and scented candles. But no more! He’d been clean since February, the longest he’d ever gone since he lost his “virginity” at Uncle George’s funeral. He had put it all behind him, but how could anyone resist this kind of temptation? God was sending Carl a message, and who was he to argue? As the zombie horde gnashed and clawed at the walls outside, Carl straightened his bowtie and spritzed the back of his throat with Banaca.

His pants tightened as he flung the doors open…