The dead keep coming. They are always coming. The fence keeps them back, keeps me safe. But they keep coming anyways. Endlessly, relentlessly. They died but still keep on walking. They never stop. But I am safe from them. The dead keep coming.

The dead are equal. A man in a tattered suit and what remains of a tie stands next to a boy whose insides barely stay in his decaying body. A tall lady in a ball gown stands next to an obese man wearing a blood-stained t-shirt. The dead make no distinctions. The dead are equal.

Do the dead have souls? When I see their eyes, what looks back at me? They were people, once. Where did those people go? Are they still in there, denied moving on? Or are they gone, leaving these husks, shadows of who they were? Or do the dead have a spirit too? Is there more to them then their need for flesh? Do they have purpose? Do the dead have souls?

I will join the dead. Are they the promised afterlife? What do I hope for? What comes next for me? I will join the dead. Everyone does.