Meat the Cast or Who, not what, we are

There really wasn’t much to say about me in life. I worked for the Ohio Department of Transportation and I was very single. I had the same cat then as I do now. The only difference is now she’s undead, like me. Her name is Charlotte and The Pelican Flu freed her much as it did me. I have to admit that in her case I’m not sure how much of a good thing that is. Being undead has unleashed a feral beast that belays the fact that she was once a docile housecat.
My wife’s name is Tracey. We got married a few months after the outbreak, and our deaths. We have a daughter, a human one. Her name is Rebecca and like all children she has grown up and gone on to do things her own way. In her case she became the first human President of the United Zombified States of America.
I know, I know. You’re asking “how’s that possible?” It was easy. She grew up in a country, what used to be the eastern half of the continental United States, that is tolerant of the undead and living alike. I know that’s still shocking to some of you.
My personal secretary, Paul Demarti, is a human. He seems to enjoy it here. (Typist’s note: Anything in parenthesis will be my thoughts on a matter. It happens a lot so get used to it. I’ve been doing this for a year and I’ve given up on a rescue. Selfish bastards. On the matter of me being his secretary, he’s full of it and I hate it here. I’m the prisoner of a zombie who’s decided to put his experiences on paper. He does that with my help. It’s reluctant help at best but the truth is it’s forced. I live with him, his wife and his devil-spawned cat from the unknown eighth layer of hell. Oh yeah, and don’t forget the living dog. How that dog can lick his face and not get infected is beyond me. It’s gross! I’m going to ask him about the dog. Watch what he says!)
I forgot to mention my dog. Paul was nice enough to remind me about her. Her name is Candy. She’s a Lab mix and living proof (Jackass loves really bad puns. You’d think I’d get used to it like I did my steady diet of bad junk food and SPAM but I haven’t.) that we, the living and the dead, can coexist together.
Paul was nice enough to get me back on track about my life. (And he was nice enough to smack me in the head. Stupid rotting rat bastich!)
Tracey and I met in church. Not my church, I haven’t gone since I got out of the Navy when I was alive. No, we met in a church that was filled with the living seeking refuge. That was a beautiful moment. Ever hear the song Hey Soul Sister? That was playing on someone’s radio when we met. Good times for all. I guess you could call it our first date. It was great.
(Not for the people inside the church it wasn’t. The only up side to that night was that they didn’t eat the kids or the parents. It seems some of the undead had morals even at the beginning and helped them get out. Note that I said some, it has since changed to the majority.)
Life is good now. Well, unlife, as we call it, is. I miss my apartment but not some of the people in the building. I had good neighbors and bad. The good I fought for. The bad… Well, the bad tasted like some bad British cuisine mixed with McDonalds. I won’t even go into what that did for me.
(Dear God I hope not. The smell after they’ve eaten fresh cows is enough to drive you to suicide. I tried hanging myself with a shoestring once. That, tied to a hanger, doesn’t work. It leaves you feeling royally stupid. After that they’ve taken away anything more than a foot in length. Damn glad that my lksahof;ioah yoirehf!3482095tu3[89 He hit me again! I wish you could see me rolling my eyes as he tells me no stale cupcakes for me tonight! Boo-Hoo, freaking jerk!)
I can actually say that I’ve had a more fulfilling unlife than I did when I was a pulser. I’ve done things I’ve never dreamed of, met good and bad people, and helped be part of a nation forming. All in all, unlife isn’t that bad. (Yeah, like eating people is a sweet dream. For norms it’s more like a nightmare.)
(Life isn’t all that bad. I miss freedom, my own toilet, and real, thoroughly cooked food but for what it’s worth, it’s not all that bad. Can you sense the sarcasm? I hope so. This is what I have: I have chains keeping me in a poorly furnished basement, a human woman who hates my guts and would rather mate with a mossy rock, and a laptop with limited internet so what porn I get is undead chick spreads. Sucks, right?
I spend my days waiting for a rescue that’ll never come. I swear to God he knows about my ramblings in his writings and laughs at it. It’s funny how I’ve been typing this mess for over a year and no one’s come to save me. Maybe you’re laughing at me too. Eh, serves me right. Karma’s a bitch and she screws me so good that it’s the only loving I get. Thanks Karma. I hope you can see my middle finger!)

About Jason McKinney

I'm a word slinging, werewolf loving, zombie wrangling, scare master author, husband and father of three. When I'm not writing, I'm blathering nonsense to the world or taking orders from the family. You have my thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoy the madness and mayhem! Stay delicious, my living peeps!
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