Zombies don’t mind sunlight, but they’re primarily nocturnal. During the day they’re sleepy, which makes encounters less likely. Now you’re probably thinking, “Amir, I’ve been to cemeteries during the day and night and I’ve never seen a zombie.”

  To that I say, you must not have any heart brains.

  I know that sounds like a cheap excuse, or maybe an insult, but zombies only wake up if they smell heart brains. They’ll eat flesh and head brains just fine, but it’s the smell of heart brains that gets them hungry in the first place. Otherwise, like most corpses, they’re content to sleep.

  Another thing people get wrong: zombies aren’t aggressive by default. They have to be provoked. Why? I don’t know. Maybe they’re insecure about dying. Why they don’t become ghosts instead is anyone’s guess. None of this makes sense if you think about it too hard.

  Which is why I’m explaining it now.

  If I didn’t, you’d be shaking your head and saying, “That’s not how zombies work.” I know this because anyone I’ve told this story to felt it was very important to debate zombie mechanics before letting me finish. Last things I want is for you to put the book down early because “the whole zombie part didn’t even make sense.”

  So. Zombies. Cemetery. Let’s proceed.

  I’d only encountered zombies once before, when I was about ten. I was just passing a cemetery and didn’t get a good look. Turns out, that tracks.

  Hands burst out of the ground.

  I froze.

  Orson didn’t.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Zombies,” I said. “I forgot about zombies.”

  “And?”

  “I know you keep forgetting, but I can die. Also, at present, I would prefer to stay alive.”

  “Just don’t engage,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

  He floated ahead. I followed, eyes glued to the headstones as zombie after zombie clawed free, dusted themselves off, and stared at me.

  They stayed near their graves, which was reassuring. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the commentary.

  “Hey there, big brains,” one called. “You look tasty.”

  A dead woman whistled. “I’d like to sink my teeth into that ass.”

  “What is happening?” I asked Orson.

  “Like I said,” he replied, with absolutely zero chalant.”Don’t engage.”

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  “Come over here and let me give you a lick,” another zombie shouted. His tongue fell off mid-wiggle.

  “Are they… cat-calling me?” I asked. I was briefly flattered. Mostly uncomfortable. I’d never been cat-called before, and I was feeling a confusing cocktail of emotions.

  “That’s zombies for ya,” Orson said.

  I kept walking.

  The deeper we went, the louder they got.

  “You got enough meat for all of us!”

  “I like the way those drumsticks jiggle!”

  That one hurt. I was pretty skinny, all things considered.

  “Those clothes look uncomfortable! Let’s rip ’em off!”

  “Show us the goods!”

  At this point they were feeding off each other. Less clever. More aggressive. Irregardless, I was exhausted, hungry, filthy, and starting to feel more like an object than a person.

  I was pissed.

  “I’ve gotta say something,” I muttered.

  “Don’t,” Orson warned.

  “I’m doing it.”

  I stopped and turned around.

  “Just shut up,” I said. “It’s rude, obnoxious, and honestly kind of dehumanizing.”

  That was a mistake.

  Every smile vanished. Replaced with snarls and rotting teeth. One zombie didn’t have a jaw or eyes and still managed to look furious. A low growl rolled through the cemetery.

  “I warned you,” Orson said, shaking his head.

  We stood there. Me and about fifty corpses.

  “If I were alive, I’d start running,” Orson added.

  I ran.

  I ran like disembodied legs out of Hell.

  The zombies ran too. Luckily, only a couple were fresh enough to be the fast kind, but if you’ve ever run from zombies, you’d know it only takes a single fast one to scare the living shit out of you.

  I dodged through the horde and vaulted headstones. Honestly? I looked cool. Right up until I tripped over an absurdly large bouquet of flowers.

  Fresh grave.

  By the time I’d managed to climb to my feet, a recently deceased man—in absolute PEAK physical condition—crawled up from the dirt.

  “Well, shit,” I said before working myself back up into a full on, get me the f**k out of here, sprint.

  He was fast. Too fast. Twice I felt his fingers brush my back. For a few seconds I was convinced everything I was, or might ever get a chance to be, was as good as zombie shit. THEN I wondered if zombies actually shit. I mean, all that living flesh has to go somewhere, right?

  While running for my life, pondering the digestive mechanisms of the undead, I didn’t even realize I’d made it out of the cemetery. When I turned around, the undead had retreated. Zombies can leave cemeteries, but they prefer not to. Too many living. Makes them feel insecure, like I said.

  “You need to exercise more,” Orson said as I bent over, gasping. “If we’re going to keep fighting the supernatural, you need better cardio.”

  “We’re supposed to be running a ghost-hunting scam,” I reminded him. “Not actually fighting things.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Right.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re still the dummy,” he added. “Standing up to zombies wasn’t smart.”

  “No,” I said. “It wasn’t. Let’s go home so I can change my pants clothes. I feel gross.”

  The walk home dragged. I was tired, filthy, and still sticky from earlier events involving mimics. Every step felt like a mile.

  Irregardless, I made it home by eight.

  Calista was standing at my door.

  He said I was the only person he’s told this story to. I did, in fact, argue with him about how zombies work. Of course, all I know about them I’ve learned from movies, so I eventually conceded.

  Again, not a word.

  Also, not a word REGARDLESS of what Amir says. BUT, it’s his story.

  Amir wanted to clarify that he DIDN’T poop his pants out of fear. I have my doubts.

  He told me to strike that from the record. He meant to say clothes. I didn’t remove it because he said “strike it”. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him that words mean things.