Not the worst place to kick the bucket, I guess.

  It’s the kind of venue you go to pretend you’re cultured while constantly looking for the exit, anyway. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it there in time.

  The horde poured in like an unstoppable wave of braindead groaning and terrified screaming, shattering glass and setting off alarms, gnawing mouthfuls of flesh from the crowd.

  One moment I was trying to come up with a witty comment on Hirst's The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living; the next, I was being dragged far too deep into the subject by a bloodshot auntie munching on my neck.

  Now my corpse is still wandering the gallery like a rebellious exhibit in Body Worlds, and I’m stuck following its antics, live. No, wait…

  It’s hard to explain! They never mentioned this part in zombie movies. But apparently, some of us stick around. By “us,” I mean ghosts, souls, spirits —whatever you want to call us. It doesn’t come with a manual.

  Here’s what I’ve figured out after, I dunno, a week? Hard to keep track of time:

  One, my ghostly self can only appear within my zombie’s field of view: If it looks left, I go left. If it stares at a wall, I get to stare at that wall, too. Yay. Fun…!

  Two, I can’t control it: I’ve tried focusing, pushing, pleading, even interpretive dance. Nothing. It just shuffles around like a rotting Roomba.

  Three, some zombies have ghosts like me, some don’t: No idea why. Age? Blood type? Religion? Horoscope? Football team? Who knows.

  Four, ghosts can see each other, but we can’t hear each other: That part is maddening. There are at least four other ghosts in this gallery. Every time our corpses wander near each other, it’s a desperate game of charades.

  And five, we have ghost versions of whatever we were carrying when we died: Luckily, I had my sketchbook and pen. Best post-mortem loot ever! I can write notes. Super useful when we manage to stay in each other’s line of sight long enough to share them.

  And... that’s it. Any suggestions of what to do about it?

  My zombie has spent the last eight-or-so hours facing the same Pollock painting. I’m tired of trying to figure out which red splatters are paint and which are blood —I’m going stir-crazy!

  ***

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Let me tell you what salvation looks like: it's an orange tabby with yellow eyes, white paws and belly, and a long, fluffy tail.

  No idea how the poor stray got inside after the outbreak, but there it was —creeping along the floor, probably scavenging for food.

  Then it looked straight at me. Not zombie-me. Ghost-me.

  Its fur bristled. It hissed. It could see me!

  I reached out instinctively. The cat arched its back, screeched like a banshee, and bolted, knocking into a sculpture pedestal on its way out.

  My zombie followed the noise —dragging me with it. I had no idea I could sprint like that when I was alive, let alone after death!

  For the first time in weeks, I saw a new room. Different paintings. The hallway. The broken lobby. Outside!

  I scribbled into my notebook:

  THE CAT CAN SEE US! USE IT TO MOVE!

  I flashed the message to the others. The other ghosts caught on quickly, and we began coordinating.

  We stood perfectly still at corridor junctions, watching for the little guy to come by again. When it did, the unspoken plan was to make it freak out just enough to get our zombies moving, then herd it toward the exit.

  We waited for days.

  Then finally, it came back to nibble at one of the many scattered body parts in the museum.

  Our eyes met. Me, Bald Guy, Lady with the Glasses, and Gender-Neutral Senior Person —we were practically family by then. This was our big moment.

  We positioned ourselves the best we could within our zombies’ line of sight, then started flailing our translucent arms, mouthing silent screams.

  The cat’s fur puffed. It yowled and sprang up, darting through the halls, changing direction every time one of us cut it off.

  When the four of us saw each other running side by side next to the cat we knew our zombies were in pursuit.

  Our zombies and a number of others rushed out of the building in a stampede; then the clear blue sky came into view with blinding brightness.

  The street was in ruins. Abandoned cars were smashed into storefronts. Signs and lamp posts were toppled. Everything was stained with blood and rotting filth.

  Still, it looked like paradise to me! I never wanted to see another painting again!

  That’s when I was yanked into a side alley just beside the museum. My zombie crouched.

  I watched the struggle unfold.

  My zombie hands hands clutched the poor cat tight.

  My zombie head lunged.

  Crunch.

  Our savior was gone.

  I don’t know if ghosts can cry. But if they can—I did, as my zombie feasted.

  Thankfully, it didn’t linger. Soon, it was sniffing the air and stumbling around in search of its next meal.

  My museum family scattered as their carcasses wandered in different directions. We waved silent goodbyes.

  I have no idea where I’m going next; I can only hope it’s better than here.

  To be continued...