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Zombietown, part 3


I stood before the Bone Gate, the “official” entrance to Zombietown. According to local legend, it was built from the bones of all the zombies that died during the Romero Riots, fifteen years ago. Right now, I didn’t care about that. All it was to me was a barrier… No, a shield against my past. By crossing it, I’d be returning to a part of my life I’d rather forget. I had sworn I’d never go back to Zombietown again.

I entered. The first thing to hit me was the wall of oppressive heat and humidity. It felt like a jungle. Then the smells. Fried flesh, roasted flesh, boiled flesh, raw flesh. They watered my mouth and nauseated me at the same time. Then the crowd. There’s no such thing as free space in Zombietown. In fact, an old proverb states that if there is nobody there, then you probably don’t want to be there. All the sidewalks are covered with stalls where you can buy everything imaginable. The streets were the province of pedestrians. Lots of them. Walking, shambling, crawling, always moving. Vacant eyes, hungry eyes, desperate eyes. Misery all around.

It took me almost half an hour to get my bearings. I tried pumping the vendors for information, but, as I suspected, nobody knew anything. If I wanted answers of any kind, even misleading ones, I’d have to go to that damned place, Samedi’s. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to that. A good part of my past life was connected to that place ¾ I had worked there, fallen in love there. Being in Zombietown was hard enough; going to that place would be excruciating. However, I had no other option. If I went back to the precinct empty handed, the captain would eat my liver — literally.

I resigned myself to confronting my demons and started walking. As I worked my way through the crowded streets and alleys, I could sense them watching me. They saw me as a zombie, but I didn’t, and they could feel it. I didn’t care. What they thought of me didn’t matter because I didn’t belong here anymore.

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