Zombie, Shotgun

S* is a zombie. I'm walking around quietly so he doesn't wake up. G* asks what's going on and I explain. He goes straight upstairs to see. Inevitably, I end up shooting S* in the face with a shotgun. He sits down hard, dungarees covered in blood. "Why didn't he fight it?" G* asks. "I don't know," I say. I don't know why there are zombies. I don't know why he didn't fight it. I don't know why you went upstairs when you knew what would happen. Who knows anything about anything these days.