So before we get off on the wrong foot, I'd like you to know that I'm dead. No, not'Casper-the-friendly-ghost'dead, more like 'walking-around-on-earth-after-my-expiration-date'dead. If you haven't already guessed, I'm a zombie, or what the living now refers to as a "corpse".

I'm sorry I can't properly introduce myself, but I don't have a name anymore. Hardly any of us do. We misplace them like cell phones, and forget them like birthdays or anniversaries. I'm pretty sure it started with a "B", considering it's the letter embroidered in gold on the bowtie fitted under the blood stained collar of my polo. I find it kind of hilarious considering when I was alive I used to be so good at remembering people's names.

My friend Sam says the irony of being a zombie is thateverything is funny, but you can't really smile since your lips tend to fall off. Sam's pretty lucky he played for some kind of sports team when he was alive, otherwise he wouldn't be wearing those sweats with his name plastered all over 'em. I wishIhadplayed sports.

None of us are exactly attractive, but death has been kinder to me than some. I'm in the early stages of decay, meaning I was probably only turned recently. I look pretty decent I suppose, if you can look past the grey skin, gross smell and murky shadows under my eyes. I guess I look like any other teen on their way to high school on aMonday.

I'm wearing a dark blue polo, jeans that stop at my ankles and my special white bowtie. Sam laughs at me sometimes, and by laughing at me, I mean pointing at my bowtie and gurgling a choked "nerd". That's okay; unlike him, my face doesn't resemble a grouper. I usually just point back, retorting a huff resembling "trout".

We like to poke fun and think about what type of people we all were based on the clothes we died in. Unlikeourclothes that literally scream "students", we label the various corpses traipsing around the food court in the mall.

You were a doctor. You were a lawyer-no wait, a waitress. Hey look, a stripper.

We go on like that for hours, never knowing who they truly were. No one I know has any specific memories, just vague "flashbacks" of a world long gone. We recognize simple things like buildings, landscapes, cars, houses-but we have no personal connection to them. We're just...here.

But it's not so bad. We make the most of it. We may appear mindless, but the burnt-out wires of cogency still work. We groan and grunt, shrug and nod, and on occasion a few words will slip out.

There are hundreds of us that live in expansive, abandoned buildings: schools, airports, malls... I mean, obviously we don't need shelter or warmth, but it's nice to have a place to call home. It's not like in the movies where zombies just wander amidst open fields, or hang out in sewers like rats. That's just gross. We havesomeclass, at least.

I'm situated in an outlet store in the mall, between Sears and Forever 21. I like my little home, cause I like my privacy; it's the only store withoutbig assglass windows up front and it also has a neat back door that leads outside. It seems like dying just made people nosier.

I'm riding the escalators when Sam finds me. I usually ride them every once in a while to clear my head, or at least in an attempt to daydream. As I rise to the top, I find Sam waiting for me, black ooze seeping out of his mouth as he smiles at me. We grunt our "hellos" and hobble our way around the mall to catch up with one another.

It's not until a little past sunrise that a group of Boney'sstop us near the food court, nudging forward two small children, a boy and a girl, both around six years old.Oh wait-I haven't introduced our friends the Boney's, have I?

Pause.{Boney; Boney's,plural(n.): an evolved form of "corpse"; skeletons with skin stretched over them and a peculiar humming noise emanating from their otherworldly forms. We don't cross them, and they don't cross us.}

Get it? Got it? Good. Back to the kids.

It's not until a little past sunrise a group of Boney'sstop us near the food court, nudging forward two small children, a boy and a girl, both around six years old. They give us tentative smiles, and take our hands in a welcoming gesture.

The young corpses don't have the natural survival instincts the adults do. They have to be somewhat "potty trained" into our everyday ritual of being dead. Boney's take care of the small ones, sort of like creepy, decayed versions of fran drescher from 'The Nanny'.

Other corpses gather around to meet the new recruits until we watch them disappear into the pale daylight at the end of the hall with their adoptive "parents". Deep inside me, in some dark place in the pit of my stomach, I feel something twitch. I look to Sam and the other corpses, as they knowingly nod their heads at me in agreement. It's time to feed again.

We head out through the front doors, and make our way into the city. Little did I know I'd be bringing back leftovers...

TBC.