There's that old saying that we never understand the value of something until it's gone. Everything that I have, everything that I ever was is gone. I have no memory of who I am or of my life before the shit hit the fan and caused me to walk aimlessly about with a severe hunger issue. I don't know my favorite colour, whether or not I like chocolate or vanilla or if I take sugar in my coffee. Hell I don't even eat chocolate or drink coffee. My diet tends to demand beating hearts, warm flesh, and the stuff horror movies are made of. Is it bad to say that my mouth is watering a little when I think of that?

What I do know, however, is that I'm dead and there is nothing I can do about it. I can only prevent myself from slipping deep down into despair like some do and end up becoming a boney. Bonies are those rotting skeletons that have the tendency of popping up at the worst of times and ruining your day. And when I mean by ruining I mean you running for your life before getting thrown to the ground and your face torn off clean from your skull, I can't really think of anything worse ruining your day. When a zombie (I prefer the living impared) gives up the last bit of life they have left, they peel away their outer selves and become just like the rest of the morbid horde: skinny, decomposed and fucking scary. I try to avoid them even though I know they wont kill me, I'm already dead, but if I had a beating heart then there would be a problem, I would be screwed, then dead, and back to where I started, a zombie.

Basically what I end up thinking at the end of the day, as I'm sitting in my airplane, which I'm quite proud in calling my home, is this: If I can't even so much as remember my name, then I have virtually nothing. If that's the case then I must value nothing, because I can't remember if I had anything in the first place to lose.

So why is it that I still feel like something's missing? Why am I so curious about the world around me? Especially if all I see is the dead walking around without a destination in mind. I guess this is why I still bother thinking about things, like why that man is dead in the first place or why that women chose that type of dress to wear, it's obviously too formal for a walk in the airport. But what do I know? I have this vacant feeling inside me that I can't seem to fill; I can't fill it with questions or answers because I've got too many questions but not enough answers, there has to be a balance in life. Maybe if I straighten up more when I walk, or add some more colour to my pale gray skin, I'll get some sense of balance; a shower might work too, I try not think about how badly I must smell right now. Once again I remind myself that I'm dead and none of this should matter to me; but it does matter to me so I try to find a happy medium. Being dead isn't so bad, it's lonely and dull, but it could be worse.

I walk towards the only friend I have left, I don't know his name and he doesn't know mine but he still ended up being the closest thing I have to a friend. If it came down to addressing one another I was simply to be called R, and he was M. It was the only thing that either of us could remember of our past, the first letter to our names. It's funny how that works out.

We don't exactly have conversations, the closest I can get to describing our little talks is a series of grunts and subtle expressions; but we tend to understand each other so I guess that is all that matters. On some occasions we even form words. Not sentences but words, I don't even think I'm capable of sentences but then again I don't think I've tried.

This ended up being one of those occasions.

"Hun…hungry." I managed to say. M turned to me with dull understanding in his eyes; I always liked to think that his mind was as active as mine. I wondered whether or not he was swimming in as many questions as I was.

"City." he replied. I nod, wanting nothing more then to fill my stomach. It was a long walk to our destination, but we will manage, I've got nothing waiting for me and time is not an issue when you're dead.

However there were gatherers that we had to consider when we ventured out. Those who escaped the plague and still possessed a beating heart had enclosed themselves behind large concrete walls; I would do the same if there were an army of the ex-living wishing to eat me. There were groups that would leave the commune to scavenge for supplies, they were the ones we usually hunted, and of course, they always came prepared. One shot in the head and we are most definitely dead, more so then we already are. I'm glad that most of those I've come up against were terrible shots. A bullet in the shoulder was fine by me, getting shot in the stomach was even better, I'm not using it so why not use it for target practice? Even though I have been lucky, it didn't mean I was any less careful. I'm dead not stupid.