The little piece of paper reads: “Do not be overly judgmental of your loved one’s intentions or actions.”

Of course, I find a small source of food in a somehow preserved fortune cookie and it mocks me. I already had Bryce telling me yesterday that I wasted ammo on zombies just because my undead wife nearly bit a chunk out of my arm. YES, I was mad. YES, I am still mad. My wife was the one who decided it was a good idea to move to Washington D.C. and not a few months in and the zombie apocalypse begins.

Bryce thinks he’s making me feel better by rationalizing things and saying I’m just going through the “Anger” stage in the stages of grief. What does he know? He’s only ever lost his beta fish, Randall. I was there for the funeral, and Bryce only shed one tear that I can recall.

But when my wife lunged for me, unyielded by her stringy hair falling into her face. Her skin was already grey and I could almost see the clotted blood frozen in her veins. Her teeth nearly ripped my skin apart. I remember taking her to the dentist to get the implant for the one decayed tooth she always hated. I pushed her from me, and squeezed the trigger as tight as I could, though I had to look away so her brain matter didn’t go into my eyes and mouth..