I’m too late for the uprising. It’s all over… the quivering undead bodies twitching all around, their brains already blown out. The air is full of the smell of gunpowder and rotting meat. In the end, the priest and the cheerleader had turned and had to be shot, but the policeman and the football quarterback made it to the human enclave and survived.
And here I am. They are loading up the bodies in the trucks now and hauling them back to the prop department. They are knocking down the sets now. Tomorrow they’ll build a new end of the world — maybe disease or asteroids.
I hate being late to the party.
