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what happened to him. Naturally, we all think the worst.
    Although zombies can't technically die, contrary to the popular urban myths, we are not immortal.
    It's true we can't bleed to death, since our hearts are no longer pumping blood through our arteries, but we can gradually decompose until we're not much more than a skeleton. At that point, your existence pretty much comes to an end. Not exactly a pleasant way to go.
    If you've never been staked down on the side of a hill and left out to rot at a research facility for human decay, then you probably wouldn't understand.
    So theoretically, we can be killed, which is a bit misleading since we're already dead. Destroyed would be a more appropriate description, though Helen prefers to use terms like “dispatched” or “removed” or “permanently processed” because she's fond of euphemisms.
    Destroying a zombie isn't easy. Bullets, knives, poisons— none of these have any adverse effect. You can't smother us, drown us, or beat us. Disemboweling or dismembering us just empties our body cavities or turns us into undead quadriplegics. Decapitation would probably do the trick. As would immolation, though you'd have to use gasoline or a good quality lighter fluid. Without a decent accelerant, zombies tend to burn like wet firewood, smoldering for hours.
    “I know we're all saddened by the loss of Walter,” says Helen, “and that we all have our own problems to contend with, but there are others like us out there, some of them worse off than we are, and they need help. So I want each of you to find another survivor to bring to our Friday meeting in three weeks.”
    “You mean, like homework?” asks Jerry.
    “Yes,” says Helen. “You could call it that.”
    “Oh man,” grumbles Jerry. “I fuckin’ hate homework.”
    “Now, does anyone else want to share about how they're personally coping with the attack on Walter?” asks Helen.
    Everyone looks around at each other and no one says anything. I consider raising my hand, but every other time I've tried to communicate at the meetings it's been laborious and most of my attempts have turned into frustrating games of Charades, so I decide to keep my failed protest to myself. Besides, in addition to getting pissed on by a poodle, when my father came home from work and saw me sitting in front of the house, he didn't say a word but just turned on the outdoorhose and sprayed me with the power nozzle until I got up and went inside. Either he wasn't happy with me or he just wanted to water the lawn.
    At least I didn't have to take a bath.
    The rest of the meeting sort of sputters to an end, with no one in much of a mood to talk about what happened to Walter and everyone struggling to stay positive, though I do get to pair up with Rita for the honest emotional contact, so the evening isn't a total loss.
    I've never paired up with Rita before, and the sensation of having her this close to me, of having this level of intimacy, would bring me to tears if my tear ducts were still functioning. I don't think I realized how much I needed the comfort of a woman's embrace until now.
    I still miss and love my wife, but any heterosexual man, alive or undead, would rather get hugged for ten minutes by an attractive, twenty-three-year-old zombie in a Playboy Bunny outfit instead of being hugged by the likes of Tom or Jerry. The best part about being so close to Rita is that she doesn't have an overwhelming odor of death. That's hard to pull off. Even the most heavy-duty perfumes and disinfectants can't completely cover the smell of decomposing flesh.
    I know I can't smell good. Even in life I had a fairly strong natural body odor. And lately I smell anything but natural. But Rita doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she holds me close enough and tight enough to make me feel self-conscious, so I try to distract my thoughts by making up haikus. None of them work. I keep getting the number of syllables wrong. Finally, I come up with one that I call