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dress claws a chunk out of his calf. The others find his abdomen, they bury their hands in his stomach, oblivious to his weakening fists pounding their heads. The hands of the corpses emerge entangled in his intestines, which they gnaw at as the man finally passes out.
    I can’t stand to watch anymore, but I can’t turn away either. My mouth hangs open in shock, and I get the nasty metallic taste that comes just before I throw up. I swallow and bury my mouth in the crook of my elbow when I start to gag.
    “Look,” the blonde woman blurts out and points at the street. Incredibly, a screaming obese woman in a bathrobe runs right passed the guy being eaten alive. She doesn’t even glance at the gruesome scene. The zombies get back to their feet, soaked in blood, and begin their slow pursuit of the woman.
    Blood spreads in a pool around the tattooed man lying in the street. I stare at the ugly tattoos that cover his unmoving arm, the faded images destroyed by numerous bite wounds. I wonder how long it will take before he gets back up. A hand clasps my shoulder and startles me.
    “It’s okay, man,” says a deep voice. It’s the black guy in the track suit. “You tried to tell him.”
    I look down at the gun in my hand, thinking how strange it looks to see my hand holding it. I put it down on the desk and turn away from the window. Though it must look like it, I don’t feel guilty at all. I am just feeling sick from the horrors of this day. I don’t know how to handle this insane world that didn’t exist a few hours ago. Mostly, I’m afraid. Afraid of what I might have to do to stay alive.
    “That fool made his own choice,” he says. “Quentin,” he says.” He holds up a hand. It seems like such a meaningless gesture right now, but for some reason, I feel immediately reassured by the small, familiar civility.
    I reach to clasp his hand briefly and introduce myself, and then I think about it and add, “Thanks.” I nearly apologize when I notice how damp with perspiration my hand is in contrast to his.
    “Don’t sweat it, man,” Quentin says. He wipes his palm against the fabric of his pants, then uses it to open a drawer of the desk and starts digging through the contents. Even when we were sprinting through the grandstand for our lives, this guy didn’t break a sweat. Somehow he seems to be handling everything with a calmness I have trouble comprehending.
    The blonde woman returns to the table and removes her blazer and drapes it over the back of a chair. She retrieves another skinny cigarette from her purse. “That’s great you all are friends now, but can we get back to figuring a way out of here before we all end up like that guy?”
    Danielle whirls around from the window and opens her mouth to say something back at the blonde woman. They lock eyes for a moment, but Danielle bites her lip instead. She rolls her eyes as she turns back to look out at the street again. “He’s getting up,” Danielle reports softly.
    I’m surprised at how quickly that happened. It’s only been a couple of minutes since he stopped moving. None of us can resist taking another look outside. Maybe it’s curiosity or disbelief that makes us need to see the man return from the dead. The corpses ate much of the muscle tissue from one side of his neck, so his head tilts in that direction. He lingers at the gate and stares at the security building, his pale face jawing at the air. It’s like somehow he still remembers we’re inside. I have a strong urge to go out and put a bullet in his head, so I don’t have to see him standing there anymore. After a few moments, guilt forces most of us to turn away again. Danielle remains watching him at the window for a moment longer than the rest of us, and then she steps back and seats herself at the table next to the blonde woman.
    “That poor man,” Danielle mourns.
    The blonde woman scoffs and turns away in her chair. I can’t say I blame her for not wanting anything to do with