They come to us, these restless dead, Shrouds woven from the words of men, With trumpets sounding overhead (The walls of hope have grown so thin And all our vaunted innocence Has withered in this endless frost) That promise little recompense For all we risk, for all we've lost.

...but that was the thing about reality. It didn't need to make sense.

Our story opens where countless stories have ended in the last twenty-six years: with an idiot -- in this case, my brother, Shaun -- deciding it would be a good idea to go out and poke a zombie with a stick to see what happens.

There is a list of things Im not allowed to discuss at the dinner table! I am extraordinarily passionate about the Black Death, which is not something most people are into.

Nobody cares if you're an idiot, as long as you're a useful one.

Kellis-Amberlee is a fact of existence. You live, you die, and then you come back to life, get up, and shamble around trying to eat your former friends and loved ones. That’s the way it is for everyone.

And then everything was in the hands of gravity, which has never had much love for the terminally stupid.