2 Chapter 2

So there we were: New San Francisco, we called it. Or at least I did. And what the queen says, goes—because, yes, in terms of perks, it was pretty much the only one I had. The cognizant zombies in my care, all as old as me now, all friends of a sort, stayed for the salt, the humans for the protection. After all, they were surrounded by human-hungry undead monsters. And by surrounded I mean, quite literally, surrounded. Wait, to put it a better way, SURROUNDED! Yes, that’s about right. As for the protection I offered, well, at the very least, all of those monsters I mentioned obeyed my commands, what with me being a conduit, if you will, between life and death, a connection to what they once were and would never, ever be again.

In any case, the factory was well protected, the fences sturdy and tall and, thankfully, a great distance from the cement buildings we called home. Sure, we could hear them out there, forever groaning, day in and day out, eager to enter and devour the humans, but at least we couldn’t easily see them or, better still, smell them. Because a zombie tends to stink pretty awful after a few centuries. Not us, however, those lucky few with memories and feelings. No, we take dust baths, much like a rutting pig would do, aided, of course, by the humans. Because the undead are many things, but limber, unfortunately, is simply not one of them. Picture, if you will, the Tin Man minus his oil can, and you wouldn’t be far off the mark.

Anyway, in return, like I said, we gave my human minions protection. They had ample shelter, seeing as the factory is huge, and plenty of food and water to sustain them. Though none of that was easy to come by, at least not at first. Took a generation or two before New San Francisco was properly up and running, you see.

Fortunately, a generation or two is also how long it took after the solar flare for the rains to return to good old Mother Earth, for the dust storms to die down, for the incessant heat and winds to abate. Fortunately for us zombies, that is to say, because a good rain storm would’ve taken out millions of zombies within seconds. As it happened, by the time the drizzling drizzled, our flesh was waxy as the best Madame Tussauds had to offer and completely non-absorbent. Meaning, about the only thing that could rekill what was clearly already dead was a really strong blow torch or a lopping off of the head. Or so I’m speculating. Not like I’m all that eager to find out for certain. I mean, I might be dead, but I’m certainly no glutton for punishment.

Also, aside from the solar flare wiping out nearly all of humanity, plus every other living animal on the planet, the ensuing radiation, which gave us zombies, uh, life, also made fresh water undrinkable and the soil infertile. So for the first hundred years or so, the humans were forced to drink anything already bottled and to eat anything prepackaged, which meant a hell of a lot of Ramen Noodles after the cans of most everything else expired. Luckily, as humans, we (or at least they) were quite accustomed to that by then already. And so, over time, we amassed, through various forays into the city, enough potting soil and supplies to build adequate greenhouses. Plus, the rain water, once the rains resumed, was radiation-free, so, like I said, their needs were met. Sure, existence was bleak, but it was still existence nonetheless. Take what you can get, sweeties, and leave your bellyaching at the front door.

But what of our needs, we zombies? Well, we don’t eat and we don’t dare drink, not without dire consequences, and sleep is but a distant memory, seeing as we no longer need to recharge our batteries, so as to needs, nope, just the salt and the dust baths, thank you kindly. Well, that and the occasional mending of clothes, combing of hair and, for me, application of makeup, which, truth be told, I need quite a lot of. Really, a lot. Like spackling. Heck, my foundation could give a skyscraper’s a run for its money. Such is the price of drag-queendom though. And, trust me, if I could heavily sigh, I would.

But why bother, you might ask? Why bother to shimmy into a dress and layer on the war paint? I am, after all, quite dead, right? Or at least deadish. So why gussy up an already plucked hen? Well now, seems like my being a drag queen died a lot harder than I did. Plus, I’d given up pretty much everything else—like eating, drinking and sleeping, not to mention a last season or two of Mad Men—so why not keep one last vestige of my past, the one thing that defined me more than anything else? Also, didn’t the troops deserve a little entertainment, even if was from a rickety old (seriously old) drag queen, lip-synching to long forgotten (again, seriously long forgotten) songs played on a solar-powered CD player?

Well, we’ll go with yes on all that, because, like I said, I’m the queen, and what the queen says goes. Again, it bears repeating. And usually to my minions. Who, by and large, could’ve gone without the so-called singing skills of one Miss Britney Spears and the lesser talented (if humanly possible) J. Lo. Yes, like I said, bleak, but better than being ripped apart by the zombie hordes.

“This is what people listened to back in your time?” one of the humans always tended to ask me just after one of my shows.

“Um, well, Auto-Tune was at its peak back then,” I generally replied.

Their head would then further tilt. “Auto-what?”