As the Deadline approached, Andrew reached new heights as a writer. Critics refused to call it literature, of course. How could they, given the genre? Zombie-fic was clichéd, low-brow. And yet, the humanity of his characters, living and undead alike, was notable.

Four books came out in total, and the fifth was delayed by second printings of the first four. The books sold out with midnight pre-order lines stretching around stores nationwide.

Then the news began to report illnesses unlike any other. Copies of the book became highly coveted, and pleasure reading turned to serious social discussion. While other zombie-fic sales flagged, the Price books became vitally important given their accuracy. The details provided matched real events so closely it was uncanny.

Novels turned survival guides.

Conspiracy theorists speculated that Andrew Price was a fictitious author himself. From the release of his first novel, not one interview had ever been conducted. Some said he lived in Seattle while others claimed his persona was designed by the government. A ghost.

Andrew had an address, and he kept sending his manuscripts there till the Deadline arrived. The tipping point came and hospitals closed. Military operating centers sprang up with FEMA shelters. They were almost immediately abandoned. As were the cities.

No other Suits came for him. As Andrew had anticipated, his Suit was off the reservation, as they say in movies. His superiors seemed satisfied to continue receiving manuscripts even without the middleman.

It was a personal point of pride for Andrew that his book was the last nationwide bestseller. His pleasure in that alone was enough to soothe his inability to take credit. No big paychecks. No royalties. No book tour.

Without a doubt, the information extracted from Andrew's books had saved countless lives. But then, Andrew couldn't rightly call himself a humanitarian. He had an ulterior motive.

Natalie looked amazing in the last clothes she would ever wear. Brown jeans, a white button up shirt, and a leather jacket. Her hair flying loose and wild, eyes like cream.

She watched as Andrew swallowed the last of the sleeping pills, washing them down with the bottle of bourbon he'd been saving for this special occasion.

"Bite me," he said.

Natalie lifted his arm to her lips, kissed it gently, bit down tenderly, just enough to pierce the flesh. Andrew smiled.

"Thanks babe," he muttered, starting to slur his words. "Seeya on the other side."

Natalie lay down next to him and held him close as he made the transition.

When Andrew awoke, the sun was rising. Its warmth invigorated his reanimated limbs. He beheld Natalie with the mind of a simpler man, and insofar as he understood beauty and love, he felt it more deeply than he had perhaps even in life.

Andrew gazed out at the bleak horizon, content and happy at last. He stared into Natalie's milk-dead eyes, and she into his, each the other's lifeboat in a tempest.

They held one another's hand and walked, or rather shuffled down the highway, in search of a meal, of which there were many. Andrew's final contribution to civilization had ensured as much.