When he woke up, the familiar headache was waiting. He felt an expanding pressure behind his eyes and his mouth tasted awful. His eyelids felt glued together. Miscellaneous dream residue still clung to his thoughts.

"Did you hear a plane?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"Nope." The sound of magazine pages turning. "But you were rambling about one in your sleep."

"I was?" Frank rolled onto his side and felt his knees begin to get warmer.

"Yeah. Going on and on about some plane crashing."

"It's a reoccurring dream. I've been having it since this whole fucking thing..." He stopped, suddenly realizing he was laying down—which meant—they were no longer in the car. The sound of a softly crackling fire filled the darkness.

He pried open his eyes. "Where the hell are we?"

Jane was sitting across the small fire from him, a Hollywood gossip mag in her lap. The soft, warm light danced across her impassive face.

"I don't know..." she looked at their surroundings. "The woods," she offered.

"I can see that..." Frank sat up, feeling a bowling ball roll from the back of his skull to slam just behind his eyes. It settled and he collected himself.

Yes, they were in the woods. Just on the edge of the woods actually. The 4 Runner was parked on the side of the road just up an embankment.

The sky was black. With no power or light pollution, the night was left to the stars. There were so many—it looked like god had sneezed on tinted glass. The only light came from the little fire—orange and mellow—creating flickering shadows on the sleepy trees.

Jane's cooler was sitting next to her, topped with a stack of US Weekly's and Star magazines. There was a neatly stacked pile of fast-food bags, candy bar wrappers and miscellaneous garbage beside a small, expertly constructed fortress of to-go cups and empty beer bottles at Frank's feet.

The bottle of Jack beside him had about three fingers of russet brown liquor left at the bottom. He grabbed the neck but hesitated.

"Why are we in the woods?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. You were the one who asked me to stop. No, no... demanded we stop."

"I did?"

"Yeah—said we needed to collect ourselves. Come up with a plan. You said the speed was causing your synapses to fire at odd intervals... I think that was it." She turned a page. "This was after you woke up and finished off most of that bottle. So, we stopped. You jumped out and started organizing the garbage on the side of the road, saying how everything was so messy, you couldn't think when things were messy. Then you passed out. Again."

"Oh."

"So, I built the fire and grabbed a bunch of magazines you had in the back seat." She held one up for Frank to see—some celebu-taunt pouted at him. "Not exactly the most masculine choice of reading." She raised an eyebrow.

"It's a weakness."

"Also, I figured you'd probably want some water when you woke up so there's a couple of bottles right behind you."

He slowly swiveled, careful not to agitate the pounding in his head and found them. "Thanks," he said twisting the top and drinking eagerly. That was nice of her. "God, my mouth tastes horrible."

"I'm not surprised. After you tried to kiss me you went back to picking up all that trash and eating what was left in the wrappers—drinking the sludge at the bottom of those bottles. A couple of those were probably filled with pee, you know." She kept her eyes on her magazine.

"I tried to kiss you?" This aspect of her story, while tossed away in the telling, rang through Frank's clouded head. He'd been known to black out and eat the contents of dirty ashtrays—so that part wasn't much of a surprise—but the whole kissing a zombie thing was new.

"Yep. I punched you and then you went into serious organize-mode and did the whole trash-castle thing. Very neatly arranged. Good job."

A heavy silence crept between them.

He couldn't tell if she was really angry or totally indifferent—which was absolutely maddening. She just sat there looking unimpressed, flipping pages.

She wasn't making eye contact.

Is that bad?

She took an exaggerated breath and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, sitting cross-legged on the cool grass, slumped over like a kid with a new comic. The splashing light from the fire made it difficult to see her face clearly. For a second Frank would catch a glimpse of a green eye but then it would hide again in the shadows. Her brow was knitted in a strange mix of concentration and uncaring as she thumbed the magazine, clearly not reading anything. The way her hair hung, framing her face—nearly touching her knees, made her neck look cartoonishly slim.

She was a skinny girl—but in a good way—gaunt in a way most women would envy. Not sickly, heroine-chic but svelte and taut. Her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows and bunched there. Every time she'd turn a page one would slide back down over a wispy arm and she'd have to push it back up.

Holy shit. He realized he was staring like an idiot.

She still hadn't acknowledged him, but he was sure she could feel his eyes on her.

He tried to tell himself he shouldn't care. He'd spent most of his life not caring about stuff—how could this dead girl suddenly make him question himself—reconsider his existence as a non-carer-about-stuffer? But no matter how hard he tried to deny it, there was something in him that insisted he win her approval.

God... is she mad or not?

Well, one thing was certain, women were just as hard to read after death as when they were still alive.

He busied himself peeling the label off of his water bottle as he tried to figure out the best tactic. He even cleared his throat once and stretched his arms over his head, flexing in a pathetic attempt at nonchalance, but she didn't budge.

Still... he had to admit, even this fairly uncomfortable interaction felt vaguely good-natured. A friend-argument, where both sides were fully aware that the fires of conflict would eventually burn themselves out. Had the scene been in a movie, the score would have been quirky and light-hearted.

So that was good.

But she had punched him.

That wasn't good.

He ran his hand over his face and forehead trying to feel for a new bump but with as much abuse as his cranium had taken recently, pinpointing something new was not easy. It felt like running your hands over a particularly misshapen pumpkin.

"I'm sorry," he said meekly.

She sighed and said, "Don't worry about it, Killer." Still not looking up. She was kinda mad, he figured, but not enough to opt for the silent treatment. She flipped through a few more pages and shook her head. She looked up, as though she was going to say something important but paused and changed tracks. "These magazines are fucking terrible, you know?"

"I know."

"I mean, who gives a shit about what drugs some train wreck starlet is on this week? I don't." She studied the glossy pages in her lap. "Well shit, maybe I do. Fuck... I do, don't I? My god, I'm one of the idiots that care about this bullshit." She turned the page hard, nearly ripping it out. "I mean, you know, when it was all still... really happening."

"I know."

She continued her rant and Frank exhaled, feeling slightly forgiven. Fortunately, he thought, women also don't lose their meandering attention spans that always seem to circle back to their narcissism... after death.

"This shit is so stupid, you know. I really shouldn't care what kind of bag some movie star uses to accessorize. But I guess I do... I'm reading this shit and saying to myself, really... that bag with those shoes. I mean, I know I shouldn't care, but there's that voice in there that sneaks through—forcing me to read the headlines when I'm in the checkout line at the grocery store. Ugh. I'm terrible. So, so very shallow." She shook her head admonishingly but continued flipping to the next page. "Oh, look, Brad Pitt buys almond milk at Trader Joe's... he's just like us. God. It's all so stupid. If I wasn't already dead, I'd ask you to kill me."

"If it's any consolation, whoever that girl with the handbag was is probably dead and not accessorizing with much of anything anymore."

Jane nodded. "Yeah. Actually, that does make me feel a little better."

"It should. Why not delight in the misfortune of others? It validates our existence—whether living or dead," Frank said, sitting up, feeling a bit emboldened after having her agree with him. "I mean, now that it's Armageddon and all, we really don't have to worry about that insipid shit anymore. We're free."

"Yeah. You're right," she said, looking up, making eye contact finally.

"We don't have to live in celebrity shadows anymore. They're all dead. We can finally look inward and start focusing on the shit that actually matters." Frank was starting to feel theatrical. He lowered his voice and adopted a terrible affected accent. "No longer do we have to live under the scrutiny of our peers..." He stood. "...as we no longer have peers. There's no need to strive to look hotter or dress better or be richer. The playing field has been leveled. And we'll never see a new Hollywood gossip magazine again." Frank checked and Jane was smiling. "God be praised! We now live in a world with no celebrities!"

"Well, one," Jane said lifting an eyebrow. "We still got you, Killer."

She held up the magazine in her hands and showed him the two-page spread.

The headline read, "Realty TV Just Got a Little Too Real," and there, under the subheading was that picture of Frank from his college years when he and a friend had gotten drunk and posed with shotguns. The picture was, of course, totally out of context—it happened years before he'd even moved to LA and had absolutely nothing to do with Bill Bonzi. Nevertheless, the picture had shown up all over the media. It had haunted him for years and now, with the world over, he figured he'd finally escaped its endless pestering. But there it was again.

"I thought I recognized you," Jane said. "I mean, you looked familiar from the start, but I just thought maybe I'd seen you around town or something. You look different with the beard."

Frank sat back down, resting his arms on his knees and stared into the flames.

"I remember people talking about you—that you'd moved back from LA. I guess I just never put the two together." She looked back at the picture in the magazine. "You're thinner now."

"World dying. Stress. Great weight loss program," he said, waving a hand absently but secretly relishing in the knowledge that she'd noticed.

She laughed. "I'm sorry. Is this a touchy subject? You know I'm just messing with you. Sorry. I'm sure you've taken enough shit for this whole thing. I'm not trying to make it any worse."

"It couldn't get any worse," he said, immediately wishing he hadn't. He sounded like a pouting kid.

"Awww. Poor baby." She got up and came around the fire, sitting next to him, casually bumping her side against his. "Don't be depressed. I'm sure Bill Bonzi... that attractive, successful, witty, charismatic..." she bit her lower lip and made a yummy sound. "That... Adonis of a man... I bet he deserved what he got."

"You're not making things better."

She put her arm around his shoulder and squeezed gently. "I'm sorry." The fire crackled. "He was a fucking hottie though."

"So said the world."

"Yeah."

Frank glanced up at her and saw the glaze in her eyes as she let her mind drift toward old fantasies. "Bill Bonzi," she muttered.

"Hey. Hey! Am I getting in the way here?" Frank asked.

"Sorry. I just... sorry."

"He was a fucking dick. That's what you don't get from the magazines and news stories. He was a cokehead, arrogant, self-serving prick who... what? Was hot because he used to be a skater... and never wore a shirt—because he could fart the national anthem? The guy had the brain capacity of... of a fucking chinchilla."

Jane was smiling. "A chinchilla?"

"Yeah... it was the first thing that came to mind. And probably a bit generous. Don't ask me to explain."

"I won't."

They sat there, shoulder to shoulder watching the flames for a while. Frank acting like he was brooding but secretly happy to be back on Jane's good side. Maybe she'd forgotten all about the kiss. Maybe she was struggling with the internal turmoil of actually wanting him to kiss her.

What the fuck am I thinking? She's a zombie for Christ's sake!

But still...

"What did you do?" Frank asked. "Before all this."

"I was a receptionist at the physical therapy place on 2nd street."

"By the barber shop?"

"Yep. That's the one. Spent most of my days having old people breathe all over me and ask me why the doctor was so slow."

"A receptionist, huh?"

"Glamourous, I know. It was transitional though. Something to do after graduating college. I only figured I'd stay back in Cheney for a few months... ended up being a few years."

"Then what?"

"Then I was going to move to Miami."

Frank sipped his water, nodding. "To become a model?"

"No," she looked at him, squint-smiling. "A physical therapist."

"Oh, right. That's why you worked at the... it's probably what you went to college for."

She was smiling wryly. "There ya go. You got there. Good job."

Frank laughed at himself for being so transparent.

"Don't worry about it. I appreciate the sentiment." She tossed a little stick into the fire. "But if you try to kiss me again, I'll feed you your nuts."

"Understood," he said.

"Nughhh!" someone else said.

Frank and Jane both turned around at the same time, knocking foreheads and falling apart just as a bloated zombie fell face first between them. The zombie's head and upper torso ended up in the fire where it began to sizzle and pop. Its arms, which were still at its sides, draped with clinging bits of wet, grey flesh, twitched slightly, the fingers articulating as if to grasp something.

"Holy fucking shit!" Jane said bolting to her feet.

"Jesus!" Frank exclaimed, standing and backing away.

"Oh my god." Jane checked her person—patted herself down like someone checking for their keys. "Yeah. Okay. Wow. Good god."

The zombie's fingers slowly stopped moving. What was left inside that rotten head was cooked.

"Should I go get a gun just in case. They're still in the footlocker. Should we get one? Shoot him or something?" She was clearly a bit shaken up.

They looked at the immolating zombie. It was dead. All the way dead.

"Doesn't look like there's any need," Frank said.

"Yeah." Jane put her hands on her hips, exhaling heavily. "Jesus. Did you even hear that guy coming?"

"No... I didn't hear anything. The fire maybe—but that's it."

"Yeah, me too." They both stared into the flames, stunned—listening to the fire consume the ghoul. "Where do you think he came from?" Jane scanned the tree-line wearily.

"No idea."

"Think there's more?"

"Don't know," Frank said, suddenly feeling very sober.

The bitter, ammonia smell of the thing's frying skin reached Frank like a sucker punch. He backed farther away from the fire.

Jane backed away too, mirroring Frank's retreat.

"Oh my god, that smell," Frank gagged.

"Really? I can't smell anything."

"Goddamn... consider yourself lucky. Holy lord. Let's get going."

"Okay," she said eagerly. "I know I shouldn't be this freaked out seeing as I'm already a zombie, but Jesus... that scared the shit out of me."

Frank was already halfway up the embankment, holding the collar of his tee-shirt over his nose. Jane lingered a second, looking at the wretched, smoking creature. What was left of its shirt had caught fire. The smoke turned black and thick. The thing had nothing on from the waist down. Its blotchy skin, mottled, lined with black veins led down to massive legs. Fred Flintstone legs. No ankles. She didn't know what to think. So, she grabbed her cooler and her magazines and followed Frank up to the car.