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The new hunger is a strange feeling. Lying under the warm sun,. Or do we just have nothing left to say? Atria Books. Raja Craze. Focused thought is a rare occurrence here, and we all follow it when it manifests.

You might say death has relaxed me. I am riding the escalators when M finds me. I ride the escalators several times a day, whenever they move. The airport is derelict, but the power still flickers on sometimes, maybe flowing from emergency generators stuttering deep underground. Lights flash and screens blink, machines jolt into motion. I cherish these moments. The feeling of things coming to life. I stand on the steps and ascend like a soul into Heaven, that sugary dream of our childhoods, now a tasteless joke.

After maybe thirty repetitions, I rise to find M waiting for me at the top. He is hundreds of pounds of muscle and fat draped on a six-foot-five frame.

Bearded, bald, bruised and rotten, his grisly vis- age slides into view as I crest the staircase summit. Is he the angel that greets me at the gates? His ragged mouth is oozing black drool. We are going out to find food. A hunting party forms around us as we shuffle toward town. Focused thought is a rare occurrence here, and we all follow it when it manifests. We do a lot of standing around and groaning. Years pass this way.

The flesh with-. I often wonder how old I am. The city where we do our hunting is conveniently close.

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We ar- rive around noon the next day and start looking for flesh. The new hunger is a strange feeling. We feel it everywhere equally, a sink- ing, sagging sensation, as if our cells are deflating.

Last winter, when so many Living joined the Dead and our prey became scarce, I watched some of my friends become full-dead. The transition was undramatic. They just slowed down, then stopped, and after a while I realized they were corpses. I distracted myself with some groaning. I think the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are as rotten as we are.

Buildings have collapsed. Rusted cars clog the streets.

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Most glass is shattered, and the wind drifting through the hollow high-rises moans like an animal left to die. Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? We start to smell the Living as we approach a dilapidated apart- ment building. It hits us deeper inside, near our brains, like wasabi. We converge on the building and crash our way inside.

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We find them huddled in a small studio unit with the windows boarded up. They are dressed worse than we are, wrapped in filthy tatters and rags, all of them badly in need of a shave. M will be saddled with a short blond beard for the rest of his Fleshy existence,. Beards, hair, toenails. Our wild bodies have finally been tamed. Slow and clumsy but with unswerving commitment, we launch ourselves at the Living.

Shotgun blasts fill the dusty air with gun- powder and gore. Black blood spatters the walls. The loss of an arm, a leg, a portion of torso, this is disregarded, shrugged off. A minor cosmetic issue. But some of us take shots to our brains, and we drop. The zombies to my left and right hit the ground with moist thuds.

But there are plenty of us. We are overwhelming.

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We set upon the Living, and we eat. Eating is not a pleasant business. This is what we do. If I restrain myself, if I leave enough. As always I go straight for the good part, the part that makes my head light up like a picture tube. I eat the brain, and for about thirty seconds, I have memories. Flashes of parades, perfume, music. Then it fades, and I get up, and we all stumble out of the city, still cold and gray, but feeling a little bet- ter. This is the best we can do.

I trail behind the group as the city disappears behind us. When I pause at a rain- filled pothole to scrub gore off my face and clothes, M drops back and slaps a hand on my shoulder. He knows my distaste for some of our routines. Some- times he teases me, twirls my messy black hair into pigtails and. He pats my shoulder and just looks at me. I nod, and we keep walking. I steal what he has to replace what I lack. He disappears, and I stay.

But fol- lowing those laws keeps me walking, so I follow them to the letter. I eat until I stop eating, then I eat again. How did this start? How did we become what we are? Was it some mysterious virus? Gamma rays? An ancient curse? Or some- thing even more absurd? No one talks about it much. We are here, and this is the way it is. We go about our business.

There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans. At the Arrivals gate, we are greeted by a small crowd, watching us with hungry eyes or eyesockets.

We drop our cargo on the floor: Call it leftovers. Call it takeout. Our fellow Dead fall on them and feast right there on the floor like animals. Like men at sea deprived of fresh fruit, they will wither in their deficiencies, weak and perpetually empty, because the new hunger is a lonely mon- ster.

It grudgingly accepts the brown meat and lukewarm blood, but what it craves is closeness, that grim sense of connection that courses between their eyes and ours in those final moments, like some dark negative of love. I wave to M and then break free from the crowd. Breathing is optional, but I need some air. I wander out into the connecting hallways and ride the convey- ors. I stand on the belt and watch the scenery scroll by through the window wall.

Not much to see. The runways are turning green, overrun with grass and brush. Jets lie motionless on the concrete like beached whales, white and monumental. Moby Dick, con- quered at last. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. Standing still, watching the world pass by me, thinking about nearly noth- ing. I remember effort.

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I remember targets and deadlines, goals and ambitions. I remember being purposeful, always everywhere all the time.

I reach the end, turn around, and go back the other way. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few hours of this, I notice a female on the opposite con- veyor.

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I catch her eye and stare at her as we approach. For a brief moment we are side by side, only a few feet away. We pass, then travel on to opposite ends of the hall. We turn around and look at each other. We get back on the conveyors. We pass each other again. I grimace and she grimaces back. On our third pass, the air- port power dies, and we come to a halt perfectly aligned. I wheeze hello, and she responds with a hunch of her shoulder. I like her. I reach out and touch her hair.

Like me, her decompo- sition is at an early stage. Her skin is pale and her eyes are sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her irises are an especially light shade of that strange pewter gray all the Dead share. Her graveclothes are a black skirt and a snug white buttonup.

I suspect she used to be a receptionist. Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. She has a name. As always, they elude me, just a series of meaningless lines and blots. I point at the tag and look her in the eyes. I point at myself and pronounce the remaining fragment of my own name.

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