Maybe. Having fun with a short story this afternoon: first-person with zombies.

Something fell in the entryway, a thump and then a muffled moan. I sat up from my work, moving the lamp to see a little better. It was dusk, and I had hardly realized time had slipped so far from me.

–Doctor Henrickson?

But there was no answer, just another moan, this time more mournful. Thinking the man had done something irreversible–offed himself, for instance, since even then he talked about it far too often–I rushed to the door toward the source of the sound.

It was my brother Anton.

–You shouldn’t…

He was trying to speak, but something was preventing him. Anton was curled up like a wood shaving, his face waxy, his lips chapped. And his pallor and general stench made sense, considering he had been quite dead for the last year.

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