Zombie is the new vampire. At least that's what she'd read. From a reliable source. Somewhere on the Internet, on some website she'd stumbled upon when wandering aimlessly from online bill pay to vampire erotica to YouTube clips of drugged up boys coming from the dentist and animals being tortured. Everyone was reading those stupid Twilight books now, same sheep who had read the Anne Rice books fifteen—twenty years ago and slurped up books about kiddies learning to become witches and wizards a day at a time, devouring them like blood sausage. She looked at the handsome slob snoring beside her and slipped out of the sleeping bag.

At last, Zombies were set to take over pop culture. It had been on her mind for a few days. Keep your Interview and New Moon, she said to herself, and make mine Of The Dead, or anything by Romero or anything mimicking him.

So instead of pouncing at his throat and tearing away at the flesh at his neck with her bare teeth, as a follower of pop culture might choose do, she took a heavy stump of wood and cracked open his skull. She'd be a leader of pop culture for a change, ahead of the curve.

Death came quickly, with properly administered blows. She took the grilling fork and knife and carved out a filet of brain, still warm.

A series of zombie novels. Then made into movies. They'd probably be corporate sell—out flicks, nothing like the old Living Dead. Still, better to see zombie sell—outs than more vampire chronicles. Vamps suck.

The brain sucked. Maybe it wasn't ripe—the dude from the strip—mall bar was a numbskull. Maybe if she saved it, cooked it at home. Maybe the library had a book on cooking pig brain or cow brain. Didn't some people eat their brains and feet and tongues and balls—the nasty bits? Delicacies? The sort of scraps favored by zombies?

But checking out a book on brain cuisine within days of the body being found might raise a red flag. The filet in the fridge would seal her arrest tighter than a zip—lick freezer bag. Besides, who ever heard of zombies cooking their brains? If it ain't raw, it ain't real.

She dipped her finger in the blood on his head and licked. The fad would pass—zombies to witches to wizards to elves back to vampires. She dumped the filet into the smoldering campfire and reached over for another finger dip of blood. Zombies were coming into fashion, but blood still tasted better than brains. No wonder vampires get all the attention.