Survivors can only watch humankind dwindle to extinction.
They fight to protect their loved ones, to reach sanctuary, to keep their sanity as civilization is destroyed around them, never knowing if their next breath will be their last.
Will the person they fought beside soon be a flesh-hungry corpse, or even worse, their own prey?
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“It’s like you’re living in your very own scripted movie, you must be so pleased!”
“Your books have come true!”
“At least you’ll have a lot of practice with this whole thing.”
And it was always teamed with this stupid, innocuous laugh that drove me crazy. I mean, what the fuck, guys? Seriously? Yes, I’m a zombie author, but that doesn’t exactly mean I ever wanted to end up living within the pages of my books.
I actually have a very successful series of young adult apocalyptic novels—five to date—and there was even talk of a film at some point, but that was fantasy. I didn’t want this to happen—no one in their right mind would.
The only reasons my books were as popular as they were is because I used my imagination to write them. I didn’t base them in any kind of fact or predictions or anything. When I think about me sitting there, revelling in putting my fictional characters—that despite popular belief, I do actually love!—through such hell, it kinda makes me feel sick. My readers, fans, whatever you’d like to call them, have sent me a lot of online…opinions…bordering on abuse over time as each new book came out, and more characters that they’d come to adore and root for, died. I know it was harsh; I tried to tell them as much. But you just don’t get through a zombie apocalypse without losing a few people.
And now, we’re living through it for real, and I’m seeing for myself how true that really is. I think it’s safe to say that it isn’t fun, and no, not even I’m finding it exciting.