The zombies want brains, the zombies want skin, the zombies want guts and blood. The zombies want human flesh. The zombies want us with the passion of lovers, with the passion of living. The zombies want life. In our sweet flesh the zombies bury their faces, seeking the spark we keep within us, taking us into their many arms, their lips and faces, their searching, rending fingers, the lust for food, for flesh, for life, to live to breathe, to rot, to stink, to stumble forward.
The zombies are coming, and we hide in our houses, the zombies have come, and we are on a boat, a plane, behind a wall. The zombies are coming and we are holed up in a mall, in a warehouse, in a church. The zombies are knocking on stained glass, revolving doors; the zombies are coming to the bar where we boarded up the windows and the doors, living on beer behind a barricade. The zombies are coming to the farm and all we have are pitchforks. The zombies want to live in our houses, the zombies are rocking the car, the zombies are outside the tank, the zombies are coming, unstoppable.
-From Love Letter, my contribution to the Gimme Shelter anthology of zombie fiction.