Ebooks   ➡  Fiction  ➡  Young adult or teen  ➡  Adventure  ➡  General

Eve (or: 'How to be a Zombie and not Murder Everyone')






Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14


This book would not exist without the incredibly creative environment and all the great, great people back at /r/WritingPrompts. Thank you all.

This book would also definitely not exist without all the people who follow, comment on and support my work at /r/psycho_alpaca. I’ve said this before, but you guys are the reason I write, and I’m incredibly grateful.

Cesar Vitale

[email protected]


“You want in on this?” the Asian zombie dude asks, lifting his blood covered face from the carcass of what looks like a small child.

“No, thanks,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “I’m a vegan.”

The number of times I’ve had to say that… I mean, I get it, we’re zombies, we need to feed, we’re evil, blah, blah, blah…

But come on! We can eat animals! I don’t want to sound like a hippie bitch or anything, but we can eat cows and shit. Hell, I’ve eaten dogs. I don’t feel good about it, but I have.

But humans…

These guys act like it’s no big deal. I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Hippie bitch,” Asian zombie grunts, turning back to his carcass. I roll my eyes, making way back to the streets.

My house is half a mile away. Shouldn’t take me more than two hour to get there.


Zombie fact number one: being a zombie is slow. I can’t run. I can’t even walk, I have to do this silly penguin walk everywhere I go.

It’s exhausting, really.

I bobble my way down Hollywood Boulevard, brushing past other zombies, turned over cars and torn apart billboards of old TV shows and all that crap, scanning the streets for food one less, hopeless time.

Nothing. No pigeons, no stray cats, no unlucky squirrels. Nada.

Turning right on the alleyway and cross the side door, I make way down the narrow staircase to my basement apartment.

“Jeff. Jeff. Jeff!

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Jesus.”

Jeff opens the door with a grumpy expression on his face, stepping aside to let me in.

“Any food out there?”

I throw myself on the ripped couch, tired. “Some Asian dude offered me baby meat.”

Jeff closes the door and turns to me. “Did you take it?”

I don’t answer.

“You didn’t take it, did you?” Jeff asks, sighing. “You could have brought some for us, at least.”

“Shut up, Jeff.”

Zombie fact number two: The reason I can’t bring myself to eat a freaking baby is I still think. You’d think this asshole virus would take away the victim’s mental faculties, but no. It just gives you terrible skin, red eyes and an uncontrollable urge for raw meat and blood.

“You gotta eat, Eve,” Kathy tells me, crossing her bedroom door and making way for the mirror. “You look like shit.”

“It’s true, you do look a little too skinny,” Toby contributes, from his mattress on the corner of the room.

“I’m not eating people,” I say, folding my arms. “Forget it.”

“Eve, you can only survive on animal meat for so long,” Jeff says, pouring himself a glass of blood. By his side, a limbless, pale human carcass rests on an old metal desk, its chest and abdomen carved here and there from a week’s worth of Toby, Kathy and Jeff’s meals.

It’s tempting, I’ll be honest. The urge is so strong most people can’t (or won’t even try to) fight it. But I won’t do it. I’ve got constant headaches, difficulty concentrating and sore muscles all the time. I don’t care.

I’m not eating anything with a face.

Well, no. I’ll eat stuff with a face, all right. But not a face that talked and walked and made jokes about the government. Not a face that watched the X Factor.

Maybe a face that watched the X Factor. But you see my point.

“I had a friend who tried the whole vegan thing,” Kathy says, putting on earrings, still on the mirror. “Went crazy from the hunger. Couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk straight. It was pretty sad.”

“What happened to him?” Jeff asks.

“He died.”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly alive before, was he?” I argue.

Before I forget -- zombie fact number three: What sounds like grunts and incoherent babble to normal people is actually conversation. Zombies talk.

Getting up from his mattress, Toby makes way past me to the body on the table. “If Eve doesn’t want to eat, fine. More for us. Heey!”

Toby pulls his hand away from Jeff’s slap.

“You’ve had more than your share last night, Toby,” Jeff says. “This has to last us all week.”

“But I’m hungry!”

Pulling an old, dirty sheet over the body, Jeff turns to Toby. “Then call Domino’s. This is for me and Kathy.”

On the mirror, Kathy’s trying out different dresses, posing them in front of her body and looking at herself from all different angles.

I close my eyes so I don’t have to roll them. I gotta find some food.

And some new roommates.


“Hey, sweetie.”

A group of zombies in Abercrombie and Fitch ripped shirts watches me from the front of an abandoned McDonalds.

“What are you doing browsing around like this? Wanna party with us?”

I keep penguining my way, ignoring the zombiedouches. I step into what I think is what’s left of the Hollywood and Highland Mall.

“Oh, come on, princess! Come back!”

Their voices fade as I go past a huge sign reading OMINGDALES.

Jesus, it’s boring, walking like this.

I look around. Does this place have a food court? A Pet store? Anything I can eat that doesn’t think?

Bouncing my way deeper and deeper inside the mall, I scan left and right. Nothing.

Dear God, I'm so hungry I think I might --

“Back off!”

I look to my left. Just under the escalator, a half-open door reads STORAGE ROOM. It’s dark inside.


“I said back off!”

Squinting, I’m able to make out a human figure. A bit out of shape, and carrying what looks to be a .22 handgun.

The figure steps forward, and a young man, not more than seventeen, comes to light. “Don’t take another step!”

Dude, I wouldn’t have even seen you if you hadn’t said anything.

“I’m serious, I’ll shoot!”

He’s holding his gun like Miss America would hold an Erlenmeyer flask, and he’s got a piece of cloth tied around his forehead.

Nerd, I think, rolling my eyes and resuming my penguin walk towards the food court.

“Yeah, that’s right!” I hear his voice. “Freaking zombies all –”

But then I hear it, behind him, “There’s a dude in there!”

And another voice, “Where?”

I turn back to find douchezombie squad making way inside the mall, heading straight for the fat dude.

You know what? This is not my problem.

I keep walking, trying to ignore the sound of approaching zombie steps behind me.

“Oh, he’s fat. He’ll last a good week.”

“Back you devils!” I hear the zombie nerd scream, behind me.

I stop.

A Lord of the Ring quote. This kid is going to die.

The sound of the gun clicking reaches my ear. That’s right, he has a gun. He can defend himself.

Then it clicks again. And again.

“Oh, man, I forgot the bullets!”

“Get him, get him!”

Hating myself for giving a shit, I turn back. Zombiedouches have the boy cornered against his sad little storage room, with their leader’s hands raised and ready to charge.

I penguin walk my way behind them. Careful not to make any noise, I crouch for a piece of half cinderblock on the floor just by my feet. Zombie nerd notices me, widening his eyes.

This must look very weird for him.

Raising my hands over my head for momentum, I bang the block hard against the main douche’s head. The other two turn around, startled as they watch their partner fall to the floor.

“Leave the fat kid alone,” I say, defiantly.

The two zombies exchange looks, confused. Then, unsure, start charging towards me.

“Come on, you idiots,” I grunt, tired. “I have a cinderblock. Just walk away.

The first one raises his hand towards me, and I knock him out with a blow to his face.

“Walk away,” I repeat, as third zombie stops, widening his eyes at me.

At zombie-speed and zombie-coordination, a cinderblock is not just a weapon – it’s a game changer.

The zombie looks from his passed out buddies to me. I take a step towards him and raise the block over my head again.


Third zombiedouche turns back and penguins away fast as he can towards the exit.

“Come on, kid,” I say, dragging my body close to the nerd. “Let’s get you out of here before these ones wake up.”

From the floor, zombie nerd has his wide-like-planets eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t move.

“Let’s go, kid,” I insist. Then, remembering all he can hear are grunts, I offer him my hand.

Back against the wall, the kid pulls himself up, slowly. He looks from my face to my extended hand, then back to my face.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, before squeezing past me and running away like a bitch.


I’m thinking back on past Eve, the one from before the virus. I remember her saying she was ‘starving’ when dinner was half an hour late.


That spoiled bitch.

This is starving. It’s not enough that these goddamned rats and pigeons I eat are not even close to making me feel any kind of full, but now I don’t even have that. The streets have been wiped clean.

If I’m being honest, whenever I spot a survivor… I don’t want to, but it’s so hard to keep myself in line. Like the nerd kid. He was fat. Would have made a nice meal.

Oh, man, that nerd kid with potatoes…

I get why most zombies don’t give a fuck. I don’t agree with it, but I get it.

Feeling my head dizzy and my legs weak, I make way down the alley, lying to myself that maybe Jeff and the others found some food for me while I was out.

I hear the gunfire not ten feet away from the stairs to the apartment.

And then again. And then again.

Penguining fast as I can, I crouch behind a dumpster a second before Jeff sprouts out of the stairs, one of his arms missing and a look of terror in his eyes. He drags his body away from the building just as two men in thick beards step out behind him. Both men raise shotguns his way.

Jeff stops, turning around, and our eyes meet.

The first man fires, and Jeff falls down straight to the ground, a hole the size of an orange across his back.

Turning back and leaning against the dumpster, I cover my mouth with my hand, biting myself silent. The men exchange a few words with each other. Then, after a few moments, I hear their footsteps slowly walking away.

I wait what feels like hours before I step out of the dumpster. Jeff’s body is lying face down on the ground, motionless. I crouch to him, turning his face to the sun, and I close his eyes.

You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but I’m not. You’d think after six months of watching zombie friends and roommates die on a weekly basis, it wouldn’t get to me anymore. But it does.

You can’t really blame the hunters either – with the world filled with disease riddled carcasses roaming around trying to eat anything that moves, of course the few ones that survived want to defend themselves. If Jeff had found the men, not the other way around, he’d probably have eaten them.

It’s eat or be eaten.

I make way down the stairs, knowing full well what to expect.

Kathy’s lean body on a silk black dress is headless against the metal table. Her head is resting on the floor some feet away, by her bedroom door. She still has her earrings on.

Toby’s leaned against the wall like he might be sleeping, except with a hole on his forehead.

I mean, they weren’t childhood friends or anything. And being a zombie means getting used to the fact that everyone around you can die at any time – you don’t get to mourn the undead.

Still. I shared a basement with these guys for the past six weeks.

Yeah, yeah, they used to kill people and eat them alive and all that. They weren’t the nicest people ever.

All the same. I feel blue.


I penguin my way down Santa Monica Boulevard, wet like a wet penguin. It’s hard enough finding animals in the sun, but the rain makes it nearly impossible.

Zombie fact number four: I suck with analogies.

My roommates are dead, and I’m so hungry I might follow them soon. It’s getting harder to concentrate, these last few days. My head’s all dizzy and out of tune. I go through a pack of zombies sharing a bald man’s head inside a black sedan, laughing and cracking jokes as I go by.

I could ask them. Just a bite… The guy’s dead anyway.

I stop, watching as the front seat zombie bites onto an eyeball, pulling a string of flesh away like melted cheese as he chews.

Sighing, I penguin past the car. Just by the sidewalk crossing the street my feet hit a puddle, bathing my socks in dirty gutter water.

Thanks, universe.


Squish, squish, squish.

Bobbling away from the rainy night into Hollywood and Highland Mall again, I drag myself towards the food court. Maybe I missed something, the last time. Maybe I can find an old burger.

Cooked meat won’t do you much good if you’re a zombie, but it’s better than nothing.

Maybe the sushi place. I'm sure the fish has gone bad, but at least it's raw. I can --

Looking around for the source of the slicing noise, I stop. Like metal sliding against metal, somewhere to my right.

Crossing the ‘–OMINDAGLES’ sign, I bobble between the dummies. The sound again, closer this time.

Past a counter of necklaces and golden bracelets, I head to the --


I turn back, eyes on the counter. It’s a noise like chewing now, wet and soft.

Slow step by slow step, I reach for the glass display, leaning my head forwards to look behind –


I lean back. Zombie nerd gets up, dropping cans from his lap all over the floor and reaching for his gun. “Stay back!”
“I know you don’t have any bullets, idiot,” I say, but I don’t get any closer.

Mushy meat is sprouting out of an unlabeled can by the other end of the display island, just by his feet. My stomach howls as I spot it.

“Go away!”
“I will, but can you give me some of that meat, first?”

Zombie nerd frowns as I point to the can on the floor. “What? What are you doing?”

I point again, mimicking a spoon going into my mouth.

“You – you want that? The meat?”

I nod, enthusiastically.

He frowns so hard now his forehead might fold onto itself.

“You can… understand me?”

Again I nod. Then I point at the food again.

Come on, kid.

He crouches for the can, still keeping his eyes on me. He scoops a nice chunk with his hands, hesitates… then extends his hand across the counter.

I grab it and stuff it in my face like the fat disgusting zombie I am.

Zombie nerd lets out a nervous smile. He offers me another scoop.

“So,” he says, as I eat away the cold, watery beef in my hands, “you’re like… a good zombie?”


[_ Please don't talk anymore, please don't talk anymore, please don't -- _]

“Are there more good zombies?” Levon asks, looking up from the floor at me.

Lying on the couch, I take a deep breath.

God, kid, it’s been an hour. How have you not realized I can’t talk yet?

“Cause all the other zombies I’ve met tried to eat me. But you’re cool. What’s your name, again?”

It’s ‘Shut up and let me sleep’.

Yes, zombie fact number five: Zombies sleep. Except when annoying little pricks won’t stop asking them questions.

“I’m going to New York, have I told you that already?”

Yes. You are going to the safe haven paradise in New York, where everything is perfect and porn stars read Descartes. You told me that.

I gotta give it to him, though – he knows his way around a zombie apocalypse. After Bloomingdales, Levon invited me to spend the night at the storage room, and I was really in no position to deny shelter. It was too small for the both of us, though. Plus, after this morning’s encounter with douche zombies, I figured the mall wouldn’t be the safest of places anyway.

So I dragged his fat ass with me down Santa Monica Boulevard until we found this house. Abandoned, like most, but still in pretty livable condition and unoccupied by zombies or hunters. Unlike most.

Levon went on to zombieproofed the place immediately, and to an impressive level. Cardboard on the windows, furniture in front of the doors… even found some cleaning supplies and threw them around the place to cover up his meat smell.

But now it’s past midnight and I want to sleep, and he [_ won't…stop… talki -- _]

“They have a shelter there I’ve heard, in New York,” Levon continues. “Have I told you that? They have survivors and they are working on a cure. I’m going there to – what are you doing?”

As he’s talking, I grab a pair of pillows from under me and press them tight against my ears.

Mfff, mfff, mfff,” he says, his voice muffled and far away.

I throw the pillows to the side. “What!?

“I said I know I must be boring you,” Levon continues. “But I haven’t talked to anyone in like half a year. Sorry.”

He looks down at the floor and starts playing with his shoelaces.

What a drama queen.

I sit up on the couch.

“What?” Levon asks.

I point at the painting hanging on the wall and wave him to bring it over to me.

“You want that?” he asks, excited to get a reaction from me. “I’ll get it!”

He brings me the painting and I tear it off the frame. I point at the drawers near us.

“What? What do you want? Oh, a pen!”

Levon finds the world’s smallest pencil on a nearby drawer and offers it to me.

With a lot of effort, I flip the canvas over and start scribbling.

Zombie fact number six: your coordination goes to space once you are infected.

I write ‘Eve’ on the canvas.

“Eve… I don’t play, but I have a friend who used to. I don’t like it very much, the learning curve is – outch!

Ok, I shouldn’t have hit him on the head. But my God this kid is dense.

My… name… is… Eve.

“Oh!” he says, with a smile, still rubbing the top of his head. “Eve. That’s a pretty name!”

I try to smile, but zombie fact number seven: Zombies don’t smile.

“Will you go to New York with me, Eve?” he asks. “They have a research lab there, maybe they can cure you.”

No, kid… there’s no research lab.

I’ve heard the rumors too. When the outbreak started. That they were working on a cure. That there was a safe haven they would transport the non-infected from the quarantine zones to. It’s not true, none of it.

“Will you, Eve?”

Outside, the rain begins to give in a bit, and straps of moonlight squeeze between the cracks on the cardboarded windows, drawing silver shapes on the living room floor. The sound of crickets and wind reaches us from the outside.

And, suddenly, voices.

“I’m telling you, I can smell meat around here.”

“You’re out of your mind, Betsy.”

“Oh, I’m out of my mind? Whose idea was it to just ‘hang back in LA until this whole thing blows over? We could have gone to my sister’s house in France. We could be in Paris right now, you idiot. Instead, we’re zombies!”

“You don’t think Paris is full of zombies by now, too? You don’t think –”

“What’s that? Is that zombies?”

I put my hand over Levon’s mouth.

Mfff! Mfff!

Pulling Levon down with me, I slide to the ground.

We lie on the carpet in silence. The voices grow louder, then progressively quieter. At last, Levon’s breathing goes back to a normal rate, and the voices die away completely.

I take my hand off of his mouth, sitting up.

“Eve…” Levon whispers, under his breath.


“Please come to New York with me.”

Zombie fact number eight: I’m a soft-hearted idiot zombie.


“Nope, no keys on this one, either.”

I penguin my way past the Corolla. Levon strolls ahead of me, jumping in and out of cars and trying their ignitions.

“Nothing here, too,” he says, stepping out of a 2006 Ford Focus with no doors. “Keys, but no gas.”

“You know what? When you find a car that works, I’ll know. Because it will start. Ok, jackass?”

“What’s that? Are you cursing me? I can tell when you’re cursing me.”

It’s sunny and hot and there is no shade on the 405 Highway. I’m in no mood.

“Grrrrr,” I say, trying to get Levon’s attention as he sprints ahead of me to the next car. “Grrrrr.”

Zombie fact number nine for all of you: Grunting is not sexy. But it’s all Levon hears when I talk, anyway, so I might as well.

“What’s wrong, Eve? Are you ok?” Levon asks, hushing back as he notices me kneeled on the floor, hand leaned against a car.

I struggle to pull myself back up, my brain sending signals to my legs to quit being sissies and carry my weight without collapsing.

I need food, I write on the pad, showcasing it to Levon as he helps me up.

“We’ll find you food,” Levon replies, as I straighten myself and restart the walk. “Hang in there.”

We walked past at least a hundred restaurants on the way here with no luck. All the food is gone. We did find a puppy Golden Retriever, just before we reached the 405, but come on… I’m not a monster.

Still, at least no zombies, so far. Except for one. We found a baby zombie on a stroller just by Pico.

Levon was scared of it. It was pretty funny.

Other than that, we’ve just been walking and walking, trying to find a car that works. Levon’s determined to go to New York. What I’m thinking is there’s more chance I’ll find a cow or a whatever down the highway than in the middle of LA, so I’m all for hitting the road.

I don’t know about New York yet, but I am not eating puppy Golden Retrievers.

“Here!” Levon yells, sticking his head out of a dusty Porsche fifty feet away from me. “This one has keys!”

With a loud roar, the car bursts to life, and I manage a smile (internally). I bounce my way to Levon, making way around to the passenger seat.

“Here we go!” he says, with a smile. “What are you doing?”

I frown.

“I can’t drive, Eve.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

It’s. An. Automatic, I write on the pad. He looks at me and shakes his head.

Just. Put. Transmission. On. Drive.

He nods, putting the car to Drive mode.

Now. Go.

Levon looks from me to the pedals under his feet. He bites his lips.

“Which one is the gas?”


It’s been about an hour since we took off, and my thoughts are getting hazier than ever. My legs hurt. Part of it might be this damn California heat. But part of me also remembers what Kathy said about her vegan zombie friend.

We weren’t meant to live on cooked meat and small animals. My body is already giving in – now my mind is following it.

At an abandoned convenience store just after Moreno Valley, we found some chocolate bars and water bottles. Levon ate seven Twixes (Twixi?) and an out of date chicken sandwich.

Then, just outside, we found an actual chicken and I ate it.

Levon passed out.

Zombie fact number ten: I laughed. Don’t tell him.

Now we’re rolling down the I-10 again, cool wind against our hairs and all that. Levon only crashed the car three times in the last fifteen minutes, which is a personal best for him.

“I feel good. Do you feel good, Eve?”

“Grrrr,” I say, casually. The chicken did help, if only to keep my legs supporting my body for a little while longer.

We roll past abandoned houses with FOR SALE signs and old farms looking good like they’re stuck in a time before the outbreak, all the while listening to the only CD we found in the car:

Bon Jovi’s Greatest Hits.

Not complaining, mind you. I like Bon Jovi. But Levon takes it to a whole other lev –”


I grab the CD sprouting from the player and throw it out the window. From the backseat, Tommy Gina barks in joy.

Oh, yeah, zombie fact number eleven: We kept the Golden Retriever. We named it Tommy Gina.

On my pad, I write, Singing along guitar solos is dorky.

“Fine,” he says. “But now we have to talk.”

I grunt again, dragging my eyes out the window at the view.

“You wanna know something cool? Did you know I used to play Mortal Kombat professionally? I even won a tournament once. Pasadena, two thousand and nine. First place.”

I write down on the pad, I don’t think you know what ‘cool’ means.

“It was very cool. I won a medal and everything.” He pauses. “Do you think they’ll have a cure for you in New York? It would be so cool if they could –”

“I’m not going to New York with you, kid,” I say, straightening myself on the seat. “In fact, if you could drop me off –”

“Eve, I can’t understand you when you grunt.”

Sighing, I reach for the pad and I'm about to start scribbling when --

“Levon, look out!”

Levon spots the tree trunk laid across the road, but too late. The car crashes violently against it, tumbling sideways and over, then falling down to the side, the driver’s side door screeching against the pavement to a full stop.

This is what I assume happened at least, because I am now hanging from the seat belt over Levon, who’s looking at me like I’m his mother and he’s got a school report full of bad grades.

“Sorry, Eve,” he says. “I didn’t see the –”

“Grrr,” I say, trying to get him to shut up. From out my window, I hear voices.

Actual voices, not zombie ones.

“What’s going on?” Levon asks.

I turn around. Outside, the right front wheel is still spinning up in the air against nothing. Smoke comes out of the engine.

Then a face frames itself against the clouds, in a full beard and sided by a baseball bat on each shoulder.

“What did the net catch, this time?” the face asks. “Holy cow, is that a zombie wearing a seat belt!?

Two other faces show up by the man’s side, and I struggle to free myself.

“Can you just, like, take the boy and let me go back to being a zombie?” I ask the men, trying to sound friendly.

The one on the left pulls a .38 pistol and points it. “We gotta show this to the boss,” he says, opening the passenger door.

Zombie fact number twelve: I think we’re screwed.



Zombie fact number thirteen: I could easily get out of this chair. They have me tied up with old rope and my hands behind my back, the knot so loose it’s hard not breaking free by accident. These guys have no idea what they’re doing.

But they also have guns to mine and Levon’s face, so I guess I should keep playing stupid.

By the large front entrance, I see bearded man walking back inside the warehouse, making way across the strips of sunlight on the hay covered floor towards us. On the chair by my side, Levon shivers.

The man stops between the two of us, eyes on Levon.

“So…” he starts, with a smile, “what’s the deal with zombiechick here? Old girlfriend?”

Levon doesn’t answer. With a confident step, bearded man crouches to his eye level. Coming from the front door, the two other men make way towards us.

“Where do you live?”

Again, Levon is silent. He turns his face away like the man has bad breath, which he probably does.

Bearded man drags Levon’s gaze back to him with a pull of his hair. “Are you with doctors? Do you have food?”

It's cool. These guys are after food and supplies, that's all. They're looters. As long as Levon doesn't piss them off, I don't see how --

“Fuck you,” says Levon, spitting on the floor next to the bearded man.

Alrighty then…

The two other men behind him laugh, and bearded man slams his fist against Levon’s face.

“Ok,” he says, getting up, rubbing his knuckles. “So… what? This is just your regular zombie? Regular, day-to-day, flesh-eating, grunting, foul smelling walking dead?”

Levon raises his eyes, his nose dripping in blood in that way that makes you look cool if you’re already attractive, but like a dork with chronic nose bleed if you’re not.

“It’s just a zombie,” Levon says. He looks like a dork.

“Why were you keeping it captive?”

Levon doesn’t answer.

“Well,” bearded man says, turning to me. He pulls the .38 and raises it to my forehead. “If it’s just a zombie, I guess I can –”


Bearded man smiles, lowering the pistol.

Oh, Levon, you have the spine of a slug orgy.

“So…” he restarts, turning back to Levon, “are you going to tell me the deal with the pet zombie? Or should I go get my boss?”


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Eve (or: 'How to be a Zombie and not Murder Everyone')

Eve is an 18,000 word novella originally published as an ongoing story on Reddit's Writing Prompts forum by user /u/psycho_alpaca. It follows the story of Eve -- an ill-tempered zombie girl who refuses to eat humans. While trying to survive in a desolated, violent world as a 'vegan zombie', Eve comes across Levon, a dorky seventeen year old boy with more acne and insecurity than good senses. Suffering the effects of her non-people diet and struggling to resist the urge to kill, Eve will follow Levon on a cross country trip in search for shelter, a cure, or, at the very least, something to hit Levon on the head with.

  • Author: Cesar Vitale
  • Published: 2015-10-23 02:50:08
  • Words: 18214
Eve (or: 'How to be a Zombie and not Murder Everyone') Eve (or: 'How to be a Zombie and not Murder Everyone')