I write like a beast while I'm trapped in here.

I filled a whole notebook in two days, more than I have ever been able to do when I had to separate writing from real life. Now there is no real life. When I escape the world of monsters and zombies in my book, when I resurface to reality, I remember that I am alone in a coffee shop hiding from zombies, and there is nothing to do but dissolve right back into the story. I am my characters now. I used to write horror. Now they'll call it historical fiction.

The zombies in my story are of the infected variety, and I suspect the same of those in the real world now. I assume I would be notified of my teachers' death, and therefore I assume he was not dead before he became a flesh-eater. Since I had never met this teacher before, it is of course possible that the man hoarding snacks behind the desk was not in fact my professor, but it also stands to reason that the other zombies I had encountered were not resurrected corpses either, as they were all wearing their regular clothes. Undead zombies usually wear nice clothes. This is due to the fact that people bury people in nice clothes, and zombies don't like to change before they go off on a killing spree.

My zombies are much more abundant, though, than the real ones it seems. In the hours after I escaped into my little refuge, I saw only a few more of these walking monsters through the glass doors than I had in the brief encounter I had earlier on. In the past three days I had not seen any more.

I have decided to give it a week, as I feel I am in no imminent danger here but unprepared to face the zombies alone and I cannot be sure that there are really none left out there. More importantly I just really want to work on this story.

My main character is seducing the man who is leading their group of survivors. I hope I can write a decent love scene even though I have never experienced one. I imagine it would be like feeling full after being hungry for a long time. Being full in a way you've never been full before. That's why the cannibalism metaphor works so well. Zombies, vampires, sex. It's a continuum. Flesh, blood, then...

I don't even glance around anymore. I am so used to being alone that I do not check the windows or door before I undo my jeans. Several minutes pass before I hear a frantic rapping on the door.