Since the holocaust, I’ve learned to pass myself off as one of them. Many things have changed after the epidemy. One at least hasn’t: only the clever survive.
Héctor and I were doing it, when the zombies entered crashing the shutters to his garden. Had he been a poor man, I’d have screwed him in some awful dump of a flat on the fifth floor, and we’d have had time enough to react.
Naturally, if so, I wouldn’t have opened my legs for him. I have my pride.
