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Where was I now? What beige concrete buildings there were around me had frosted glass, where slight cuts blemished a foggy view, and each pane felt textured like a smooth rock. Small crowds of these people huddled up against the edges of windows, licking them. Fine white powder fell close to the buildings, making small piles around them. I noticed some of the people were scratching the windows.

Trying to find voices among the groaning crowds was more difficult than tuning a radio. My ears were magnetized to the worthless waste of air some of these people spat out. As much as I wished for something tangible, something valuable, my ears were tuned to pick up the sound equivalent of dirt. After traveling quite a few blocks down, I might have picked something up.

Two stories up. There was a group of vocal, organized people who appeared to be harvesting abandoned clothing from a terrace. I hoped it would be abandoned, at least. The building resembled a school the most. It had a defaced sign in front of it, roughly as large as I was laying down. It was otherwise very windowy, more so than what I've experienced otherwise. The front entrance was accommodating, with three double doors. Before entering, I called up. They called down. A boy noticed me and waved. I couldn't hear what he said, but I got the gist: he was gesturing me to go up.

Well, they didn't look like they were going to bite me. Many of them had rounder faces with softer features. Most of them looked put together: no cuts, bruises or scars. One man had sharper features however, and approached me. He had a remarkably short haircut, looked to be somewhat lanky yet still my height, and it looked impossible for his eyes to express anything but a slight scowl. As he extended his arm for a handshake, he told me his name: Nick.

I took the minute grace period I had while shaking to digest what the group was like. It was split relatively evenly between guys and girls, and everyone looked relatively different from one another. I have another chance. What will I be this time?

"Hey, it's great to meet everyone! I'm Ishmael, and I think this is the second group of friends I've found so far!" was my opening line.

I'll be fun. I think, I think I can do that.

Nick paused before responding considerably with less energy: "Oh, well, we call them survivors."

"That can't be good. Survivors, as opposed to unsurvivors, means all of you are surviving something. Talk about a boogie in a bad place." I shot back.

"Haha yeah, well, anyway, you should probably be careful around those others. We're thinking they're zombies." Nick refused to make eye contact.

He felt like an open window at night. Maybe I'm getting the wrong impression of him. He just needs to warm up, I think. Then maybe he can match me.

"Oh, zombies? That sure explains what close encounters I've had so far! I almost got bit and everything, am I so glad I had my head on right!" was what I went with.

I can't tell what he's looking for, honestly. His eyes transmit so little information. It's like I'm his center attention while making every attempt to pretend I'm not there.

"Yeah, just watch out. Uh, and maybe someone should check you out first. Where are you from?" He kept me going.

I gave him my story: the forest, the farms, Phoebe's group, and now here. He'd never met Phoebe nor her group, although there were only so many members I could remember. A boy came up behind me to check for bite marks, and I continued to talk.

"I want to try again; maybe we'll all get along better!" I concluded.

He passed me off to someone else. I guess I got to work. I don't know. I assumed I would've gotten acquainted with everyone before they made me do anything. So, I walked and talked, as well as dropped my backpack near a large pile of their supplies.

As I introduced myself to others, I couldn't help but think about what he implied about zombies. It was an infection that latched onto every piece in my mind. Who are the zombies? Are there zombies here? It's not like anyone I've seen looks like a zombie. Are they using the word wrong? Am I connected to this? Who is a zombie, and who is a person then? With every question filling my mind like the rising tide, one answer kept the flood of thoughts at bay. The thought: "Spotting a zombie is intuitive. Even if you don't know, you're you, and you'll react accordingly to your situation." was like a dam to my confusion.

Conversely, who do I believe? Am I surrounded by strange people or zombies? Which group has an accurate picture of their situation? Why should I trust a group of people who actively loot imperishables and make me do the same upon first meeting with them? It's not like these garments are going anywhere; they won't be going to waste any time soon. I can't be more blunt than that, but to think, what kind of zombies look indistinguishable from normal people? I stalled. Would I do this- would I be one to steal from others? Am I like this? Am I like them? Can I really say they're like me?

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Instead, I inquired for more. Nearly picking off a garment from the clothesline, a boy was tugged away from his job.

"You're with- I'm almost blanking on his name- Nick, right?" I asked.

They nodded while furling their eyebrows.

"What do you think you're doing? Like, why all this?" I stuttered through explaining.

I was not about to receive an answer given serious thought. He attempted to get back to his work. I stood between them and a basket of clothing they were stuffing garments into.

He avoided eye contact to answer: "We're just trying to stock up on things."

So what, now stealing is called 'stocking up'? Did he even think about whether or not what he's doing is right? Even then- if he's dealing with zombies, is this heavy load something that matters? Don't people think through these things?

"Is it a part of your nature to behave like this?" I became sharper.

Nick noticed my arguing just then, and the man I had been talking to began to raise his voice over mine.

"It's not a big deal. Why don't you do something else if you don't like it?" The man locked onto me.

"Stealing something that its original owner can come back to at any time, is that the kind of person you are?" My volume inched above my debate partner.

"I don't know, I don't know", They paused afterwards, looking inwards to find what they really wanted to say.

Nick grabbed my arm. "Can I pull you aside for a moment?"

We didn't necessarily leave the crowd, but he pulled me to one of the corners of the building.

"Look, we really appreciate how you feel about this. We have our own reasons, and we'd love help. If you'd like to join us, feel free. If not, you don't have to stay with us." He asserted.

I got louder. "Stealing is wrong. None of what you're stealing is going to decompose. Nothing is going to waste whether you take it or not," I was about to say more.

He got louder. "I don't know what your deal is. We really want to get back to what we were doing. It's our business about whether what we do is good or bad or whatever. And you-"

I got louder again. "You're no better than all these zombies you say are doing whatever they're doing! What's the difference between a zombie and a criminal-" I started talking with my hands.

He cut me off even louder. "I'm not a thief! I'm minding my own business! Bro, just leave us alone if you don't like us!"

While our now screaming match was underway, the entrance I came from began to have a lot of commotion. We heard groaning, but we also heard shrieking and crying.

Nick froze wide-eyed, and his hands limp to his sides. I turned around to see none other than zombies. Pouring through one of two potential entrances, there were dozens of burnt, bruised, cut, and bleeding people who were either emaciated, bloated, or had skin and muscle wrapped around them in inorganic ways. Shapes didn't flow: arms either looked like they were made for bugs or had a spacious and spongy layer of flesh clinging onto them. Legs never appeared to properly support their figure. Any other shape - their pecs, neck, hips - all looked tacked on or strangely misaligned. I wanted to say I was looking at people, but my intuition howled otherwise.

Some simply accepted their fate. Some instantly knew to fight back. Some just threw clothing at the zombies. What formed was a wall of those who had already been bitten to try and let others escape. They tried pushing back while their adversaries ran at them to try and eat them.

The escape route, which was not opened yet, was also blocked by Nick. He wasn't moving. At first thought, I would have assumed I wouldn't be the only one scrambling to find an exit. Hardly any survivors went in the direction I began to go towards.

Was there anything I could say to him at this point? Would he be responsive, or worse, would I be able to articulate my request? Saying a simple command, making him move out of the way, can't be that hard. Every time I looked at him in his glazed-over eyes, I couldn't do it.

Screams and panic multiplied while Nick stood in shock. He was more of a recipe for shock, despair, frustration, and confusion. Every thought in his mind visually continued to bake, with no timer set to complete it. As patient as I was, we had a time limit; we were on a schedule here.

But I didn't know what to do. The others appear to be in a clearly losing fight. The front line, who already got bit, appears to be losing strength, not from the zombie bite, but from the blood loss. The back line didn't have as many supplies for everyone fighting. I had no job, as far as I was aware. I don't want to abandon those I believe are like me, but what else could I do? What else could I do? What can I do?

My attention wandered back to Nick as I repeated that statement in my head. If he wasn't there, what I must do next would become trivially easy. If there's nothing I can do here, I move on to my next destination. He's not doing anything for me, and he has no purpose, neither for himself, for his community, or for the City. He's literally stealing clothing from a community he doesn't even know. He just wants to be a leech. He doesn't even look like he wants to live. He's the only one standing in my way of an obvious solution.

Impulse took over.

With a push, Nick fell off the ledge. Down, down, and the only thought on my mind was - "He was for sure one of them."

Consequently, I had an escape route now. The heavens above shone rays of sunlight onto the door just for me. As I ran away, I made one final look. They were fighting, pushing back against a crowd much larger than them. They were together, and although they'd perish, they'd go down with each other by their side. I fled with just myself and pressed onward.

Upon leaving the building, guilt almost instantly set in. I can't call it regret, as this was the right move to make. They're all gone now. They had no chance, and I wouldn't have made a difference. What am I, however, to abandon those who I thought were like me? Is this still me, and what I would do in any situation like this? Is abandoning my post a part of who I am?