Just about the time Larry was going to give up, put a gun to his head, and blow his tortured brains out, something else happened that was not zombie-related at all: Larry discovered he had the ability to fly. Why he should suddenly develop such ability at the age of thirty-seven, Larry could not say, but in a land that had been overrun by the living dead for the last six months, he supposed anything was possible.
He discovered his new talent one humid morning in late August when he woke up with his nose pressed against the ceiling, his body floating horizontally, a sextet of hungry fiends swaying and moaning beneath him. They must have broken through the kitchen barricade sometime during the night. By all rights, he should have already been quite well gnawed. When he realized the nature of his predicament, he waved his hands below him, trying to get even closer to the ceiling, expecting any second to drop into the rotting appetites beneath him, like Wile E. Coyote falling into a chasm after a moment of perplexed suspension.
But that moment didn’t come. He stayed afloat, out of reach of the groping zombies ...
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