The apple is red too. But the tomato’s flesh is the flesh of mankind. Do the dead love the flesh of man because it is like a tomato? We’ll never know. But I have my suspicions. Not working the Garden today. Working the Wall. Five of us on the south side of the Bridge and five on the north, manning the murderholes. A cush detail, the South Gate, if you’ve got to man the Wall. Cush is relative, I guess. On the north side you’ve got what’s left of Tulaville, Arkansas. Population zero. Living, that is. Beyond that, the interstate. South, you’ve got migrant zombies from Little Rock and Hot Springs and even Pine Bluff. A little more traffic, but it comes in spurts. Not too much trouble manning the murderholes on either side. And man is the right word. Most women don’t chip in on the zombie disposal units, except for Sarah. Barb Dinews sometimes. They prefer scavenge units, which I’m not old enough for yet, even though I’m the tallest man here except for Jasper. But he’s freak-show large.
