The Zombie Plague had come to the Law Offices Of My Foot In Your Ass, and litigators were turning into lunch. Justice may well be blind, but the undead overran the Attorneys offices with unadultered gore. The conference room turned into a blood-splattered tomb. Cubicles walled the workers in like prison. And the break room became the last refuge of the wounded survivors. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Especially not on Bagel Thursday. It was a bad time for the apocalypse. Steve Walker's life was finally going places. He'd just gotten engaged. He was ready to trade his sardine-cramped apartment for a new condo, his hunk of junk of a car for one that didn't stall in the middle of intersections, his ramen noodle lifestyle for succulent steak. But on that Thursday morning, survival was the only thing on the menu. The zombies meanwhile were content to gobble Steve as an appetizer. Steve never thought he'd die sorting issues of Super Litigator magazines in the bowels of a law firm. Then again, being a mailroom bitch was hardly a way to live, apocalypse or not.
