Our zombie squad consists of five field biologists, one chemist, one geologist, one driver, one military officer, one veterinarian, three physicians (one of whom is Dr. Cohen) and two sharpshooters. Rather than our offering our sharpshooters a bounty, we pay them an hourly wage. This means they do a lot of sitting around doing nothing but still getting paid; still, we don’t want to provide them an incentive to “bag as many Z’s” as possible. (That’s the way they’d put it, not me.)
The sharpshooters load tranquilizers into their weapons. After successful capture, a zombie receives a shot of Acepromazine from the vet to keep it asleep. We need to keep the zombie quiet long enough to collect data, plus it’s better they not know exactly who took them and why.
I’d tell you what we’re discovering about the nature of zombies, but then I couldn’t mail this. Who knows what the Chinese government might be doing with the Dalai Lama’s mail? Actually as far as our own U.S. postal system goes, I have no clue what’s happening. I never receive any mail at all. But other people in our household seem to, so presumably there are still postal workers who remove letters from the blue box on the corner and tote them away somewhere.
Until I hear from you, Your Holiness, or until Jane—your mom—is ready to take over the epistle writing, I’ll keep using this inefficient, snail-mail method. And hope for the best. In every sense.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.