The next day, I decided it was time to return to using the Brain Basher. Instead of trying to make the pole longer or building something to increase its accuracy, or even adding a counter lever, I realized that the key might be in getting the zombies closer to the building. An 8 to 10-foot pole seemed like the optimum length if I could lure them directly beneath the roofline.

  I had my phone with me, and while it had become a lifeline to memories of better times—filled with pictures of Patricia and our last trip to Disneyland—it was also my link to the music I had downloaded, providing some semblance of normalcy. But the phone’s battery was running low, and the charging cable wasn’t in my backpack. Seeing that some of the zombies had purses slung over their shoulders, I thought maybe I could find a charger among their belongings. The idea of fishing for purses was absurd, but in this twisted reality, it felt oddly fitting.

  In the shop, I crafted a new tool—a sturdy hook made from U-joints and small chunks of threaded pipe, securely attached to a length of tubing. As I worked on shaping the hook, my mind drifted back to those Disneyland photos—a world away from the one I now inhabited. Back then, the biggest worry was capturing the perfect angle in front of Sleeping Beauty Castle. Now, I was about to fish for zombie purses in the hopes of finding a phone charger. The contrast wasn’t lost on me.

  Once the hook was ready, I tested it a few times, ensuring it was strong enough to catch and hold a purse strap. Satisfied with the result, I climbed up to the roof and peered over the edge. The zombies were still there, shuffling aimlessly around the perimeter of the building.

  "Here goes nothing," I muttered as I lowered the pole and aimed for a nearby zombie with a bulky purse slung over her shoulder.

  It took a few tries, but eventually, the hook caught on the strap. I pulled slowly, careful not to draw too much attention. The purse slipped off her shoulder and dangled in mid-air. With a quick, practiced motion, I hoisted it up to the roof.

  I rummaged through the purse, my heart pounding with anticipation. Inside, I found the usual assortment of items—makeup, a hairbrush, a small mirror, and a wallet, but no phone charger. The keys and wallet piqued my interest. The keys might be useful if I needed to break into a nearby house for shelter, but the driver's license revealed that she lived in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I sighed, setting the purse aside—who knew what might come in handy later?

  There were no other women with purses around the building, and I realized I needed to get more creative in attracting the zombies closer. I hung my feet over the edge of the roof, sat down, and began tapping my legs and talking to myself. The noise attracted the zombies, drawing them in closer, but there was still a noticeable hesitation in their movements. None of the zombies within view had a purse, but one of them wore a thick, army surplus jacket that caught my eye. It looked sturdy, and I thought it might fit me.

  I repeatedly tried to snag the jacket from the back of her neck with the hook but struggled to get enough leverage. The coat was made of thick denim and was undone in the front. The zombie looked like she could have been one of those goth girls—her pale skin and dark, hollow eyes stood out even more with the effects of death. Despite the situation, I found her strangely attractive. In another world, I might have tried a different approach to get her jacket off, but now, I had to rely on a pole and hook.

  After several attempts, I managed to slide the hook under the bottom of the jacket and into her armpit, using considerable force to pull it off. The jacket was oversized on her, which worked in my favor. When I finally wrenched it free, I realized I had also inadvertently taken her shirt with it. The zombie stared up at me, her eyes filled with a strange reproach, now wearing only a lacy bra. Without the baggy coat, she was even more striking, her full chest filling out the bra beautifully.

  I checked out the jacket and slipped it on, half-expecting it to reek of decay. To my surprise, the smell was oddly pleasant—a mix of fresh rain, slightly burnt sugar, and a hint of something metallic, like rust. It was intoxicating, almost comforting. As I breathed in the scent, I felt a stirring in my pants. The excitement of seeing her in that bra made me momentarily consider jumping into the crowd, letting them take me away like Carl. But instead, I had a different idea. Using the hook, I carefully caught the strap of her bra and pulled it off her shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the roof, I started to touch myself. For some reason, it drove the zombies wild, pressing hard against the building until I could no longer see the woman who had brought the flagpole up. The sight of the other zombies, their grotesque features, took the edge off my excitement, and I decided to stop.

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  As the scent of the jacket began to fade, I grabbed the perfume bottle from the first purse and sprayed a few squirts on it to change the smell. With enough zombies within reach of my Brain Basher, I went back to work, but with a different purpose. I started targeting only the unattractive zombies, leaving any woman who was an eight or better untouched. I didn’t know why I did it, but something in the back of my mind decided it would be better to be surrounded by beauty.

  The moment I really started killing zombies, they began to back off. They seemed to sense the scent of their dead comrades, and after about 15 minutes, most were out of reach again. I spotted the beautiful goth girl in the back of the crowd, a few zombies deep, but she was blocked. It crossed my mind that it might be fun to create more topless zombies—something about getting excited seemed to excite the zombies too. This might be a strategy to keep them within striking range better than the noise on my phone.

  The next zombie I tried to undress nearly took the pole—and me—with it. Unlike the thin material of the first zombie’s shirt, this one wore something sturdier, and all I accomplished was getting the hook stuck. I needed a better method. Returning to the shop, I modified the hook by attaching a hacksaw blade to the bottom. Now, I had a U-hook with a saw blade. The idea was to get the hook under the clothing and saw through the fabric by dragging it up and down. All I needed was to start a rip, and the fabric would tear easily.

  I tested it again, this time targeting a woman with slender, lightweight fabric. It worked, but not as well as I’d hoped. I realized I needed to go back to the drawing board to design something better.

  When I finally had the piece of clothing in my hands, I couldn’t resist smelling it deeply. The same intoxicating scent filled my nostrils, borderline making me high. I felt myself swelling in my pants again. I knew this was wrong, but something about it felt so right. The back of my mind rebelled against the idea, but... why was it okay to kill them? Why was it okay to watch them get devoured by their own kind? By old-world standards, wasn’t this a form of kidnapping? Assault? Attempted murder? If they were holding me on this roof, wasn’t that just as wrong as what I was doing? By staying and forcing me into this situation, I convinced myself that they had consented to be part of my experiment, part of my study on zombie nature.

  Undressing them was a slow and clumsy process, but it held my attention in a way nothing else did. There was something captivating about watching the shirtless women I’d managed to strip wander around, their pale skin contrasting starkly with the filthy, bloody masses. It was far more intriguing than the ones I’d merely marked with red paint. The sight of them, vulnerable yet still moving among the horde, stirred something deep within me—an unsettling mix of power and curiosity.

  However, as they blended back into the crowd, it became increasingly difficult to distinguish them from the others. The chaos of the milling zombies made it challenging to track my “experiments,” and I found myself frustrated by how quickly they disappeared into the swarm. It wasn’t just a game anymore; it was a study, an observation of how these stripped-down creatures would react, how they would survive—or not—in their new state.

  I began to wonder if stripping them of their insulated layers would affect their mobility or lead to hypothermia during the night. Would the lack of clothing slow them down, make them weaker, or would it drive them to seek warmth in the crush of bodies around them? The thought fascinated me, and I realized that this was more than just idle curiosity—it was a way to impose some kind of control over the uncontrollable, to see if I could influence their behavior through these small manipulations.

  To test this theory, I decided to ensure enough of them were shirtless so I could observe their energy levels the next morning. The idea of them shivering in the cold, their once-human bodies still responding to the elements despite their undead state, intrigued me. I needed to see if the cold would take a toll on them, if it would make them easier to dispatch or if it would drive them to huddle together for warmth, creating new patterns of behavior that I could exploit.

  As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the horde, I worked methodically, pulling shirts and bras from the zombies within my reach. Each time, I took note of the texture of their skin, the way the cold air seemed to cling to their exposed flesh, and the strange, intoxicating scent that lingered on the fabric. By the time I’d collected about 30 shirts and 20 bras, I couldn’t help but revel in the power I felt—the control over these creatures, the knowledge that, in some small way, I was shaping their world.

  I knew I had to take all of this clothing into the break room and use it as mattress material. As the day dimmed and the sun began to set, that’s exactly what I did,