The Helping Zombie

Zombies have killed every living human except for the ones who are dead inside. Now the horde must learn how to become therapists if they want their next meal.

"Why are there zombies at our self-help class?", Tammy said in disgust as she looked at a group of zombies calmly standing in the doorway.

"Beats me. Doesn't really matter though, it's not like they'll eat any of us. This whole class has been intact since the apocalypse, which now that I think of it, is really odd."

Frankie interrupts and chimes in. "I mean, it's not THAT odd. What's odd is that we still come to this dumb class once a week after the world has been set aflame. Most of our friends and families got eaten alive for Christ's sake. We truly are a sick bunch of weirdos... There's no denying that."

"Not sick Frankie. Come on now, be a little more upbeat. We are dead inside, that's it. Just a little dead", the group therapist says, apparently dead inside as well, which now makes a trifecta of weird things that just got discovered.

"Sick... dead inside, whatever Doc. You're weird a*s is here too", he mumbles, just loud enough for the therapist to hear.

The conversation quickly ends as a random group of zombies start to fumble into the room, their feet dragging clumsily along the stained tile floor. The stench is horrid but that is common place now. There's not many pleasant smells in the city period. There are five of them packed together tight but they all suddenly stop except one. A fat zombie, a rare sight I might add, continues on towards the therapist.

Everyone's eyes grow wide, as we anxiously await the next move. Our therapist sits there, his hands trembling slightly. We have all discussed it nearly a thousand times but no conclusion has ever been made. None of us have figured out why the zombies are deterred from us, especially this particular group of people. I can see Frankie itching to jump up, his hand on a huge machete he carries in his belt but then, the fat zombie points down at the self-help book the therapist is holding.

He starts to grunt and moan, his bloodied finger poking the self-help book. After a few more pokes, he then points at the therapist, emphasizing the correlation between the two. He slowly turns around and grunts at all of us and then looks back down at the book.

"Is he... Is he trying to help us?", Tammy whispered, her face frozen with fear.

The Fat Zombie nods his head, gives a deep grunt of approval and walks towards the door with the other four. Before he leaves, he points at the therapist and grunts again.

The whole room sits there in disbelief. Most of us assumed zombies were a bunch of dead-brained carcasses and have never once thought any form of communication was possible. For some sick and twisted reason, we heeded the advice of the Zombie and continued to work on our mental health. We thought maybe we could save the Zombies if we actually focused on being happy in this hell hole. Overtime, our depression started to slip away and there was some real progress being made. People cried about their families missing, they spoke of their troubled pasts and focused on ways to get over the heavy baggage we all held onto.

After a few months of really buckling down and getting some work done, all of us "Graduated", per says the self-help hook, and we had a little celebration. One of the girls baked a cake, a few of us brought some beers and we spoke about the sad world we live in and how we are going to continue the human race. Just as we were getting going, the same five zombies showed up. Again, they walked in clumsily, their stench following their trail of ooze, and again, they all stopped but the fat zombie.

He continued on towards the therapist and grunted in approval. He gave him a gentle pat on the head, one more grunt for good measure and then started to eat his face The whole class hopped up and rushed over to kill the fat zombie but before we knew it, the entire building was overrun. Thousands of the dead b******s poured in and devoured our whole class.

The entire thing was incredibly ironic. The second we all started to come alive is the second we all died. I guess we'll never know why the zombies decided to pick that day to end our measly existence but I have a strong hunch about the whole thing.

It had to have been the god-awful lemon cake Betty cooked. Who cooks a Lemon cake for a celebration?

Based on that decision alone, we probably deserved to get eaten