The Zombie Of Labor Day
The zombie of Labor Day shambles about while working out a lifetime's worth of contempt and misery. It's the little acts that kill the body and heal the soul; the poisons. It treasures every thing that takes it to that magical place where its body is numbly flowing with the way of things... It longs for the respite of accomplishment; the gaze upon an ephemeral nobody else could appreciate in the same way. These things disappear the moment it looks away but they strike it with the thought of "I just did that and it's impossible for me to doubt it."
The poisons scare the others. The others see death in the poisons; a death above death itself. These ones want more out than what they put in. These ones caused the outbreak. These outsourced their souls into bodies that were only meant for the soul they first came with. The writhing mass of decaying flesh was an unintended consequence their bodies chose to live with; free of the spirit they see as burdensome. The zombie has little to strive for in this world; very little it can wish for. It escapes into its enhanced spirit while leaving its body to decay with little regard.