There are people who say that Kellis-Amberlee and its undead side effects are going to bring about the end of the human race. I tend to disagree with this perspective. I’m pretty sure that if the zombies were going to destroy humanity, they would’ve done it back in 2014, when they first showed up. I think that if anything destroys the human race at this point, it’s going to be the human race itself.

With my posts done, Alaric working, and Becks and Maggie sequestered with Kelly, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I settled for sitting at the kitchen table with my fresh can of Coke, waiting for something to happen. My patience was rewarded about fifteen minutes later, when something happened.

Footsteps descended the stairs and Becks appeared in the kitchen doorway, hands raised in a warding gesture. Not the best sign. “Okay, Shaun, before you freak out, this was the best way to do it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a really shitty elevator pitch, and I would never buy your project based on that. Just so you know.”

“I’m just saying, don’t freak out.” She finished stepping into the kitchen, looking back over her shoulder. “Come on, Kelly.”

“I feel like an idiot,” said Kelly. She moved into view, Maggie half a step behind her.

I stared.

Buffy left a lot of her shit to me and George when she died. Her parents gave us even more. We were her best friends, and they couldn’t think of anything else to do with her collection of gaudy jewelry and hippie skirts. The fact that I’m not a cross-dresser and George wouldn’t have been caught dead in that sort of thing didn’t matter: They were grieving parents, we were Buffy’s friends, and we got it all. Only we didn’t have much room in the apartment, and the idea of getting rid of her things left me feeling sick. So we stored them at Maggie’s.

Becks was looking at me with rare anxiety, clearly waiting for me to say something. I swallowed the lump that was blocking my throat and said the first thing that came to mind:

“Wow. That’s… different.”

Kelly was wearing a multicolored broomstick skirt, a white peasant blouse, and a patchwork vest with little mirrors sewn all over it. They twinkled when she moved, not quite as gaudily as the dozen or so bangle bracelets crusted with LED “jewels.” There were matching “jewels” on the straps of her sandals, which looked entirely impractical. I knew better. Buffy was an idealist and sort of an idiot, but she knew the importance of being prepared, and she didn’t own a single pair of shoes she couldn’t run in.

God, I miss her, said George, almost too quietly for me to hear.

“Me too,” I murmured, just as softly.