I frown and turn back to the audience.

By the time I do, I see a string of zombies, maybe a dozen, maybe two, lined up at their microphone at the bottom of the bleachers. Mrs. Halston stands primly from her seat at the foot of the stage and pivots primly to face them.

She takes the mic from its holder and points it in the face of the first zombie, a junior by the name of Carl Gaff. He used to play for the soccer team before Congress vetoed the Living Dead in Sports Act earlier this year.

He is short and slight and swimming in his green jacket, which only seems to come in one size: XXL. He looks at me calmly and says, slowly, deeply, but quite seriously, “What qualifications do you have that Calvin doesn’t?”

Before I can hear Brody’s voice screaming in my head, I snap out the first thing that comes to mind. “I can read, for one.”

There is dead silence in the auditorium as Carl Gaff looks at me. I cringe, expecting the place to boo, to erupt, to storm the stage and tear me limb from limb. What I get is even worse.

“That’s it?” he asks.

I don’t think he really meant it as a joke but the audience laughs, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

All except for the zombies, but that’s only because they’re still busy lining up to ask questions. One by one, they get in line, until the steps leading down from their section are full, and then they line up, side by side, very orderly like, two by two, side by side, a sea of green jackets and yellow teeth patiently waiting their turns.

I look at them. Green jackets, yellow stripes down each sleeve, dark hair, dark eyes, gray skin, patient, slow, and eager for a chance at the microphone.

I don’t give it to them. I don’t care if it costs me the election, I don’t care if I look like a clown. I don’t care about anything anymore than getting off that stage.

Immediately.