I think the most depressing thing I’ve had to do so far in the apocalypse (that’s a bold statement. I’m probably wrong) is killing the formerly homeless. I was never really all that charitable. I never felt like giving someone money was all that helpful. Food? Maybe. Hours out of your day? Obviously. Money? Not really. It’s impersonal, and they’re probably not that good with money if they’re in this position. I always felt like they could make use of the services left in place for them better than they could use my money, except that they didn’t use those services, or the services were inadequate. I would feel bad, but I made it a practice not to carry cash, so I didn’t have to lie. The guilt is worse now. I’m not sure why. I never paid attention to them in life, and now in death I kill them.

You might be asking yourself, how can you tell which of them used to be homeless. It’s still obvious. Even with the decomposition and the wounds, the clothes that were previously rotting are still worse, as is the hair, and the smell is unique.

I fought two of them today. Not sure where they came from, or why they were together, but there were two. Every strike was met by an echo of who they once were. “I just got out of the hospital.” “I just need money to get home.” “I have a family that needs me.” “Hearken all ye followers of Satan. The end is near!” It was sad, really, how little appeared to have changed in their lives over the last few months.