The whomp-whomp of a military helicopter is faint, but the handful of us nurses and doctors hear it. We un-barricade the door with hospital beds and sprint up the stairwell to the roof. Minutes later, the helicopter rises. Through the open sliding doors, I gape at the hundreds of zombies below. It looks like a scene from your favorite kind of horror flick: Korean zombie movies. I feel like I should be curled up with you in bed, watching all the gore through a criss-cross of my fingers. But instead, I’m up here, and you’re somewhere down there– Yesterday, I watched your canary-yellow Charger scream into the parking lot then disappear around the corner. All night I waited for your text, to reassure me you’re okay, that you found a place to hide. But now, the helicopter banks and my worst fears are confirmed: the ER entrance, your car door open, a smear of dried, copper-colored blood on the hood. In Korean zombie movies, the Hero, serious and determined, saves the Girl. I’m fidgeting with my engagement ring when one of the girls I work with grabs my upper arm; she just recognized your car. In Korean zombie movies, the Hot Boyfriend drives his (ridiculous) muscle car like it’s a tank. I shake her hand off; I can’t handle her pity right now. You, of all people, should know what happens to the Hot Boyfriend! The audience assumes the Girl is crying tears of sadness and loss. I would say that’s mostly true. But I’m more pissed than sad. You were supposed to be the Hero and find me, not get eaten. I tell myself to look away, I don’t want to remember you like this. But I also need closure. We’re picking up speed when I see a zombie in vintage 49ers gear, their face so viciously mauled they’re unrecognizable. But, yes, I know that sweatshirt.
