I remember my childhood in Gray Sector of Panocadia Three as a series of comic book pages, each panel painting a lurid vignette of young lust and desire. Years later, with the zombie plague behind us, the grand kids want to know about the not-so-grand and amazingly un-glorious days of my youth. I thought myself precocious in all concerns governmental, sexual, scientifical and obviously parental. Oh to be young again, to have the clear visions the world. Yeah. Right. Sure.
Think bucolic; a family at church, a sunny Sunday swaddled in the fragrance of Acacia, birds chirping and the preacher breathing fire and brimstone to the undeserving of his congregation. Now forget that. In reality, it's stinking hot in Gray Sector thanks to a failure of a weather machines in Engineering. The metal benches of the Quonset hut each have a bouquet of plastic lilies that were never alive. A make believe church redolent of sweaty armpits and motor oil suffering under the weight of Preacher Bosco's never-ending sermon. Cue the recorded pastoral organ music. The last things in our thoughts were zombies.
Now forget that.
In reality, the climate controlled atmosphere of D-Ward is cool. Plus there are no metal benches. Everything in here is padded. They don't let us play around metal.
The organ music is just the creaking of my cell door as the nurses come to bring me lunch.
And zombies? I was always, always worried about zombies. That's what got me committed here in the first place.
That, and the fact I use words like 'bucolic.'
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Bran Flakes