Logan was awoken not by a sunrise, but by the wet, slapping sound of a campaign manager’s legs dragging over the pavement outside his window. He didn’t look. He already knew the “incumbent” was out there, trying to shake hands with a lamppost.

“Ben, stay,” Logan muttered, knowing full well Ben would not. Benjamin was staring at the door with a look of pure, canine disgust. A finger – manicured, sporting a heavy gold signet ring, and very much detached from its owner – had just been poked through the main gate. It held a tiny sticker that said: Vote for us!

The Crisis

In the old world, zombies wanted brains. In this one, they want your votes. The streets were littered with the remains of the middle class, but the politicians didn’t see corpses – they saw “passive constituents.”

The Rot

It was becoming a safety hazard. Logan had to wear cleats just to keep from slipping on the slick trail of discarded ethics and liquefied integrity that followed every state assembly.

The Noise

It was the worst part. The moaning wasn’t “braaaaains.” It was a low, guttural “suuuuuub-sidd-ies…” or “staaaabiiiilityyyy…”

The Second Supply Run

Logan ventured out to the corner shop, Benjamin’s 19kg of muscle acting as a literal shield against a campaign worker who was trying to offer him a “tax-free” rotting ham in exchange for a positive review on TikTok.

“Get back!” Logan hissed, brandishing a spray bottle of high-acid vinegar. The campaigner – or what was left of him – stumbled back, his ribs visible through a bespoke silk shirt. “We… have… the … number…” the creature gurgled, as a clump of hair fell into its open briefcase.

The Dinner

Back home, the smell was unbearable. Logan cracked open a can of wet food for Benjamin and a tin of Sainsbury’s baked beans for himself. On the flickering TV, a breaking news report showed the Supreme Leader His nose was held on with a rusty paperclip, but his smile was blinding.

“White children, black children, brown children, all are my children,” the Supreme Leader declared, even as his left arm slid off the podium with a dull thud. “We are seeing unprecedented levels of… reformation!”

Logan turned off the TV. The silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of Benjamin aggressively burying a Grand National Plan pamphlet under the cushions of the couch.

“Good catch, Ben,” Logan said, checking the locks. “If they get inside, they won’t eat us. They’ll just nag us into submission.”