More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“People blame science. Shit, man, people shouldn’t blame science. People should blame people.”
No one had mentioned anything about a political tirade from a man who thought metaphors were like cocktails: better when mixed thoroughly.
The Golden Retriever thumped her tail sheepishly against the dirt, as if to say that yes, she was a very naughty dog, but in her defense, there had been a small boy with a face in need of washing.
There is nothing so patient, in this world or any other, as a virus searching for a host.
Dr. Chris Sinclair grinned. “Raise the dead, of course,” he said. “Don’t you ever go to the movies?” Then he walked away, leaving Dr. Matras alone to brood.
Wouldn’t they be surprised when they realized that, sometimes, what you asked for wasn’t really what you wanted?
It lasted less than a month. Say July 7th, for lack of a precise date; say Columbus, Ohio, for lack of a precise location. July 7, 2014, Columbus: The end of the world begins.
If there was any mercy
in this—and there was no mercy to be seen, not then—it was that he died early enough to stay that way.
If there was one thing science had taught him, it was that safe was always better than sorry, and some things were never on the final exam.
Berkeley, being a university town in Northern California, had two major problems: not enough guns, and too many idiots who thought they could fight off zombies with medieval weapons they’d stolen from the history department.
