They say you die three times. The first time is when you take your last breath. The second time is when no one remembers your name. And the third time is when you’re resurrected to a half-dead, half-alive state by the Canadian military, left chronically dying in order to maintain your bloodlust and insanity.

I’m the third one, chronically dying and all. Being a zombie is honestly not as bad as you’d imagine. To be candid, I’m not a huge fan of the term “zombie.” I think it’s charged. But it is the word branded across my chest, so we’ll go with that.

I oppose my corpse being militarized with every moral fiber in my rotting body, but I am a Canadian through-and-through. I serve beside zombie Justin Trudeau. We’re all treated equally atrociously by The Living. It’s quite progressive, actually. One time, The Living filled a trough with maple syrup and we just went wild. Zombie Justin Trudeau got some in his eye!

A quick recap: There is an ongoing war between Canada and Australia. All other countries have been decimated by atomic bombs, engulfing Earth in a nuclear winter. All except Switzerland, who is still kicking and steadfastly preserving their neutrality. We invade Switzerland on Thursday. Every Swiss will die and it will be out of spite. They can play both sides in the fiery tar pits of hell.

Often, I ask myself what could have led humanity to commit such grievous acts of apathy and sadism. I wonder what could have led brother to turn against brother, armed to the teeth with weapons that could only be inspired by a sociopath’s darkest nightmares. I really should just ask the other zombies, but I’ve been reanimated for so long that it would be pretty embarrassing to admit I don’t know such an important historical detail. What if they all point and laugh? If zombie Celine Dion gets word of this, everyone will turn against me. Zombies are super cliquey.

I once nearly confided in zombie Justin Trudeau but he was preoccupied with ripping the heart out of the last mainland American. It was a big moment for him that I didn’t want to make all about me. We had clawed our way down the east coast, all the way from Buffalo to Key West. We asked the lieutenant if we could celebrate and enjoy the nice weather but he just commanded we rip each other apart until we decreased our platoon size by 25% to save money on gas for the trip home. It was cruel and unusual but also less cramped on the way back. Silver linings, I suppose.

I sometimes wonder what the lieutenant meant by “save money on gas.” The OPEC countries fell quickly because they all had a lot on their plates, which left ample oil reserves for our military to gobble up. And currency became obsolete a week after the nuclear fallout, anyways. I think he really just wanted to see pointless, morbid violence. Maybe that’s what caused all this. A departure from the natural order. Where pain is inflicted not out of necessity, but out of cruelty. A lion does not boost his self-esteem by maiming and devouring an antelope, for that is simply the food chain. But to maim another lion, in a spontaneous and gratuitous fashion, exhibits pure autonomy. It breaks loose from evolutionary shackles. I blame, at least in part, Wipeout. I used to watch it on cable religiously. I sometimes pretend Ballsy, the anthropomorphized Wipeout ball, is right there in the trenches beside me. He picks me up when I fall.

Sometimes I stay up at night, tossing and turning, fretting about large philosophical concepts. I stare up into the orange night sky, wondering if a god would permit such atrocities. Zombies can’t sleep and our eyelids are sliced off to ensure that we always stay alert. Should I stand for my morals? Could I be part of the answer? But then I keep staring into the ocherous abyss and realize how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of it all. It is humbling. I am just a small-town Canadian, with a story in my heart and maple syrup on my chin.