Steve Golden, Retriever

“Hey, it’s Steve, isn’t it? What’s the matter, mac?”

“I have the most depressing job in the Zone, Ron.”

“I hear that from a lot of people who are trying to score a free burger. Go cry on somebody else’s shoulder–I cook rats for a living.”

“I go out and pick up the pistols that squad leaders leave with bitten members of Corpse Corps.”

“You’re right. That’s depressing. Is it bad when you find them? Do you bury the bodies there or bring them back for cremation?”

“Well, that’s just it. There’s never anyone there. There’s always a bullet in the chamber. They never do it.”

“Not me, man. If I get bitten, I want someone to take me out.”

“You’d be surprised. It’s a lot easier to say that than to do it.”

“No way. I’d do it. I’d pull that trigger and go to a better place than this one.”

“Every one of those Z’s is someone who didn’t pull the trigger. Either that or they had a brother, sister, son, or daughter, mother, father, or so-called friend who couldn’t. The unquenchable human drive to survive is what caused this plague.”

“And it’s also why we’ll survive it. How’s your burger?”

“Best I’ve had in months.”

“Glad to hear it. Only twenty bucks for a member of Corpse Corps and I’ll throw in the bun for free.”

“You’re a frakking thief, Ron… Pass the salt, will ya?”

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