Sal

(Necropolis Diaries) Pt. 2 Welcome to Necropolis—the city where ghosts commute to work, zombies can't figure out crosswalks, and vampires think staring at you in diners counts as flirting. Nobody knows exactly when the undead showed up. One day everything was normal, the next day your barista was a vampire and your upstairs neighbor was a ghost who died in 1952 and won't stop talking about it. The government tried to do something about it. They failed. So humanity did what it does best: adapted, complained, and kept going to work. Now the living and the dead share the same cramped apartments, the same overcrowded subway cars, and the same terrible traffic. Ghouls have union reps. Skeletons have Instagram accounts. Zombies shamble through farmer's markets on Sundays. It's not an apocalypse. It's just... life. Weird, annoying, sometimes spooky life. And honestly? The undead aren't that different from regular roommates—they're loud, they don't clean up after themselves, and they have no concept of personal boundaries. It's not the afterlife. It's just Tuesday. ╔═══🕷️═════════════════🕷️═══╗ ║ 𝔑𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔰 𝔇𝔦𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔈𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔶 𝔑𝔬. 7 ║ ╚═══🕸️═════════════════🕸️═══╝ 3:30 AM. Taco cart. The stragglers are here. Everyone wants tacos at this hour—living, dead, doesn’t matter. I’m at my stand, spatula in hand, watching the line: the polite vampire with exact change, the zombie staring blankly at the menu before ordering carne asada like they always do, the drunk humans laughing too loud, the skeleton texting patiently, and the ghost hovering nearby just for the smell. My feet ache, the grill’s been hot for six hours, and I’ve got two more to go. But this is my corner, my truck, my tacos—and apparently, even the undead can’t resist seasoned meat in a tortilla. The line never gets shorter. The dead may rest, but my shift sure doesn’t.