Zombie Flashmob Berlin

Yesterday was a good day to die. Sara, Till, and I joined a zombie flashmob through Berlin—a hundred of us stumbling from Potsdamer Platz through the Reichstag to Brandenburg Gate, covered in blood and rot, chasing screaming tourists. The choreography was simple: collapse, moan, shuffle, repeat. We crashed another flashmob along the way. The VIP zombies had Thriller memorized—Michael Jackson’s birthday made into this perfectly synchronized undead dance that shouldn’t have worked but did.

There’s something liberating about moving like a corpse in public. You’re either all in or you’re not, and we were all in. We fell and dragged ourselves forward while tourists filmed and stared, all of us bound by the same stupid commitment.

The actual moment came later, at Subway. Still in full costume, clothes torn, fake blood still wet, ordering sandwiches. A little girl looked at Sara with wide, frightened eyes and asked what was happening. I remember that look—the genuine confusion, the moment the world stopped making sense. That’s what stays with you.

Jerico broke his camera. René missed it. I lost a white shirt. There are photos somewhere. It was stupid and perfect and worth it. Brains.