This is an experiment for me, as this is the first story I've written that is from the POV of a zombie. Enjoy and PLEASE review.

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All I known was the hunger. Needing to feed on those few who were still left alive. It was like I could sense them, thier heartbeats, thier breath, even thier voices. That's what drawn me to the place once known as Washington, to a place once known as the White House. I remembered those things, the names and the places, and parts of the history, but it was all swept away by the hunger. The White House had it's doors and walls dyed red with the blood of those who were trapped outside, hundreds, thousands of them fell and risen again. I feel it everytime one of the others fed. It's like ecstacy, like the best pleasure of all. I also feel it whenever one of them dies, and to me and the others like me, it was a thousand times better then when they fed.

In the White House, there were many of those still left, hundreds of them crammed in it's halls, it's rooms, it's doorways. And each of them killed many. I didn't understand it then, when I felt pleasure from the others deaths. It started like a small voice in what remained of my mind, while I moved with the many others from where I fell, I think it was New York, and it gotten stronger. Once it was so strong it was like a buzzing in my brain, it spread to those around me, through the same way the hunger remains. When we crossed the border between states, there were about 30 of us who felt it, a small amount compared to those around us, but large in the minds of the humans.

When we got to the city, there were exactly 74 of us. The more that felt it, the more of my mind returned, and the more memories came to me. But we still felt the hunger, me most of all, and we walked onward still. As we moved through the city, I sensed many of those who still remained. They were throughout the city, in groups large and small, in different buildings, with different situations, with one similarity. They were surviving, and they were winning againts us, the stronger, the more numerous. And I was ecstatic, which also spread to those of my mind. When we reached the White House, where the most of the survivors were, there was 139 of us. I remembered my name then.