Julie

Julie never thought her degree in funeral sciences (yes, that’s a thing, stop snickering) would one day make her the Jeff Bezos of the zombie apocalypse. Back in the good old days—when the dead were supposed to stay dead—her work as a funeral director meant organizing tearful services, nodding politely at bad organ music, and upselling Aunt Marjorie into the mid-range oak model instead of the cheap pine. Now? Now she’s running the hottest retail shop this side of the grave. Zombies, it turns out, are picky customers with a strong sense of personal comfort. Who knew the undead had lumbar issues? Forget mattresses—apparently, nothing beats a satin-lined mahogany casket for a good day’s… well, death-nap. Julie swears her sales pitch practically writes itself: “Why toss and turn on a squeaky bed spring when you can nestle into eternal luxury?” The zombies eat it up. Well, not literally. Usually. Her funeral home has turned into a bizarre mix of Bed Bath & Beyond and CarMax, except instead of toasters and sedans, she’s moving high-end coffins with the enthusiasm of a late-night infomercial host. She’s even started offering customization: velvet inlays, cup holders, Bluetooth speakers (because apparently zombies like vibing to Barry Manilow at 3 a.m.). Julie doesn’t mind the shift. Honestly, it beats filling out embalming paperwork. And in this apocalypse, she’s finally found her niche. While others are fighting for scraps of canned beans and bottled water, she’s cornered the coffin market. Zombies get their beauty sleep, Julie gets her commission, and for once in her life, everyone leaves satisfied. Even if they are technically decomposing.