Leaving the house for the first time in weeks to brave the coronavirus-infested wilds of western Pennsylvania, I ducked into the ruins of an Ace Hardware. I knew I was in danger because I could hear the rasping, plaintive moaning of the dead from deep within. Something about the voice drew me up short, and my hand relaxed around the handle of my pick.
"Oh my God," my voice was barely a whisper. "Is that you, SCO Group?"
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