When she died, she was running.  Kept right on running, actually.

People would wonder how she could still be running (being dead and all) but instead of asking that, they would ask,

“Why won’t you stop running?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m running late.”

“But I’m tapped-out!  I don’t have one original word left in me.  My mind’s a total blank, and he knows it.”

“You can do it.  You have to.  He’s got only five pages left.  When he finishes the last page, we’re dead.”

“Better dead than derivative.”

You can try getting help from friends, or you can hire.
You can get a crane.
You can manipulate gravity fields.
You can use magic.
You can pray.

There must be fifty ways to heave your blubber.

I feigned interest in the brick, examining it while trying to avoid laughing.

I was surprised when I found an actual message on the projectile, in crayon:

“If you help her, you’re dead!”

Just then, the defendant got up and announced:

“Not guilty, your honor, on account of my wife not being dead after all!”

Before anyone could object, the doors to the courtroom flew open, and an obviously zombified woman walked in.

“My love!” said the defendant.

Everyone was found dead, with no trace of violence, poison, or disease.

A gun was found in a drawer, but it was proved conclusively that it had never been fired.

The authorities were baffled to no end: the gun had everyone’s prints all over!

>Look down

You look down. Hey, you can’t see your body! You’re dead! You win! Congratulations!

Score:1

When the zombies appeared, he found his calling, shredding down the legions of the dead.

Surrounded, he had to cut his way into a shed to hide.  Then a zombie bit his leg.  Got to saw it off, or become a zombie.

Easier shed than bone.