I drop speed, roll up my windows, throw my cigarette butt in my Coke can and tilt my headlights -- and there they were, about six or seven of them by the looks of it. Stupid motherfuckers, too -- they're advancing! I mean, hi, you're a bunch of disintegrating corpses with zero intelligence unless you're an Area 51 breed.
I'm encased in 1.5 tonnes of black steel, and you bet your next meal I'm not letting you anywhere near the windows, not with this much room between us. There's a sharp curve right behind them (maybe they're not as stupid as all that), but I'll worry about that later. Brace myself for impact, floor it.
Sorry, boys. Bella's not content with frogs any more; zombies make much better sport.
"Your dog's dead," I tell my neighbour as I sprint to the doors.
He stares at me with a vacant expression, and I'm thinking, oh shit oh shit oh shit, and get this, there's a shotgun in his hand! But then he's got tears -- this guy never, I mean. God. "I know," he says to me. "I loved that dog, man. Fucking undead sonsabitches."
I glance back at Bella; she's gonna need body work after this shit. "Got another shotgun?"
One of his teeth glints gold. "You betcha."
