Famous Cases | Historical Tales | Vampires | Zombies
It's been a tough 24 hours but you're finally on your way to your girlfriend Marla's. Of course, you had to expropriate a pickup truck from Jed and the gang, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Find out what the new day brings in this last installment of Zombie Outbreak.
Date: October 29, 2004
Place: Austin, Texas
|Poison gas disperses over Austin|
You guide the pickup truck down Chavez, weaving around the various zombies in the street: young, old, men, women. Ahead, you spot lights flashing. Your heart quickens. A police car! But as you get closer, you see the car is unoccupied, the side of it is streaked with blood, and there's a handgun on the ground. The zombies must have pulled the cop right out of the car. When you pass, the police radio crackles to life and a panicked voice says, "I don't care! Shoot everything that moves!"
The zombie density increases near the highway. You search their faces for some hint of humanity, but there's nothing there; only cold, black eyes. And then, you spot something that sends a jolt through your body: your old friend Greg, the sonofabitch who left you high and dry at the convenience store. There's no doubt it's him, even with the waxy gray complexion, empty eyes and massive neck wound that has turned his shirt red with blood.
As he shambles toward you, the memory of his betrayal fills your mind. He fled, and left you and Travis to the zombies. After all you did to save his life. You tighten your hands around the wheel and punch the gas pedal. The truck's 350-horsepower engine roars and you close quickly on your former friend. His eyes seem to meet yours just before impact.
The truck's front end splits him clean in half, and his upper body becomes a lethal projectile that rockets right through the windshield. Glass and viscera hit you in the face. And there he is, looming above the steering wheel, half of a man, but somehow still alive and kicking. Or biting, to be more precise. Almost immediately, he clamps down on your hand.
Yeow, that hurts! You let go of the wheel and smash Greg in the face repeatedly. You hit him so hard you can feel bones breaking in his eye socket. You hit him some more, and as you do, you fail to notice the F-250 swerving off the road. The truck jumps a curb, wipes out a trash can and hits the front wall of a bank. Hard. As in, major-front-end-damage, air-bags-deployed hard.
A little dazed, you grab your shotgun and shells and stumble out of the door. At least the collision with the wall got rid of Greg. The force shot him clear through the bank's front window.
Unfortunately, several zombies have spotted you and are moving your way, prompting you to let out the loudest, deepest bellow in your life. Why does it have to be like this? You were never a bad guy. Sure, you haven't been to church since you were 17, but you generally treat people well and you once took in a stray dog.
No time to reflect on this weighty question. You hustle away, all the while sucking the bite wound on your hand to try to draw out the poison or virus or venom or whatever it is. Maybe it's not in your bloodstream yet. Sure. And maybe you can reason with these hungry zombies too.
OK. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. Sack up. You got a problem and you don't have a lot of time to figure out a solution.
Drive south to your girlfriend Marla's place. She's what you came back for, right?
You need help, fast. Drive north to the army barricades.
You're not well, and traveling in your condition is too dangerous. Hole up somewhere and wait for help.