Hell on Earth
Zombies have an outstanding sense of smell, acute enough to detect a group of people in a nearby hotel suite. And so, over the course of the night, every zombie within a one-mile radius makes its way to the hotel. They shamble around the truck for a few minutes, and then head into the lobby, until one of the smarter ones finds the stairs. The others follow, all the way up to the floor where you and the rednecks are staying.
Once there, the zombies begin pawing at your door and jiggling the door handle. The noise eventually wakes you and the others. The rednecks hurriedly load their weapons, positively giddy at the thought of more zombie slaying. You, however, are a bit more reluctant. "Maybe we should hang in here," you suggest. "Fine," says Ellroy. "You wanna stay in here like a candy ass, you go right ahead."
Everyone gathers in the entry foyer and, on a count of three, Rhonda swings open the door. Ellroy blasts his way out into the hall, followed by T.J., Zed and you. The rest is chaos. Shotguns going off, people shouting, virus-laden fluids splashing onto your face and dozens of zombies groaning eagerly at the sight of all this warm flesh. It's a bad scene. T.J. accidentally shoots Zed; a zombie yanks out Ellroy's entire intestinal tract; Rhonda wails fruitlessly.
Somehow, you shoot your way out of the mess and head toward the elevator. I made it, you think. And then you feel an excrutiating pain and look back to see a zombie clamped onto your Achilles tendon. You let him have it, right in the back of the head, but by then the other zombies are on you. Time only for one last thought: damn, these zombies move pretty well.