"Of all the things that could happen; from Nazis to fink cops, it had to be zombies. Well Moe, pour three fingers of RedEye and I'll take out the trash. 'Ere's looking at you, dollface..."
"Like a miasmic hellbent fog, the dead were rising out of the graves. I needed another drink and another smoke, but that would have to wait. There was a Dame, always a fucking dame needing my help. Time to bring Tommy along and persuade these monsters to lie still."
"I was turning the corner, the tires screeching like every ex-wife I ever met. Normally, I would expect the coppers to be after me for recklessness but they were already chow. It was just me and everything going to hell. I wanted a good seat for the show so I hit the gas like a mobster attending a stoolie with nothing else to sing. Something was wrong. Why was this happening? The thumping of people bouncing off my hood became a sick lullaby as I saw their dead faces moan at me. I wanted to grip the pistol in my jacket but I needed both hands on the wheel. Damn zombie kids were playing hell on my tires."
"It didn't matter what Boggie said. There was no today or tomorrow to regret. There was only the bullets I had left and what breath remained in my body. The damn car stalled after it broke an axle driving over the putrid Ms. Steven from up the street. Just me and my feet, thoughts chasing my head like a cop after a bribe. God, I needed a drink and I was out of smokes. Christ, it was raining now. I pistol-whipped a blank staring once paper boy who thought my arm was dinner and ducked into the alley. I had a date with a fire escape and I hate being late. My feet romanced the steel steps as I dashed up, pulling it up after me. God, let Margie be okay. I have a friend of a friend of a cousin who owes me a favor. His plane better still work."
"There was warning in the air as a coppery smell assailed my nose while I opened her window. It looked like a bad artist had decorated with his favorite vital fluid. Marge??? Her name was a poignant question haunting the air, bringing demons out of my mind and chilling the ticker in my chest. Then I saw her and all felt wrong. Her eyes flashed in all the wrong ways, her smile made into an over wide gash in her face as she moved towards me clumsily, arms outstretched like a longing lover... Longing lover, right. Loved to eat my face... but I couldn't. It wasn't Margie no more. I had nothing but the bullets left and I wouldn't go out like this. I love you Margie... I made it a goodbye and punctuated it with two merciful shots to her once-angel face."
"This job used to be laughs. Catching the bad guy with pictures, shooting crooks if they tried to talk to me with a crowbar, making the cops look like the amateurs they really are. There isn't anything to laugh about now. Margie has a bad smile and two new holes in her head to go with. I am running for my life wishing I could have kept my tommy gun instead of wasting it clearing my way to the late Margie's place. It was all wrong and nothing felt right except how many bullets I had left. That friend of a friend of a cousin better have a smoke when I get there. He better just be there and healthy or I will be in even deeper shit. A once cop with a chunk missing from his neck was nice enough to lend me his keys and bullets while I was running down Baker Street."
"Some part of me still wanted to play with the siren like I always wanted as a kid. Now, irony mocked me as I needed to be quiet lest the boogieman rise up and eat me. I was driving to stay alive, hoping that I had enough bullets to put space between them and me. Even the rain was against me, throwing buckets on the windshield while I kept white knuckled at the wheel. Where had everybody gone? I hadn't seen one of those things for about an hour and was starting to get worried that maybe something was wrong with me. Was I seeing things? Did I just kill a bunch of people because I'm a wacko? The thought of that punched me in the gut and twisted, but I had to keep going. I had to find that plane. I had to get out."
"My worries about my mental state were soon laid to rest like so many pigs at the butcher shop. My headlights gazed up on a small gang of the undead wandering in the middle of my road out of here. As they stumbled towards me, I saw a bit of hope. These were the fetid remains of bootleggers, one even has his own friend Tommy in his hands. I knew I needed to negotiate but I wasn't fluent in death. However, I looked over and realized that the cop had left me a translator. It was pump action and 20 gauge and had six things to say. I also noticed that the cop had left me some smokes. Hands quickly quaked as I took that first drag before leaving my car to negotiate for the Thompson. My nerves were steel as I opened the door and began my debate. My translator began to pump out six harsh syllables..."
"It was a harsh debate but my translator had negotiated well. I gripped my new pal Tommy and removed a fresh drum from its previous and now twitching friend. The rain bouncing off my hat didn't seem so dreary now but then there was a noise. Luckily my other friend is always loaded like I wish I was. It was in my hands and calming down a jumping, yet half eaten dog in mid-flight towards my face before I realized it. A smoke was all I needed to get my nerves back it seemed but I heard more hell-wrought barks in the distance. My gut was telling me to leave and, like the advice of my old man, I always heeded it."
"Those damn things chased me back to the car, my new sanctuary. I would owe that once cop a drink if I hadn't blown his jaw away. My .38 was always rough with discussions when it involved keeping my pulse. Now I had more confidence with Tommy and the translator in the seat beside me. I hit the gas as more hell-hounds, dripping bits as they slavered after me slammed against my car. The squeal of these tires was less ex-wife and more mother-in-law as I peeled out, hoping I wouldn't have to have any more discussions between here and the airfield. I did what I could to avoid hitting more bodies, having remembered Ms. Steven's lesson about axles."
"The car made it only a few more miles before running out gas and taking a couple years of my life with it. Luckily the rain had stopped but now I could hear the moans. I don't know how but they followed me. The noise was shambling on the wind as I ran those last miles to the airfield, feeling that combination of dread and hope like a bad drink from the last bartender I punched. I still had my friends with me and I still had the bullets and shells. I lit another cigarette and felt like an old movie; black and white and silent. Calm, no matter what."
"The airfield was dead in many ways of thinking as I crossed the runways, looking for that shiny red bit of hope with wings. Shambling forms managed to have arrived before me and I had to talk them down. My .38 was running out of arguments but I made it to the plane. When I got there, it was another bad painting on the ground with my friend of a friend of a cousin as a bad centerpiece with only half of his neck and dead white eyes gazing at me from the ground. The last of my wheelgun's .38s put down the shabby and shambling artist of this masterpiece and then made sure that my friend of a friend of a cousin didn't get up. I helped myself to the keys, remembering a few lessons from what felt like a lifetime ago."
"I could hear those moans on the air still, getting closer, asking what's for dinner. A human in every pot, my ass... I still had my translator and Tommy to argue for me, but they were running out of words. Tommy accompanied me to the strip to clear the runway. He typed some obituaries for me before I dashed madly back to the plane. I primed the engine, praying that I could do enough to get out of here. God was a deaf bastard as the engine died. Apparently, my friend of a friend of a cousin never filled the tank before becoming artwork. I took one last drag of my last cigarette and checked my pump action translator and then the Thompson. Those moans were still asking questions and I had few answers left for them. This was going to be a bad day."
