The tree-lined suburban streets were littered with zombies shambling all over the place like drunks at a block party. They were eating scraps from well-picked bodies and pounding on doors of sealed-up homes, so there must have been survivors. At least I hoped there were. From the looks of the sheer numbers roaming the street, I had my doubts.

I chose the most direct route and started walking right up the middle of the street. These weren’t undead who were cursed or under a spell, so there was no chance of bringing them back. They had to be killed. Every single one could pass on the infection. This was also another reason to get the job done before the Feds or the military showed up and tried to “sample” the infection, whatever its origins, for weapons testing. What fucking idiots.

I started blasting as soon as a zombie stepped in range. The first one took the shot in the neck and kept coming. I adjusted my aim and smeared its head all over the street. As soon as I dropped number one, the whole army of dead turned and saw me.

“Come on fuckwads!” I yelled. “Time to die again!”

They came to me like ants to cookie crumbs.

Just call me king of the assholes. What a stupid move.

I took the first wave in stride, blasting one, two, three and four flesh-eaters with the shotguns. I maneuvered through the shambling crowd by turning constantly as I walked, always firing. When I needed to reload, I’d kick a few out of the way and sprint to a clear area. It took the brainless dead a while to find me again, but these freaks were pretty fast. I had to keep on the move or I would easily get overwhelmed.

As I ran to a clearing near a house with a white picket fence I cursed myself for bringing the shotguns. They were effective, yes, but reloading took too long and opened me up to attack. As if to illustrate my point a quartet of dead came lumbering at me from behind the house. It was a family, the residents of the house I presumed: father, mother, daughter, and son. A family that dies together, dines together, I guess.

The boy—couldn’t have been more than eleven—came at me and tried to attach himself to my thigh, but I slammed him in the face with the butt of the shotgun right as he went in for a chomp. The sister came next. The small ones moved faster. I threw her to the lawn next to her zombie brother and turned them both into ground beef with the sawed-off.