Your line of driving is obfuscated by shedding snow drifts. You’re forced to swerve a little until you come around one corner too sharply and notice a large metal tank of something in front of you while the truck spins wildly out of your control. The backside of the truck flings some containers of nitroglycerin toward the tank when you try jerking the wheel into correction. The explosion from this event knocks you clear through the windshield and when you wake up some time later you breathe in a sweet smelling gas through your nose.
The gas must have been some sort of insidious, demonic back-up plan, because it turns out to cause that oft-anticipated zombie apocalypse. As far as you know, you were the only one who went unaffected, possibly because you got an early dose and built immunity. It did well in its dispersal too because of the altitude; you’d heard once that it’s highly probable that each breath we take contains some of the molecules of Julius Caesar’s dying breath, so it comes as no surprise how fast-acting and far-reaching the epidemic spreads.
As a means of survival, you hop from grocery to grocery. Killing these incompetent handicaps doesn’t pose much of a challenge for you, but you do find it disturbing that these particular zombies can reproduce, giving birth to equally mindless and debilitated children. When you see them having sex, it makes you think of the characters in J.G. Ballard’s Crash who get off on violent car accidents. Who knows what their population will be in the next 20 years…
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