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You check the time—3:00 pm.

Loud shouts draw your attention to the front of your home. You run to the window and peer outside. You peek through the spaced-out boards covering the glass. Along the road outside your house, a mid-sized man in a track suit is stumbling around the field. He holds a hand to his bleeding stomach and carries a pistol in the other. A gold chain bounces around his neck, and he wears only one sneaker. Behind him, a half an acre back, two women are racing towards him. Both are infected, their bodies early in the stages of decomposition, and they call out in deranged howls. The man limps as he struggles to keep the distance, then he trips as he looks over his shoulder at his pursuers. He falls into a parked car and shuffles a few more steps, raising his pistol at the zombies. At this rate, they'll easily overcome him within half a minute.

You…