Drive-Thru Massacre

Chapter 12: Drive-Thru Massacre

Alright.

Bag? Packed.Weapons? Locked and loaded.Idiots? Properly exploded.

With my armory heist successfully completed, I hop into my truck, wipe the dust off my seat like a civilized apocalypse survivor, and start the engine. The familiar VROOM fills the night, and I take a moment to appreciate the beautiful sound of horsepower mixed with impending carnage.

Then I spot something.

A pair of headphones.

Just chilling in the backseat. Attached to a music player. Old-school. Like, early 2000s brick-style music player that could probably survive a nuclear war.

I pick it up, scrolling through the song list, and—

Oh.

Ohhhhhh, hell yes.

With a grin of pure mayhem, I pop the headphones over my ears and hit play.

Cue absolute banger.

I drop the truck into gear, roll down the window, and as the sickest beats of all time blast in my ears, I do what any reasonable man in a zombie apocalypse would do—

I floor it.

Highway to Hell (Literally)

The tires screech as I speed out of the alley, the undead still dazed from the explosion. Some turn their rotten heads toward me like I'm serving fresh brain burgers. Others just stand there, processing the metal death machine barreling their way.

Too late.

THUMP! CRUNCH! THWACK!

I plow through the first few like zombie bowling pins. One bounces off the hood, another goes full ragdoll over my windshield, and a particularly chunky one gets dragged under the tires, making my whole truck bump like a crappy carnival ride.

"Ugh. Fatso."

I adjust my grip on the wheel and keep going, the thumping and squishing barely registering as I hum along to my killer soundtrack.

Scenic Route of Death

As I speed down the ruined streets of Atlanta, total chaos surrounds me.

Fires rage in the distance. Buildings are half-collapsed. Cars are abandoned everywhere, some still smoking from their last tragic occupants. A few unlucky stragglers are running from the undead, but I'm not in the mood to play hero.

I swerve around a flipped-over cop car, narrowly missing a lamppost, and spot a new batch of zombies up ahead—standing dumbly in the middle of the road.

I sigh.

"Guys, seriously?"

I don't slow down.

THWUMP.

One gets clipped.

CRACK.

Another's head meets my side mirror (RIP, side mirror).

One particularly stubborn zombie latches onto the hood, its decayed face pressed against the glass.

I raise an eyebrow at it.

It snarls.

I turn on the windshield wipers.

It slaps at them, looking genuinely pissed off.

I shake my head. "Fine, be that way."

I slam the brakes.

Zombie meets pavement.

Problem solved.

Destination: Maybe Not Death?

As I finally clear the mess of undead speed bumps, my eyes lock onto a sign up ahead.

"MILITARY BASE—15 MILES AHEAD"

A so-called safe haven. Allegedly filled with survivors, supplies, and heavily armed badasses.

Sounds too good to be true.

But hey, it's either that or keep playing zombie roadkill simulator.

With one final deep breath, I press down on the gas and gun it toward my next destination.

Where I'm absolutely sure nothing will go horribly wrong.