Zombie Karl Marx was holding the gas pump nozzle in his right hand and my collar in his left. “I think it’s about time you joined our glorious cause, comrade,” he growled with ferocious breath. In a blur he pulled my face down into his coveralls and wrapped the hose around my throat.
Gagging, I swung my arms, hoping to find something, anything to grab onto. My fingers found their way into the zombie’s wiry beard and pulled with all their might.
Bad idea. Zombie Karl Marx stumbled forward with a roar, falling on top of me. The hose tightened its chokehold under the monster’s weight; I could feel my life slipping away from me. Worse, his teeth had started chomping and were now making their way toward my skull. “You will give me your brain,” he moaned.
Suddenly there was a terrible chunking noise and the zombie flopped over, wheezing, to the concrete. Sticking out of his head was a bloody squeegee.
“Nicole!” I shouted. “I said stay in the car!”
“Sorry Chris,” she grinned. “This is a full-service station.”