The thing about zombie communists is the way they look at you. It’s an intelligent sort of gleam in their eyes, a long hungry condescending leer that almost makes you feel obligated to hand over your brain in deference.
Actually, there’s two things. They also smell really bad.
I suppose it was that aspect that kept us from just giving up when the zombie horde began rocking our car from side to side. Faced with a gang of fifteen sun-drenched sweaty laborers, bathed in the stench of death, I’d do anything to breathe fresh air again. I steeled my resolve and reached for the handgun I kept in the glove box.
Then they turned the car over.
My airbag deployed. Nicole screamed. I was pinned in place under the steering wheel, my face pressed against the headliner. In half an instant Joe had his seatbelt off and had kicked through the rear window, knocking a zombie to the ground, as well as the one behind it.
“Get out of the car!” Joe barked as he leaped through the broken glass, his wife’s cane in hand.