Not a good look, lady.
Of course, I doubted she cared about her appearance anymore. Like every other zombie I’d encountered so far, she only had one thing on her decomposing mind: satisfying her otherworldly hunger for living human flesh.
Hastily, I dumped the first bundle of firearms onto the back of the golf cart, drew the ranger’s Glock, and shot her squarely in the forehead.
As her body crumpled to the ground, landing beside the first corpse, I hurriedly transferred the remaining weapons into the cargo bed, secured my seatbelt, and hit the gas (so to speak) before any more campers-from-hell could surprise me. Yes, I’d taken out the two most motivated zombies near the ravaged ranger station, but a couple of reverberating gunshots would lure more of the ravenous undead. Frankly, I was already stressed about the ones I’d meet between the station and the campsite.
Bumping across the clearing, headed toward the road, I whipped around the remaining zombies like weathered orange cones on an obstacle course.
Well, whipped might be an overstatement. The hybrid vehicle wasn’t exactly speedy, even with my foot jamming the pedal to the floor. I figured the U.S. Forest Service had opted for a less-robust, eco-friendly electric model, so the Homochitto staff wouldn’t have to install a fuel pump at the remote station or refill gasoline cans in the nearest town. The rangers likely hadn’t required anything heavy-duty for their daily tasks.
The trouble for me? While a normal electric golf cart (with a full charge) could reach speeds of fifteen to twenty miles per hour—maybe even more, depending on the manufacturer—the uneven terrain of southern Mississippi, coupled with the knobby tires and precariously loaded cargo bed, not to mention my fat ass, took a toll on the vehicle’s momentum. Even advancing downhill, it topped out at about ten miles per hour, but at least that proved fast enough to outpace the zombified scout troop from hell, which still lingered around the ranger station.
Of course, the slow speed and open-air nature of the vehicle posed more of a problem along the crowded route back to our campsite. A “problem” that could easily turn fatal.
For yours truly.
As expected, I soon spotted a spread-out herd of uniformed zombies on the road ahead of me. Probably the same little fuckers that had tried—and, in some cases, succeeded in—breaching the ranger station. The same ones who’d followed Casey’s station wagon back to where we’d left the van.
Luckily, the electric cart was fairly quiet—certainly no match for the zombies’ collective moans—but not so luckily, the vehicle’s bright headlights preceded my arrival. Since I didn’t have time to seek out another way back to my family, I had only one choice: to plow through the lumbering zombies as efficiently as possible. It was about to get seriously messy.
Even with the headlights signaling my approach, I found the first bunch of lumbering scouts easy to knock off their feet. It became like a post-apoc video game. As I sideswiped the tiny monsters for maximum points, their decomposing bodies bounced into each other or smashed against tree trunks like haphazard billiard balls.
BONUS SCORE!
DOUBLE-SMASH!
I have a sick mind… so sue me.
Naturally, the desire to laugh didn’t endure. Shit just got too damn real.
Once I’d bumped off all the stragglers, I noticed the rest of the horde grew thicker… and quicker. Not only in speed but also in smarts. Sensing the golf cart before I could knock the creatures aside, the next wave of zombies forced me to alter my tactic.
Instead of swerving to hit them, I attempted to slalom between them. Unlike skiing around inanimate flags, however, these obstacles had muscles, momentum, and a maniacal desire for my tasty flesh. Several times, I had to use one of my handguns to deter any zombies bold enough to paw at me, grab my arms or legs, or clutch the roof supports. I even had to nail a few who’d grasped the cargo bed and ended up getting dragged behind the vehicle.
Unfortunately, every gunshot alerted even more of the little fuckers and their former chaperones. Some only turned, mildly curious, while others scurried headlong toward the cart. A few more well-aimed gunshots, and a few less mindless carnivores blocked my route.
Weaving between the bloody corpses and the remaining zombies, I realized I’d nearly reached the driveway leading to our campsite. Having outpaced most of the creatures on the main road, I eagerly veered toward the gravel path—and promptly came to a halt.
Halfway down the sloping turnout stood the largest child I’d ever seen in real life—undead or otherwise. Only about four feet tall, she seemed almost as wide.
All fat jokes aside, I couldn’t understand how she’d gotten so far ahead of the other kids. But it didn’t matter. She’d obviously been headed toward the campsite—and my peeps—when I’d halted behind her. Sensing me, she whirled around, unleashed a low growl, and bolted toward me at an incredible speed.
Was it the momentum of so much weight that kept her going, or an innate desire to maintain the same caloric intake she’d had prior to the zombiegeddon?
Whatever the case, she likely would’ve totaled the golf cart if we’d collided. So, sandwiched between the giant eating machine hurtling toward me and the moaning zombies behind me, I made the only move I could: I swerved
