We Hate Zombies

Scenario:
Rocking and rolling, you dash through the emptied streets with pistol-annihilating glory, throwing Molotov cocktails on zombies like Russia was sick of vodka and the world was ready to burn. You’re in your prime, you’ve survived long enough to feel good surviving. This is the god damn shit you were made for.

Then you come across a thing. A beautiful woman is caught underneath a car. She looks alright, but she can’t move without your help. Twenty feet away on the other side of the street, a beer truck is on fire about to ruin the payload. You see a hose and a crowbar. What do you do?

Trick question because you’re already too late. While you were distracted, you got caught making up your mind, and now a flaming zombie that you should have killed gave it’s last efforts to bite your shin. Game over. Almost. Now what do you do?

What you should do:
You should know that you’re a dead man. At this point, since you’ve survived, I’ll just assume you’ve been bad ass enough to read every single one of our blog posts. This means you know how zombiism works and your fate is set in stone. You can optionally attempt to amputate your entire leg in 5 seconds, but that’s going to end in a terribly painful, messy failure. You might as well get some use out of your stinking corpse before the end comes and the devil starts walking around in your skin.

There’s no point worrying about the beer truck now. You’ll probably be dead before you’d need any more than a twelve pack, and you can find a twelve pack anywhere. Instead, you choose the humanitarian route and help the lady lass to her feet. She’ll probably try to make out with you, but you can’t do this! The only thing worse than an undead stack of shame is an infected human infecting other humans. I wouldn’t even wipe my ass with their scalp.

Once you’ve kept your integrity, pass on your weapons; they’ve served you well but now you’ve got to go where they can’t be of any use to you. After you’re done with the bombshell, you run around a corner like you’re mysteriously gone forever so that people will remember you as a hero and not as a decaying lurch.

Then it’s up to you to take the bull by the horns and end things. Just make sure that when you’re done, you’re done. And I mean done, like a blow-up doll rocked so hard it’s been ripped in half.

What I would do:
After doing the whole saving the lady thing, I have two options. One, I can make myself a bill-board that says “I’m a zombie, use me for science”. Then, after I put that on like your everyday hotdog hawker, I’d find some pliers and yank out all my teeth, for safety reasons of course. Then I’d probably break one leg and handcuff my hands behind my back. At that point, if I became a zombie, people would know from a long way off, I wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, and I’d be of very little threat to anyone, even if they spooned with me whilst napping.

My hope, here, is that I would be found and used for science, obviously. I’m not expecting a cure to come out of it; you and I both know better. But, perhaps there would be a way to devise better weapons against the undead, some sort of weapon that wouldn’t end up killing humans because someone pissed their pants and shot at the squeak.

Option two is a little more simple, a little less beneficial to all mankind, but perhaps a little nicer nonetheless. I’d go to the nearest gas station and find the empty barrel that’s strangely always there without a purpose. I’d manually pump it full of diesel fuel, then take a bath in it. In one hand I’d hold a road flare above the black gold. In my other, I’d sip on a bottle of tequila. Then game over is when the party really starts, and my infection will be auto-purged from the planet.

If nothing else, I’m a master of efficiency. Goodbye beautiful woman I would have liked to have had in my pants.