If you were at home reading this sort of thing in a book, you’d think the main character a fool for listening to someone like Don.

But this is real life. And every instinct you have and trust is telling you that something is wrong. You’re not entirely sold on Don’s zombie story, but you do think he’s right about it being dangerous out there.

Don senses your reluctance. “Tell me about it. Zombies? Part of me is like ‘no way.’ Still, I know something is wrong. I heard enough on the radio to know something weird is going on.”

“I want to believe you,” you say, “but this is nuts. What exactly did you hear that was so strange?”

Don clicks on his radio behind the counter and dials through the static as he responds. “It was weird. There was news talk about some vandalism going on in town, then right as they cranked it up to social unrest and civil disobedience, everything just went off the air. I figured it was just a prank, but then I realized I hadn’t had a single customer in an hour or so. I hadn’t even seen a car go by! That’s when I got a bad feeling, and loaded up my baby here,” Don says, patting his shotgun. “Say, maybe you should go get your friends?”

“They’re not my friends,” you say, “But you might be right...” you glance outside and gasp, because there are a whole bunch of people gathered around your car, stooping down and poking at the windows. “What the?” you say, pointing outside.

You and Don both look out at your car, realizing probably simultaneously that the people around your car aren’t just playing a prank. Their skin was decayed and torn, and their posture was totally unnatural. If they weren’t true zombies, they were a pretty good imitation.

“Oh, man,” Don exclaims, and you have to agree, because these zombies are beginning to pound on your car. You can’t imagine what Suzy, Paul, and Michael are going through, but there’s nothing you can do for them now. And maybe this is all a prank after all.

But they’re hitting hard enough to shatter glass, and you wince as the sound reaches your ears. Then you wince some more as the shattered windows allow the screams of your passengers to fill the air, and blood begins to show up on the smashing fists of the zombies, splattering in and around the car due to their movement.

“Oh no,” Don whispers, and a second later you notice it, too: one of the zombies is looking into the store, right at you. And smiling.

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