My group pushed forward. Most shuffled towards the snoring at my left. None of them shuffled toward my right. My hands rubbed the cement support beam without finding a light switch. Thick darkness obscured everything. Teeth crunched. Flesh tore as a sleeper gurgled. Nails scratched across clothing. A bottle smashed to the floor. A scream followed a stumble out of a bed. The living were making noise, this was good. I stopped searching for the light switch in favor of leaving everything in the darkness.

  One hand gripped my new pocket flashlight. The other hand held a revolver. Metal flooring rattled. The shaking echoed throughout the warehouse. Bodies jumped. Another scream. I heard the floor beat like a drum from kicking feet. That guy must have been flopping like a fish.

  “They got lo -eraaghhh!”

  Now that was a crunch. Tendons snapped. It sounded like someone trying to tear apart turkey. A gun shot split the air, sounded like a nine-millimeter. A flesh revealed a shaking figure held by several zomis with his firearm upraised. I sensed my crew shuffling to the sound. He fired again amidst his own screaming and their biting.

  My thumb slid across the button of the flash light. A nice round light revealed a pool of blood dripping from a low bed. Three of my new friends leaned over the fresh corpse as life blood spouted from a wet red neck wound. Across from that mess, the skinny guy with the bottle who had stared me down without thinking laid sprawled over a sleeping mat. A zomi in a worn red dress sat on his back. She clutched his head tear the scalp from his skull with her teeth. It looked like she was trying to shell a nut. His bottle had shattered into shimmering shards.

  It occurred to me I was asking to be shot. I got down low on all fours and crawled toward the desk. The flashlight went under my palm. The beam shined on a bearded man. His long intestine wrapped around the neck of a zomi in tattered business suit like a raspberry jam smeared boa. I heard a scream. My light turned to see an acne scarred man walk back against the safety rail. One of my zomis pushed him over the edge.

  I had to get the keys. The keys to the girl’s cage and the keys to that pick-up truck. But what was this on my fingers? It felt warm, slick, and the edges of the stain dried into a fine crust. Without dropping the flashlight, I raised my hand towards my mouth. I could smell the wet rusting that made my taste buds blister. My nose itched as I opened my drool-soaked mouth to extend my tongue.

  Zrrrrrrrrp. Blingz-funnnnngz! Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!

  Light so harsh and so sudden it nearly blinded me shone from every angle of the warehouse. These boys even had spotlights. Stunned, I fell back on my butt and sat. My hands kept their grip on the revolver as I rubbed my eyes. A blast. One of my zomi friends went flying. They tumbled over the safety rail. Another blast sent what used to be a young woman in a nurse’s outfit against the support post. Her head exploded into kibbles and bits.

  Well, this was a pickle.

  I stayed on all fours, forgot about my desire to have a little snack, and got myself under a work bench. From there I took a glimpse of the situation. Another blast liberated the head from another one of my friends. Team zomi didn’t handle the counter attack very well. The room had six mats, five corpses, I had seen another man fall below. That meant three minimum and five maximum were up here. A quick peek confirmed that across the catwalk was a foreman’s office. I hadn’t really scoped it out before. Big Jimmie and his guard must have been sleeping there. They picked off my crew from across the bridge.

  A few of my team stormed the narrow catwalk toward the foreman’s office. The zomi taking front got his head exploded by what was probably an entire AR-15 magazine. I swore not a single round missed the mark. I’d have gulped if my throat wasn’t so stiff. But they probably weren’t expecting a zomi with a revolver.

  I stood up. I lifted the Smith and Wesson. I took aim. I was a crack shot in real life. I had practiced at the fire range on as many different guns as I could afford to prepare for this stupid game that killed me in the first half hour. And the men who were the reason I was dead stood across from me on the platform. They had no compunctions about killing us again. I fired.

  The AR-15 lifted in the air with a click as the magazine the gunner was reloading clattered against the metal floor. I saw the shot make contact right through his dumb, gaping mouth. Then I ducked under the work bench. Hopefully they hadn’t seen me.

  “Someone shot Billy Bob!”

  “You think someone’s gone rogue?”

  “John went below, he has a gun!”

  “Kill im.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I heard a shotgun rack, then a spit so loud I could hear it through the gnawing groans of the zomis who ate the dead men. Another boom came from the foreman’s office. An old lady in an evening dress flipped on her back. I saw another chunky guy pick up the AR-15. My head swiveled to see John, the acne faced lad, being shot at. John took cover and fired back with his pistol. I peeked out from under the desk and fired a round at a man in the middle with a rifle. I missed.

  “There’s someone firing from the work bench!”

  “You dumb frick, that’s where the zomis dun come from!”

  John yelled out, “What the frick, why are you shooting at me!”

  “We know what yer up to. We know you released those zomis!”

  The AR-15 fired. I heard John scream but I couldn’t see much through the cage screen.

  “My fricking leg! What the heck!”

  John fired at them again but they were behind crates now. And they had more firepower. I still had ten or so zomis on the platform, but a few still nibbled on corpses. The fresh corpses began to twitch as pale pulsing purple went through their veins. Mouth forced open with a pop and their jaws closed with a snap. With a groan the new team members stumbled to their feet. Speak of the dead, now I had three more minions.

  With the fire fight on, five crowded the cat walk to big Jimmie and his two gunners. The rest stumbled down the stairs toward this John fellow. I saw a ring of keys on the workbench. Not vehicle keys, but they had numbers that matched the crates. With this I had the girl’s key, probably, most likely. I stuffed the chain in my pocket even though it was a bit heavy.

  I crawled out to a short stand cot, braced my elbows, aimed at the man with the rifle. It was a bit of a distance for a revolver. I steadied my hands and stared down the barrel. The recoil bit into the meat of my palm. My ears rang as I adjusted my vision. Brains and blood dripped over the broken glass. But they spotted me. Big Jimmie of all people, red badly shaven face capped by dirty red hair stared back at me with angry green eyes. Those same eyes that had so casually taken my life yesterday. At least I think it was yesterday.

  “Kibble, that zomi just blew Fred’s brains out,”

  His sawed shot gun lifted. I got down and rolled back to the work bench, which was centered in front of a support beam so it would provide so decent cover. He never fired. Though I heard the shot gun shift and click softly before he blasted into the team that almost reached their crates. No more element of surprise.

  John fired into the crates. This little misunderstanding played right into my hands. Three were left, and one was wounded and hostile to his former teammates. I checked my backside to make sure the crowbar still rested in my belt. One more surprise. I grabbed a skinny who shouldn’t weigh too much, he didn’t. I lifted him like a proper meat shield and charge past the one team member still standing that hadn’t fallen below.

  The shield zomi took a few shots as I fired at the man with the AR-15. They didn’t expect a zomi to move that fast, now did they. Once I was behind the crate I threw my biting shield at big Jim. The revolver pressed the back of the AR-15 gunner’s head. He dropped the gun and put his hands up! Yeah, I blew his brains out too. John was probably getting quite the show.

  By the time Jimmie threw the slimy biter off him and blew its brains out, I already had the crowbar swinging at his head. Big Jimmie was a bit more agile than I gave him credit for. As the crowbar slammed down into his right shoulder instead of his skull. There wouldn’t be time for him to pick up his sawed off shot down, because I twirled for nice batter’s strike right against the meat of his back. Gut enveloped the hand rail as he stumbled and almost fell to the second floor. I gave the shot gun a kick, which sent it to the main floor of the warehouse. Then I heard John crying as I gave Jimmie a nice firm kick in the caboose. He twirled over the bar and hit the ground on his back. The fall had taken him out but I wasn’t about to take chances.

  The revolver clicked. The piece of crap was jammed up. I didn’t have time for this. I needed the keys to that pick-up truck. I glanced through the blood drizzling broken glass to see car keys hanging on the wall. They even labeled them on the pin board, Dodger-Beast 1500! My zomi friend was taking its sweet time going down the steps toward where big Jimbo lay dying. I wasn’t even sure I wanted him included in my friend group. I doubted his brain included anything worth devouring. I went into the office. My sneakers crunched over broken glass as my withered stiff fingers picked up the keys. I swung the crowbar around by my side as I walked out.

  Best to go down and take care of Jimbo before he got bit. Smashing his face in with a crowbar would prevent him from turning. Only, my zomi friend was shuffling off toward the isles. Big Jimbo and the sawed-off shotgun were among the missing. I messed up and I didn’t have time to deal with it. Instead, I ran back toward the work bench and then down the steps. An engine roared but the sound came from behind me and it wasn’t that distinctive Dodger-Beast 1500 sound. A pistol fired several times in quick succession. The zomis I let loose mostly scattered about the warehouse now, too many sounds to distract them. That played right into my undead hands.

  Sneakers skidded over the dusty floor. Boy did I ever have the biggest crap eating grin on my face when I returned to the woman. The key ring wasn’t as well organized as I thought. I had to shuffle through it to find the key for crate 136. The woman tilted her head at me.

  “You got the keys, and the keys to a vehicle?”

  “Darn right!” I said.

  It took me a nervous minute, but I found the right key to her cage, separated it from the others, and slid it to her. I didn’t need the rest so I just dropped it on the ground.

  “Wait, give me the keys to the truck!”

  Truck keys dangled high as I started quickly walking. If she wanted to ride, she’d have to ride with me. Yeah, she was cute, but I wasn’t feeling all that trusting lately. Hopefully five fingers stretching would let her know she had five minutes to decide if she was riding or walking. Then I ran to the truck, opened the driver’s side, slammed the door, and started the engine. Three-fourths tank of gas! There was even a garage door opener!

  Yeah, I’d hold off on opening this place up for the next five minutes. Too bad about that revolver, it had been a nice gun until it broke.