This guy seems pretty smart, you think. You glance back and see the pile of undead blocking the bulkhead doors to the basement. If Wade wasn't there, you'd have gone that way, and ran smack-dab face to gory face with them. A sudden shiver zips through you at the very thought. Then you remind yourself that had he not shown up with his friends, there wouldn't have been all that racket and the undead wouldn't be hot on your trail in the first place.

You take a big swing at an approaching undead. The machete slashes its chest clean open. You hit it again, then keep hitting it until it falls. Dead blood is spattered all around you. It smells worse than a used tampon in a porta-john. Sickening. The urge to vomit hits you, but you have to focus, because another undead is coming.

"Hurry!" you say, slicing through the second undead.

With dread, you realize they're already getting worse. The undead are getting bored of searching the house for slower food and are starting to set their desires on the two idiots at the stranded SUV. The engine hums and cuts out a few times as Wade rubs together wires he's pulled from the dash.

"I'm trying as fast as I f-" Wade starts, but the engine sparks to life and drowns out the rest of his words.

You jump in. Wade backs up fast - so fast that he rams into a few trash cans and knocks over a mailbox. But by the time he shifts into first gear, the undead are swarming. The sound of the vehicle is drawing them in like a morbid dinner bell. They creep up against the SUV and claw at the shiny paint with dead, bloody fingers. The squeaky sound of their clawing, and the hollow groans from their dead lips make your bones shiver.

"Go, Wade. Just go," you manage hoarsely.

Wade floors it, knocking several undead away, and running over even more. You bounce as the big wheels roll across their bodies. The road feels smoother than usual in comparison once you finally get by them and speed away. For a few moments, Wade has to dodge the occasional stray undead, but they get fewer and farther between. They don't even seem interested in trying to catch the vehicle. Perhaps they know it's too fast. You bet if you were sitting still, like before, they'd draw in again. Just as you think it, the vehicle slows. You're almost at a fork in the road.

"I don't know which way to go, I'm new to this area," Wade says.

"Go right, it leads into the city. There are survivors there," you say with certainty.

"How do you know?"

"Someone told me. They're in the mall."

Wade shrugs and obliges. He can't deny that the odds of survival are better with numbers. Neither of you are up for making small talk as he drives along. The moment you shared at the house - making it out of a deadly scenario - was a moment of necessity, rather than a budding friendship.

You're just passing a billboard sign with a smiling car salesman on it when suddenly, Wade stops.

"What?" you say.

"Can't you hear them?" he says.

You listen carefully. Dozens of groans carry on the wind and rise over the gentle hum of the vehicle. You feel the blood drain from your face at the sound. It seems to be coming from the very direction you're heading.

"The city is full of them," you say. "What are we going to do?"

"We take the back way. Tell me how to get there," he says.

You nod, though the uncertainty doesn't melt from your features. He follows your directions, and the undead, sparse at first, keep getting thicker. Your anxiety grows with their numbers. They're making a fierce racket over near a hardware store. There must be people there, you think. The sound of the SUV captures the attention of a stray group, pulling your attention from the gruesome mob back to your path.

"Why'd we stop?" You say, slightly panicking.

"All the cars. There's no way through," Wade says.

He's right. In front of you, cars are parked or abandoned at all angles. Some are crashed against poles or other cars. The street, even the sidewalk, seems to be completely blocked.

"Hold on," Wade says.

He backs up, thumping into a few undead hard, who continue to groan unfazed. Just when you're sure Wade is getting you out of there, he starts forward again, picking up speed.

"What are you doing?" you scream.

"We're going straight through," he says.

Your breath catches. You know you're going to crash even before he slams into the first car. You hear the crunch of metal and, somehow, the SUV is airborne. It lands with a loud shatter and clank on its side. Neither of you lose consciousness. To your right, where the window should be, is broken glass and pavement. You both see the undead through the windshield, crowding, coming to the curious sound and the scent of blood as it trickles from your bicep and forehead.

Wade is already climbing out to run away. You try to follow only you're locked in. The seatbelt won't budge.

"Help," you plead.

But he just keeps going, sending you a guilty glance over his shoulder. He's going to sacrifice you to save himself, you realize.

"Help me!" you scream, but he's already out now. "You bastard!"

You're working at the belt and wiggling this way and that, but it only seems to squeeze you tighter. You're still locked in when they start devouring you.