One undead bends and picks something out of a messy pile of items strewn on the floor. It looks like a liver, but you're not certain. The undead chomps the item between a gnarled set of blood stained teeth, ripping it with all the grace possessed of a ravenous wolf on a National Geographic special. As you watch, more undead seem to show up. One takes it upon himself to reach for the organ, causing the undead holding it to freeze and growl, sensing the approximate threat to its feast. Thus a growling match has begun.

That settles it. You shake your head. "I'd rather avoid them if possible."

"We need that stuff," grumbles Chuck.

"Then get it, if it's so important. I think I'd rather keep my brains inside my skull, if you don't mind," you say.

Chuck curses under his breath, but he doesn't argue. He just says, "This is where we split, then. Nice knowing ya."

You follow Sally, nearly getting stuck as you both squeeze by Louis.

"They're insane," Sally says. "Dropping right into a death trap."

You silently agree. There's really no sense in facing those gory nightmarish ghouls if not entirely necessary. Food would have been nice, but who could eat after getting up close and personal with those things? In any case, there will likely be a vending machine in the body shop. People like to have snacks while they wait for repairs or graphics. The workers might even have a break room, with lunches in a refrigerator if you're lucky. Your mind plays around with all of the possible lunches that could be found, then Sally interrupts your daydreaming.

"Here we go." She's already unscrewing the vent. One screw down, two, th-

"Wait!" you gasp. Voices are building, rising steadily as if you're twisting a volume knob. "Someone is coming."

The fact that they're talking is proof they aren't undead. Naturally, you aren't wary of people, but a rising zombie apocalypse has a way of...changing people. They could be infected.

The room below is clearly the garage area, where they work on cars. There is a red sports car, with tape strategically placed in patterns. Black paint is inside the tape, creating sharp designs. Quite a few feet away, a van catches your eye. It looks old, but not a worn-out type of old. The type of old that is sturdy. Over a thousand pounds of pure steel. A van like that could really come in handy at a time like this.

Three men come into view. They're average-looking guys. Trucker hats, jeans and tees kind of guys. Nothing really stands out about any of them except that they're carrying guns.

"Did you see that shit, Cal?" one asks. "Bastard just kept coming."

"No shit, Troy," Cal replies. He leans a shotgun up against the shiny sports car. "They're frackin' zombies. They're already dead. Gotta shoot 'em in the head."

Troy seems mystified, as if his wildest dream are coming true. "Like that movie, Return of the Living Dead?"

Cal slips a Marlboro out of a pack and pops it between his lips." Yeah, just like it," he grumbles out of the corner of his mouth. A sulfur scent fills the air as he flicks a match and lights the cigarette with the little burst of flame. He tosses the used match onto the concrete floor.

"That's just TV, boss," the third man in the room says. He seems very shaken. His voice is unsteady and his hands are everywhere, but doing nothing in particular. "Those people, they're sick and you...y-you killed 'em."

"Screw you, Mick," Cal retorts. "It's either me or them, and I ain't dyin' any time soon."

"You can't just go around killin' people; it ain't right!" Mick says.

"The hell you say? It's the end of the world, what the hell do I care what's right. Survival, that's what I care about." Cal picks up his shotgun, pulls out a handkerchief, causing Mick to shrink back. Cal scoffs and begins to rub the steel with the handkerchief.

Mick seemed to feel braver. "Y-you just can't kill any more people. We need to call the cops. We need to-"

To your shock, Cal points the shotgun straight at Mick and pulls the trigger. The loud shot covers the thump your head makes on the vent when you jump. Mick's blood and gore flies in a wide spray. It's all you can do to keep your mouth shut. Sally is silently weeping at your side.

"Ah, come on, Cal, now who're we gonna get to be the bait?" Troy says in a frustrated tone.

"You're bait now," Cal says calmly, and goes back to cleaning his gun. "Tell you what. I'm going to try to make a few phone calls. See if you can rustle up some more ammo from the storeroom. And get this mess outta here before he's like the others."

What a psychotic jerk, you think.

"Er, yes, sir," Troy says obediently, but the moment Cal disappears into a room and shuts the door behind him, Troy begins to complain in a mocking voice. "Hide the body, Troy. Find the bullets, Troy. Oh, you can be bait, Troy, because I'm too stinking arrogant. Why, they might smell the bullshit on me and hightail it the other way. Nope, no human here, just crap!" Door hinges creak and his voice muffles as he shuts himself in a room below.

Now is the best time to take action.

Drop into the room - SKIP TO CHAPTER 35

Go back to the store - SKIP TO CHAPTER 36