Chapter 6 – The Day the Whisky Died
When people say "jump and trust your instincts," they are usually standing safely on solid ground.
They are not standing on a second–floor balcony with twenty zombies climbing the stairs behind them.
Imran reached the railing first.
He looked down.
I looked down.
Two floors.
Concrete road.
Some garbage bins.
And—thank every god that still cared about this city—an open garbage truck parked beside the building.
The back of the truck was piled high with black trash bags and loose plastic waste.
Imran pointed.
"Soft landing," he said.
"That is literally garbage," I replied.
"Better than becoming zombie lunch."
Behind us the first zombie stepped fully onto the corridor.
Its jaw dangled like a broken drawer.
Another appeared behind it.
Then another.
The staircase had officially become a zombie delivery system.
Imran grabbed the railing.
"On three," he said.
"Why three?" I asked.
"Because that's how counting works."
"Fair."
The first zombie lunged forward.
Imran didn't bother finishing the count.
He jumped.
Which meant I had exactly half a second to follow him or become the main course of the staircase buffet.
So I jumped.
For one glorious moment I was flying.
For the next terrifying moment I was falling.
And then—
WHUMPH.
I crashed into the garbage truck.
The world exploded into plastic bags, rotten vegetables, and something that smelled like it had died twice.
My body sank into a mountain of trash.
Something wet splashed against my face.
I decided not to investigate.
Beside me Imran groaned.
"Still alive?" he asked.
"Unfortunately yes."
We both lay there for a second, staring at the gray sky above the truck.
A plastic bag floated gently down and landed on my forehead.
The apocalypse had officially reached peak dignity.
Then the bag on my shoulder clinked.
My heart stopped.
I sat up immediately.
My precious bag of whisky had burst open during the fall.
Bottles rolled around inside the garbage truck.
Four bottles.
Four beautiful amber soldiers of emotional stability.
But something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
I counted again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
My stomach dropped harder than my body had.
"Imran," I whispered.
"Yes?"
"We had five bottles."
He looked at the bag.
Then at the trash around us.
Then at the street behind the truck.
"Oh."
I slowly turned around.
And there it was.
Lying on the road behind the garbage truck.
One glorious bottle of Blenders Pride.
Shattered.
Amber liquid spreading across the asphalt like a national tragedy.
For a moment I couldn't breathe.
My knees trembled.
"Kripa?" Imran said cautiously.
I climbed to the edge of the truck and stared down at the broken glass.
"No…"
My voice came out weak.
"No… no no no…"
I jumped down from the truck and walked slowly toward the puddle.
The bottle had exploded completely.
Glass everywhere.
Whisky soaking into the dirty road.
A few flies were already investigating.
I knelt beside it like a man attending a funeral.
"Gone," I whispered.
"Just like that."
Imran climbed down behind me.
"Bhai… it's just whisky."
I looked up at him.
"JUST whisky?"
He raised both hands.
"Okay sorry. Important whisky."
I sighed deeply and wiped my face.
Of course my hand smelled like garbage.
Perfect.
"You know what the real tragedy is?" I muttered.
"What?"
"At the liquor store… I almost stole Smirnoff."
Imran blinked.
"What?"
"Smirnoff vodka," I said sadly.
"I saw the bottle. Beautiful clear glass. Elegant design."
"Why didn't you take it?"
I sighed again.
"Because you can't drink Smirnoff without Limca."
Imran stared at me like he had discovered a new species of idiot.
"So instead you stole five bottles of whisky."
"Yes."
"And now you lost one."
"Yes."
"And you're mourning it in the middle of a zombie apocalypse."
I pointed dramatically at the shattered glass.
"That bottle could have been our future Molotov cocktail!"
He rubbed his forehead.
"You are unbelievable."
From above us came a loud crash.
We both looked up.
Several zombies had reached the balcony.
Apparently they had also decided jumping looked fun.
The first one toppled over the railing.
SPLAT.
It landed beside the truck.
Its legs twisted at an angle that suggested future walking would be difficult.
Unfortunately zombies rarely care about orthopedic issues.
It began crawling toward us.
Another zombie fell.
Then another.
The balcony had become a zombie raincloud.
Imran grabbed my arm.
"Time to go."
"Agreed."
We ran.
Behind us zombies continued dropping from the balcony like badly packaged deliveries.
One landed directly inside the garbage truck.
Another smacked face-first into the pavement and immediately started crawling.
Apparently gravity had joined the apocalypse team.
We sprinted down the street.
My bag of whisky bounced against my back.
Four bottles remaining.
Four brave survivors.
Imran glanced at me while running.
"You still carrying that thing?"
"Yes."
"You realize it's slowing you down?"
"Yes."
"You're still not leaving it behind?"
I tightened the strap.
"Absolutely not."
He nodded respectfully.
"Fair."
The neighborhood around us looked even worse than before.
Cars burned along the roadside.
A scooter lay crushed against a wall.
Smoke drifted lazily through the air.
Somewhere nearby a dog barked hysterically.
And then stopped suddenly.
We ran past a small grocery shop with its shutter torn open.
Inside, shelves had been emptied.
Packets of chips littered the floor.
Two zombies wandered around inside like confused customers.
Neither noticed us.
Probably because we were running faster than their brains could process.
Imran slowed slightly as we reached the end of the street.
"Which way?" I asked.
He pointed left.
"Petrol pump."
"Please tell me it's close."
"Very close."
"How close?"
"Two streets."
"That still sounds far."
We turned the corner.
Immediately we heard screaming.
Real screaming.
Human screaming.
Good news: survivors.
Bad news: they were probably in trouble.
Imran peeked around the next corner.
"Uh oh."
"What?"
"Zombies."
"How many?"
He paused.
"…Many."
Of course.
We stepped out carefully.
The petrol pump stood across the road.
A bright sign still hung above the roof.
INDIAN OIL
The pumps themselves stood silent beneath the canopy.
But the forecourt was chaos.
Several cars had crashed into each other.
A motorcycle burned beside one of the pumps.
And between them staggered at least twenty zombies.
Some wandered aimlessly.
Others pounded against the locked office building.
Inside the glass cabin we could see two terrified employees barricading the door with chairs.
One of them held a wrench.
The other held what looked like a mop.
Both looked extremely unprepared for the end of the world.
I pointed.
"Petrol."
Imran nodded.
"Yes."
I pointed at the zombies.
"Problem."
"Yes."
We crouched behind an overturned scooter.
The smell of petrol hung thick in the air.
One wrong spark and the whole place might turn into a fireworks show.
Imran checked his shotgun.
Two shells left.
He frowned.
"Not great."
I lifted my rolling pin.
"Belan still operational."
He looked at my whisky bag.
"You know what would be really useful right now?"
"Molotov cocktails."
"Yes."
I sighed sadly.
"If only someone hadn't lost a bottle during the garbage jump."
He smirked.
"Apocalypse tax."
A zombie wandered dangerously close to our hiding spot.
Its head jerked around randomly.
It sniffed the air.
Probably smelling two nervous men and one bag of expensive whisky.
I gripped the rolling pin tighter.
The zombie shuffled past us.
Crisis temporarily avoided.
Imran leaned closer.
"Plan?"
"Simple," I said.
"That word worries me."
"We run to the pumps, grab petrol, and leave."
"And the zombies?"
"We persuade them to die."
"With what?"
I raised the rolling pin.
He nodded slowly.
"Bold strategy."
The employees inside the glass cabin suddenly noticed us.
One of them pressed his face against the window.
He pointed frantically.
Then he made the universal sign for "zombies behind you."
Which was very helpful because we were already aware.
A zombie near the pump turned toward us.
Then another.
Then another.
Within seconds several of them had noticed two fresh snacks crouching behind a scooter.
Imran stood up.
"Well," he said calmly.
"Time to work."
He pumped the shotgun.
The loud CHACK echoed across the petrol pump.
Every zombie head turned toward the sound.
All twenty of them.
I swallowed slowly.
"Perhaps we should have been quieter."
Imran shrugged.
"Too late."
The first zombie charged.
Imran fired.
BOOM.
The blast threw the creature backward across the pavement.
But the others kept coming.
Fast.
Very fast.
I stepped forward and swung the belan.
THWACK.
The rolling pin connected with a zombie's skull.
It dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Imran shoved another aside and ran toward the nearest petrol pump.
"Cover me!" he shouted.
"With what?!"
"Your marital anger!"
Fair point.
Another zombie lunged at me.
I ducked and smashed the belan into its knee.
CRACK.
It collapsed screaming.
Behind us the employees inside the cabin were frantically trying to unlock the fuel pumps.
One of them shouted through the glass.
"PETROL MACHINE NEEDS POWER!"
Imran slammed the side of the pump.
"TURN IT ON!"
"GENERATOR!"
"WHERE?"
"BACK ROOM!"
More zombies poured into the forecourt.
Apparently the shotgun blast had advertised free lunch.
I smashed another skull.
Sweat ran into my eyes.
Imran fought beside the pump, kicking and punching.
"KRIPA!" he yelled.
"YES?!"
"HOLD THEM OFF!"
"THERE ARE TOO MANY!"
"JUST TRY!"
Another zombie grabbed my shirt.
Its rotten teeth snapped inches from my face.
I shoved it away and cracked the belan across its temple.
It collapsed.
But two more replaced it instantly.
The generator room door at the back of the petrol station suddenly burst open.
One of the employees ran toward it with a fuel can.
Zombies immediately turned toward him.
Imran shouted.
"GO! START IT!"
The man sprinted across the forecourt.
Three zombies chased him.
I stepped into their path and swung the rolling pin like a cricket bat.
THWACK.
THWACK.
One fell.
Another stumbled.
The third lunged past me toward the fleeing employee.
Imran tackled it from the side.
They crashed into the pump together.
The zombie clawed at his shoulder.
Imran punched it in the face repeatedly.
"KRIPA!"
I rushed forward and brought the belan down with everything I had.
CRACK.
The zombie went still.
Imran rolled onto his back, breathing hard.
"Good hit."
"Thank you."
Behind us the generator sputtered.
Coughed.
Then roared to life.
Lights flickered under the petrol pump canopy.
The machine beeped.
Fuel was ready.
But the zombies were still coming.
More of them spilling onto the road.
Drawn by the noise.
Drawn by the smell of living flesh.
Imran grabbed the fuel nozzle.
I lifted the rolling pin again.
We stood back-to-back in the middle of the petrol pump.
Zombies closing in from every direction.
Imran looked at me.
"Think we can survive this?"
I tightened my grip on the belan.
"Well," I said.
"At least we still have four bottles of whisky."
The first zombie lunged.
And the real most under equipped war for petrol…
had just begun.