Chapter 7 – Petrol, Panic, and Poor Life Choices
The first zombie lunged.
Its arms stretched toward my face like it wanted a very aggressive hug.
I swung the belan.
THWACK.
The rolling pin cracked against its skull and the zombie collapsed at my feet.
Unfortunately, zombies are not known for respecting personal space.
Three more immediately stepped over their fallen colleague.
Imran yanked the fuel nozzle free from the pump.
"Keep them busy!" he shouted.
"Busy doing what? Yoga?"
Another zombie rushed at me.
I sidestepped and smashed the belan across its jaw.
CRACK.
The sound was unpleasantly satisfying.
Behind me, petrol began flowing into an empty plastic container Imran had grabbed from beside the pump.
The generator hummed loudly behind the station building.
The noise echoed across the street like a dinner bell.
More zombies were coming.
A lot more.
I risked a quick glance toward the road.
That was a mistake.
At least thirty zombies now staggered toward the petrol pump from different directions.
Some limped.
Some crawled.
One dragged half of its torso behind it like a broken suitcase.
All of them wanted the same thing.
Us.
I swung the belan again.
THUD.
Another zombie dropped.
"HOW MUCH PETROL?" I shouted.
"NOT ENOUGH!"
Of course.
Why would anything in the apocalypse be easy?
Imran tossed the filled container toward me.
"Take it to the bike!"
"What bike?"
He pointed.
Near the edge of the petrol station lay a dusty motorcycle leaning against the curb.
Probably abandoned when the chaos started.
I stared at it.
"You're telling me we're escaping on that?"
"Do you see a helicopter?"
Fair point.
Another zombie lunged at my back.
I turned and cracked the belan into its neck.
It folded like a cheap chair.
I grabbed the petrol container and ran toward the bike.
Behind me Imran continued filling another container.
The two employees inside the glass office were shouting encouragement.
Which was nice.
Also extremely useless.
I reached the motorcycle.
Miraculously the keys were still in the ignition.
For a moment I stared at them like they were a holy artifact.
Then I tried the starter.
Nothing.
Of course.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
Behind me zombies were getting closer.
I could hear their feet scraping across the pavement.
Their breathing.
That horrible wet clicking sound some of them made.
"IMRAN!" I yelled.
"WHAT?!"
"THE BIKE IS DEAD!"
He looked over.
"TRY KICK START!"
"Oh fantastic. Exercise."
I shoved the petrol container under the seat rack and grabbed the kick lever.
One deep breath.
Kick.
Nothing.
Kick again.
Still nothing.
A zombie grabbed my shoulder.
I spun around and smashed the belan into its face.
"Personal space!"
I kicked the lever again.
The engine coughed.
Progress.
Another kick.
The bike sputtered weakly.
Behind me Imran shouted.
"COMING!"
I glanced back.
He was running toward me carrying two more containers of petrol.
Unfortunately about fifteen zombies were chasing him.
"YOU BROUGHT FRIENDS!" I yelled.
"They invited themselves!"
I kicked the bike again.
The engine roared to life.
I almost cried.
Imran leaped onto the back seat just as the first zombie reached us.
"GO GO GO!"
I twisted the throttle.
The motorcycle shot forward.
A zombie slammed into the side of the bike but bounced off.
We sped across the forecourt.
Behind us dozens of zombies stumbled after the noise.
Imran looked back.
"Left!"
"Why left?!"
"Road blockage right!"
Good enough for me.
We turned sharply and raced down the street.
Wind blasted my face.
The smell of petrol and garbage still clung to my clothes.
The belan remained gripped in my right hand like a sacred weapon.
Behind us the petrol pump shrank into the distance.
But the problem wasn't over.
Not even close.
Zombies began emerging from nearby alleys.
The sound of the motorcycle had attracted attention.
Lots of attention.
One stepped directly into our path.
I swerved.
The bike nearly tipped.
Imran grabbed my shoulders.
"Easy!"
"Tell them that!"
Another zombie lunged from the sidewalk.
Imran kicked it in the chest as we passed.
"Nice," I said.
"Thank you."
We raced through the broken streets of the city.
Cars sat abandoned everywhere.
Some burned.
Some had smashed into walls.
Some had bodies inside.
The apocalypse had terrible parking etiquette.
After several minutes of high-speed terror we finally reached a quieter road.
No zombies.
No screams.
Just wind and distant smoke.
I slowed the motorcycle.
Imran sighed with relief.
"Okay," he said.
"That was unpleasant."
"That's one word for it."
We rode for another twenty minutes before stopping beside an abandoned warehouse.
The place looked quiet.
Which in the apocalypse meant probably not immediately fatal.
We parked the bike behind a rusted truck.
Imran climbed off and stretched his arms.
"My ribs hurt."
"My entire existence hurts."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"Fair."
I checked the petrol containers.
Three full ones.
"Not bad," I said.
"Fuel for future stupidity."
Imran leaned against the motorcycle.
"You know what we deserve?"
"What?"
"A drink."
My eyes lit up.
The whisky bag.
The four surviving heroes.
I carefully removed one bottle.
Blenders Pride.
Still intact.
Still beautiful.
I wiped the dust from the glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced to absolutely nobody, "a moment of silence for the fallen fifth bottle."
Imran saluted.
"Gone but not forgotten."
I opened the bottle.
The smell of whisky filled the air.
For the first time since the apocalypse began, something felt normal.
I took a sip.
Warm fire spread down my throat.
Perfection.
I handed the bottle to Imran.
He drank.
Then sighed happily.
"Civilization," he said.
We sat on the curb beside the bike.
Two survivors.
One belan.
Four bottles of whisky.
And three containers of petrol.
Not a bad inventory for the end of the world.
Ten minutes later the universe reminded us that peace is illegal during an apocalypse.
My stomach growled.
Loudly.
Imran looked at me.
"That was not the bike."
"No."
Another growl followed.
Even louder.
Imran frowned.
"You hungry?"
"No."
He paused.
Then his expression changed slowly.
"Oh."
"Oh," I agreed.
His stomach growled too.
Long.
Threatening.
The kind of growl that suggests serious internal negotiations.
We both looked at each other.
"No," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"No."
"Yes."
He sighed deeply.
"After all that fighting…"
"…we need a toilet."
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Imran stood up.
"Alright," he said.
"New mission."
"What?"
"Operation Find Toilet."
I stared at the empty road.
"You realize the apocalypse has probably not prioritized bathroom cleanliness."
"Desperate times."
Another stomach growl answered him.
Mine.
Louder.
More aggressive.
Imran nodded.
"Definitely desperate."
We climbed back onto the motorcycle.
"Drive," he said.
"Where?"
"Anywhere with buildings."
"Brilliant plan."
We rode slowly through the silent streets.
My stomach complained every thirty seconds.
Imran kept shifting uncomfortably behind me.
The apocalypse had many dangers.
Zombies.
Fire.
Starvation.
But right now the greatest threat was digestive urgency.
After about fifteen minutes we found a small roadside building.
A faded sign hung above the door.
PUBLIC TOILET.
Angels sang in my head.
I stopped the bike.
Imran jumped off immediately.
"Move!"
We rushed toward the building.
The door creaked open.
Inside the place was dark.
Dusty.
Abandoned.
But still recognizable as a toilet facility.
Three stalls.
One broken sink.
And an unpleasant smell.
Imran looked at me.
"You first."
"No, you."
"Don't be polite now!"
We rushed into separate stalls.
The doors slammed shut.
And for the first time since the zombie outbreak began…
Peace.
Pure peaceful relief.
I leaned back against the wall and sighed.
"This might be the greatest moment of my life."
From the next stall Imran agreed loudly.
"Top five at least."
For a few minutes the apocalypse paused.
No zombies.
No running.
Just two survivors enjoying the most basic human luxury.
Then something outside made a noise.
A faint sound.
Like footsteps.
I froze.
"Imran," I whispered.
"Yes?"
"Did you hear that?"
Silence.
Then…
A slow scraping sound outside the toilet building.
Imran groaned.
"Please tell me that's a cat."
Another scrape.
Closer now.
I carefully peeked under the stall door.
A shadow moved across the floor.
Then another.
Imran whispered nervously.
"Kripa…"
"Yes?"
"…how many zombies followed us?"
I swallowed.
"I'm about to find out."
Slowly, very slowly, the main door of the toilet building creaked open.
Light spilled across the floor.
A pair of rotting feet stepped inside.
Then another pair.
Then another.
I counted silently.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five zombies shuffled into the toilet.
Their noses twitched.
They had smelled us.
And unfortunately…
this was the worst possible moment to run.
Imran whispered from the next stall.
"…Kripa?"
"Yes?"
"…this might be the most embarrassing way to die in human history."
The first zombie stopped outside our stalls.
Its head tilted.
Listening.
Waiting.
And then…
It slowly pushed my stall door.
Which was very unfortunate.
Because I hadn't locked it.
The door creaked open.
The zombie stared at me.
I stared back.
For a full second neither of us moved.
Then I raised the belan.
And said the only thing that made sense.
"Give me thirty seconds."
The zombie screamed.
Imran shouted.
I swung the rolling pin.
And outside the toilet building…
something much bigger suddenly roared.
Something that definitely was not a zombie.
Something with an engine.
And a lot of guns.
The zombies turned toward the door.
Imran and I froze inside our stalls.
Outside…
Vehicles screeched to a halt.
Men shouted orders.
Gunfire exploded.
And suddenly the entire world outside the toilet erupted into chaos.
I slowly stood up.
Belan in hand.
Heart racing.
"Imran…" I whispered.
"Yes?"
"…I think we just found survivors."
Outside the toilet…
A man shouted through a loudspeaker.
"ANYONE ALIVE IN THERE?"
I looked at the broken stall door.
Then at the five zombies between us and the exit.
Then at Imran.
"Well," I said quietly.
"This should be interesting."
Outside…
The gunfire suddenly stopped.
The loudspeaker crackled again.
And the mysterious voice said something that made my blood run cold.
"Attention survivors…"
"Step outside slowly…"
"…and do not bring the infected with you."
The zombies turned toward our stalls again.
Hungry.
Waiting.
And suddenly I had a very bad feeling.
Because the men outside sounded organized.
Armed.
Professional.
Which meant only one thing.
In the apocalypse…
not all humans were friendly.
And if these men decided we were infected…
The zombies inside the toilet might actually be the safer option.
The stall door creaked wider.
The zombie leaned closer.
Its rotten teeth inches from my face.
Outside the voice shouted again.
"LAST WARNING."
"COME OUT NOW."
Imran whispered from the next stall.
"…Kripa."
"Yes?"
"…what's the plan?"
I tightened my grip on the belan.
And smiled slowly.
"Well," I said.
"First we finish our business."
The zombie lunged.
And outside…
someone pulled the trigger.