Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time by Richard Johnson

big’s going down.”
    Trent leaned forward. “I'm listening. Fucking Al-Qaeda,
isn’t it?”
    “Loads of people are getting really sick.” A 10-101 call
came across the squad radio, code for a civil disturbance.
    “I wondered why they sent a car,” Trent said.
    “Every cop in town’s been called up.”
    His fear turned to anger. “We aren't trained for this. I
spend my time harassing teenagers and sleeping behind abandoned factories.”
    “FEMA’s in charge and the National Guard’s doing the heavy
lifting. They’re running a triage at the United Center, and we have to man
roadblocks. No one gets in or out. No one. We’ve got live-fire orders here.”
    “Do we get masks or something? I mean, what's gonna keep us
from getting sick?”
    “They don’t think it’s airborne so we’re not supposed to let
anyone get too close,” she said. “Whatever it is, they think it’s spreading by
direct contact.”
    Trent was sick to his stomach, and even felt a little
ashamed that Sarah was handling the situation so well. He wondered if maybe she
wasn't as useless as he'd been telling everyone.
    Sarah grabbed Trent’s shoulder. “A lot of people are
depending on us. Are you ready?”
    He nodded and lit another Parliament while thinking about
the woman sitting next to him. Trent didn’t actually hate her, but rejection always
made him act like a junior-high bully. For her part, Sarah did find him
charming in his own uncouth sort of way, and she hadn't been that drunk. But
she would never admit it.
    New calls flooded in as the car picked up speed. First,
there was a 10-46, sick person and ambulance en route, followed by a 10-54,
possible dead body. Codes 20 and 10-57 meant an officer needed assistance and
shots had been fired. They grew even worse from there.
    “The shit’s hitting the fan, it’s like a full moon on
steroids,” Trent said and then changed his tone. “Sarah, look... I just gotta
say... I've been a complete prick.”
    “Now isn't the time—”
    “No, now is the time. From here on out, you get nothing but
respect from me.”
    Her pouty lips flashed a tempting smile. “Thanks. You know,
I…” A heavy object shattered the windshield and Sarah instinctively slammed on
the brakes, quickly losing control. The car only stopped after jumping the curb
and crumpling around a telephone pole.
    “I knew I should have drove,” Trent muttered as he fought
the darkness creeping over him. Two long minutes later, an intense pain jolted
him awake. The lit cigarette had landed on his lap and the smoldering cherry
slowly burned through his slacks and into his flesh.
    Meanwhile, a warm and wet liquid ran down Trent’s face and
momentarily blinded him while a strange clicking noise came from somewhere
nearby. He patted the flames out and then rubbed his eyes, blinking for a few
seconds. The world slowly came into focus, as did the cause of the clicking
sound.
    “Jesus Christ!”
    Confronting Trent was some grade-A nightmare fuel. An old
lady was stuck in the windshield mere inches from his face, chomping and
drooling like a ravenous beast. The woman pressed further into the windshield,
ignoring the broken shards slicing into her neck. Blood and spit dripped onto
Trent's forehead like Chinese water torture as he fumbled with his pistol. He
aimed the shaking sidearm at the woman's shattered face while reaching a hand
out to Sarah's shoulder.
    Trent shook her, slowly at first, then like a rag-doll.
“Wake up!”
    Sarah mumbled incoherently, so he smacked her, hard, and she
slowly came to. “What happened?”
    “Woman driver. And your airbag didn’t go off so don’t move.
I'm coming around to get you.” Trent eased the door open and put one foot on
the ground. Dull and empty eyes followed him from the windshield.
    The old woman jerked her head backwards and Trent scrambled
out to raise his firearm. But the freak-show was hopelessly stuck. She gave one
final furious tug before her head popped right off, making