Zombie Fighter Jango #1 The Road to Hell Is Paved With Zombies by Cedric Nye Page A

cousin had changed Jango down to his very DNA. He had mutated and become a real-life version of The Incredible Hulk.
    Jango wasn’t bulletproof, or able to jump over buildings like The Hulk. There wasn’t anything magical about his mutation at all, only simple science. Way back in the 1800s, Jean-Baptiste Lamarck had already known about forced adaptation and generational mutation. Lamarck, and his modern counterpart, Gabor Mate both knew that “an environment would draw out of an organism what was necessary for that organism to survive the environment.” 
    That was exactly what had happened to him. His father had beaten him so badly when he was a baby that the malleable tissue of Jango’s mind and body were mutated. His pain centers lost sensitivity, his adrenal glands became larger, and his hormone production skyrocketed to help him survive and heal from the injuries of the abuse. The side effects of the increased hormone production were freakish, unnatural strength, faster reflexes, and a high tolerance to pain. The bad side effects were paranoia, fear of people, and an inability to form relationships and bonds. There were many other problems that he faced because of the abuse he had suffered as a child, but one of the worst was that he had a severe lack of appropriate responses and response levels to the world around him. To him, the whole world was measured by its ability to do him harm, every human, animal, object, and situation was gauged by the threat it posed to him. When Jango felt threatened, he destroyed whatever was threatening him.
    Other changes had happened as well, though, in Jango’s mind. His unconscious mind had walled off parts of his personality, ugly, feral parts of his psyche that were unfit for the world. Survival was all Jango would ever be. His religion, his altar, his entire being came down to just one word; SURVIVAL. He knew that violence was the key to survival.
    “Hey,” Jango said, noticing that Sonja was looking at him with fear in her eyes . “I’m sorry about that; I just can’t stand being caged up like this.”
    He continued talking, trying to soothe Sonja and himself. “I don’t know what to do. To tell you the flat out fucked up truth, I just want to be moving. I feel like it is only a matter of time before some band of shit bags comes plowing in here to loot the place.”
    Sonja looked at him and said, “Well, we have all the guns, so who cares if they come here? We can shoot them into pieces!”
    Jango groaned inwardly. This was the kind of shit that television taught people.
    “Look,” he said in what he considered his most reasonable voice, “Every fucktard you ever saw thinks that you can just survive a shootout if you have a whole pile of ammo.” He amended what he had said by saying, “Not YOU personally, but like, YOU out there, you know?” He said while gesturing in a sweeping motion to indicate everyone BUT her.
        He continued, “But the thing about a shootout is that bullets are coming back at you when you are shooting. Simple fucking logic dictates that if I fire a hundred rounds, then a hundred rounds are coming back at me.”
    “So, say one of those Walking Dead ass-bag-a-thons on wheels comes rolling in here. There are like twenty or thirty guys with guns and gasoline?” Jango looked at her to make sure she was getting the point. “Those are LONG odds, Sister, long and messed-up odds.” Then he finished with, “Plus, they can just drive a truck through the wall, throw a can of gasoline in here, set fire to the place, then wait for us to run out, and shoot us into a pile of bloody rags. Or worse.”
    He was breathing hard, looking around with wild, rolling eyes at the thought of burning to death.
    “Plus, to top it all off, there is some giant fucking dog that bit me, and that talks and he has a bitch…a mean albino bitch that just appears out of nowhere and kicks a mother-fucker in the nuts….TWICE!” He was ramping up, riding the