Dr. Maximilian Tundra had never felt so paranoid.
Earlier that day he’d lost his medical license; luckily, he also had a PhD in biochemistry, so he would still get everyone call him “doctor”. But it was the loss of easy access to pharmaceuticals that was the problem.
No, he had to be honest with himself: the problem was the special Halloween pumpkin-and-peyote-extract milkshake he’d had at breakfast, a couple hours before the hearing.
Four hours later the anxiety and fear were at their highest. He knew that, but of course, he didn’t have complete control over it.
Then he saw the zombies.
Serious, honest-to-god zombies. They filled the street. A small group of brain-hungry shufflers were chasing patrons out of an Aldo store and biting them. There was a zombie staring right at Dr. Tundra. It looked like he used to be a priest and was finishing off an afternoon snack of tasty baby.
The screams were horrible, terrifying. Already unhinged by his de-licensing and the ill-advised peyote pick-me-up, Dr. Tundra started to shake. If he’d had more control over his body, Tundra would have run, but he didn’t.
What he did have was his .45. And enough practice that he was confident the fear and mescaline would not ruin his aim.
“Shoot for the head,” he reminded himself, as he approached the mob of zombies. Many of them seemed to be laughing and having a good time. He thought that was odd. Zombies shouldn’t laugh.
And he certainly didn’t think they would run away.