Free A Single Girl's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse by JT Clay

fallen asleep and was drooling on Q’s shoulder, no doubt suffering low blood sugar as a result of lack of food and an excess of sour thoughts. Q was trying to work out how to make a make a witty remark about dribbling ex-girlfriends without sounding ungracious, when Rabbit pulled over.
    â€œLast stop for fuel,” he said.
    â€œLet me get it,” Q said. She pulled out an overstuffed wallet and accidentally-on-purpose spilled its contents. Membership cards for various conservation groups and animal rights organizations flew across the dashboard. “How clumsy,” she said, gathering them up.
    â€œYour cards all expire at the same time,” Pious Kate said. “Eleven months and two weeks from now. Recently signed on, have we? A little green about being green?” And then she was snoring again.
    Wow. From sleep to scathing remark in six seconds. Pious Kate was like a skinny ninja of words.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Rabbit said, waving away Q’s proffered fifty-dollar note. “I got it.” He unfolded his lanky frame, grabbed an empty jerry can from behind the seat and walked toward one of the three shops.
    â€œWhere’s the petrol station?” Q asked.
    Angela leaned forward. “You should watch this.”
    Rabbit ambled into the takeaway shop. It was empty but for the pallid, obese woman standing behind the counter, who glared at the stranger, taking in the worn shoes, the torn jeans and the shaggy hair. Q could almost see the words “bloody dole-bludger” form on her lips.
    Then the woman saw Rabbit’s face. She dropped the hostile expression and replaced it with the smile of a schoolgirl in love. Her mouth began moving far too fast for normal conversation.
    Q giggled. “That’s funny from a distance.”
    â€œI told you,” said Angela.
    â€œAnd when it’s someone who’s unattractive and, like, really, really old,” Q said.
    â€œWatch it, Gen Y.”
    Rabbit ambled back to the Yowie bus and filled the tank from the jerry can.
    â€œWhat’s he doing?” Q said.
    â€œFueling up,” Angela said.
    â€œHow?”
    â€œConverted biodiesel,” Angela said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe bus runs on old chip oil,” Angela said.
    Q gasped in horror. “No wonder I keep thinking about fried chicken! You vegans are evil.”
    Rabbit got back into the driver’s seat. “These small town folk sure are chatty,” he said. “You would not believe the stories she was telling me.” He started the engine. “All right, kids. We’ve got a couple hours to go. Who wants to hear my latest song about mulesing?”
    â€œI do!” Q said, hoping it would help her chances and kill her appetite.
    *
    The last ten miles were slower than running Zombocalypse III on a P166. The dirt road gave way to a fire trail full of potholes, which the Yowie bus navigated at a slow trundle. Despite the constant bumping, Pious Kate still slumbered on Q’s shoulder.
    Rabbit stopped the bus. “We’re here,” he said.
    â€œAre you sure?” said Angela.
    â€œThere’s no street lights,” said the Scarlet Terror.
    â€œThere’s no street,” said Angela.
    All they could see in the beam of the headlights were half-a-dozen wooden huts scattered among the trees. Rabbit cut the engine and the headlights and left them blind.
    They heard a chilling noise, like the moan of some soulless creature shunned by God and nature and doomed to roam the earth until the end of days.
    Q flicked on a torch to find Tinkabella yawning in the back seat of the bus.
    â€œWow,” said Rabbit. “You got that torch out fast.”
    â€œYeah,” said Q. “Would you think it weird if I said I always keep my head torch and survival tin in my first-line bomb-burst gear?”
    â€œNope,” said Rabbit, “because I have no idea what that means. Let’s go.”
    They piled