Free ZOMBIE'S DOOM? "Chronicles of Jack Doom" by Will Lemen Page B

any wandering zombies or raptors that might be patrolling the streets; I quickly rifled through Jason's pants pockets searching for the keys to my new truck.
    "Ah, here they are," I said quietly to myself as I pulled a blood soaked keychain out of the dead man's pocket.
    I had killed Jason with a quick twelve-yard volley to his backbone, which had severed his lower spin. As I stood up to walk back to the truck, I flipped the control on my rifle to semi-automatic and pulled the trigger once more, putting a single bullet into Jason's head to prevent him from becoming one of the living dead.
    I thought I at least owed him that much, as payment for the truck if for nothing else.
    I had searched Jason earlier, and had missed the truck keys, but in my own defense, I was searching him for weapons, not for keys.
    Upon returning to the pick-up truck, I inserted the key into the ignition and heard the engine turn over, sputter, and then start up.
    In moments, I was on the road once again and making good time, I was headed into Oklahoma and back on the trail of the Sarge.
    However, as I pushed northeast in the new and unfamiliar ride, I couldn't resist adding two more of the living dead to my tally of felony hit and runs, by sideswiping a couple of hitchhiking corpses and sending them spinning clear off the road, and temporally clear of their adopted flies.
    At the same time, I managed to do minimal damage to my new truck.
    As I drove past the city limits sign of Amarillo. By veering slightly off the road to clip the hips of another unsuspecting pair of zombies, I left them with some exposed broken bones and secreting some of their spoiled juices as they wallowed and twitched in the nearby roadside ditch, hopefully suffering greatly.
    I had developed a technique for accruing a large number of zombie hit and runs after losing a sweet little ride I had acquired some time ago in west Texas.
    After butchering several zombies execution style just outside of Pecos Texas, I ran across a classic car dealership that had a fully restored 1969 Mach 1 Mustang setting in its showroom.
    This little gem was maroon with dirty piss-yellow racing stripes and sported a 351 cubic inch Cleveland engine under its flat black pinned down hood. It also had a 4-speed manual transmission along with a posi-traction rear-end and original Goodyear poly-glass tires.
    Sweet !
    This little honey was faster than a coon dog chasing a bitch in heat. And that's where the problems for me began to surface. My new hotrod brought out the teenage boy in me and I just couldn't resist sticking my toe down the throat of the carburetor every once in a while.
    Well, as fate would have it, I was driving way too fast up interstate 20 after checking out one of the countless dead end leads that I had been chasing, this particular one had dried up just east of El Paso.
    After stopping for a well-deserved urination station break (I had to take a piss), I had reinserted my toe back into the carburetor, when I spotted an obese zombie staggering across the freeway and figured I could dust him off with the right front fender of my "Stang" and no one would be the wiser.
    I didn't take into consideration that this particular undead hunk of shit was rather new to the world of the walking dead, and its flesh had not decomposed enough to just slide off the bone like a well cooked rack of Louisiana ribs when scraped by my speeding sports car.
    When I hit the monster at around 55 M.P.H., I receive a clue rather quickly about the viscosity of the chunky cannibal. It happened when I saw the fender of my vehicle fold up like an accordion, and I heard the right front tire pop as the metal structure of the car carved its way through the vulcanized rubber and sent my speeding childhood wet dream careening into the safety guardrail that lined the side of the road.
    It was at that point when I realized that I had hit a newly initiated member of the zombie tribe. When the sickening crunch of the fender