Free K. T. Swartz by Zombie Bowl

changes now. So, she unloaded the truck, stacked the lumber on the floor beside the fire truck and set her tools aside. The first thing she did was open a window over the garage doors and throw a rope out. Then she drove the fire truck out of the station and turned it parallel with the main entrance. All she had to do was slide the long truck in front of the garage doors, and reaching the doors would be too difficult for zombie brains to fathom. Only those with hand-eye coordination could manage the climb. But she could fix that with sheet metal over the fire engine.
    She backed up the truck and spun it parallel with the building. The passenger’s side mirror scraped brick. Glass shattered; the bent mirror snapped off as she spun the wheel. The back headlight cracked. She straightened the wheel and cut the engine. She climbed out, peeked around the truck. She couldn’t even slip between it and the doors. Perfect. As a temporary measure, the truck worked. She climbed up the rope, through the open window, and downstairs. Her zombie uniform went on one of the clothes hangers. With her hammer, she located the studs around the downstairs windows and front door. One by one, she marked them. Put the batteries in her drill. Its whine filled the station. 2x4 after 2x4 went over the windows, until only thin threads of sunlight peeked through. She wiped the sweat off her forehead; stepped back.
    Tomorrow she’d tackle the stairs, when the sun was up. For now she had water to boil for a bath and sheets to shake out. The firehouse cots actually looked more comfy than the trailer couch that had seen better days. She was going to get spoiled this way.
     
    The morning light streamed through the upstairs windows; all open, they let in a cool breeze that sent a chill down her spine. She adjusted the blowtorch’s flame, watched its color turn from orange to blue, where the center faded into white. On the second floor, she lay flat on her stomach, her arms and head over the edge. Two steps down, she touched the flame to black metal, slowly ran it back and forth until the metal began to sag. With her hammer, she bent it until it snapped in two. She moved to the other side, melted the metal until it broke. She tossed her rope ladder over the edge. Blowtorch in one hand, hammer in the other, she slid down the fireman’s pole. Repeated the same process until the staircase began to lean. She pushed against it.
    The metal stairs crashed into the concrete floor, had her cringing, standing still until the ringing in her ears stopped. Shaking her head, she rolled the staircase out of the way. Back aching, she leaned as far backwards as she could, twisted one way, then the other. Touched her toes, bent her knees. Did a few jumping jacks. Bubbles gurgled as she drained her water bottle. The first major project was done. Now for the next. She climbed the rope ladder to the second floor. Stuck her head out the window.
    The storm from yesterday had blown over completely, leaving the air clean and just a bit cool. No clouds floated in a sky so blue. Below that infinite dome, Danville was peaceful, if she ignored the abandoned cars and trucks on the road. For all the noise she’d made, no zombies shambled their way up the uneven drive. She climbed halfway out the window, looked up at the roof. She was going to have to make another ladder and attach it to the roof before she left: an escape route should the first floor ever be overrun.
    After that, she would hit up All-Mart and then head into town to start work on another residence. Along the way, maybe she’d pick up a few more supplies wherever she could find them. Once she was settled, the real fun would begin.
    Her gaze dropped to the gravel below. Fun… this was fun? Spending her life covered in zombie gore, unable to make a sound or drop her guard? To be unable to just walk for the sake of enjoyment? She needed at least two weapons wherever she went, and couldn’t chance stepping outside without