text: [Themes: Horror]
  
  You really aren't awake yet. You never are until at least your second cup of coffee, and this is only your first. You're having a hard time getting your eyes to focus. But it certainly looks like there's a man in your front yard, crouched down on all fours, gnawing at a leg.
  
  A human leg. Definitely. It's still wearing a sneaker. And a sock.
  
  The man gnawing on the human leg suddenly stops chewing, as though some sound disturbs him. He slowly looks up from his meal. His eyes don't blink, and they seem to be too large for his face. His mouth hangs open. Drool and blood trail down his chin.
  
  You heard about the outbreak in Millbury, of course. You just hadn't thought it was as serious as the eleven o'clock news made it out. They get hysterical about everything. A couple of inches of snow, and it's THE SNOWPOCALYPSE. You can't really be blamed for putting their ZOMBIEPOCALYPSE warnings in the same category. Boy who cried wolf, right?
  
  But it seems the newscasters were at least a little right, because there's a zombie chowing down on a human leg in your front yard.
  
  Shit.
  
  And just then you catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye, and a herd of at least twenty more zombies come staggering around the bend in the road. They are covering ground pretty steadily. Faster than you would have thought.
  
  The zombie with the leg sees them coming. He rises from his crouch, teeth bared, leg in hand. Some of the zombie herd move towards him. (Herd? Is that the right word? Maybe a flock? A decomposition of zombies or an infestation perhaps? ANYWAY...) They start a messy tug of war with the leg, mostly using teeth.
  
  Others look around for different prey. One goes for a squirrel. Some seem to be eyeing your front windows, though you're standing far enough back that you don't think they can actually see you.
  
  Still, this is really not good. Your house is on one floor, and the news footage made it pretty clear that zombies can break through glass with no trouble, zombifying some humans and eating others. And it seems that they've already started doing just that in your neighborhood, because those two zombies there have glass shards sticking out of their faces. And you recognize one of them--that annoying woman who always cuts in line at the coffee shop. She is moving towards your windows. So are about five others.
  
  You obviously can't stay in your house. What are you going to do?
  
  [Author's Note: Fight for survival in a world overrun by zombies! Can you stay alive long enough to get your friends to a place of safety? Will you keep your humanity intact or become a bloodthirsty zombie hunter? And will you discover the secret behind the zombie virus?]
  
  > sprint out of the back door
  You very carefully set down your coffee mug. Oddly enough, you don't really feel like you need it any more; your heart is hammering like you've just downed a triple espresso. You ease backward, moving carefully so the zombies approaching the window won't notice you. You duck out of sight into the kitchen, pause to slip your shoes on, and quietly unlock the side door.
  
  "Argh," you hear from the front room. It is followed by a sticky sound, probably from a wet hand (wet with what? ugh) slapping against your window.
  
  Ever so carefully, you turn the knob and open the door. You hear more hammering behind you, and now you can hear the growls of the zombies fighting over the human leg in your front yard. Your car is just ahead of you, backed into its usual parking space against the shed. You hope the front yard zombies are so obsessed with their leg-of-war that they won't catch sight of you tiptoeing across the driveway.
  
  The ten steps it takes you to reach the car are the ten most nervewracking of your entire life. But you manage to be quiet enough--the tangle of zombies in your front yard doesn't look up until the thud of the closing driver's side door.
  
  Then all their wide eyes go wider and they start for you, but you drive with your foot to the floor, tires squealing, out of your driveway and down your side street, heading for the main road.
  
  We should pause here to get straight a few details about you. First of all, are you male or female?
  
  > Male
  What's your first name?
  
  > Shawn Marcaroni
  What's your profession? I mean, your profession now appears to be "zombiepocalypse survivor." But what was your profession before the world went to hell?
  
  > Paramedic
  You ride in an ambulance and are often the first on the scene of terrible accidents. That severed leg in your yard was not the first you've ever seen. You'd know how to amputate a limb yourself if you had to. More to the point, you know how to do the stuff necessary so amputating limbs isn't required. You're very good at CPR, setting broken bones, and stabilizing patients when hospitals are not available.
  
  And what do you most like to do in your spare time?
  
  > Collect stamps
  Really? I didn't think there was anyone under 90 who actually did that.
  
  Congratulations, you have the most boring hobby on the planet. But I guess it might come in useful when fleeing from zombies. . . somehow. After all, you must have good eyes to distinguish one valuable stamp from ten thousand worthless ones. Maybe those pattern recognition skills will be useful when fleeing from zombies. You can hope.
  
  That tells us what you're good at, but you can't be perfect. What would you say is your worst quality?
  
  > I'm terribly uncoordinated. Always have been. I trip over stuff all the time.
  I'm sure that's embarrassing sometimes, but nothing to worry about. The ability to keep quiet isn't likely to be important when you're. . . er, running from zombies.
  
  Right, then! Now that we know who you are, we'll return to "flight from the zombies," already in progress!
  
  >Next Chapter
  The tires of your little Honda Civic squeal as you shoot down your street, heading for the main drag through town. You try not to look too hard at the scenes playing out on your neighbors' lawns. Some zombies cluster around first floor windows, matter-of-factly marching through shrubbery and glass to get at the tasty humans inside. Others cluster around tasty humans already dragged outside. A few chase your car for a while, but soon give it up in favor of pursuing the sounds or movements that signal easier prey.
  
  You really try not to look, but you can't help noticing that partially-eaten humans rise from the grass within a few moments of becoming partially-eaten, and join the throng of hungry zombies. Only if the hungry zombies have ripped their meal to pieces in the process of dining does the human appear to stay dead.
  
  >Next
  The main street of town is even worse. Zombies punching through the glass windows of the pharmacy. Zombies dragging screaming people out of the coffee shop. Zombies pouring out of the pizza parlor. You don't think that's tomato sauce on their faces.
  
  You keep driving.
  
  You're almost at the town limits, and there aren't many buildings lining the street now. Mostly woods and fields. You're getting into farming territory. Sometimes you see a car abandoned on the side of the road, but you don't see any people. There aren't many people out here, which you hope means fewer zombies. . .
  
  . . . except there are three of them, right there in front of you.
  
  >Next
  On the left side of the road is a large oak tree. I mean, a _really_ large tree--it's locally famous; the base is something like twenty feet around. Three zombies are pressed up against the base, looking up into the branches like dogs who have just treed a squirrel.
  
  Which is an apt comparison, you realize a moment later. High up in the branches is a little kid. A boy, maybe nine or ten. As you come closer, you see that one of the zombies is jumping, and another trying to crawl up the tree trunk. The third seems to be experimenting with all the moving parts necessary to actually climb the tree, but hasn't worked them out yet.
  
  Still, it's very likely only a matter of time. You can see the kid's face clearly now. He looks terrified, and his mouth is open as though he is screaming for help.
  
  He's looking at you.
  
  > help him
  Good for you. Heroic, in fact.
  
  Uh, what's your plan?
  
  >Next
  You slow down as you approach the tree, considering your options.
  
  You could stop the car and fight the zombies. If you stopped the car some distance away, you might be able to fight them one at a time. You have a shovel in your trunk--because this past winter actually did have a lot of snowpocalypses, and in your part of the country, it's only sense to carry a shovel with you. You're glad now that you'd been lazy about putting it back in the shed.
  
  You could try to run the zombies over with the car. They'd have to move away from the tree first, though, because crashing the car into the tree wouldn't exactly be the desired outcome.
  
  Or. . . well, the Civic has a sunroof. And the kid is a little kid. You think you can drive close enough to the tree that the kid could jump through the sunroof. Or at least, jump onto the roof and then lower himself through the sunroof. You think you could execute the manuever before the zombies figured out how to swarm you, and anyway, they don't seem to be very coordinated. You might even be able to run one or more of them down at the same time.
  
  > beep the horn to get the zombies' attention, then run them over when they come to investigate.
  The piercing noise of your horn attracts the zombies' attention, and they move towards the hood of your Honda to investigate.
  
  You wait, heart pounding, until the female is correctly positioned.
  
  Then you gun the engine.
  
  >Next
  She goes down under your wheels with a satisfying splat.
  
  You jerk the wheel quickly and manage to also graze the older male zombie, trapping his leg under the car. He pulls away, and it tears off. Not quite as effective as squashing him, but then, he won't be very effective either with only one leg. Out of the corner of your eye, as you turn your attention to the younger male, you see the older male pulling himself away using his hands. He isn't moving very fast.
  
  The younger male zombie pulls away slightly. Might that be a look of concern on his face? If they have enough intelligence or instinct to go after easy prey, they might have enough intelligence or instinct to retreat from predators--
  
  The younger male zombie backs away a few steps, then turns slightly.
  
  You think he is about to run.
  
  You have to get him now.
  
  >Next
  You correctly judge in which direction he is about to move, and you gun the engine in time to have the car there when he does. Another splat under your wheels. Nicely done!
  
  "Wow," the kid says, once he's safely in the car beside you. "Three at once."
  
  You resume driving, with the kid beside you.
  
  You okay?
  
  > say "Hell yeah! That was awesome!"
  "You should probably put your seatbelt on," you say after a while.
  
  "Oh," the kid says. "Yeah." He does.
  
  "What's your name?" you ask.
  
  "Kayden."
  
  "I'm Shawn Macaroni," you say. "Where are your parents, Kayden?"
  
  There's a pause. "Bottom of the tree," Kayden says. Another pause. "Third one was my brother."
  
  "Oh." You can't think of anything else to say.
  
  "It's okay," Kayden says.
  
  That's probably not true. But you're not quite sure how to say that.
  
  You also realize that the kid might be able to tell you how fast his parents turned into zombies after being bitten, and a number of other useful pieces of information. But you might traumatize him or something by asking.
  
  > say "How did your parents turn into zombies?"
  Kayden doesn't answer.
  
  Are you going to question him any further?
  
  > Yes
  "Look, Kayden, I really need to know this," you say. "It could be really important later."
  
  He doesn't say anything.
  
  > let it go.
  The mall it is. Why mess with tradition, after all? You head for the main road that will take you to the mall.
  
  >Next
  "We're heading for the mall," you tell Kayden.
  
  You've still got a ways to drive through the country before you can pick up a main road, though. At least it's peaceful. No zombies. Just farmland. Old New England at its finest.
  
  You wonder what Lovecraft would have made of the zombiepocalypse.
  
  In some places, great big McMansions sit up on hills looking over acres of manicured lawn that used to be farmland but was sold to some rich person. You're coming up on one now, off to the left.
  
  "Who lives there?" Kayden wants to know.
  
  You have no idea.
  
  "Should we tell them what's happening?"
  
  Do you head for the house?
  
  > Yes, that house looks defensible.
  An enormous driveway sweeps up the hill, past a lawn that looks like a golf course, around some artistically-shaped shrubberies, and finally to a front door flanked by statues of stone lions.
  
  You hesitate, engine idling, wondering how best to approach.
  
  > honk the horn.
  You lean on the horn until an upstairs window opens and the healthiest-looking fifty-year-old man you've ever seen pokes his head out. His short graying hair is standing all on end, and he is wearing a silk bathrobe and an irritated expression.
  
  "What the hell do you want?" he demands.
  
  "There's a horde of zombies on the loose," you say. "I stopped to warn you."
  
  >Next
  Shortly thereafter, you and Kayden are installed at a breakfast nook table so spotless you're sure it can't be used very much. The entire house, in fact, looks so spotless it can't be used very much. The man in the bathrobe lives here alone. He's a surgeon, as it turns out--works in the hospital one city over. His name is Michael.
  
  He frowns as you describe your morning. It's the first he's heard of a zombie horde nearby. He's been at the hospital the last two days, because somebody infected with zombieism committed suicide by parking his car on railroad tracks, so there were many severe injuries requiring Michael's surgical expertise. He only got home and to bed a few hours ago. When you're done talking, he nods slowly. Then his eyes drift to contemplate the wall over your head as he thinks.
  
  > say "I was thinking of going to the mall, but when I saw your house I thought maybe it would be better to try to defend a place like this."
  His eyebrows go straight up. "Oh no, you're not staying here and turning my house into a stronghold. It's a bad idea anyway--we'd be much better off joining a larger group. I'll come with you to the mall." Dryly, he adds, "You look like you could use all the help you can get."
  
  Right, so this asshole is pretty full of himself.
  
  > ignore his tone of voice.
  "Yes, it would be a really big help to have a doctor along. I'd appreciate it."
  
  Michael nods. "Let me just get dressed and pack some medical supplies."
  
  It doesn't take Michael long to get ready. "It's not like I work out of my house," he says when he sees you eyeing his very small box of medical supplies. "Some are better than none, right? So what is it you're driving?" He looks out the window and makes a face at your little Civic. "We'd better take my car. It's an off-road vehicle--I like to go hiking in out of the way places when I'm not working--and we might have to drive off-road before this is all over."
  
  > say "You're right. It would be better to have an off-road vehicle."
  "Sure, that makes sense." You pack up his big-ass Jeep and head out. He insists on driving, of course.
  
  >Next Chapter
  Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kayden playing around with what looks like a smartphone. "What are you doing?" you ask.
  
  "I thought my phone fell out of my jacket when I was up the tree," Kayden says, "but it didn't. And I thought maybe the internet was still there. And it is. Look, Facebook has a zombiepocalypse survivor group! That way you can tell people you're okay. I'll put my name on it, and yours, and Michael's, okay?"
  
  "Sure," you say.
  
  "Hey, this is weird," Kayden says after another few minutes.
  
  "What's weird?"
  
  "So, there's all these posts, from the last few days--they're from all different people, and they all say, 'I'm still okay!' and 'Not zombified yet!' Except there aren't any from yesterday or today. Except from one guy-- Chris Murray. He's posted over and over again, every couple of hours, the same status--'COME GET ME! If you provide transportation to the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility, I can keep you safe from zombies on the way! I know what I'm talking about--look how long I've stayed alive!'" Kayden bends over the phone, a look of concentration on his face. "I'm going to message him and find out where he is."
  
  "Shit," Michael mutters.
  
  That puts you instantly on alert. "What?"
  
  "We're, um. . . " He looks sheepish. "Almost out of gas.
  
  > say "We're WHAT? You didn't freaking check before we left?"
  Michael's face turns red with anger or embarrassment or both. "No, I didn't."
  
  > say "This stupid all-terrain vehicle you wanted us to take is going to get us killed. We would have been okay with my Civic."
  Michael looks even redder. "Well, it doesn't matter now."
  
  He's right there.
  
  > don't say anything. You just check the apps menu to see if there's a GPS app that can take us to a gas station.
  And there is.
  
  You read out the directions, and Michael manuevers the Jeep into a deserted gas station along a lonely stretch of highway just as it begins to splutter and choke and stall.
  
  You get out of the car. Seems quiet enough.
  
  "I'm hungry," Kayden says.
  
  Michael looks with distaste at the gas station. "What they sell in there isn't really food, but it's better than starvation. Here--" He gets out of the car and says to you, "I'll pump, you go pick out whatever stuff you usually eat. Get me some bottled water and some nuts. Or plain granola bars. Something without high-fructose corn syrup."
  
  What a pain in the ass.
  
  > Just a little, to hopefully communicate that he's crossing a line.
  "Since you know exactly what you want, why don't you go get the food and I'll pump the gas?" you say, in that over-precise tone people use when they are annoyed. Michael doesn't seem to notice it. He gives the gas station another contemptuous look and goes inside. You pump the gas.
  
  A moment later, Michael comes tearing back outside, dead white. "Zombie!" he snaps, and you scramble to get inside the car.
  
  You're quite a way down the road before your heart settles down, and only then do you realize that you got no food out of the encounter (and only half the gas you wanted). Still, better than nothing and much better than being zombie food.
  
  You really aren't awake yet. You never are until at least your second cup of coffee, and this is only your first. You're having a hard time getting your eyes to focus. But it certainly looks like there's a man in your front yard, crouched down on all fours, gnawing at a leg.
  
  A human leg. Definitely. It's still wearing a sneaker. And a sock.
  
  The man gnawing on the human leg suddenly stops chewing, as though some sound disturbs him. He slowly looks up from his meal. His eyes don't blink, and they seem to be too large for his face. His mouth hangs open. Drool and blood trail down his chin.
  
  You heard about the outbreak in Millbury, of course. You just hadn't thought it was as serious as the eleven o'clock news made it out. They get hysterical about everything. A couple of inches of snow, and it's THE SNOWPOCALYPSE. You can't really be blamed for putting their ZOMBIEPOCALYPSE warnings in the same category. Boy who cried wolf, right?
  
  But it seems the newscasters were at least a little right, because there's a zombie chowing down on a human leg in your front yard.
  
  Shit.
  
  And just then you catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye, and a herd of at least twenty more zombies come staggering around the bend in the road. They are covering ground pretty steadily. Faster than you would have thought.
  
  The zombie with the leg sees them coming. He rises from his crouch, teeth bared, leg in hand. Some of the zombie herd move towards him. (Herd? Is that the right word? Maybe a flock? A decomposition of zombies or an infestation perhaps? ANYWAY...) They start a messy tug of war with the leg, mostly using teeth.
  
  Others look around for different prey. One goes for a squirrel. Some seem to be eyeing your front windows, though you're standing far enough back that you don't think they can actually see you.
  
  Still, this is really not good. Your house is on one floor, and the news footage made it pretty clear that zombies can break through glass with no trouble, zombifying some humans and eating others. And it seems that they've already started doing just that in your neighborhood, because those two zombies there have glass shards sticking out of their faces. And you recognize one of them--that annoying woman who always cuts in line at the coffee shop. She is moving towards your windows. So are about five others.
  
  You obviously can't stay in your house. What are you going to do?
  
  > sprint out of the back door
  You slam down your coffee mug. Oddly enough, you don't really feel like you need it any more; your heart is hammering like you've just downed a triple espresso. You shove your feet into your running shoes and bolt for the back door. You snap open the lock, yank the door open, and run like hell across your yard and into the woods.
  
  As you run, you can hear growling and screaming from your front yard and your neighbors' front yards. It decreases doppler-fashion the farther into the trees you get.
  
  We should pause here to get straight a few details about you. First of all, are you male or female?
  
  > Female
  What's your first name?
  
  > Shawn
  You spent your early career writing ads that persuaded people to buy things they didn't actually want. Now that you're in management, you spend your life persuading your clients to go with your good ideas rather than their stupid ones, and persuading the people who work for you not to kill each other. This means you are both good at reading people and unusually persuasive.
  
  And what do you most like to do in your spare time?
  
  > Hunting
  You first went hunting with your dad when you were a kid, and now you go several weekends during the season, with friends. You love the deep quiet of the woods, and you're proud of your precision with a rifle.
  
  You wonder if shooting zombies will turn out to be more or less difficult than shooting deer. You expect you'll be finding out. Soon. You wish you'd had time to get your gun on the way out the door.
  
  That tells us what you're good at, but you can't be perfect. What would you say is your worst quality?
  
  > I'm not a visual sort of person at all. Sometimes I envy people who can easily read maps and put together puzzles.
  And for obvious reasons, your job and hobbies have been things that you think about conceptually rather than things that you visualize. That's okay. You've developed many important skills that way, and I'm sure they'll come in useful as you. . . er, run from zombies.
  
  Right, then! Now that we know who you are, we'll return to "flight from the zombies," already in progress!
  
  >Next Chapter
  Right, so you were running into the woods, zombie sounds decreasing doppler-fashion behind you. . .
  
  Once you're well into the forest, you stop to listen. You don't hear any rustling or anything, so you walk more slowly.
  
  Soon the trees begin to thin, and you can see glimpses of apple trees on the other side. This must be the outlying edge of Coursers' Farm, though you've never come at it from this direction. When you go to their farmstand, you always go by road. A few steps more, and you can see the farmhouse, some distance away. Beyond that is the long dirt road that leads from the farmstand to the farmhouse, and beyond that (though you can't see it) is a paved road.
  
  Are you going to head for the paved road, or go warn the Coursers?
  
  > Warn the Coursers, of course! I bet they've got food and guns and useful supplies.
  Very practical of you.
  
  You take the first step forward. . .
  
  . . . and something grabs your ankle and pulls you down. And then up, with astonishing strength.
  
  >Next
  You find yourself upside down, dangling headfirst a few feet off the ground. There's a band of tight, hot pain clamped around your foot.
  
  Oh shit, you think dazedly. Zombies can set traps?
  
  The distinctive chi-chink of a shotgun comes to your ears.
  
  Oh, shit, you think. Zombies can use shotguns, too?
  
  >Next
  But the old woman who steps slowly into your field of vision, shotgun aimed at your head, doesn't have the drooling, fixed-eyed look of the zombies in your front yard. She doesn't have the sagging, rotting flesh, either. She looks overall pretty healthy. She is observing you closely.
  
  "Lucky you didn't run into the bear trap," she says.
  
  > say "Yeah, I guess so. That snare was really well-hidden. Yours?"
  A good choice of response--diplomatic and demonstrating command of both logic and the English language.
  
  The old woman grins a little. "You bet your behind, they're mine. No zombie's getting closer than this to my land."
  
  The old woman circles you again. "Don't seem like you want to eat me," she says. "But you could be bit and just not turned yet. Safest thing is probably to leave you here."
  
  You don't think much of this idea at all. You envision yourself hanging here as a horde of zombies swarms through the woods. You envision them all trying to eat you as you dangle helplessly. They'd start with your head, you're sure. They'd try to take bites out of you as you swung back and forth between them, like bobbing for apples.
  
  >Next
  "On the other hand," the old woman goes on, "that wouldn't be very neighborly, if you're really not bit. Guess I'd better let you down." She's near a particularly large oak tree now. She does something you can't see, and the pain around your ankle vanishes.
  
  To be replaced by a pain in your head, after you fall on it.
  
  "Now strip," the old woman orders, shotgun pointed at your head. "Prove you're not bit."
  
  You don't have lots of choices right at this moment, so you comply.
  
  And the old woman smiles. "Well, good, then! Good for you. You'd better come inside the perimeter. I'm Bonnie Courser, by the way. And you are? Nice to meet you, Zarah the Zombie Killer. Careful where you step, now. There's a few more snares where that came from."
  
  You follow in her footsteps veryveryvery carefully. On the way to the farmhouse, she points out five bear traps, four trapping pits, three snares, and two deadfall traps. "Knew they were coming," she says, in reference to the zombies--at least, you think so; you suppose it could as easily be in reference to the government or the Commies or something. "Can't be too prepared."
  
  In front of the farmhouse, a Jeep is waiting, about three-quarters packed with stuff. The farmhouse itself is empty and silent.
  
  "Where's the rest of your family, Bonnie?"
  
  "Won't be coming back," she says shortly. "I had to stay until I was sure, but I'm leaving now. There's a group of survivors dug in at the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility. I'm off to join them."
  
  "Why bother with all those traps, then. . .?"
  
  "I told you, had to wait until I was sure my family wouldn't be coming back. Had to slow the dead critters down. But the traps won't be enough against a real big horde. I'll do better at the prison." She puts her shotgun in the Jeep, where it has, you notice, several others to keep it company. Along with plenty of ammunition, and boxes of MREs. Bonnie looks up from her packing job at you. "So will you, if you want to come."
  
  > go with her to the prison. She's got food and guns and a Jeep and seems to know what she's doing.
  You've almost reached the town limits, and there aren't many buildings lining the street now. Mostly woods and fields. You're getting into real farming territory. Sometimes you see a car abandoned on the side of the road, but you don't see any people. There aren't many people out here at all, which you hope means fewer zombies. . .
  
  . . . except there are three of them, right there in front of you.
  
  >Next
  On the left side of the road is a large oak tree. I mean, a really large tree--it's locally famous; the base is something like twenty feet around. Three zombies are pressed up against the base, looking up into the branches like dogs who have just treed a squirrel.
  
  Which is an apt comparison, you realize a moment later. High up in the branches is a girl, you think maybe your age. As you come closer, you see that one of the zombies is jumping, and another trying to crawl up the tree trunk. The third seems to be experimenting with all the moving parts necessary to actually climb the tree, but hasn't worked them out yet.
  
  Still, it's very likely only a matter of time. You can see the girl's face clearly now. She looks terrified, and her mouth is open as though she is screaming for help.
  
  She's looking at you.
  
  > say "We've got to help that woman!"
  She glances at you. "Damn right. Get the shotgun out of the back. I'll drive, you shoot."
  
  You brace the shotgun against your shoulder and flick the safety off. Five shells. Three zombies. You can do this. You've been shooting guns since you were a kid.
  
  Not that you generally shoot deer from the windows of Jeeps screaming in circles, though. And the deer aren't generally trying to eat you while you do. You feel your palms sweat as the three zombies look away from the tree and at the approaching Jeep.
  
  "Ready?" Bonnie says, and slams on the brakes before you can answer.
  
  The lurch of the Jeep spoils your aim, and your first shot goes wide.
  
  The female zombie starts briskly towards the Jeep.
  
  You raise the gun again and blow her head off. You see the shower of brains go up as she falls over.
  
  One down.
  
  >Next
  Bonnie hits the gas hard and you whirl away. "We'll come back for another pass," Bonnie says, and only then do you see how close to the window the other two zombies got. Both are male--or were, in life. One young, one older.
  
  "Ready?" Bonnie says again, and slams on the brakes.
  
  Three shells, two zombies. This time, you are ready. You hit the younger male on the first try, and are whirling to face the older male before the younger body has hit the ground. The older male stumbles away, spoiling your aim--your shot goes wide--Bonnie swings the Jeep around to give you another pass--
  
  >Next
  And you find yourself face-to-face with a grinning, snarling, drooling zombie, not more than an arms'-length from your open window.
  
  You blow its head off.
  
  It falls over.
  
  "Nice," Bonnie says, and jumps out and runs over to the tree to get the girl you've saved.
  
  > say "Hell yeah! That was awesome!"
  Bonnie comes back to the car, towing along a woman who looks extremely pale and limp. "This is Jennifer," Bonnie says briefly. "Jennifer, Zarah the Zombie Killer." And you are off again.
  
  >Next Chapter
  "So," you say to Jennifer, "what's your story?"
  
  "The two guys were my roommate and his son," Jennifer says. "The woman was hitchhiking, and I _said_ we shouldn't pick her up, but Bob never did think I was worth listening to--he insisted. . . And then we stopped because I had to pee, and when I got back from the bushes, all of them had zombified. I was right. We shouldn't have picked her up."
  
  "How long was she in the car with you first?" Bonnie asks sharply.
  
  "What? I don't know . . . what do you mean?"
  
  "You know how long it takes for someone to turn, if they're not killed," Bonnie says impatiently. "If they're killed, we know it's almost immediate, but we don't know exactly how long if you're just bit and left alive. . . "
  
  "I don't know," Jennifer says again. "I wasn't really paying attention."
  
  "Well, ballpark then. An hour? A half hour? Five hours? Five minutes?"
  
  "I said I don't know!" Jennifer sounds defensive, almost teary.
  
  Are you going to get involved here?
  
  > Yes. Bonnie is obviously coming on too strong. You can get the information more gently.
  "Easy does it," you say, and several other things along those lines, and finally Jennifer remembers that it was about fifteen minutes between when they picked up the hitchhiker and when the hitchhiker started eating her roommate.
  
  Jennifer seems calmer now, though she has apparently decided to only talk to you, not Bonnie. "Where are we going?" she asks.
  
  You explain about the prison.
  
  "Oh." She sounds disappointed.
  
  "Why?"
  
  "I was hoping we were headed for the interstate. Do you know about Lisa Murray?" She waves a smartphone.
  
  "No," Bonnie says.
  
  "I've been following the Zombiepocalypse Survivors group on Facebook," Jennifer explains. "There aren't, um, aren't so many of them posting as there used to be, but Lisa's still updating her status every couple of hours."
  
  She shows you the smartphone screen. Lisa's status updates are all almost the same. "COME GET ME! If you provide transportation to the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility, I can keep you safe from zombies on the way! I know what I'm talking about--look how long I've stayed alive!"
  
  "I've been messaging with her," Jennifer says. "She's at the transfer center off exit 13. Bob said we'd go there first, and then the church. . . I think that's the best plan, but if you want to do something else, of course, it's your car, I can't do anything about it. . . "
  
  > rescue Lisa
  You're going to have to convince Bonnie. She says she thinks it's a bad idea--mostly, you get the impression, because she finds Jennifer annoying and wants to contradict her.
  
  > make a logical argument.
  You make a long-winded and overly elaborate statement of your reasons for in this particular circumstance, all things being equal, prefering to take the risks involved in rescuing the student because of the advantages her presence might provide, as well as the arguments of honor and duty. . .
  
  Bonnie is distinctly unimpressed, and informs you that you'll be continuing on your way to the prison without stopping to rescue the student.
  
  Which gives you some useful information. Long logical arguments aren't the way to persuade Bonnie. That may be good to know later, although it would have been better to know before now. You hope someone else rescues that poor student.
  
  She rolls her eyes. "Fine, go get some, then."
  
  You walk into the gas station, in search of munchies.
  
  And you find--probably you should have expected this--a zombie inside, also in search of munchies.
  
  In fact, the zombie has found munchies.
  
  >Next
  The zombie appears to have a kid cornered in the very back of the store, between the ice cream cooler and the shelf of artifically-flavored-and-colored "potato" chips.
  
  But the zombie doesn't seem to have actually started munching yet. It turns its head as you enter and studies you with interest. You're not quite sure why you'd seem like more attractive prey than the cowering kid--a girl of about nine or ten--but it's possible that you do. To judge by the (sort-of) expression on (what's left of) the zombie's face. It sweeps its long hair out of its eyes to look at you better.
  
  This one seems to have been a teenage girl.
  
  > try to save the kid.
  That's very brave. Heroic, in fact.
  
  You have a plan, right?
  
  > attack the zombie directly
  Right, then. You'll need a weapon.
  
  You look around the gas station. You are standing almost in one corner, with the counter and cash register behind you. The zombie and its potential victim are in the opposite corner. Along the wall to your left is a display of frisbees, beachballs, and wiffle balls and bats. Past it, in the left-hand corner, is a freezer with bags of ice. Along the wall to your right are shelves containing cat food cans, condiments, lighters, bags of charcoal, bags of hot dog and hamburger buns, and lighter fluid. (On some more relaxed occasion you might pause to wonder what the cat food is doing in the cookout display.) Perhaps out of fear regarding the lighter fluid, there is a fire extinguisher over the shelves. In the middle of the store, more towards your left than your right, are some rickety-looking stands holding candy, maps, and newspapers.
  
  Before you can decide quite what to do, the zombie charges across the center of the room at you.
  
  > go right
  You dart to the right, and the zombie pursues you.
  
  > grab a lighter and the lighter fluid
  Your hands shake as you unscrew the cap. The zombie prowls purposefully towards you.
  
  You swing the lighter fluid container, flinging the liquid inside in a long arc through the air. A good healthy splash lands on the zombie, which blinks at the liquid in its eyes.
  
  You swing the container again, pouring lighter fluid on the floor, in a straight line between yourself and the zombie.
  
  Then you flick the lighter on, touch it to the lighter fluid, and jump out of the way.
  
  >Next
  You don't watch. You don't want to. Instead you stumble towards the cowering kid, who still hasn't moved, physically haul her to her feet, and drag her with you out the door.
  
  >Next Chapter
  You're quite a ways down the road before your heart settles down. "You should probably put your seatbelt on," you say to the kid. Bonnie snorts a little, apparently considering seatbelts to be a wussy invention of the modern era.
  
  "Oh," the kid says. "Yeah." She does.
  
  "What's your name?" you ask.
  
  "Kayden."
  
  "I'm Zarah the Zombie Killer," you say. "Where are your parents, Kayden?"
  
  "Don't know," Kayden says. After a while, she adds, "That was my sister, inside."
  
  "Oh." You can't think of anything else to say.
  
  "It's okay."
  
  "Where are we going?" Kayden asks after a while.
  
  "To a prison," Bonnie says.
  
  Jennifer makes a little sniffing noise.