“Honey, I want some tuna.”

I looked over at Nicole, who was making hungry eyes at me in the passenger’s seat. She was beautiful, smiling patiently despite the rather untimely invasion of zombie communists. Then she added, “and maybe some peanut butter.” She was also extremely pregnant.

“Alright, I’ll stop someplace,” I said, glancing at the fuel gauge. “I need to fill up, too.”

After driving for an hour, it was becoming clear that the zombies were an unstoppable force. Resurrected bicyclists creakily pedaling along the freeway. Rotting haberdashers hoisting the hammer and sickle. Cripes, bearded babies crawling toward pubs. Could you even get vodka out here?

I pulled into an old Union 76 and turned off the engine. “Nicole, I’ll just be a minute.”

“I’m coming with you…” she started.

“No, you stay in the car. No matter what happens, stay in the car. I’ll be right back. I love you.”

Before she could protest, I opened my door and stepped into the putrid arms of one zombie gas station attendant Karl Marx.