We’d been driving for an hour.

Joe and I hadn’t said a word since the gas station, but the women were quietly chattering about due dates and diapers and maternity wear. As if the zombie apocalypse wasn’t upon us at all. I sighed and turned my thoughts toward the matter at hand.

The plan was to hide in the country. Well here we were, in the heart of rural Maryland. Just beyond the fence along the road was a small farm, where rows of tomato plants were being tended by a goose-stepping horde of Zombie Karl Marxes. I swore under my breath; there was no escape.

Suddenly Joe came alive in the backseat.

“Go to DC,” he shouted.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“We’ve got to get to the Capitol,” Joe exclaimed. “I seen this before, back in ‘Nam. I know one thing, we ain’t surviving this by ourselves. Go to DC.”

“Joe, going to a city that big would be suicide! No way am I taking my wife there now.”

“We’re at war, dammit! Go to DC!”

I pulled off the road in front of the farm. “You want to talk about this?”