and he wasn't bitching. Yet.
Gotta think, gotta think! Think about something other than pissing!
He ran through a mental checklist. Weapons: the rifle and a hunting knife. Food: none. Water: ditto (and he was getting really thirsty). Location: fucked if he knew. Somewhere near the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Prospects: pretty fucking grim. Maybe he could push up on the tarp, pop the snaps, and as the zombies descended upon them, make a run for it while Ron and Mikey played decoy.
His bladder grew more insistent. In the darkness, he squeezed the head of his penis through his jeans.
"I swear to God I'm gonna puke," Ron whimpered. "Those things stink so bad."
"Shut up!" Mikey and Kevin both hissed.
From outside came the crunch of feet on gravel. All three held their breath as the footsteps drew closer, stopping at the truck. Then-speech, like someone gargling with glass.
"Did your host know how to operate one of these? Mine was too young."
"Mine did, but we need a key. Look inside. It should be in the steering column."
The door opened, and the truck shifted as something crawled inside the cab. The stench was stifling, even
40
though they were separated by steel and glass. Kevin wanted to scream. He pinched the tip of his penis hard.
"There's no key," the voice was muffled. "What do we do now?"
"We'll find one of our brothers who knows how to hot-wire it, or else we'll tow it back to the facility."
The truck rocked as the door slammed shut. The footsteps faded, and moments later, the smell dissipated as well.
They waited another five minutes.
"I think they're gone," Ron whispered.
"Fuck, I hope so," Mikey sighed, stretching his legs. His joints popped in the darkness. "Kevin, you okay?"
"No," he said through clenched teeth. "I am definitely not fucking okay. I've got to piss."
"Let's make a break for it," Ron said. "Get the hell away from here before they come back!"
As if in response, the smell returned. Seconds later, the footsteps followed.
"I can start it. This is an older model. From the Seventies."
"Good. Drive it down to the complex with the others. Ob wants a fleet. Every operational vehicle is to be serviced and made ready for transport."
They waited, listening as it crossed the wires. The zombie was humming, and after a moment, Kevin recognized it as Iron Maiden's "Children of the Damned." He stifled a laugh, and that only increased the pressure on his bladder. He bit his lip, moaning softly as the urgency changed to pain.
The truck's engine roared to life.
"There's not much fuel," the zombie called. "I may have to coast it down the hill."
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"That's fine. The complex has several fueling stations. We shall accompany you."
The passenger door opened, and the truck sagged even lower as more piled in. Then the truck began to move.
"Guys," Kevin breathed, so quietly that they had to strain to hear him. "I can't hold it anymore. I'm sorry."
He let go, and immediately a flood of warmth spread across the crotch of his jeans. It ran down his leg and into the bed of the truck, pooling around his companions. The stench, mixed with that of their forward passengers, was overpowering.
"Ohhhh." Kevin shuddered as the pressure left him. Soaked in his own urine, he gasped in pained ecstasy.
The truck picked up speed now, rolling down the hill. The urine followed the law of gravity, running beneath all three of them.
"Oh Jesus," Mikey exploded. "Stop it, Kevin! Fucking stop!"
"Did you hear something?" someone asked from up front.
All three of their hearts skipped a beat at the same time.
"What?"
"I don't know. Thought I heard a human."
"Your body's ears are faulty. Look around. I don't see a life glow anywhere."
"There's Ob. Let us stop and show him our prize. Perhaps he will reward us."
The truck lurched to a stop, and Kevin's bladder squeezed out the last few drops. The three men lay in the darkness; wet, cold, and afraid.
Ob evaluated the line of vehicles pouring into the facility as
Nikita Storm, Bessie Hucow, Mystique Vixen