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man’s forearm muscles extracted from bone as the blood spurted in all directions. The victim screamed even louder as his severed arm flashed before his eyes en route to the mouth of the hulking monster. I didn’t think the poor guy could scream louder than before, but I was wrong. His amplified scream was short-lived as a teenage girl in a blood-soaked cheerleading skirt bit him directly on his mouth, and he went silent with the bloody kiss.
    After gathering myself from the shock of what I had just seen, I again continued to my left and squeezed in between the left guardrail and the stopped cars along the fast lane. I narrowly avoided a car trying the same tactic, and was saved by the lack of two additional wheels. As I passed under the overpass, the screams were amplified and echoed in my helmet.
    I still had six miles to go.
    If you ever find yourself in a zombie scenario, I recommend a KLR650 as the preferred mode of transportation. Mine was particularly well-suited as I had installed engine guards to protect it when trail riding or in case of a crash. With the KLR’s versatility, respectable gas mileage, single cylinder 650cc motor, minimal maintenance needs, and agile handling, the Kawasaki was the optimal model for this situation.
    The left side of the freeway shoulder remained open for about another half mile. Ahead I could see smoke billowing from the slow lane, farther right. As I got closer, I realized the smoke was emanating from a series of tanks blocking the on-ramp to the right and the off-ramp just beyond the overpass. This seemed like a good strategy to slow the progress of the monsters but the creatures were spilling unchecked from residential and commercial areas onto the freeway. I surmised the military was trying to control the traffic on and off the freeway but it didn’t look as if they were having much success.
    I thought office jobs sucked.
    The smoke ahead turned out to be from a burning vehicle which had rolled off the side of the off-ramp. Perhaps the driver had tried to circumvent the tanks? Had the driver accidentally crashed, or had he been shot by the tank’s 125mm cannon for not obeying the roadblock? I decided it didn’t matter, and looked for a safer way to get off this clusterfuck.
    The road ahead became increasingly difficult to traverse. Military vehicles blocked the exits and prevented me from taking my leave. I could have waited in a long line of cars, but I didn’t feel safe exposed and just idling on the off-ramp, waiting for the military to inspect the vehicles in front of me. 
    I decided to improvise.
    I gripped the throttle tighter, forcefully dropped the bike into second gear with my left foot, cut hard right. Jumping the curb on the right shoulder I proceeded up the ice-plant-covered hill which bordered the highway and the frontage road. I didn’t know what I was going to see as I crested the shoulder, but anything was better than the mess I was exiting below.
    The monster was a short and portly fellow. He sported a bloodstained T-shirt with the words Don’t Mess With Texas emblazoned across his chest. However, if I was a betting man, I would wager it had been stained with various other foodstuffs long before the more recent bloodstains. The monster’s stomach was enormous and I wasn’t sure if it was the result of eating human flesh or poor diet and inactivity. I suspected the latter. Regardless, his bloated belly proved difficult to circumnavigate. Despite his size, I actually crashed into the monster as I crested the hill. He was too wide to avoid in the short time I had to react.
    Down he went, ass over teakettle to the ground. Luckily for me, I managed to put my right foot down and stopped the bike from hitting the dirt as I caromed off the monster. My motorcycle stalled after my hand slipped from the clutch on impact. Consequently, I slammed my left pectoral muscle into the left handlebar. I winced from the sharp pain and was convinced I had punctured a hole in