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against the
roof, slid across its rough surface for nearly fifteen yards, and
brought them to an abrupt stop. He quickly unlatched the carabineer
that secured him to Cho, took a firm grip on her belt and heaved
her back the way they'd come. This did two things: One, it sent Kat
nearly thirty feet backwards up the zip-line, putting her behind
his crouched form and well away from the as-of-yet unresponsive
dead. Two, it gave Jake a few seconds to prepare himself and free
his crowbar from its scabbard along his back. As he worked, the
creatures turned their piss-yellow eyes towards the noise generated
by his landing.
    The zombies had just begun to register his
presence when the hooked, business end of his weapon punched its
way into the first one's head. Jake's punishing two-handed smash
pulverized its skull, sending chunks of bone into the creature's
brain as the crowbar turned its parietal and occipital lobes to
mush. That one fell without so much as a chatter of its gray teeth
while he yanked his weapon free, spun it end-over-end, and jammed
its chisel tip through the second's creature's ear as the moldy
thing turned. The steel tip punctured both temporal lobes along
with the opposite side of the horror's skull, ventilating its
cranium. The zombie stiffened and Jake kicked it in the ribs,
sending it sideways to the roof's surface in the first creature's
wake. It left awful-smelling gore smeared along half the crowbar's
length, which he flicked away by whipping the weapon towards his
feet.
    By that time, the six remaining creatures
were in full-on “hunter” mode. Their jaws were snapping like
horrific castanets in anticipation of feeding on warm flesh,
sending brackish, black fluid down over their lips and chins as
they staggered forward. Jake couldn't say one way or another if
said goop was zombie saliva or if their snapping jaws had simply
bitten off their own tongues, but he had no intention of getting
close enough to find out. He circled away as one by one, each
raised its desiccated, ragged-nailed hands towards him and
continued their advance. There was ample room on their particular
roof, but the open stairwell door worried him. If these had found
their way up from street level without signs of human prey about,
any number could come traipsing up those stairs. Closing that door
was the first thing he needed to do, preferably before more of the
rotten shits arrived.
    Another of the maggot-heads stumped forward,
half-decomposed hands stretched out towards Jake in anticipation of
tearing into him. In life the creature had, at least judging from
its clothing, been a doughnut shop employee. Jake noticed said fact
with some disgust, positive he'd never be able to eat another
raspberry-filled again without having flashbacks. If that weren't
bad enough, while he was not particularly sensitive to the awful
stench that went hand-in-hand with decaying flesh, the thing's rank
odor caused him to gag violently.
    It smelled like a warm, pickle-flavored
yogurt and butt-cheek parfait.
    Jake tasted bile in the back of his throat as
it stepped closer, noting once again the black goo that coated the
creature’s mouth, neck, and apron front. None of his little group
of survivors, not even their EMT Maggie Reed, had been able to
confirm what the fluid actually was. Jake's opinion leaned toward
drool. That posed the disturbing question: While zombies couldn't
feel pain, did they feel pleasure? More specifically, did they like the taste of human flesh and blood? He didn't even want
to consider that possibility. That would mean, at some primal
level, the creatures were actually aware . What if a person's
consciousness was trapped inside their body after death, watching
as they fed on other humans, helpless to stop the dead shell? It
was too horrible to contemplate.
    Skipping to the left, Jake jammed his crowbar
through the nearest creature's right eye. The thing stiffened
briefly then fell, creating a paintball-like splatter pattern as
its