Read Zombie Fighter Jango #1 The Road to Hell Is Paved With Zombies for Free Online

bomp-bomp, wheet, whaant, boom-boom,” he sang as he robot-walked into the pantry, sat down on a large drum of soy protein isolate, then started gorging on beef-jerky and drinking apple-juice from a one-gallon can. After several minutes of non-stop gorging, he belched, and sighed contentedly. He then began methodically packing jerked beef into his large digi-cam patterned backpack.
    Jango amused himself for a few minutes by pretending that he couldn’t find his backpack due to its pixelated green and tan “camouflage” coloring. “Where the hell is my ruck-sack,” he yelled in a parody of an old man’s voice, alternating between waving one fist over his head and giggling maniacally.
    After a while, Jango stopped giggling, and hiccoughed. The hiccough seemed to knock something loose. He suddenly stood up, and decided that he needed to find a toilet right away! Just thinking about using a toilet made him think about one of his favorite movies, “Zombieland,” and the dangers of using a toilet during a zombie out-break. He flat out refused to die on a toilet.
    He strapped his backpack on, shifted his stick to his left hand, and, just to be safe, drew the pistol from its holster under his left arm before cautiously going to look for the toilet.
    The lavatory was easy to find, given the fact that it was placed in close proximity to the cafeteria. He considered that to be sound reasoning, “Cause eating and shitting is what humans do best!” he said in the voice of a weird cartoon tiger he had recently seen in a commercial on TV.
    Jango walked past the door marked “women’s room”, looked at the men’s room door for a moment, and then nudged the door open with the striking end of his stick. He kept his pistol at waist level, pointed forward, and close to his body. He had always cringed when he watched movies and television shows where the cops ran around with their pistols held out in front of them. It had always grated on his nerves when the actors would let their handguns lead around a blind corner. Like the fucking pistol could spot danger. He firmly believed in keeping control of any weapon in his hands, and he just as firmly believed in keeping his weapon in his own hands.
    He had to suppress the urge to call out hello as he pushed all the way into the large and well-appointed restroom. He glanced around in the dim emergency lighting
    There were three sinks, a long mirror on his right, and four toilet-stalls on his left. Jango dropped to his knees and peeked under the stall doors to see if there were any surprises waiting for him in there. He immediately spotted a pair of butter colored leather loafers that had legs attached to them. The pants were bunched around a pair of fat ankles as though someone were in there having a bowel movement. He felt his heart start beating its tune of madness to come. His chest constricted as he felt himself start to nut-up, but he pushed it back. He took several deep breaths, letting his belly expand with each breath, calming, calming.
    He couldn’t decide what to do, until a gurgling exhalation of flatulence and a gut cramp made his decision for him.
    Jango stood up, and rapped on the bank of stalls with his stick. “Hey, you,” he said loudly, “You almost done in there?” He mentally cursed himself for the stupid question even as he waited hopefully for some kind of answer.
    Nothing, nada, zip, zilch. No sounds came from the occupied stall, so he carefully opened the stall nearest to the entrance, and closed it behind him. He shot the puny little bolt that comes standard with all toilet stalls. It was barely even an illusion of safety. The twelve-inch gap at the bottom of the stall, and a three-foot gap at the top of the stall ruined any illusions of safety he might have had without even considering the half-assed latch.
    He took off his backpack, and hung it from the coat hook on the back of the stall door while mentally reminding himself to find a shirt. Then, he