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The day dawned bright and beautiful, with the spongy scent of rotting bodies riding on the sprightly spring breeze. Jeremy, quite frankly, missed the smell of pollution.
Sighing, he buckled his seatbelt and buzzed up the electronic garage doors. Richard sat beside him, gleaming teeth revealed in all their sparkly beauty as the sun twinkled in.
“Ready?” Jeremy asked. He revved the SLS’s engine.
Richard nodded, and eased open the Mercedes’ gull wing.
“Well then,” Jeremy said, “let’s go shoot us some zombies.”
He peeled out of the garage, leaving behind half of the SLS’s tyres and a thin film of the clutch, and tore down the long driveway.
“You utter yobbo,” James squawked, voice tinny over the radio. “We’ve only got about 200 of those massive tyres left, you cock, and the way you drive that won’t last us three days.”
“Relaaaaaaaax,” Jeremy said, drifting easily around an apex.
“Can you please drive with both hands,” Richard said, “especially since MY BLOODY DOOR IS OPEN, YOU TWAT.”
Blasting out of the front gates, which James had opened just in time, Jeremy was delighted to see about two dozen zombies chewing mindlessly on the stone of his garden wall. About a dozen less than yesterday, and still as stupid as ever.
“Get some!” he shouted, power-sliding perfectly to run parallel to the wall. “Powerrr!”
The zombies, obviously impressed by the roar of the AMG’s mighty 6.3 litre (it’s what the badge said, so it must be true), turbo-charged V6, turned from slobbering on the rocks and shambled towards the car. Performing a perfect handbrake turn, Jeremy lined up set out again, this time with Richard on the side of the zombies.
“Sorry,” Richard said, shooting a zombie in the face. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry.”