Excerpted from ‘DJ Zom-B’

Reprinted with author’s permission. © 2011, Vinnie Penn

Being let into an abandoned McDonald’s — the ultimate teenager, stoner, pregnant woman, hungover person
dream. I’m sure it’s many other people’s dream, too, including starving post-apocalyptic zombie fighters, which
is us, even if some of us don’t know, but those four categories are probably the quintessential. Even if it has been
several days since anything was prepared there, and even if what is left over is cold from days of sitting, and what
occupies the refrigerator is either soured or on the brink of it. Fact is, no one arches an eyebrow at the Golden
Arches, even at a time like this.

Mercedes and Mary-Beth stepped cautiously over broken glass to enter, through what used to be the front door. Nate
was right behind them, eyes vacillating between the paddy wagon and the darkened fast food joint. He had one quick
sweep prior to letting them in and announced that the coast was clear. That was enough for both of them, and they
tore in.

Mercedes immediately dumped a huge cardboard box of straws over, that she found beneath the counter, and placed
it on top. She began frantically dumping items into it, like she was on one of those 60-second shopping sprees. What
she was grabbing wasn’t all that great, either: the packaged apples that come with the Happy Meal, handfuls of cold
fries, and packages of condiments.

Mary-Beth on the other hand went right for where cold burgers sat under what used to be the heat lamp. However,
rather than tossing them to her sidekick she began unwrapping and eating them, stuffing them into her mouth like
a ... well, zombie would a human lung.

“I worked at a McDonald’s ya know,” Mercedes told her, unaware at this point that she wasn’t gathering food but
was instead eating it. “For one year, while I worked on a demo and dated a loser pot dealer.” Catching herself, or
thinking about who exactly she was sharing this with instead, Mercedes turned, embarrassed, which dissipated
quickly upon finding Mary-Beth polishing off a Filet o’ Fish. “What are you doing? Just put everything in a box.
We’ll eat on the bus.”

“Oh,” Mary-Beth said, the thought having never crossed her mind. She was in a McDonald’s-induced coma.
Mercedes looked out toward the bus just then, and the front door where Nate nervously paced. The zombies
pounding on the door of the paddy wagon could be heard from behind the counter, and Mercedes fretted if that could
act as a rallying cry for others.

“Here.” Mercedes handed Mary-Beth a cardboard box, after dumping out the six different types of sugar packets
inside. Then she grabbed a fistful and threw them in her picnic basket; she would gleefully down some Splenda
at some point down the road, depending upon length of road. A sugar substitute that was considered more health
conscious being offered at McDonald’s is funny, really, but so, too, is the pop star on a steady diet of anxiety
medication salivating over sugar packets. “Put all the sandwiches in there. And don’t forget some nuggets!”

Mary-Beth did as she was told, slowly at first, emerging from the coma almost begrudgingly. Mercedes stumbled
upon the cabinet where the infamous apple pies are kept. “Jackpot!” she shouted. (McDonald’s apple pies can now
be a post-apocalyptic delight, while the initial form they took — bubbling apple sauce encased in a deep-fried lard
— probably would’ve spontaneously combusted, and if they didn’t they still wouldn’t be digestible. Or, at least,
enjoyably digestible anyway.)

“Let’s go, ladies!” Nate’s anxiousness was getting the better of him, and why wouldn’t it? How much pounding can
the door of a paddy wagon take from a half-dozen flailing zombie fists and probably even heads? Not much.
“On our way!” Mercedes declared energetically, and Mary-Beth was indeed in tow. Both of their boxes were
overflowing.

“I’m so glad you mentioned the nuggets, honey,” Mary-Beth told her. But, then she stopped dead in her tracks.

“What?” asked Mercedes. “What is it?”

“I forgot sauces,” Mary-Beth answered, and then placed her box down and scrambled to the back, into the kitchen,
deeper into the bowels of the fast food joint than either of them have been. Mercedes could hear doors opening and
closing.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Mercedes bellowed. “I’ve got ketchup and mustard packs.”

“Stan likes the barbecue sauce,” Mary-Beth replied.

Then Mercedes heard another door being opened, the stainless steel elongated handle singing its tune. While she
waited she looked down at the half-eaten Filet o’ Fish on top of Mary-Beth’s box and debated finishing it. Nah, she
decided. That would be unrefined.

“We’d better go!” she instead yelled sweetly. “I’m sure Stan would rather you be back safe and sound than go on a
wild goose chase for barbecue sauce.”

“What’s the hold-up?” Nate chimed in, leaning through the fractured door carefully.

“She’s looking for the sauces for the nuggets.”

“Je-sus Christ,” he huffed. “Wait here.”

Nate disappeared into the back, deftly, all back-to-the-wall antics and training stances on display. When he kicked
open the door to the kitchen he found a zombie reaching into where Mary-Beth’s face used to be, trying to extract
her brain.

Nate gagged. Which was underscored by a stumbling syntax. “Oh ... uh ... ack ... -uck!” He could vomit, felt it
rushing up, the chips and chocolate from the vending machine at the state police barracks, all of it, along with the
stench of the undead he’d convinced himself he’d gotten used to but totally hasn’t.

The zombie turned, conveyed zombie frustration that it could not get the brain out of Mary-Beth’s head. It had
cracked the oyster shell and couldn’t get the oyster, never mind a potential diamond. It lunged for Nate, as much as a
zombie can lunge anyway.

Nate began firing rounds, but he was all over the place. Couldn’t even hit what’s right in front of him. The zombie
got a hold of his arms and opened wide. It wanted another face, fingers like flu shots. Nate managed to get his
weapon just under the thing’s neck and unloaded a round that split the undead head in half, the front falling off and
onto the linoleum and the back staying in place for ten seconds or so, before it then fell off as well.

He ran off, certain the sound of ammunition being discharged could only result in calamity, from more zombies
coming out of the woodwork (the witless cretins, unable to distinguish between what could spell food and what
could spell death), to Letch leaving him high and dry.

On his way out he saw Mercedes frozen in her tracks, the shock she had just begun to shake back in spades.
Surprisingly, Nate displayed sensitivity.

“Come on, girl,” pleaded the deputy. “Don’t freak out on me now. It’s all good, I took care of it. Let’s just get this
stuff into your pretty bus there and be on our way.” He gently nudged her, and even managed to grab Mary-Beth’s
box with one hand.

“W-where is...um...what was her name?”

“Damned if I knew her name either, honey. And saying she’s in a better place wouldn’t exactly be a lie.”