Emily had managed to find quite a cache of guns plucked off dead soldiers in and around the barn. She loaded them all into a massive duffle bag she'd liberated from a fallen shelving unit, having to drag it across the barn floor due to the weight. She slid it up next to Frank, who'd decided to sit back down as a result of his equilibrium going into insanity mode. On top was a fire axe that was a little too long to fit inside. It was shiny and clean, completely out of place amidst all the blood and guts. He looked away and took another drag of his cigarette, trying to keep the barn from turning back into a Tilt-a-Whirl. The axe was a nice touch though. You always needed an axe during a zombie apocalypse.

On the other side of the barn Jane had assembled a veritable buffet of human brains and blood bags which she would periodically stack next to Frank—which he promptly restacked and positioned to the satisfaction of his OCD.

He felt guilty that he wasn't able to help the girls, but his head was pounding like it never had before. This was beyond any kind of hangover. His temples throbbed, his vision was broken and scattered—little geometrical shapes flashed in his periphery. At one point, he noticed he was drooling. He wiped at his beard, hoping the girls hadn't noticed. But they seemed thoroughly engrossed in their respective tasks.

He longed for a drink. Anything to wash away the pain. Maybe it would clear up the migraine, allow his eyes to focus... the better to stare at Jane's nakedness. As it stood, she was just a light peach smear wafting around in the distance.

And Emily.

Emily was closer and not quite as blurry.

Fuckin' Emily in her short cut-offs and that tiny tee-shirt, which was now cropped just at boob level, revealing two soft crescent shadows sloping up and under the dirty fabric where her nipples stood alert. She was rail-thin and a little waifish looking, contrasting the absolutely fierce and vulgar aspects of her personality.

Had it not been for the blood everywhere—the carnage and horror—seeing the two girls, scantily clad as they were, he could have been watching one of the pornos he so enjoyed. They just needed to start going at it. He wondered how off-putting it would be if he just whipped it out right there and started masturbating. It's not like Jane hadn't seen him do it before.

Then something caught his eye.

It appeared to be a light flashing on one of the soldier's corpses. It was Dahmer... or Ben. His body had been run over by Jane's truck, rolling it like a ragdoll, popping limbs out of their sockets and smearing a great deal of Dahmer's insides on the cold concrete. But there was something shining in his torn pants. A sliver splash of polished metal illuminated by a shaft of artificial light coming through a bullet hole in the wall.

His flask.

Frank got up too quickly and stumbled. He steadied himself and walked forward, his eyes locked on their target. The closer he got the more the flask came into stunning relief. He bent down and grabbed the thing from Dahmer's back pocket. The etched monogram read: The cause of and solution to all of life's problems.

"Ain't it so," Frank said wistfully.

He gently shook the little container and his ears delighted at the glorious sound of liquid sloshing around inside. He unscrewed the cap and inhaled deeply. A woodsy, heady aroma, like tinder after the rain. Natural and clean. Whiskey. His throat ached for the burn, his lips parted and stung in anticipation. The flask was only centimeters from his mouth when a freshly animated zombie slipped in the blood-wash on the floor and landed on Frank's left side, knocking him into the squishy pile of what was left of Dahmer.

The zombie grunted as it continued to grasp for purchase at Frank's legs. Evidently, not all the humans had received their final headshot and this one had managed to quietly pull itself out of the mass of newly dead people and sneak up on Frank, though the shackles on its ankles made his progress cumbersome. Emily had gone outside to look for a vehicle they could use, and Jane was in a trance, sucking dry the contents of a blood-bag.

Frank kicked at the thing's face as it climbed toward him, jaws snapping with an unnerving click.

"Jane!" Frank shouted. "Gun please!"

"Oh fuck," she said, seeing the zombie scaling Frank's body. Frank continued to squirm and pull himself away, narrowly avoiding the clacking teeth as they bit at his legs.

"I need a fucking gun!"

Jane dropped her empty blood-bag and ran over to the scuffle. When she was within a couple of feet she slipped and went sailing through the air, passing just over Frank's head, vagina first, which connected squarely with the offending zombie's face. Her momentum propelled the zombie back a few feet away from Frank where they both came to a skidding halt against the body of Bundy—who had also been mangled by the heavy truck. Without hesitation, Jane grabbed Bundy's sidearm just as the zombie raised its head from between her legs, its eyes glassy and overcome with an unstoppable, instinctual drive. Jane placed the muzzle on the zombie's forehead and pulled the trigger. The face went right back into her crotch with a splat. A small fountain of blood burbled out of the newly created hole in the zombie's skull.

Jane sat for a second, looking at the gory mess in her lap, then dropped the gun and used her finger to pry open the bullet hole. She seemed unnaturally strong as she tore the head apart to get at the brains—like a woman able to lift a car off a baby. The sound of the head splitting open was horrifying, which was closely followed by the suction sound of the gooey brain being removed from its home. Frank averted his eyes as Jane took her first bite.

"Jesus. I was going to say, that's how I'd like to go," Frank said, stifling the very urgent need to vomit.

"Oh god! Tastes like an old sock." Jane's face pinched up. "Ugh. I thought since it was fresh... but Jesus, this is disgusting," Jane said, spitting out partially chewed chunks.

"Like spoiled milk," Frank said.

Jane spun around to look at Frank, coming out of her trance. She dropped the brain as fluid dripped off her chin, snaking down between her cleavage. "Oh shit. I am so sorry. Lost my head there for a second."

"Not to worry. And you don't have to apologize for saving my life. Again."

"Are you bit?" she asked him.

Frank checked himself. "No, I don't think so. No."

"Jesus, I'm an animal," Jane said, her face distorting at the sudden realization. She genuflected and pushed the dead body away with her feet.

"An animal that just tackled a guy with her vagina. Pretty impressive."

"Okay. Pants. Pants are in order," she nodded to herself.

"Not on my account," Frank said, searching for the flask that had been knocked from his hand in the skirmish.

"Stop being so annoyingly droll about this whole thing."

"I make jokes when I'm scared."

"Well stop it. Please. Just for a while." Jane said, looking serious. She walked back to the human pen and began pushing bodies aside. She found a woman wearing a filthy, blood-drenched house dress. "This will have to do," she said. She rolled the woman over to reveal another animated zombie gnashing its teeth, pinned under the weight of all the other bodies. "Well look at you," Jane said. The zombie seemed to recognize Jane as one of its own and its clacking jaws ceased, its bloodshot eyes darting around in their sockets. "Found another one," Jane said over her shoulder to Frank.

He still hadn't found the flask.

"Smother it with your pussy," he said casually—then rolled his eyes at himself. "Jesus. Sorry."

She ignored the comment and busied herself with removing the dead woman's dress. "It's not going anywhere," she said.

"Got it!" Frank exclaimed

"Got what?"

"The solution," he said. He had already uncapped the flask before the zombie had attacked and when it, the flask, fell, most of the rich brown liquor had poured out to mingle with the blood on the floor. But there was still a swallow left. He dumped the contents of the flask down his throat and reveled in the taste and warming sensation.

Jane walked back over, now in what had once been a flower-print country dress with small snap buttons all the way down the front. It looked hideous now, coated in grime and gore but somehow, Jane made it look good. It was short-sleeved and tight in the right places, the hem coming down about mid-thigh and waving slightly as she moved.

"I wish we still had those thigh-highs," he said wistfully.

"Her shoes were the wrong size," she said. "Who's flask? Have you had that this whole time?"

"No. It was that guy's." He pointed to Dahmer splattered across the floor. "But now that you mention it, I think I'll keep it." He tried to suck any remaining moisture from the thing. "You look good by the way. Still hot. In a Texas Chainsaw Massacre kinda way."

"Thanks Frank."

"Don't mention it." Frank got up and hobbled back to his chair, near their supplies. "Still, those thigh-highs would've been the shit." He lifted the bag of guns just to make sure he could. It was annoyingly heavy, but he could manage.

Jane had picked up the gun she'd used to kill the zombie that'd attacked Frank and walked back to the pen. She scanned the twisted mass until she found her target, took aim, and fired once.

"These guys aren't like me," She mused.

"Yeah, they're super aggressive. Maybe they hadn't gotten the cow injection yet," Frank said.

"What?"

"Doesn't matter. They were just telling me how the new zombies are super belligerent once they come back."

"Right?" Jane said, putting her hands on her hips.

"Yeah, apparently the B.4 variant makes them all crazy."

"But I'm B.4, right?"

"Before what?"

"No, B-point-4."

"Oh, right. Yeah... I don't know. Maybe you're something different. B.5?"

"Yeah, maybe," Jane pondered.

"Did they... I mean, before you nearly ran over me with that truck. Did they... were they able to..." Frank didn't know how to ask the question, but Jane understood.

"No. They tried. This one fucking guy, Ramirez, he was just about to rape me when the side of the medical trailer blew up."

Frank giggled to himself.

"What?" Jane asked. "Rape is funny?"

"No. Just... Ramirez. All these sick bastards named themselves after serial killers." Jane looked at him blankly. "Richard Ramirez. The Night Stalker. Killed a bunch of people in the 80s." Frank told her about Dahmer, Bundy and Sargent Gacy.

"Jeez. These guys were twisted," she half-laughed.

"Yeah," he said, re-straightening Jane's stash of organs and blood-bags for the third time in as many minutes. "Rape is pretty hilarious though."

Jane blew out a short puff of air and shook her head. "You're just as sick as these assholes, you know that?"

"Can't argue."

"But for whatever reason... I still like you," she said.

"Well... I am awesome."

"You actually are. I wouldn't want to be stuck in the apocalypse with anyone else," Jane's voice shifted into a soft lilt.

"Except maybe Bill Bonzi," Frank said.

"Well... yeah," Jane snorted.

"But actually, for a zombie, you're not half bad. I mean, you seem pretty intent on this whole vehicular manslaughter thing, but I have to admit—apart from you being incredibly beautiful, you are without a doubt the best reason I have for staying alive." Frank finished checking the weapons and zipped up the bag. "Even though you're dead. Looks like Emily found some grenades."

Without warning, Jane closed the distance between them with a few steps. She grabbed Frank by the shirt and pulled him against her chest. "You're... you're... great," she said softly, her breath smelling slightly metallic, smelling the way a bloody nose tastes.

Frank didn't quite know what to do. His skull was still pounding, and his vision not fully restored. Her unexpected advance had caught him off guard.

"Well?" she said, her eyes fluttering, her full lips caked with drying blood.

"What?"

"I won't punch you this time," she said.

And they were kissing—deeply, hungrily. The throbbing in Frank's head migrated to his groin as Jane's arms wrapped around his shoulders. She pressed into him and Frank experienced a flash of fear shooting through his consciousness as he pictured her biting through his tongue. Is the germ in her saliva? It had to be in all that blood. God I really hope I'm immune.

But it was too late to worry about that. It was already happening. And it was glorious. Whatever the outcome, it was worth it he decided and held her tighter. Shoot first, ask questions later.

It was an amazing kiss. Their mouths moved in tandem, working with each other, sparing tongue action, no bumping teeth and all the right pauses for breath. As Frank's hands gripped Jane's ass, she slid one of hers down his stomach and stopped at his crotch, her fingers squeezing his growing erection.

"He's a good kisser," Emily said as she appeared out of nowhere. "But his pussy eating skills leave a lot to be desired."

Jane and Frank pulled apart quickly—like frolicking teens caught at a church picnic. "Jesus, Emily," Jane exclaimed, breathing heavily, wiping her lips on the back of her hand.

"And he's got this scar on his balls that's a little off putting."

Frank cocked his head to the side. "Wait..." he started, looking at Emily curiously, suddenly unsure again.

Emily started pulling the gun bag across the floor, clearly exaggerating the effort. "And I'd suggest you put off the penetration until we get on the road. I'll drive so you guys can consummate."

"You found a truck?" Jane asked doing her best to act nonchalant.

"I found a Jeep." Emily said flatly.

"Wait..." Frank said again, a finger on his lower lip, his brow creased in confused concentration. "How did you..."

"Where are we going to go?" Jane asked.

"Nowhere until I fucking kill Roy."

"He's still here?"

"Don't know... but we're not leaving until I'm 100 percent sure."

"Wait..." Frank said, jostling his fading hard-on over his pants, touching the spot on his balls where he'd had stitches in high school. An unfortunate incident involving an attempt to flee campus security and the top of a loose chain link fence.

"You know what," Emily said to Frank, "maybe you could put a hold on scratching your junk to help me get this bag outside."

Frank looked over at Emily and she raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Right," he said and stepped over, taking the canvas straps from her hands, and straining as he pulled it up to his shoulder.

"There ya go daddy," Emily said, smacking Frank's ass.

"What's with the 'daddy' shi-"

"What is that?" Jane interrupted, looking toward the open barn door.

Frank and Emily stopped too, listening.

"Nghhnnnggghhh!"

"Sounds like a dying animal," Frank said.

"Nnnnnggghhhhh!"

"It's fuckin' Roy," Emily said, grabbing her gun and marching toward the door.