S.T. ignored Spider's seatbelt antics with the aplomb of an MBTA driver on quaaludes. Instead, he glanced past him at the mirror, long enough to get the perfect movie-camera bracketed shot of a zombie getting pulled under the wheel while the label proclaimed that objects in mirror may be closer than they appear. Or he assumed that was what it said; he couldn't read it from here in the dark.
Thump. The car bumped up and over several zombies. S.T. was pretty sure he could feel some of them squirming as he rolled over them.
Then he leaned over and plucked a cigarette from Spider's mouth. He wiped it off on his jeans. Good enough.
"Save a few of those for later. Might need them to light the matches." He jerked a thumb at the back seat, where the half-made Molotov cocktails were managing not to spread so many fumes as to light the car on fire now.
The cigarette lighter popped; S.T. lit his, then passed it to Spider. With an overdramatic flourish, he threw the car from reverse into drive, and peeled out of the lot. Zombies growled; the engine, and S.T., growled back.
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Thump. The car bumped up and over several zombies. S.T. was pretty sure he could feel some of them squirming as he rolled over them.
Then he leaned over and plucked a cigarette from Spider's mouth. He wiped it off on his jeans. Good enough.
"Save a few of those for later. Might need them to light the matches." He jerked a thumb at the back seat, where the half-made Molotov cocktails were managing not to spread so many fumes as to light the car on fire now.
The cigarette lighter popped; S.T. lit his, then passed it to Spider. With an overdramatic flourish, he threw the car from reverse into drive, and peeled out of the lot. Zombies growled; the engine, and S.T., growled back.
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