Just Another Day at the Office: A Walking Dead Short Read Free

the car. Philip’s ears ring unmercifully as he trains the front-site of the .45 on four tiny spiral-shaped objects on the ground by the fuel pumps, only partially visible now behind the throngs of zombies milling about the lot. Only moments ago Martinez gave him a quick tutorial on the volatility of such military ordnance, and now Philip executes his Hail Mary pass.
    He squeezes off four quick blasts—the rest of the clip—and the sparks off the pavement catch the detonator cords coiled by the pumps.
    The first explosion pops like a camera strobe, followed by three more successive pops of the flexible plastic tubing, which is filled with Pentaerythritol tetranitrate (or so its says on the label, right next to the field guide directions), sending debris up into the air and roasting a small group of dead that are too close. As these initial flashes of “det” cord light up the sky, Philip gives the SUV a kick, and the vehicle takes off with a jerk.
    He gets far enough away, slamming through another few rows of zombies, and then careening across the vacant lot, that the second-level explosion—the C-4 that he hastily squeezed under the pump housings—merely slams him against the dash and momentarily blinds him. The SUV keeps going, while the eruption behind him vaporizes hundreds of moving cadavers and opens up the sky, sending a necklace of fireballs heavenward, making Philip swerve and gasp, the shock wave goosing the vehicle and flashing magnesium-white in the rearview.
    Now he knows he has only microseconds to get behind cover, and he yanks the wheel.
    The SUV skids sideways in the mud, completely clear of the zombie horde now. The gravitational forces push the vehicle over. The interior slams down onto its side, cracking Philip’s teeth and sending jolts of searing pain up his rib cage. He curls into a fetal position, as the third and final level of explosive gases ignite.

    On the fire escape across town, above the dry cleaners, Martinez instinctively ducks down. The shock wave rattles the storefronts, some of the windows imploding in a series of sucking crashes. The few zombies left inside the cordon of town are knocked over like bowling pins. Martinez shields his eyes against the heat flash.
    In the distance, a fireball the size of a house shoots up and ignites the sky.
    Martinez backs into the corner, squinting up at the brilliant maelstrom. A crown of black smoke curls up on the tail of the fireball, then mushrooms with a rumbling roar that sounds like a freight train. The radio tower ignites in a fiery column of pure white light.
    Martinez is transfixed by the sight.
    At this distance, it looks as though the blast is raining litter. The sparks and burning chunks of debris bloom in all directions, then cascade down like a smoldering waterfall. With a mixture of exhilaration and nausea Martinez realizes that the burning particles are body parts.
    The blast dissipates within seconds, but the light and noise are so intense that the shock wave seems to go on for many minutes. Martinez covers his head as debris rains down from the overhang. Car alarms go off. The very foundation of the building seems to shiver and quake in aftershocks.
    Then the roar ceases, and Martinez inhales a deep breath. He stretches his sore neck in the ensuing stillness. Now there are only scattered car alarms chirping and a few stray gunshots as the stragglers are dispatched.

    At length Martinez gets his bearings. He picks up his M4 and climbs down the ladder to ground level. Dizziness washes over him as he starts north. The sky hangs low with a haze of noxious smoke.
    The streets are relatively quiet. Burning debris lies here and there. A few of the armed residents patrol, some them dragging bodies into a giant funeral pyre near the courthouse. Others take out the last of the errant dead with easy head shots.
    Martinez makes his way north toward the construction site. He can see men already starting to gather at the fence, the sound of