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Zombie 420

Episode 1 - Blunt Force Trauma

You know those days where you wake up, hit the bong, and think, “Man, the world’s gone to shit”? Turns out, I was right—literally. Six months back, the zombie apocalypse crashed the party, and I’m still here, somehow, narrating this mess like it’s a bad podcast. Name’s Riley, by the way. Welcome to the end of days, sponsored by munchies and paranoia.

Right now, I’m crouched in the attic of a suburban McMansion with my two besties—or what’s left of them. There’s Dex, who’s currently rolling a joint with the focus of a brain surgeon, muttering about how zombies are just “misunderstood vegans.” Then there’s Marla, sprawled on a beanbag, sharpening a golf club with a nail file because “it’s ironic.” We’ve been holed up here for a week, living off stale Cheetos and a half-dead houseplant we named Steve. Outside, the neighborhood’s a zombie rave—groaning, shambling, the whole nine yards. Inside? We’re just trying not to lose our minds.

The attic’s a goldmine, though—some rich stoner’s panic room. We’ve got a mini fridge (empty), a lava lamp (still glowing), and a box of old Playboys Dex keeps “for the articles.” Our weed stash is down to a few scrappy buds, but it’s keeping us sane. Or alive. Maybe both—jury’s still out. See, we’ve noticed something weird: everyone else turned, but us? Still human, still high. Coincidence? I’d bet my last roach it’s not.

Dex exhales a cloud, grinning like an idiot. “Dude, what if we’re, like, the chosen ones? The Pot Prophets?” Marla snorts, swinging her golf club. “Chosen for what, to die with better snacks? Pass that over.” I’m halfway through a laugh when the floor creaks—not us, something below. We freeze. Zombies don’t climb stairs, right? They’re too busy tripping over their own feet.

I crawl to the trapdoor, peering through a crack. Downstairs, shadows move—slow, deliberate. A guttural moan echoes up, but it’s… off. Less “braaains,” more “huh?” Dex whispers, “Maybe it’s Steve, coming for revenge.” Marla shushes him, but I’m not laughing anymore. The trapdoor rattles, like something’s testing it. Then—silence. Too silent.

We huddle, weapons ready—golf club, a rusty lamp, my righteous indignation. The trapdoor flies open, and there, staring up at us, isn’t a zombie. It’s a dog. A mangy, drooling mutt, tail wagging, with a collar tag glinting in the lava lamp’s glow. Dex coos, “Aw, puppy!” but Marla grabs his arm. “Wait—look.”

The tag reads: Property of GreenLeaf Labs. And tied to the collar? A tiny baggie of weed, fat and fresh. Before we can process it, a howl rips through the night—outside, close, and definitely not canine. The dog whimpers, eyes wide, as footsteps—too many—thud toward the house.

Episode 2 - Puff, Puff, Panic

So, there I am, Riley, staring at this dog like it’s the world’s weirdest Uber Eats delivery—weed baggie swinging from its collar, courtesy of GreenLeaf Labs, whoever the hell that is. Dex is already on his knees, scratching the mutt’s ears, cooing, “Who’s a good apocalypse boy?” Marla’s less sold, gripping her golf club like she’s about to tee off on Fido’s skull. “If it bites, I’m blaming you,” she says. Me? I’m just trying to figure out why a dog’s got better stash than us while the house vibrates with whatever’s charging our way.

The footsteps outside aren’t zombie-shuffle slow—they’re heavy, fast, like a herd of stoned linebackers. The dog—let’s call him Blunt, because why not?—whines, tail thumping the floorboards. Dex scoops up the baggie, sniffing it like a sommelier. “Bro, this is primo. Like, dispensary-grade primo.” Marla snaps, “Great, we’ll smoke it at your funeral—move!” She’s right. The windows downstairs shatter, glass tinkling like a bad trip’s soundtrack.

We scramble, Blunt scampering after us, toward the attic’s back corner where a skylight promises escape. I grab the lava lamp—might as well weaponize nostalgia—and Dex yanks the window open. Cold air hits us, along with a chorus of growls that’s definitely not the neighborhood watch. Marla’s first, hoisting herself onto the roof. “Hurry, or I’m leaving you for the zombies—and they don’t tip!” I shove Dex up next, Blunt tucked under his arm like a furry football, then haul myself out.

The roof’s a slippery mess, shingles loose underfoot, but the view’s worse. Down below, the street’s crawling—zombies, sure, but something else too. Bigger shapes, lumbering between them, hunched and hulking. “What the actual—” Dex starts, but Marla cuts him off. “No time for your TED Talk, slide!” We half-climb, half-tumble down to the garage roof, landing in a heap. Blunt barks once, sharp, and I swear he’s judging us.

We duck inside the garage through a busted window, barricading it with a lawnmower and some paint cans. Panting, I rip open the baggie—sweet, sticky relief—and light up. One hit, and my nerves stop screaming. Dex takes a puff, grinning. “See? Blunt’s our guardian angel.” Marla rolls her eyes but grabs the joint anyway. “Guardian angels don’t drool that much.”

Then Blunt growls, low and serious, staring at the garage door. Something slams against it—once, twice. The metal buckles, and a roar shakes the walls, deeper than any zombie we’ve heard. Dex whispers, “That’s no vegan.” Marla’s golf club’s up, my lava lamp’s cocked, and I’m thinking this weed better be worth it. The door splinters, and through the gap, an eye glares—red, glowing, and way too alive. Blunt leaps forward, barking like a madman, as the thing outside lets out a scream that chills my buzz to the bone.

Episode 3 - Budzilla Rising

The garage door explodes inward, and I’m staring at what I can only describe as the Incredible Hulk’s stoner cousin. This thing’s a zombie, sure, but jacked—muscles bulging under skin sprouting patchy, mossy weed like it’s growing its own supply. Red eyes glow like brake lights, and it’s snarling, drooling something that smells like a skunk’s last stand. Blunt’s barking his head off, Marla’s golf club’s up, and Dex—bless him—waves our joint like a peace offering. “Chill, bro, we can share!”

It doesn’t chill. It charges, fast as hell, slamming the lawnmower aside like it’s a toy. I swing my lava lamp, glass shattering across its chest in a psychedelic splatter. It roars, more annoyed than hurt, and swipes at me. Marla’s quicker, cracking her club across its knee—crunch!—but it barely flinches. “What is this thing?!” she yells. “GreenLeaf’s science project?” I dodge another claw, thinking she’s not wrong—Blunt’s collar tag’s starting to feel like a clue.

Dex, genius that he is, chucks the weed baggie at it. “Take it and go, man!” The zombie pauses, sniffing the air, red eyes flickering. For a second, I think it’s working—then it snorts the baggie like a line and charges again, madder. Blunt leaps, sinking teeth into its leg, and we’ve got a window. “Roof, now!” I shout. We scramble back through the window, dragging Blunt as the thing trashes the garage, paint cans flying.

We’re on the roof again, panting, when Marla points. “Look!” The zombie’s clawing its way up, weed shedding like dandruff. Dex groans, “This is why I don’t do cardio.” We slide down the other side, hitting the backyard, but the ground shakes—more roars echo from the street. I peek over the fence: red eyes, dozens, lighting up the dark. Not just one Budzilla. A pack. Whatever GreenLeaf did, it’s spreading.

Episode 4 - Wheelie Bad Vibes

The McMansion’s toast. Those weed-sprouting, red-eyed freaks—Budzillas, I’m calling ‘em—crash through the walls like they’re auditioning for a monster truck rally. Wood splinters, the lava lamp’s a memory, and our stash is somewhere under a pile of drywall. “Time to bounce!” I yell, shoving Dex toward the back fence. Marla’s already vaulting it, Blunt tucked under her arm like a hairy purse. We hit the ground running, the roars behind us shaking the earth. No looking back—that house was a trap, and we’re fresh out of luck.

We sprint through the neighborhood, dodging regular zombies who look downright polite compared to Budzilla’s crew. My lungs burn, Dex is wheezing, “I’m too high for this!” and Marla’s muttering about how golf clubs aren’t made for cardio. We cut through an alley, thinking we’re clear, when Dex trips over something—hard. He faceplants, groaning, and I skid to a stop. There, in the shadows, is a zombie. In a wheelchair. Not some sweet old granny with a shawl—this dude’s young, maybe twenty, rocking a shredded Nirvana tee, arms rotting but still pumping those wheels.

“Aw, he’s harmless,” Dex says, dusting himself off. “No legs, no threat, right?” The zombie tilts his head, jaw dangling like he’s chewing on the irony, and lets out a moan that’s half “braaains,” half “sup, dudes.” Marla snorts. “What’s he gonna do, roll over us?” I’m about to laugh when Wheelie locks eyes—milky, wild—and grins. Not good. He spins the chair, tires squealing, and charges like he’s in the Paralympics from hell. “Holy shit, move!” I yell.

We scatter, Blunt barking like a lunatic as Wheelie zooms after us. He’s fast—too fast—swerving around trash cans with undead precision. Dex dodges left, yelling, “I take it back, he’s a menace!” Marla swings her club, clipping his wheel, but he just spins, laughing—a gurgling, nightmare giggle. I grab a brick, chuck it, and it bounces off his chest. He doesn’t care. He’s gaining, hands clawing the air, and I’m realizing THC might not just save us—it’s juicing these freaks too.

We hit a dead-end street, panting, Wheelie closing in. “Over there!” Marla points—a storm drain, half-open. We dive for it, shoving Blunt through, squeezing in as Wheelie’s chair slams the curb. He’s stuck, raging, but safe—for now. We crawl through muck, hearts pounding, until we spill out into a culvert. Dex wipes slime off his face, grinning. “See? Told you weed makes you invincible.”

Then the ground rumbles. Not behind us—ahead. A shadow looms at the culvert’s end: bigger than Wheelie, bigger than Budzilla, red eyes blazing through the dark. Blunt growls, hackles up, as a low, wet snarl fills the tunnel.

Episode 5 - Boob Tube

The culvert’s a nightmare—dark, slimy, and shaking like we’re in a bad action flick. Blunt’s growling ahead, hackles up, as that massive shadow lumbers closer, red eyes cutting through the gloom. I grip a rusty pipe I snagged from the muck, Marla’s got her golf club, and Dex is muttering, “If this is Steve the houseplant, I’m done.” Then it steps into the dim light, and—holy hell—it’s not what we expected.

She’s a zombie, alright, but a naked BBW, built like she could bench-press us all pre-apocalypse. No clothes, no shame, just rolls of rotting flesh and those blazing red eyes. She charges, faster than anything that size should move, bare feet slapping the wet stone. “Scatter!” I yell. Marla swings, clipping her arm—nothing. Dex flails, shouting, “I didn’t sign up for this!” I jab my pipe at her gut, but she barrels through, aiming for me.

Then—it happens. Mid-lunge, her left boob, dangling like a sad balloon, just… falls off. Plop. Hits the ground with a wet smack. We freeze. She freezes. Blunt tilts his head like he’s seen some shit. She looks down, red eyes blinking, jaw slack, like she’s thinking, “Huh, where’d that go?” Dex wheezes, “Yo, she’s got bigger problems than us!” Marla snorts, “Literally.” I’m too stunned to laugh—this is our shot.

“Go, go!” I hiss. We bolt past her, Blunt scampering between her legs, while she’s still staring at her lost boob like it betrayed her. The tunnel’s tight, but she’s distracted, pawing at the ground. We spill out into a wrecked park, gasping, the absurdity sinking in. “Did that just happen?” Dex pants. “Yep,” Marla says, “and I’m never unseeing it.” I nod, catching my breath. “THC’s keeping us alive, but it’s not saving her dignity.”

We’re in the clear—sort of. Our stash is gone, buried back at the McMansion, and we’re running on fumes. I’m about to say we need a plan when Marla points across the park. A flickering neon sign buzzes: GreenLeaf Dispensary. Salvation, maybe—fresh weed to keep us human. “Jackpot,” Dex grins. We limp toward it, Blunt trotting ahead, when the ground rumbles again.

I turn. She’s back—One-Boob, red eyes blazing, shambling out of the culvert. Behind her, Wheelie rolls up, Nirvana tee flapping, leading a pack of regular zombies. They’re a team now, and they’re pissed. Dex gulps, “She’s mad about the boob thing, isn’t she?” Marla grips her club. “Us or the dispensary—pick fast.” The pack closes in, One-Boob’s roar shaking the trees, and we’re trapped between hope and a one-titted terror.

Episode 6 - High IQ

One-Boob’s charging like a topless freight train, red eyes locked on us, with Wheelie spinning his tires and a zombie posse shambling behind. The GreenLeaf Dispensary sign flickers ahead, taunting us with hope, but we’re seconds from being lunch. “Run or fight?” Marla yells, golf club ready. “Run!” I shout, shoving Dex toward the park’s edge. Blunt’s barking, dodging Wheelie’s wheels, and my legs scream as we sprint.

We hit a playground—rusted slides, busted swings—and duck behind a jungle gym. One-Boob’s roar shakes the bars, but she’s too big to squeeze through. Wheelie’s not—tires squeal as he rams the frame, denting it. “We’re screwed,” Dex pants, clutching Blunt. Then a voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and calm: “Yo, over here—unless you wanna be zombie chow.”

We whip around. A guy’s perched on the slide, maybe mid-twenties, rocking a faded hoodie and a smirk. He’s got Down syndrome—wide features, steady gaze—but his eyes spark with something fierce. He waves us over, pointing to a drainage ditch behind him. “Move it, stoners!” Marla’s first, diving in. I follow, dragging Dex and Blunt. The guy slides down, landing smooth, and we scramble through the ditch as One-Boob’s fist smashes the slide to scrap.

The ditch spits us out near a creek, zombies roaring behind but slowed by the mud. We collapse, panting, and I eye the guy. “Thanks, man. I’m Riley. This is Dex, Marla, Blunt.” He nods, brushing dirt off. “Name’s Corey. Saw you idiots running from Boobzilla and figured you needed a brain.” Dex grins, “You smoke? That’s why we’re still kicking—THC’s the trick.” Corey’s face twists, offended. “What, you don’t think a guy with Down syndrome can blaze? Stereotyping much?”

Dex backpedals, “No, no, just—uh—checking!” Corey snorts, crossing his arms. “I’m smarter than you three combined, and yeah, I’ve toked. Quit asking dumb shit—those red-eyes don’t care about my chromosomes.” Marla laughs, first real one in days. “Fair. You’re hired.” I smirk, “Welcome to the apocalypse, Corey. Got any more ditch tricks?”

He grins, sly. “Better. I know that dispensary—back entrance, no zombies. Been scoping it.” My heart jumps—weed, safety, a shot. We’re up, following Corey’s lead through the trees, when Blunt growls. I turn. One-Boob’s silhouette looms on the ridge, red eyes blazing, but she’s not alone. A new shape—tall, thin, red-eyed—steps beside her, clicking like a Geiger counter. Corey mutters, “Aw, hell. They’re evolving.”

Episode 7 - Blunt Intelligence

The creek’s cold as hell, soaking my sneakers, but it’s better than being One-Boob’s chew toy. Corey’s leading, weaving us through the trees like he’s got a GPS in his head, Blunt trotting at his heels. “Dispensary’s this way,” he says, voice steady. “Back door’s hidden—zombies are too dumb to check.” Dex, still winded, gasps, “You’re a freaking genius, man.” Corey shoots him a look. “Yeah, and I don’t need weed to prove it—quit staring.”

Marla snickers, golf club dripping mud. “He’s got your number, Dex.” I’m grinning too—Corey’s sharp, and he’s ours now. The GreenLeaf Dispensary sign flickers through the branches, closer, a neon lifeline. We’re out of THC, immunity fading, and my hands itch for a joint. “How’d you scope this place?” I ask. Corey shrugs. “Watched it pre-apocalypse. Worked there weekends—stocking, not smoking, before you ask.” Dex opens his mouth, then shuts it. Smart move.

We hit the building’s edge—a squat, brick box with shattered front windows. Corey veers left, pointing to a rusted fire escape tucked behind a dumpster. “Up there, door’s unmarked.” Marla climbs first, Blunt scrambling after. I boost Dex, then Corey, who’s nimble despite his trash-talking. I’m last, glancing back. One-Boob’s red eyes glow through the trees, that tall, clicky thing beside her—thin as a rake, limbs twitching like a bug’s. They’re slow, but coming.

The fire escape groans but holds. Corey kicks the door—it pops open, revealing a dark stockroom. “Jackpot,” he says. Inside, it’s a stoner’s dream: shelves of jars, baggies, vape carts, all labeled GreenLeaf. Dex whoops, grabbing a fistful. “We’re back, baby!” Marla lights a joint, passing it. I inhale—sweet relief floods me. THC’s our shield, and we’ve got enough to last weeks. Corey rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome, potheads.”

We’re raiding the stash when Blunt growls, low and mean. The stockroom’s back wall rattles—something’s pounding it, hard. “Zombies don’t knock,” Marla says, club up. Corey frowns. “That’s no zombie.” The wall buckles, plaster cracking, and a claw punches through—not rotting, but sleek, black, like polished bone. The clicking sound from the trees floods in, loud now, and those red eyes peer through the hole—tall thing’s here, and it’s not alone. Shadows shift behind it, more eyes lighting up.

Episode 8 - Clickbait

The stockroom’s our THC fortress—jars of GreenLeaf bud stacked like a stoner’s Fort Knox—but it’s shaking like a bad acid trip. That black claw’s back, scraping through the wall, and those red eyes glow like someone spiked their contacts with hot sauce. The clicking’s deafening now, a whole chorus of it, like a roomful of grandmas knitting at warp speed. Blunt’s growling, hackles up, and Dex—God love him—yells, “Yo, chill, we’ve got weed for days! Take a hit and call it a truce!”

Marla snorts, joint dangling from her lips. “Yeah, ‘cause monsters love a peace pipe. Swing first, idiot.” She hefts her golf club, eyeing the hole where more claws poke through—sleek, shiny, like they’ve been manicured by Satan. Corey’s already moving, shoving a shelf against the wall. “Less talking, more blocking,” he snaps. “Or you wanna be their chew toy?” Dex grins, hauling a vape cart crate. “Chew toy? Man, I’d be a full-course meal—prime rib, baby!”

I’m laughing despite myself, grabbing a broom—my new weapon, ‘cause why not?—and jabbing at the claws. “Prime rib? You’re more like expired jerky.” The wall cracks wider, and the tall, clicky thing steps through—lanky as hell, red eyes blazing, head twitching like it’s got the worst neck cramp ever. Behind it, smaller versions skitter in, all claws and clicks, like mutant lobsters on a bender. “What are these?!” I yell. Corey smirks, “Dunno, but they’re uglier than Dex’s last haircut.”

Dex clutches his chest, mock-offended. “Rude! This is apocalypse chic!” Marla swings, cracking a small one’s claw—it screeches, flopping like a fish. “Chic’s dead, and so are we if we don’t move.” The big Clicker lunges, claws swiping, and I dodge, broom snapping in half. “Great, now I’m fighting with a selfie stick!” Blunt leaps, chomping a smaller one’s leg, and it cartwheels into a shelf—jars crash, weed spilling everywhere. Dex dives for it, yelling, “Save the stash, I’ll smoke my way out!”

We’re a mess—Marla’s clubbing, Corey’s tossing vape carts like grenades (they don’t explode, but it’s funny as hell), and I’m flailing with my broom stub. The Clicker’s fast, pinning us back, when Corey spots a hatch in the ceiling. “Up, now!” he barks. We scramble—Dex first, whining, “I’m not built for ladders!”—then Marla, Blunt under her arm, me, and Corey, who flips the bird at the Clicker as he climbs.

We hit the roof, panting, weed-dusted and alive. “Safe,” I gasp, but Corey points. Across the lot, One-Boob stomps up, Wheelie rolling beside her, and the Clicker’s claws scrape the roof edge below. Dex groans, “They’re throwing a reunion tour!” Then the ground shakes—hard. A shadow rises behind the dispensary, bigger than all of ‘em, red eyes like floodlights, and a roar that rattles my teeth.

Episode 9 - Rooftop Rasta

We’re on the dispensary roof, a stoner’s Alamo, surrounded by a freakshow lineup. One-Boob’s stomping below, Wheelie’s doing doughnuts like he’s auditioning for Fast and Furious: Undead Drift, and the Clicker’s claws scrape the ledge, those little lobster minions clicking up a storm. Dex is clutching a jar of GreenLeaf bud like it’s his firstborn, wheezing, “We’re the last joint standing!” Marla rolls her eyes, golf club propped like a cane. “Poetic, but we’re toast.”

Blunt’s growling, ears flat, staring at the shadow rising behind the building. It’s massive—red eyes like stadium lights, a hulking outline that makes One-Boob look petite. Corey squints, deadpan. “Great, now we’ve got King Kong’s goth cousin.” I’m still holding my busted broom—selfie stick of doom—and laughing, because if I don’t, I’ll scream. “Anybody got a plan, or we just posing for the zombie yearbook?”

Dex, ever the optimist, shakes the jar. “We smoke ‘em out! THC cloud, baby—peace through puffing!” Marla snatches it, popping the lid. “You’re not wrong, but we’re not dying for your hippie fantasy.” She chucks the jar at the Clicker—bullseye, right in its twitchy face. It screeches, claws flailing, and topples off the roof, taking a mini-clicker with it. “Twofer!” she cheers. Corey claps, slow. “Nice, but King Red-Eyes ain’t impressed.”

The shadow moves—slow, deliberate—and the roof shakes as something massive steps into view. It’s a zombie, alright, but built like a tank: eight feet tall, shoulders wide as a Buick, red eyes glaring down. Its skin’s cracked, oozing something black, and one arm’s a meaty stump waving like it’s saying hi. “Oh, come on,” I groan. “What’s next, it sings showtunes?” Dex perks up. “If it’s Phantom, I’m out.”

Blunt barks, darting forward, and nips at the air like he’s ready to solo this beast. The Tank roars, stomping closer, and the roof cracks under its weight. “Scatter!” Corey yells. We dive—Marla to the skylight, Dex behind an AC unit, me and Blunt rolling toward a vent. Corey’s tossing vape carts again, shouting, “Eat this, freak!” They bounce off Tank’s chest like ping-pong balls, and he swats the AC unit—Dex yelps as it sails into the lot.

One-Boob’s climbing now, Wheelie’s ramming the wall below, and the Clicker’s back, clawing up. We’re pinned. Marla pries the skylight open. “Inside, now!” We drop back into the stockroom, Blunt tumbling after, landing on a pile of baggies. The roof groans—Tank’s coming through. Corey grabs a lighter, eyeing a shelf of THC oil. “Fire hazard, anyone?” Dex gasps, “You’re a madman!”

Before we can vote, the skylight shatters. Tank’s head pokes through, red eyes blazing, and a meaty hand grabs for us—just as a new sound cuts the air: a low, choppy hum, like a helicopter, getting louder.

Episode 10 - Chopper Potty

The stockroom’s a dumpster fire—Tank’s ripping the skylight like it’s wrapping paper, One-Boob’s grunting below, Wheelie’s doing burnouts, and the Clicker’s clawing with its posse. Blunt’s barking, tail a blur, and I’m jabbing Tank’s stump with my broom stub, yelling into the chaos, “Back off, you oversized meatball!” Corey’s waving his lighter near the THC oil, grinning. “One spark, we’re a zombie torch!” Dex wails, “Not my hair, it’s my legacy!”

Marla’s stuffing baggies in her jacket, muttering, “If I’m toast, I’m toasted.” Then that chopper hum cuts through—thump-thump-thump—close now. We scramble out the busted front windows, Blunt leading, and there’s a black, dented helicopter hovering over the lot, rope ladder swinging. “Go!” Marla shouts, grabbing it. Dex flails, “I’m not Spider-Man!” but climbs, Blunt under his arm. I’m next, Corey behind, as Tank smashes through the wall, One-Boob and Wheelie piling out.

The ladder sways, wind howling, and I’m clinging tight as the chopper lifts. We’re clawing our way up, grunting over the roar, and pile into the bay—cramped, sweaty, alive. The pilot’s a shadow behind tinted glass, silent. Dex flops on the floor, clutching Blunt. “We’re the stoner Avengers, baby!” Marla smirks, catching her breath. “More like the Blunt Bunch.” I slump against a crate, THC stash safe in my pocket, and Corey peers out the window—zombies shrinking below.

He frowns, voice cutting through the engine hum. “Hold up. Six months, and it’s just us four. Where’s everyone else?” I blink, the thought hitting hard. “Yeah—pot smokers are everywhere. Dispensaries, grow ops. No way we’re the only ones still kicking.” Dex sits up, joint trembling. “Bro, there’s gotta be more 420 survivors! We can’t be the last tokes standing!” Marla nods, grim. “Weed’s common as dirt. So where’s the stoner squad? Dead? Hiding?” Corey crosses his arms. “Or snatched. Something’s off.”

The chopper banks, and I’m wondering if this ride’s the answer—or a trap—when it lurches. A clank echoes, smoke pours from the engine, and I glance out. Wheelie’s chair’s tangled in the ladder, spinning like a deranged top, and he’s clawing up, red eyes glaring. “You’ve gotta be shitting me!” Dex yells, kicking the air. The chopper dips hard, alarms blaring.

Episode 11 - Crash Course

The chopper’s coughing black smoke like it’s auditioning for a vape ad gone wrong, alarms screeching, and Wheelie’s clawing up the ladder, his Nirvana tee flapping like a grunge flag. Inside, we’re a sweaty pile—me, Riley, clutching a crate corner; Dex hugging Blunt like a teddy bear; Marla gripping her golf club; and Corey peering out, muttering, “This is why I don’t fly budget.” The pilot’s still a mute shadow, yanking levers as we lurch sideways.

“Kick him off!” I yell, pointing at Wheelie’s red eyes glaring through the bay door. Dex leans over, stomping the ladder. “Get lost, you wheeled weirdo!” Wheelie snaps, chair spinning, but holds tight. Marla swings her club out the hatch—crack!—and clips his arm. He wobbles, then grins that gurgling grin. “He’s mocking us!” she snarls. Corey snorts, “Yeah, ‘cause he’s winning the zombie Olympics.”

The chopper dips hard, trees blurring below, and Dex wails, “I didn’t survive One-Boob to die in a blender!” Blunt barks, scrambling to the edge, and nips at Wheelie’s hand—success! The chair tumbles, Wheelie flailing into the dark, and we cheer. “Good boy!” I shout, but the victory’s short. The engine sputters, dies, and we’re falling. “Brace!” Corey yells. I grab Blunt, Dex grabs his jar, and Marla just sighs, “Worst. Day. Ever.”

We crash—hard—metal crunching, glass popping, into a field. The chopper skids, flipping once, and stops, a smoking wreck. I’m dazed, sprawled in grass, Blunt licking my face. “Still alive?” I groan. Dex crawls out, hair a mess. “Barely—Blunt’s my hero.” Marla’s up, club bent but intact, and Corey’s dusting off, smirking. “Pilot’s gone—hatch’s open. Guess he bailed.” No sign of him, just us and the wreckage.

We’re catching our breath, THC stash miraculously safe, when Dex squints at the horizon. “Guys, we’re in BFE—where’s the stoner cavalry?” I nod, the question gnawing. “Six months, no smokers but us. What’s the deal?” Marla kicks a rotor blade. “Either they’re ghosts, or we’re cursed.” Corey’s quiet, then says, “Or they’re smart—hiding better than us dumbasses.”

A rustle cuts us off—bushes part, and figures stumble out. Not zombies—people, alive, eyes wide. A scruffy dude in a tie-dye shirt steps forward, voice shaky. “You… you’re not bit?” I blink. “Nah, we’re—” Before I finish, he yells, “They found us!” and bolts. The group scatters, screaming, as a roar—Tank’s roar—shakes the trees, red eyes glowing closer.

Episode 12 - Blunt Force Drama

Tank’s roar rattles the field, red eyes cutting through the dusk like pissed-off taillights, and those strangers—tie-dye guy and his crew—are bolting like they’ve seen the devil. “Wait!” I yell, Riley, staggering up from the chopper wreck, Blunt shaking grass off beside me. Marla’s bent club’s ready, Dex is clutching his jar, and Corey’s scanning the chaos, muttering, “Great, we crash-land into a track meet.”

“Who are you?!” Marla shouts at the fleeing backs. Tie-Dye glances over his shoulder, wild-eyed. “Run, you idiots—they’re here!” Then he’s gone, swallowed by the trees. “They?” I echo. Dex grins, dusting off. “Maybe they’re just weed-ing out the weak, huh?” Corey spins on him, face twisted. “Shut the fuck up with the puns, Dex! We’re about to die, not audition for open mic!” Dex pouts, “Harsh, man,” but zips it.

Tank stomps into view—eight feet of meaty zombie rage, stump arm waving like a demented cheerleader. “Move!” I yell. We sprint, Blunt barking, toward the tree line where Tie-Dye vanished. My legs burn, THC stash bouncing in my pocket—still keeping us human, but I’m wondering about those runners. “They’re alive,” I pant. “Smokers like us?” Marla dodges a root. “Or just lucky—yet.”

We hit the woods, branches snapping, Tank’s roars fading but close. Corey points ahead—a faint trail, trampled grass. “They went this way.” We follow, stumbling into a clearing, and freeze. A camp—tents, a fire pit, signs of life. Empty now, but fresh: a half-eaten sandwich, a smoldering joint. “Jackpot,” Dex whispers, reaching for it. Marla slaps his hand. “Focus, dumbass—someone was here.”

Blunt sniffs the air, growling low. I turn. The trees rustle—not Tank. Smaller shapes—Clickers, red eyes glinting, skittering closer. “Ambush!” Corey hisses, grabbing a stick. We huddle, weapons up—bent club, stick, jar, my fists—as the Clickers circle, claws clicking like a horror metronome. “Where’s Tank?” I mutter. Marla grimaces. “Probably calling One-Boob for backup.”

Then the ground shakes—Tank’s back, crashing through the trees, but he’s not alone. Tie-Dye’s dragged behind him, tied in ropes, screaming, “They’re hunting us!” Before we can react, a net drops from above—weighted, tight—and we’re snared, thrashing as red eyes close in.

Episode 13 - Mom’s the Word

The net’s tight, pinning us like stoned sardines—me, Riley, thrashing with Blunt; Marla swearing through her bent club; Dex flailing, jar slipping; and Corey snarling, “Who’s the genius with the trap?!” Tank looms below, red eyes glaring, stump arm twitching, while Clickers skitter around, claws snapping the ropes. Tie-Dye’s still roped to Tank, whimpering, “I told you, they’re hunting us!” I’m thinking, us smokers?, when boots crunch closer—human, not zombie.

A voice barks, “Haul ‘em up!” The net jerks, hoisting us into the trees, and we’re dangling, spinning, Blunt yipping like a pissed-off piñata. Dex groans, “This is why I hate camping!” Marla snaps, “Shut it, or I’ll feed you to Clicker-face.” We’re yanked onto a platform—wooden, rigged high—where figures in ragged gear stare us down. Rifles, not claws. Survivors. One steps forward, a woman, gray hair wild, eyes sharp. “Potheads, huh? Figures.”

Dex squints, then chokes. “Mom?!” My jaw drops. It’s her—Mrs. Callahan, Dex’s mom, alive, glaring like he forgot to mow the lawn. “Dexter James Callahan, you’re still a mess!” she snaps. Marla cackles, “Oh, this is gold.” Corey smirks, “Mama’s boy’s busted.” I’m reeling. “Mrs. C? You’re… here?” She huffs, “Yeah, and don’t look so shocked. Me and your dad ate your brownie stash—thought they were Betty Crocker, not your ‘special’ recipe. Next thing, world’s gone to hell, and we’re still kicking.”

Dex gapes, “You ATE my edibles?! That’s why you’re not a zombie?” She shrugs, “Guess so. Found this crew hiding up here—smokers, all of ‘em. Been dodging the hunters.” I blink, pieces clicking. “Hunters? Other smokers?” She nods, grim. “Something’s snagging us—nets, traps. You’re lucky we got you first.”

Blunt growls, and Tie-Dye—cut loose now—stumbles forward, panting. “They’re coming—big ones!” Mrs. C curses, “Tank’s crew. Move!” The platform shakes as Tank roars below, Clickers clawing the trees. Rifles cock, but a new sound cuts through—a low, mechanical whine, like a drone. Mrs. C freezes. “That’s not ours.”

A shadow zips overhead—metal, blinking lights—and drops something. Smoke explodes, thick and choking, stinging my eyes. “Gas!” Corey yells, coughing. We’re stumbling, net forgotten, when the platform lurches—ropes snap, and we’re falling, voices screaming as red eyes glow through the haze.