Chapter 3 – Low Fuel, High Problems
There are many terrible moments a man can experience during the zombie apocalypse.
Being chased by the undead.
Watching your city burn.
Killing your own relatives with a rolling pin.
But in my personal opinion, the worst moment is when you look at the fuel gauge of your only escape vehicle…
…and see the needle sitting directly on E.
I stared at the dashboard.
Then I stared at Imran.
Then I stared at the dashboard again.
"Imran," I said very calmly.
"Yes?" he replied.
"Tell me that 'E' stands for 'Excellent amount of petrol remaining.'"
He kept his eyes on the road.
"I wish."
Outside the windshield, chaos unfolded.
Zombies flooded the street like a very angry, very hungry crowd after a cricket match.
One smashed against the hood of the Maruti Swift.
Another bounced off the side mirror.
Imran didn't slow down.
He slammed the accelerator and drove straight through them.
The car jolted violently.
Something thumped underneath the wheels.
I chose not to look.
Because some things are better left unseen.
"HOW FAR IS THE PETROL PUMP?" I yelled.
"Three kilometers!" Imran shouted back.
"THREE?!"
"Relax! We might make it!"
"MIGHT?"
He shrugged.
"Positive thinking is important during emergencies."
Another zombie slammed into the windshield.
Blood smeared across the glass like someone had thrown a bucket of tomato chutney.
The wipers squeaked as Imran turned them on.
For a brief moment the apocalypse looked oddly organized.
Then three more zombies stumbled into the road.
Imran swerved left.
The Swift screeched around them and shot down a side street.
I clutched my bag of Blenders Pride like it was a newborn child.
"Please tell me your gym is closer than that petrol pump," I said.
"Two kilometers," Imran replied.
"That's still far!"
"We'll make it."
"You said the same thing about passing your economics exam in college."
"That was different."
"You failed."
"Focus on the zombies!"
Good advice.
Because several zombies had noticed our speeding car and started chasing us again.
Which raised an interesting question.
Why do zombies always run faster when you're in a vehicle with almost no fuel?
It felt personal.
We tore through another intersection.
A vegetable cart exploded across the windshield as we hit it.
Tomatoes splattered everywhere.
A cabbage rolled past my foot inside the car.
I stared at it.
"Did we just loot a vegetable vendor with the car?"
Imran shrugged.
"Apocalypse tax."
We continued racing through Jamshedpur.
Shops smashed.
Smoke rising from rooftops.
People running everywhere.
At one point we passed a group of men trying to fight a zombie using plastic chairs.
One chair broke.
The zombie didn't.
I saluted them silently.
Brave men.
Very stupid men.
Then I heard something from the back seat.
A clinking sound.
I twisted around.
The bottles of Blenders Pride shifted with every bump.
Five glorious bottles.
My survival rations.
My emotional support system.
Imran glanced at them.
"You know," he said, "those might actually save our lives."
"Obviously," I replied.
"No, I mean literally."
"How?"
"Molotov cocktails."
I blinked.
"Imran…"
"Yes?"
"That is the most brilliant thing you have ever said."
"I know."
The fuel needle dropped slightly lower.
I pointed at it in horror.
"Is it moving?"
"Yes."
"WHY IS IT MOVING?!"
"Because we're driving."
"That's not how I wanted to learn physics today!"
The street ahead suddenly filled with more zombies.
At least twenty.
Maybe thirty.
All stumbling around a crashed auto-rickshaw.
Imran slowed.
"Hold tight."
Then he did something insane.
He turned the wheel sharply and drove the Swift straight onto the footpath.
We bounced violently over broken tiles.
A tea stall exploded as we plowed through it.
Metal cups flew everywhere.
Boiling chai splashed across the pavement.
A zombie slipped on the spilled tea and fell face-first into a stack of biscuits.
For a moment I felt sorry for the biscuits.
We dropped back onto the road again.
The car rattled loudly.
Something underneath made a grinding sound.
"Was that important?" I asked nervously.
"Probably," Imran replied.
The fuel needle twitched again.
"IMRAN."
"Yes."
"I swear if we run out of petrol before reaching safety I will haunt you personally."
"You'll have to get in line behind your wife."
That reminded me.
I turned to look through the rear window.
And immediately regretted it.
Because far behind us, two very familiar figures were still chasing.
Sunita.
And my mother-in-law.
They were slower now.
But they were definitely still coming.
I groaned.
"Even the apocalypse cannot end my marriage."
Imran laughed.
"You should be proud. That's commitment."
The car hit another bump.
The fuel light suddenly blinked on.
A small orange symbol of doom.
We both stared at it.
"Imran," I whispered.
"Yes?"
"Tell me the car can drive at least one kilometer after that light appears."
"It can."
"How many kilometers exactly?"
"…One."
I slumped in my seat.
"Wonderful."
We turned onto a wider road.
For the first time in minutes there were fewer zombies.
Burned cars lined the street.
But the path ahead was clear.
Imran pressed the accelerator.
The Swift surged forward.
"Gym is just ahead," he said.
I leaned forward.
And there it was.
A large building with a faded sign.
IRON TEMPLE FITNESS CLUB
The shutters were half closed.
But the entrance door was open.
"YES!" I shouted.
Imran drove straight into the parking area.
The moment the car stopped—
The engine coughed.
Once.
Twice.
Then died.
We both looked at the fuel gauge.
The needle rested peacefully below empty.
Perfect timing.
"See?" Imran said proudly.
"Positive thinking."
I grabbed my bag and jumped out of the car.
The street behind us echoed with distant moans.
We ran toward the gym entrance.
Inside, the building smelled like sweat and rubber mats.
Rows of treadmills stood silent.
Dumbbells lay scattered on the floor.
Protein powder containers sat on a shelf.
For a moment it felt peaceful.
Safe.
Imran locked the door behind us.
I leaned against the wall and breathed deeply.
"We made it," I said.
"Temporary safety," Imran corrected.
Then we heard something upstairs.
A loud metallic crash.
Followed by a growl.
Both of us froze.
Imran slowly lifted his shotgun.
I tightened my grip on the rolling pin.
We looked toward the staircase leading to the second floor.
Something heavy moved up there.
Something definitely not human anymore.
Then a voice echoed from above.
A familiar voice.
A female voice.
Angry.
Very angry.
"KRIPA SHANKAR SHARMA!"
My blood turned cold.
I looked at Imran.
He looked at me.
"Please tell me," he whispered, "that was not your wife."
I swallowed slowly.
"Worse."
"Who?"
"My gym trainer."
Another crash shook the ceiling.
And whatever was upstairs…
…was coming down the stairs.