Cole clenched every muscle and bone in his body. Feet were positioned, his electrolytes fired on all pistons, and his shoulders were pitched. Fingers grazed the ground. The announcer lead the crowd with a burning chant. Cole exhaled and pushed all the air out of his lungs. He willed his blood and organs to somehow feel lighter just so he could get a fast start.

The guy strapped to the pole at the end of the track struggled and yelled, but no matter how much he jiggled, his bindings stayed tight. He yelled something about taxes and nonesense.

Frankly, Cole didn’t give a damn. He just needed to reach first.

He was antsy and impatient. And hungry. There was nothing like a snack.

Cole, while not a fan of accountants, found they had a particular flavor that got Cole’s artificial blood boiling.

“On your mark!” the referee roared. He raised the flair gun, clad in thick armor that kept him safe from the competitors.

Side by side, we chatted our teeth, exposed to the elements because of our tendency to gorge on our own lips.

There was dead silence when the counter reached zero, and we, the best of the best in zombie racing, burst into a raging frenzy to taste accountant flesh.