I have a dim shadow of a hope that one day I’ll crack this journal open and write something really happy and positive. Today is not that day.
Well to start the shit storm off right, last week we hit a horde of ghouls. They were all inside a church nearby a gas station we were scraping for supplies. Sticky was outside syphoning gas when they spotted him. (Now, this is where movies and video games get people into trouble with zombies.) Sticky sees the horde and launches a bucket of gas at them, followed by a zippo. I can’t fault him for it, I think most people would have done the same. However, a hungry flesh-eating zombie cares about fire the same way he cares about what you’re wearing when he bites you. The only difference in the bitter end: instead of a mob of zombies you now have a flaming mob of zombies, hungry as ever. Good for you.
I imagine Sticky saw that scenario playing out differently. We got back to the truck in time to get a few shots off, grab about half our supplies and run. The two dozen flame-engulfed zombies overran the truck and gas pump, igniting everything in their path. The truck went up in a blaze along with the whole fucking gas station. We managed to get a distance between us with the fire slowing them down, looking back only to shoot the ones still pursuing us. So now we’re on foot, starving and running out of ammo – again. We’ve been on the run until yesterday; we found an abandoned bank and sealed up in the vault for the night. Sticky still can’t get over the fact that his fire tactic didn’t work.
When you stop to think about it, fire is a slow acting weapon. If there’s a horde unaware of your presence and you lob a molotov at ‘em from a safe distance, they won’t have any idea they’re on fire, much less where it came from. Then you sit back and enjoy the musky smell of burning meat-heads. And plan to be there for a bit. Zombies don’t cripple over and die when on fire. They don’t feel pain, so they retain the ability to move until the muscle is complete jerky.