Laila turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. Vibrations pulsed through Tommy’s skull as he leaned back against the headrest.

Behind him, Micky stared from the window, his eyes vacant, his skin pale and slick with sweat.

Tommy turned to him. “You good?”

Micky jolted, eyes darting around the van before settling back on the road. “Yeah. Fine.”

In the side mirror, Tommy saw Roxy slam the back doors of their van shut, trapping Kim inside. She barked orders at the rest of The Minks, her expression twisting into a scowl.

Tommy turned on the stereo, filling the van with the sounds of Rancid through the blown-out speakers.

Micky’s fingers tapped against his thigh, still avoiding eye contact.

Jimbo cracked open a can. “Road trip!”

Laila revved the engine once more.

In the side mirror, the other vans started to move.

Laila pulled onto the street, leading the way.

The van’s engine hummed under Laila’s steady hand, the wheels eating up mile after mile of uncertain road. Tommy’s fingers drummed on the dashboard.

“Hey, lighten up, folks!” Jimbo grinned. “We’re punks on tour, remember?” He knocked back his beer. “Next stop: Zombiepalooza!”

Micky snorted, a sound more like a grimace than a laugh. “Yeah, headlined by The Undead, I suppose?”

Jimbo chuckled. “Ah, they always kill it on stage.”

The word ‘kill’ hung heavy in the air for a moment.

“So, how’s the tour been for you lot?” Jimbo leaned between the front seats, looking between Laila and Tommy. “Any memorable gigs before the world decided to end?”

Had it only been yesterday that they’d played to a packed house at 924 Gilman Street? God, it felt like a lifetime ago. “We’ve played some decent venues,” Tommy said. “Last single got us a lot of attention on some of the bigger sites. It’s like people are starting to pay attention.”

“Enjoy it, dude. That first push is the best. We’re about to record our third album.” Jimbo sighed. “Mind you, with the way things were going, it was a coin toss whether we’d make it through as a band.”

Micky inclined his head. “Trouble at mill, huh?”

Jimbo shrugged, his gaze fixed somewhere on the van’s peeling ceiling liner. “Let’s just say creative differences had turned into creative warfare. Almost made the actual apocalypse seem like a good team-building exercise.” He threw himself back into his seat. “I don’t want to keep doing retreads, you know? We need to rip it up, start again. Do what Fugazi did, really push the possibilities.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re bored of punk?”

“I’m bored of stock punk. I’m bored of all these wannabes who fall into some nicely structured rebellion. They’re conformists, dude. And they don’t even see it. They think they’re punk, but they’re still dressing like it’s 1977. Punk’s supposed to be more than just a label, more than just a framework you can slot yourself into. It’s about breaking down the walls.”

“So, what? You gonna start doing a post-punk thing, or something? Throw in some jazz, a bit of beat-boxing?”

“Anything’s better than rinse and repeat, you know?”

Laila sniffed. “And let me guess, Zero’s not into that?”

Jimbo shook his head. “I tried playing him some other music. Experimental stuff. Electronica. Shoegaze. Grime. It’s like, if it’s not punk or hardcore, he doesn’t want to know. He calls himself a purist, but it’s fallingback on the same old, same old. So limiting…”

Laila nodded. “Well, if you survive this, you’ll probably survive anything as a band.”

“Survive? I plan to thrive, dude.” Jimbo drummed his fingers on the back of Tommy’s seat. “First band to tour post-apocalypse? Imagine the cred. Could launch a new type of punk-rock. Call it zombiecore.”

Tommy grinned. “Yeah. You could have some zombies growling on backing vocals.”

Jimbo chuckled. “Yeah. Probably have to keep them on leashes though. ‘Oh crap, our backing guy’s just bitten another kid on the front row. Arghh!’” Jimbo’s laughter filled the van, brightening the gloom, if only for a moment. “They’d have to sign waivers to see us. That’s real hardcore.”

Tommy nodded along to the music as the empty highway slid by. Abandoned cars lay scattered along the shoulders, some with doors ajar, others marred with dark stains

Micky shifted in his seat, casting a glance Tommy’s way. “So what’s the plan once we hit Lake Tahoe? “

Tommy shrugged. “Regroup. Get supplies.”

“And then what? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re a long way from Philly.”

“We need to take it one day at a time, man. We’ll get there. We just need to keep focused on the now.”

A bitter laugh escaped Micky. “We’re so screwed.”

“Maybe.” Tommy frowned. “But we’ve got each other. We’ll figure this out.”

Micky shook his head, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Tommy cranked up the volume, allowing Tim Armstrong’s gritty vocals to drown out the uncertain future looming before them.

He watched Micky from the corner of his eye as they drove, taking in his twitchy movements. There was no doubt that withdrawal was hitting Micky hard.

Though he had his demons, he always came through for the band when it mattered. But if Micky derailed now, they were all in trouble.

Laila’s phone rang and she pressed to answer. “Yeah?”

“Hey, you,” a gravelly voice came through the van’s speakers.

Laila smiled at Tommy. “It’s Dee.”

“Damn right it’s Dee. How you guys holding up in there?”

“Oh, living the dream, as always. You know me, cool as a cucumber.”

Dee laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“We’ve got to do something to lighten the mood around here. I’m starting a game of I Spy. Roxy’s already playing along.”

“Uh, sure, knock yourself out.”

“Alright, I spy with my little eye something beginning with…’S.’”

Laila looked down at her hands. “Erm…steering wheel?”

“Nope, try again.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Tommy smirked and scanned the area. “Sky?”

“Getting warmer, but no cigar.”

Micky blinked and glanced around the van. “Something.”

Dee burst out laughing over the speakers. “That’s almost too clever. But no, it’s not ‘something.’ I mean, it is something, but it’s not the word ‘something’.”

“So it is something?” Micky asked.

“Yeah. It’s something, but it’s not something something.”

Laila snorted. “I’m confused.”

Tommy glanced back at Micky and grinned. “We all are.”

“Alright, my turn,” said Jimbo, leaning between the seats. “Is it a sentient sausage?”

“What?” Laila almost swerved the van.

Tommy chuckled. “Jimbo, what kind of world do you live in, man?”

“A world where sentient sausages could absolutely be a thing, given everything else that’s going on. I mean, you’re completely fine with zombies shambling among us, but the idea that a sausage might have an opinion about the drapes is somehow odd to you?”

Micky laughed. “I mean, Dee hasn’t said it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Dee said. “But his logic is flawless.”

Tommy gazed from the window. “S…s…stereo?”

“Nope.”

Laila sighed. “Just tell us what it is, Dee. I’m bored now.”

“A streetlamp,” Dee said. “But I’ve got to say, the sentient sausage was a close second.”

“Thanks for the distraction. Speak soon.” Laila ended the call and Rancid came back through the speakers, the laughter subsiding as a blood-soaked zombie staggered into the road ahead.

Laila slammed her foot on the brake pedal, the van screeching to a halt just inches from the thing.

The zombie let out a guttural moan and lurched towards them, its fingers clawing at the windshield.

Tommy grabbed his guitar from the back, shoved the door open and leapt outside.

He swung with all his might, bashing the zombie’s head in with a sickening crunch. Dark blood and brain matter splattered across the asphalt.

Laila jumped out and smashed the zombie off the road with her baseball bat.

Tommy turned to Laila. “You good?”

“I’m good. Why aren’t you using your bat?”

Tommy glanced down at his guitar and flicked gore off its body. “I forgot. Old habits…”

She nodded, breathing hard. “Barely scratched the paint at least. Lucky.”

“Yeah. Real lucky.” He peered down the highway, spotting more zombies in the distance. They needed to get moving.

Laila fired up the engine and Tommy hopped back inside, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. Micky groaned, pressing his forehead against the window.

“Wow,” Jimbo said. “You two make zombie slaying look like a punk show. Head-banging has never been so literal.”

Laila chuckled. “You didn’t fancy joining in the melee?”

Jimbo raised his eyebrows. “Ah, you see, I was providing moral support. Very important, that is. Someone has to be the cheerleader, and I was waving my metaphorical pom-poms from the back seat.”

Tommy grinned. “Pom-poms, huh? I didn’t know you were so multi-talented. Maybe when this thing’s over, we can have you as a dancer at Zombiepalooza.”

Jimbo sucked his teeth. “Don’t underestimate the power of morale in the apocalypse. Also, someone had to keep an eye on Micky here. Make sure he didn’t make a meal for our dead friend.”

Micky groaned but managed a weak smile. “You’re too kind.”

Jimbo nodded. “I’m selfless like that. You go out, smash some zombie skulls, and I make sure the home front is secure.”

Tommy glanced at Micky, his face a pallid mask.

“Here.” Tommy fished an unopened bottle of water out and handed it back to him. “Stay hydrated, man.”

Micky took a few sips and leaned back, closing his eyes.

Laila’s phone interrupted the music. “Who is it?”

“It’s Roxy.” Tommy gestured to the screen.

“Probably checking we haven’t been zombiefied,” Laila said.

Tommy answered the call. “Hey, Rox. What’s up?”

“You’ve gotta stop getting out every time there’s a dead-head in the way. We’ll never make it to Tahoe at this rate.”

Laila narrowed her eyes, her jaw twitching.

Tommy shifted in his seat. “How’s Kim?”

“She’s still with us.”

“Spike doing okay?”

“Yep.”

“Alright then. We’ll—”

Laila slammed the brakes again.

Up ahead, Zero stood at the roadside, his phone aimed at a pack of zombies tearing into a corpse.

Laila leaned forward, her mouth gaping. “What the hell’s he doing?”

Before Tommy could stop her, she jumped out and stormed over to him.

Tommy grabbed his guitar and caught up to her.

“You got a death wish, dumbass?” Laila snatched Zero’s phone away.

Zero shrugged. “Thought the footage might be useful.”

“Useful for what?” Tommy snapped. “Freaking TikTok?”

Zero didn’t respond.

After a silent stare-down, Zero swiped his phone, climbed back into his van, and took off.

Laila and Tommy exchanged frustrated looks.

Tommy slid back into the passenger seat, his nerves on edge.

Jimbo leaned forward. “Ah, Zero, ever the aspiring filmmaker. Probably thinks he’s going to make zombies go viral. Again.”

Tommy shook his head. “Going viral isn’t much use if you get eaten. It’s pointless and dangerous.”

Jimbo grinned. “Well, you’ve got to admit, if it gives Zero something productive to do, then it can’t be all bad. The last thing any of us want is for Zero to get bored and start thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” Laila asked as she shifted gears.

“Connecting dots.” Jimbo made exaggerated air quotes. “But not just any dots, mind you. These are the kinds of dots that only Zero can see. The flimsiest of details becoming a full-fledged conspiracy theory.”

Tommy laughed. “Oh, so you think he’s cooking up some kind of story in that brain of his?”

“You bet. Probably something to do with the Globalists, or chem-trails, or how the zombies are actually a false flag operation set up by Big Pharma to bring in marshal law. The guy’s a goldmine of bullcrap.”

Tommy frowned. “I didn’t know you could mine bullcrap.”

Jimbo sat back and gazed from the window. “Ah, you’d be surprised what crap you can dig up if you know where to look.”

“Still though,” Tommy said. “Someone needs to keep an eye on him before he gets us all killed for the sake of his ‘art.’“ He watched Zero’s van in the side mirror. “We can’t afford to take stupid risks.”

Jimbo sighed. “It’s a far cry from worrying about who drank the last beer in the dressing room, eh?”

Laila laughed. “Yeah, those were the days.”

As they sped down the road, Tommy tried to call Niamh, but couldn’t connect to the network.

Laila reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “We’re gonna make it.”

Tommy nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

“There’s no hope about it. We’re gonna make it.”

From the backseat, Micky groaned.

Tommy met his eyes. “Hey man, you doing okay?”

“Been better.” Micky seemed to force a smile. “Got any plez on you?”

Laila shot Micky a look. “You know we don’t.”

“Yeah well…maybe you should start.”

Laila’s phone rang.

“It’s Dee.” Tommy answered. “Yeah?”

“Knock knock.”

“Huh?”

“Knock knock.”

Tommy frowned. “What are you talking about, Dee?”

“Who’s there?” Laila said, her tone flat.

“Zombies.”

“Zombies who?”

“Zombies gonna eat your brains if you don’t drive faster.” Dee cackled and ended the call.

Laila and Tommy both shook their heads.

Jimbo leaned forward from the backseat. “Well, that was crap. Didn’t even make sense.” He raised a finger. “Knock knock.”

Laila rolled her eyes. “Who’s there?”

“Zombie chew.”

“Zombie chew who?” Tommy asked.

“Zombie chewed my arm off, but I’m alright now. Got a spare one in the back.”

“Erm…” Laila’s brow furrowed. “That’s worse than Dee’s.”

“Wait, wait, I’ve got another. Knock knock.”

Tommy groaned. “Who’s there?”

“Dead.”

“Dead who?”

“Dead tired of all these zombies. Anyone up for a nap?”

Micky gave a brief chuckle.

Laila shook her head. “Don’t encourage him, Micky.”

The shimmering blue waters of Lake Tahoe eventually came into view, stretching out to the horizon.

For a brief moment, all Tommy’s worries seemed to fade away.

The lake was untouched, pristine.

Part of him wanted to pretend, just for a second, that everything was normal. That they were a band on a road trip, taking in the natural beauty of the High Sierras.

No zombies, no chaos, no constant gnawing fear that every moment might be their last.

But the images flashing by the van’s windows, reflected in the side mirror, made the harsh reality impossible to ignore. Overturned cars. Shattered storefronts. Dried blood staining the broken asphalt.

He glanced over at Laila, her dark eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

Wordlessly, he reached over and put his hand on Laila’s shoulder. She met his eyes and gave a slight nod.

The van shuddered to a stop.

Tommy peered through the grimy window at the still waters of Lake Tahoe, glimmering under the setting sun. A sheen of sweat coated his skin.

He prodded Micky’s knee. “We’re here, man. You coming?”

Micky wiped a shaky hand across his forehead. “Nah. I’ll catch up.”

With a sigh, Tommy slid open the van door. The fresh air hit him like a punch in the face. He took a deep breath, the scent of pine doing little to hide the stench from his armpits.

Laila and Jimbo stood lakeside, gazing across the water.

Tommy’s boots crunched on the gravel shore as he approached.

“It’s so…calm,” Laila said. “Like nothing’s changed.”

“Do you reckon zombies can swim?” Jimbo squinted, as if expecting one to pop out of the water at any moment.

Tommy glanced at Laila then shrugged. “I doubt it. Most can barely walk straight, let alone perform the breaststroke.”

Jimbo chuckled. “Right, but what if they just sort of…sunk to the bottom and did a zombie walk along the lake bed?”

“That’s…” Laila paused. “Actually not a bad question.”

“Dude, think about it. If they’re supposed to be undead, why would they need oxygen?”

“I’ve seen some of these things climb fences,” Tommy said. “So it wouldn’t surprise me if they adapted somehow.”

“But are they adapting?” Laila asked. “Or are they just operating on some kind of instinct?”

Tommy pondered this for a moment. “It seems more like instinct. If they were sentient, we’d be in much deeper trouble than we already are.”

Jimbo nodded. “Do we think there’s any sort of…I don’t know, cure? Or a way to recover someone who’s been zombified?”

Laila sighed. “I think that’s beyond our capacity to answer. We’re musicians, not scientists.”

“Yeah, but think about it,” Jimbo said. “What if the solution is musical? What if we find out that a specific chord or rhythm can snap them out of it?”

Tommy laughed. “A ‘resurrection by rock’ theory, huh?”

“Exactly.” Jimbo’s grin fell. “But it raises questions, you know?”

Tommy frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jimbo’s shoulder jerked. “Like, if they find a cure, and…you know, we’ve maybe smashed in a few hundred zombie skulls, what’s that make us?”

Tommy’s jaw tightened—this wasn’t a question he was willing to dwell upon. “It makes us survivors.”