The lead zombie - the big guy - lurched forward suddenly, swinging a ham-sized fist in the direction of my forehead. I stepped back and the fist whistled by my face, missing by six inches. I could feel the wind from its passage on my cheek, however. I was right - the guy was powerful.

    The other two zombies, agitated by their boss’s first strike, lunged forward as well. One of them bent at the waist and reached down for my ankle, hoping to pull me off balance. I caved in the back of his skull with one solid swing of the of the pickax shank. He went down like a rag doll, staring up at me with a pitiful, helpless look I knew all too well from my days on Black Diamond. He couldn’t move anymore - the areas of his brain that guided movement had been injured or destroyed - but he was still alive. And he would lay there like that, staring up at me helplessly, until some humanitarian came by and separated his head from his shoulders and pulled the spinal column from his torso.

    I’d get to that later.

    A nanosecond flashback of that procedure on Black Diamond cost me dearly. Suddenly, the third zombie threaded his bony fingers through my hair and pulled me close. For a moment I lost my footing, then shifted my weight and tried to reverse our equilibrium. But he was too stocky and strong. Instead of wrenching him off balance, I felt myself being lifted off the ground. He had me completely in his control, like a ventriloquist and his dummy.

    I hefted the pickaxe and tried to ram it into the zombie’s temple but it was no good. The angle was all wrong and the shank glanced off his forehead, opening a three inch gash there. It bled a clear crystal fluid in tiny droplets but his grip didn’t loosen.

    I was helpless as the zombie lifted me above his head and threw me like a football. The spiral wasn’t half bad but I would have preferred landing in the end zone rather than the bleachers.

    I slammed into a bed of rocks, their sharp edges tearing through my coveralls and ripping into my skin. Instantly, rivulets of blood began flowing warmly from a half dozen tiny wounds in my back and legs. A bruise was born in my ribcage and - as it grew to adulthood in a matter of seconds - I prayed it was only a bruise and not a broken rib.

    Any prayers I offered went unanswered. The first zombie was on me in an instant, lifting me into the air and crushing my sides like one of those foam toys kids could squish into a ball and then release, watching as they regained their natural shape. I knew my natural shape wasn’t as resilient. My last gasps of precious air were being forced out of my lungs while at the same time they threatened to burst like over-inflated balloons. I tried to breathe but each time I did the zombie tightened his grip. Of all the zombies in the world, I thought later, I get the guy who studied boa constrictors in high school.

    But they didn't plan on suffocating me. Instead, the second zombie stepped over his immobile partner, the guy I’d sacked with a crushing blow to the skull, and ripped the pickaxe shank out of my grip. I tried to hold on but my strength was ebbing by the second. Tiny, multi-colored spots danced before my eyes like a final fireworks display.

    The zombie held up the shank, wielding it as though its sharp, metal top were still attached, and brought it down like a lumberjack splitting a redwood stump.

    Through darkening eyes, I gasped for breath and waited for the flash of bright light and the white tunnel that would open up to take me to meet my maker.