When someone points a shotgun at you during the zombie apocalypse, there are usually only two possible outcomes.
One: you become a corpse.
Two: you become a faster corpse.
So naturally, I raised both my hands.
"Easy!" I shouted. "Friendly government employee here!"
The man holding the shotgun squinted at me through the smoke-filled street.
Then his eyes widened.
"Kripa?"
I blinked.
"Arre… Imran?"
It was him.
Imran Khan.
Not the former Prime Minister of Pakistan.
My Imran Khan.
Former cricket captain of our college team, part-time gym instructor, full-time idiot, and the only man I knew who once tried to flirt with three girls simultaneously and ended up getting slapped by all three.
He lowered the shotgun slowly.
"Bhai… what the hell happened to you?" he asked.
Before I could answer, the sound of moaning drifted around the corner behind me.
Lots of moaning.
Imran's eyes shifted past my shoulder.
His expression changed immediately.
"How many?" he asked.
"Define many," I said carefully.
The first zombie rounded the corner.
Sunita.
My wife.
Still wearing the torn saree.
Still looking furious.
Behind her shuffled my mother-in-law.
And behind them came at least fifteen more zombies who apparently decided that following a running man was a great morning activity.
Imran looked back at me.
"You brought them?"
"Technically they brought themselves," I said.
He sighed deeply.
Then he pumped the shotgun.
The loud CHACK echoed down the street.
"Well," he muttered, "this is why I never liked your family."
BOOM.
The shotgun roared.
Sunita's head snapped sideways as the blast hit her shoulder and spun her around.
She crashed into my mother-in-law and both of them tumbled to the ground again.
"RUN!" Imran shouted.
For the third time that morning, I ran.
We sprinted down the street together.
Imran moved like an athlete.
I moved like a government clerk carrying five bottles of whisky and a rolling pin.
Behind us the zombies continued their enthusiastic pursuit.
"Where are we going?!" I yelled.
"My car!" Imran shouted.
"What kind of car?!"
"Maruti!"
"Which Maruti?!"
"THE ONLY ONE LEFT WITH FUEL!"
Fair point.
We cut through a narrow lane between two apartment buildings.
Trash bins overturned as we pushed past them.
Somewhere above us someone screamed.
A window shattered.
Something fell.
I didn't look back.
Because looking back during a zombie chase only leads to two things.
Tripping.
Or screaming louder.
We burst out into a small parking lot.
And there it was.
A slightly dented white Maruti Swift.
To me it looked more beautiful than a Lamborghini.
Imran ran to the driver's side.
I yanked open the passenger door and jumped in.
The moment I sat down, I realized something important.
My bag clinked loudly.
Imran looked at it.
Then at me.
"Is that… whisky?"
"Emergency supplies," I said with dignity.
He stared at me for two full seconds.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Bhai, the world is ending and you stopped to rob a liquor shop?"
"Correct."
"You are unbelievable."
The first zombie stumbled into the parking lot.
Sunita.
Still chasing.
Still determined.
Imran turned the key.
The engine coughed.
Coughed again.
Then roared to life.
"YES!" he shouted.
The zombies closed in.
Mother-in-law reached the car first.
She slapped her bloody hand against the windshield.
Even with half her face gone she still looked like she was about to complain about my salary.
Imran slammed the accelerator.
The Swift lurched forward.
Mother-in-law bounced off the hood and rolled across the pavement.
Sunita lunged at the passenger door but missed as we shot past her.
Within seconds we were racing down the road.
I leaned back in the seat.
Breathing hard.
Heart pounding.
Alive.
For now.
Imran glanced at me.
"So," he said casually, "want to explain why your wife and mother-in-law are zombies chasing you?"
"That's actually a long story," I said.
"We have time."
"Fine."
I took out one of the mini whisky bottles from my pocket.
Opened it.
Took a long sip.
Imran stared.
"You started drinking already?"
"Imran," I said seriously, "my wife tried to eat me this morning."
He considered that.
"Fair."
I handed him another mini bottle.
He accepted it without hesitation.
The apocalypse had clearly simplified our moral standards.
We drove through Jamshedpur's ruined streets.
Shops smashed.
Cars abandoned.
People running everywhere.
Every few minutes we saw zombies chasing someone.
Or someone chasing zombies with sticks.
At one intersection a group of men tried to drag a refrigerator into the middle of the road as a barricade.
Imran swerved around them.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"My gym," he said.
"You want to work out during the apocalypse?"
"No idiot," he replied. "The gym has supplies."
"Like what?"
"Water. Protein bars. Baseball bats."
I nodded.
"Good plan."
Then I paused.
"Wait… baseball bats?"
"Yeah?"
"You mean weapons?"
"Exactly."
I smiled slowly.
"Imran…"
"Yes?"
"I also have a weapon."
He glanced at the rolling pin still in my hand.
"That's a belan."
"This belan has killed four zombies today."
He nodded respectfully.
"Fair point."
We drove in silence for a moment.
Then Imran frowned.
"Kripa."
"Hmm?"
"Why are there glass bangles stuck to your shirt?"
I looked down.
Sure enough, several red bangles clung to my sleeve.
Sunita's.
I brushed them off quietly.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then Imran suddenly laughed again.
"You know what's funny?" he said.
"What?"
"Your wife chased you even after becoming a zombie."
"Yes."
"That level of dedication is impressive."
"Yes."
"Marriage truly never ends."
"Please stop talking."
The road ahead suddenly blocked.
A truck had crashed sideways across the street.
Several zombies wandered nearby.
Imran slowed the car.
"We'll go around."
Just then a loud crash came from the truck's cabin.
Something slammed against the windshield from inside.
A zombie driver burst through the broken glass and fell onto the road.
Another one followed.
Then another.
Within seconds the entire street seemed to wake up.
Zombies turned toward the sound of our engine.
Dozens of them.
Imran's smile faded.
"Okay," he said calmly.
"That's not good."
"Not good?" I repeated.
"Not good."
The zombies began moving toward us.
Slowly.
Then faster.
Then running.
Imran reversed the car quickly.
But more zombies appeared behind us.
From alleys.
From buildings.
From everywhere.
The street was filling with them.
I clutched the rolling pin.
"Imran…"
"Yes?"
"How fast is this car?"
"Fast enough if the road was clear."
"And if it's not?"
He stared at the growing wall of undead ahead.
Then grinned like a madman.
"Well," he said.
"Let's find out."
He slammed the accelerator.
The Maruti Swift shot forward.
Straight toward the approaching horde.
And as the first zombie smashed against the hood—
I suddenly realized something very important.
The fuel gauge on the dashboard…
Was almost empty.
And the nearest petrol pump was at least three kilometers away.
I turned slowly toward Imran.
"Bhai…"
"Yes?"
"You did fill petrol before the apocalypse… right?"
He didn't answer.
Which was when I knew.
We were in serious trouble.