There's only one way to respond: "Fuuuccckkk." Who can even keep count of the number of cold, dead hands you've pried yourself from? Then your car flips over, you barely escape from another hungry predator by smashing his face in with a monkey wrench, and emerge from your car victorious, only to find a swarm of animated decaying bodies primed for an afternoon feeding. You then zip in and out of stalled, rusted cars and just barely burst through a cascading avalanche of zombies falling from the overpass on the freeway. You've just run over a zombie mother pushing a stroller, presumably with a little undead baby inside of it.
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