nickel, its ring sharper and more metallic. One of the
customers, an old woman with spectacles the size of a fist,
shuffles after it.
The door clicks closed again. Thump. Thump. Silence.
Once more. Another coin. An old man with more hair on his
body than his head lurches, gait ungainly, toward the
source.
Thump. Thump. Rattle. The distant sound of a body hitting a
shelf. A faint curse. And then, like a crash of thunder,
pots and pans and more, clattering to the floor, an
explosion of noise.
That gets their attention.
JAMIE
(muffled, from the other
room)
Shit!
A loud, heavy, strangely-metallic thunk follows. Then Jamie
and Daniel burst out from the kitchen, Daniel holding a
stockpot in both hands like a weapon. There's a small dent
in one side.
Lurching toward them, however, is a throng of agitated,
bellowing zombies. And that insistent banging on the door is
finally rewarded - glass shatters. The camera zooms. An
undead man clad head-to-toe in camo print crawls through the
broken glass with a bullheaded determination. And behind
him...
All those loitering zombies from the parking lot.
Daniel swings first, throwing all his weight into it. He
clocks the nearest zombie with the stockpot, but the
momentum doesn't stop him there, and he keeps spinning,
dizzied.
Jamie follows up, beating it away with his crowbar until
something crunches. He stomps on it, head, chest, abdomen,
rage coursing through him, desperate to make it stop moving.
DANIEL
jesus! get offa me!
Jamie spins around - that crawling waitress has made a grab
for Daniel's ankle, bony fingers wrapped in a death grip.
Daniel kicks her away, but to no avail.
JAMIE
Daniel, the pot!
