[note to audience: the love scene between Cherry and El Wray occurs during a ‘missing reel’, which the audience never saw, and found terribly funny. This was my inspiration for all the missing reels in my story]

El Wray took Bette’s daughter’s mini bike. It was a fast little fucker, and he didn’t mind looking stupid on it.

“Let’s head out.”

With the police station in flames, and hoards of infected chasing them down, they drove their asses off. El Wray’s truck rode behind him, as El Wray himself shot the infected, one by one, from his low riding bike. The truck took care of the rest, smashing and flattening the zombies.

After only a few moments, they hit a snag in their plans.  At least three hundred infected waited for them at the bridge out of town.  Smiling and leering, they held out their hands and began to walk toward Helena, Bette, El Wray and the others.

“How many are there?” Someone yelled at El Wray from a truck.

“Lots.” He said calmly—though he was obviously freaking out inside. “We don’t have enough bulle…”

Suddenly, the sound of dozens of machine guns interrupted him.  When the smoke cleared, the infected were all dead.  Twitching blood soaked heaps of flesh scattered the lonesome highway. It was hell, El Wray thought to himself. The whizzing sound behind him—a man on a rope, falling from the sky—reminded him of a small buzz saw.

Members of the American Army had saved the day—only to knock El Wray unconsciousness and take their entire group prisoner.

They were all thrown into cells, where they met the inventor of the toxic substance.  He waved hello, and commenced with smoking.

“What’s going on here?” Helena asked. “Why are we here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine darling.” Abby, the head scientist in charge of creating the chemical responsible for infection, was a curious man.  He liked to kill other men, and steal their…well…

He rattled his container of testicles, ensuring that they were all safe.

“I was on my way toward creating a cure.” He said. “I withheld the substance from these soldiers…they were all exposed in Afghanistan, and now they need it in small doses in order to stave off full blown infection. They wanted to know where I was stashing the ‘shit’ as they call their little drug of voice—‘choice’ being a slippery term here—and I…”