The Gruesome life of Jorge Adams

The speakers fuzzed along with the classic rock song blaring on the car radio and outside in the bleak night the zombies continued to rap against the thin pane of glass that separated them from Jorge Adams, their next meal. The zombies painted streaks of blood and mud against the side of his window. “I just got this goddamned thing washed”, Jorge thought.
A metal clinking tapped along with the beat of the song. The long barrel of a revolver bounced up and down on the metal dashboard. One bullet remained in that gun, one simple escape from the inevitable. Jorge bled from his forearm, a simple flesh wound, he kept telling himself. Just a scratch. But it wasn’t just a scratch and he knew it. He knew he only had three options. None of them good. All of them leaving him dead.
Option one: Let that bullet fly straight through his tight mesh of grey matter and put to rest all the bullshit going on around him. Jump ship and pray the world lives on without him.
Option two: Open the door and quit delaying the inevitable – accept the painful end to his miserable life. Karma had come back to haunt him and it sure as shit remembered every last thing he had done and was swinging back with full force.
Option three: Sit there and let that putrid smell sink in deeper. That scent of burning tires, rotten cheese, and vomit. He had begun to taste the smell soon after being bitten by one of Them. He knew only a few hours remained of him being human.
It was time to face up. What kind of man do I want to be, he asked himself. There’s always option four that little voice said – that voice that always got him into trouble; that voice that had lead him to that exact spot. There’s always option four, it said again.
“There’s always option four,” he said.
Option four was trickier, but it did leave him alive – in a sense. There was a lake about thirty yards to the left of his car, a clear path lead straight to it; blocked only by the wandering blood-hungry mutants. In the backseat lay Jorge’s suitcase, three days worth of clothes inside. And in the trunk was a canister of gas.
Option four consisted of him soaking his clothes in gas, emptying the gun powder from his last bullet, sparking the powder and lighting himself on fire. Then he could simply step out of the car and run like shit to the lake, hoping to put himself out before getting attacked, inhaling too much smoke, or burning himself alive. All the other options seemed better now.
That damn lake house, he thought. If only this piece of shit car had lasted ten more miles. I kept telling myself I was going to change the oil. I kept telling myself I was going to change a lot of things, he added.
A red-eyed zombie rolled onto the hood, its mouth covered with bits of flesh and hair. Jorge turned the music up louder and hit the spray for the windows, it watered down the blood and the wipers smeared the window a rose red. That damn lake house, he thought again.
Fuck it. He took a deep breath and swirled around.
A fresh pack of zombies broke awkwardly through the woods and surrounded the car, attracted by the smell of something burning. They tried to peer into the windows, but a grey smoke blurred their view. They smashed their rotten faces against the window like flies to molded meat. A tiny metal click sounded and the door burst open.
Flaming arms swung like axes and chopped down the fleeing zombies. The intense glow and heat threatening to singe their dripping flesh. The human ball of fire sprinted wildly towards the lake, kicking and punching zombies along the way. From behind, a fearless zombie attacked the ball of flame. It pushed Jorge from behind and toppled over him. Jorge rolled onto the zombie and continually punched the zombie with his flaming hand until it stopped moving. He staggered the last few yards to the still lake and collapsed into the dull tide. A mound of steam puffed upwards and Jorge disappeared under water.