I am currently sitting in a mountain of stale military bedsheets, and I have never felt more alive. Or more smelly.

After shooting down a vertical aluminum tube to escape Sergeant Miller’s twelve-gauge shotgun, Brenda and I landed squarely on top of Dave, who had already managed to orient himself into a defensive sitting position with a plastic laundry hamper inverted on his head.

"I am the King of the Laundromat," Dave whispered from beneath the plastic slats. "None shall pass without exact change."

"David, remove the civilian headwear. It impairs your peripheral vision," Brenda said, untangling herself from a pile of olive-drab blankets. She stood up, brushed a substantial amount of lint off her blazer, and immediately looked at the door.

The industrial laundry room was massive, subterranean, and lit only by the rhythmic, pulsing red glow of the bunker's emergency lockdown lights. The air smelled of old bleach, damp cotton, and a subtle undercurrent of impending doom.

The Voice at the Keyhole

The heavy steel double doors leading to the main corridor were wrapped in a massive, industrial-grade chain, padlocked from the outside. And from the other side of that chain came the frantic, desperate scratching sound.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

"Hello?!" I yelled, scrambling out of the linen pile, wielding The Ex-Calibur 2.0 (my stick with a titanium scalpel duct-taped to the end). "Who's out there?!"

"Oh thank god!" a reedy, panicked voice wheezed through the keyhole. I recognized it instantly. It was Arthur, the "Coupon King" from Cot 04. "It’s Arthur! You have to let me in! I’ll trade you three bags of airline pretzels and a slightly used coupon for a car wash! Just open the door!"

"Arthur, the door is chained!" I shouted back, pressing my ear to the cold steel. "What’s happening out there? Where is Joe? Where is Buster?"

"They're gone! The main locker room is compromised!" Arthur wailed, a wet, choking sound escaping his throat. "The vents! Those giant ventilation shafts on the ceiling! They started rattling ten minutes ago, and then... they just started raining them! Armored ones, regular ones, marketing ones! They’re dropping out of the ceiling like horrible, screaming confetti! Joe and the dog retreated to the generator room, but the hallway is crawling!"

I turned slowly to look at Dave.

Dave’s face had gone completely pale. He slowly lifted the laundry basket off his head. "The vents," he whispered. "The exact same vents I open-sourced the blueprint for. I... I streamlined their logistical flow."

"You built an undead highway, David," Brenda said, her voice dropping into a chilly, analytical tone. "An unfortunate structural oversight. But we must pivot. Narrator, hand me the bone saw."

LAUNDRY ROOM TACTICAL INVENTORY & ASSET ALLOCATION

While Brenda inspected the chain on the door, Dr. Alexander Vance—still looking like a pale vampire but temporarily stabilized by the neuro-inhibitor—crawled out of the laundry pile and helped us evaluate our current bottleneck.

The Spin Cycle Tactic

"The links on this chain are case-hardened steel," Brenda noted, touching the heavy padlock through the gap in the double doors. "A standard blade would dull immediately. However, this surgical bone saw is designed for high-density calcium structures. It will suffice. I require two minutes of absolute silence to execute the cut."

"We don't have two minutes!" Arthur shrieked from the other side of the door. The scratching sound on his side suddenly doubled in volume. A heavy THUD rattled the steel panels.

Zom. Zom. Zom.

The rhythm had arrived. They had chased Arthur to our door.

"Dave! The fabric softener!" I yelled, pulling a massive, industrial jug of "Spring Meadow" liquid softener off a high shelf. "Dump it by the door! If they break through, we make it an ice rink!"

Dave grabbed the jug, unscrewed the cap with his teeth, and began aggressively painting the concrete floor in front of the entryway with a thick, slippery, neon-blue coating. The room instantly smelled like a beautiful mountain meadow, which was a vast improvement over our current personal hygiene status.

SCREEEEECH.

The metal chain on the door tautened as a massive weight slammed into it from the outside. Through the two-inch gap between the doors, I saw a tattered hiking jacket. A hand reached through—fingers gray and missing three nails—snapping blindly at my face.

"Brenda!" I yelled, thrusting The Ex-Calibur 2.0 through the gap, piercing the zombie's shoulder. It didn't care. It just used the stick to pull itself closer.

"Do not interrupt my workflow, Narrator," Brenda muttered.

Zing-zing-zing-zing.

The surgical bone saw was singing against the steel chain. Sparks illuminated her face in sharp, brief flashes. One link was already half-severed.

"Arthur!" I shouted through the chaos. "Get ready to jump when this door opens! And watch your step, the floor is structurally lubricated!"

Suddenly, a loud CLONK echoed from the back of the laundry room.

We all spun around.

The large, square metal hatch of the laundry chute—the exact one we had just slid down—was rattling. Something else was coming down the pipe. And it wasn't a blanket.

CLUNK. Zom. CLUNK.

"Oh no," Dave whimpered, holding an empty jug of fabric softener like a shield. "Miller. Or a Juggernaut. They figured out the slide."

The hatch burst open.