Johnson was observing the burned out cars and a few of the dead carcasses
that littered what used to be I-5 in California.  "Gotta get up to the bay
area where all of those relocation projects are taken place" the former
Seal said to himself.  By know the remaining human populations were
relocating to remote and tropical islands.  It is really simple puss bags
can't do the freestyle stroke very well.  The humans figured out by know
that they could surely overrun the shamblers on small islands by sheer
numbers.
        San Francisco was the main loading point for the west coast relocation
points.  This sure attracted quite a crowd of hungry undead.  "Fuck"
shouted Johnson, as he nearly crashed into a handful of bucklers lapping up
a meal like hungry jackals.  The first unlucky puss bag chewed on double
barrel buckshot for dessert.  While the two others clambered at the jeep
johnson blew holes in them so big you could drive a dodge neon through
them.  "Got to get to that relocation dock" he kept muttering to himself.
        Frisco  was gutted out; dead fucks and burned out cars and military
vehicles littered the city. "Finally" johnson cried out in relief, as he
arrived at pier 45 where some of the relocation process were taking place.
 "Hey sushi" called a man that seemed to be the leader over to Johnson.
 "Look I ain't Japanese, but I will carve your ass up like corned beef at a
New York deli" replied Johnson.  Sushi is what arrogant fucks call others
that they think won't last long with bucklers looming close by.  Little did
Carl know that Johnson had probably whacked more bucklers than anybody in
the tri-state area.  "I'll let that slide" growled Johnson.  "We need help
containing the puss bags at the incinerator location" Yelled Carl.  "Your
wish is my command, as long as it pertains to dropping some knowledge on
some shamblers" Johnson retorted.
        The incinerator was fired up ready to bake zombies like an apple pie.
 There were two bulldozers already herding unlucky puss bags to their
crispy death when Johnson arrived.  Johnson noticed that cover fire at
approaching undead was little or none.  This had him worried.  As he took
out his MP-3 and started to lay some cover fire he saw a horrible sight.
 10 zombies had over taken a bulldozer and began feasting on the drivers
arms and legs like fried chicken at a family reunion in Mississippi.  "Eat
this" as he sprayed the approaching hoard of shamblers.  Domes were popping
like Orvill Redenbacher's finest batch.  He knew he had to get to the dozer
and continue the bonfire of undead.
        "Sharp enough for you"? cried Johnson as he severed a shamblers head from
its decaying body.  He now had the dozer.  "Full speed ahead captain
Stubeing" said Johnson as he crushed zombie bodies under the heavy
equipment it sounded like Beijing on the Chinese new year; pop, pop, pop.
 He managed to gather a load of 5-6 shamblers and ferry them to their fiery
end.  "This is like lambs to the slaughter" he screamed loving every
minute.  But the zombie number began to overwhelm them.  Johnson turned the
dozer around and started to head for the pier.  Straggling zombies in the
road were nothing but piles of jumbled clothes and flesh after a round with
Johnson's dozer.  Finally he arrived.  "Man I'm gettin my ass on the boat"
 he proclaimed.  Hawaii here I come.  As they were pushing off Johnson
located a sniper rifle on board, found a perch and sized up one more
mainland buckler.  As he fired he muttered" hummin commin atchya"  just
then in his scope he saw the zombie explode like a cherry bomb inside a
watermelon.