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Blaise came back with a canister of gasoline in hand and a box of matches.
“That was quick,” I said.
“I killed four of them in the meantime and even closed the garage door. That’s how they got in.”
“You’re amazing!”
“I know, I hear it often.” He poured gasoline on the putrid mass of flesh and lit a match. A small, warm light flickered in the silvery moonlit night.
“Do you mind?” He produced a bent-out-of-shape cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a long drag. The end was burning bright red.
“I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“I don’t know where you got that from. We’ve only spent about net two hours together.”
“Good point.”
“I’m in the process of quitting, you know,” he said, waving the cigarette around. “But I have a distinct craving for one right now.” He smoked it halfway through and then flicked it over to the zombies. Flames engulfed the yard. The first wave of heat nearly knocked me over. The warmth of the fire nipped at my skin demandingly as though, for now, it only wanted my flesh but would later feel entitled to my bones as well. It wanted to devour me.

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