“You’ll need to do better than that if you want to survive out there,” growled the typing professor. Built like an ex-football player, with ink-stained hands the size of small hams, he glowered down at Agent-in-training Steve Miller. “The way you misspelled ‘A-U-T-H-O-R-I-T-A-T-I-V-E’ you’d be lucky to crawl away with both legs intact.” He harrumphed to himself and strode away angrily. Miller gulped and looked down at the keyboard hanging from his shoulders, attached to the heavy powerpack he wore on his back. “I hate target practice,” he thought glumly.

Ever since the zombies started their rampage across the city, Miller wanted desperately to do something more than the desk job he was stuck in at the precinct. It wasn’t something he liked to think about, but he guessed the rate at which the bureau was losing agents was a big part of his application being accepted. Now he was almost done with his training and, at nearly 120 words-per-minute, he felt ready for some action in the field.
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