The zombie was ridiculously fat. Its arms and legs were layered with rolls of fat, stacked one on top of the other, making it look just like the Michelin Man from those tire commercials. Let's just call him Michelin for now.
Justin quickly raised his hands to show he meant no harm.
"We're here to talk about a deal. If it works out, I promise you'll get plenty of benefits."
"Benefits? … Are benefits something you can eat?"
Michelin tilted his head, his expression blank. Clearly, he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.
With intelligence like that, there was no way he could be the ruler of the Five-Star Zombie Nest. Michelin was just a grunt—a brute-force tank, the zombie equivalent of a Bulldozer from Ethan's territory.
Justin froze for a moment, realizing this too.
So, he wasn't the one in charge of the Five-Star Zombie Nest…
