The four guys least likely to survive the apocalypse are about to try anyway.
Meet Pablo. Ad-man. Lifelong stoner. Proud owner of a brain that runs entirely on weed and good intentions. The dead are up and walking, the city is eating itself, and Pablo has exactly one plan: cross town to the woman he loves before the whole thing finishes ending.
His three best friends are in, mostly because nobody had a better idea and the weed was almost gone.
Their arsenal: a katana nobody can swing, a baseball bat, and a beloved glass bong named like a family member, which they will defend with their lives.
Their survival skills? None. Genuinely none. These are men who once got winded carrying a couch.
So they run. Through hordes, through every terrible decision four high idiots can make, screaming things at each other that should not be screamed in a crisis, because the only thing dumber than this plan is the thought of not going.
Shaun of the Dead with worse manners and a bigger bong. Grady Hendrix fans, pull up a chair.
Because here is the thing nobody tells you about the end of the world. A man will cross a city full of the dead for the person who makes the living part worth it. Even a man like Pablo. Especially a man like Pablo.
A zombie love story. Mostly.
