'You lie.'
'No, I don't. It's in here.' The zombie tapped Myrna's head with one broken fingernail. 'It's all in here. She wrapped her legs around him when she came. You could never make her do that.'
'I don't know who you are, but you're not my wife!'
'You want to know who I really am? Come here and let me show you.'
Don swallowed and then ran for the pistol on the card table. The handgun was a family heirloom. His grandfather had been one of the first Hispanic soldiers to serve in the Philippines during World War Two, and had passed the government-issued Colt .45 with the eight-shot clip down to him. Next to it lay an open box of Cor-Bon ammo.
The zombie lunged for him.
He didn't bother to aim. He didn't have to. Myrna was right on top of him, clawing at his shirt. She pinched his left nipple between her fingers, trying to tear it off with her bare hands. He shoved the gun between her breasts.
'I'm sorry.'
Don squeezed the trigger. Myrna jerked backward, then giggled. She twisted his nipple again, pulling on it now. Screaming, he fired another shot. The bullet passed through her shoulder. She paused, and then lurched forward, broken leg still trailing.
'You're starting to piss me off, dear,' the creature said.
A low moan escaped Don's lips.
Cackling, her jaws descended on him.
He placed the gun against her forehead and fired again. The entry wound was the size of a thumb, but the back of his dead wife's head splattered across the panic room, spraying the wall with blood, brain tissue, and fragments of bone.
He hadn't heard another gunshot until now.
Don pushed away the memories. Outside, the barrage continued. He wondered who it was. Perhaps the army had finally arrived. Maybe he was saved! Maybe it was over!
He weighed the risks of leaving the panic room. But the firefight blazed on, and he had to see what was happening. He reached for the keypad, had a terrible moment where he thought he'd forgotten the code and would remain trapped inside, then remembered it, and entered the sequence. The door slid open.
Immediately, he noticed the stench. The smell of death.
It was risky to go to the ground floor windows. Too much of a chance of being spotted. Instead, he went upstairs to the attic. It would give him the best vantage point.
From there, Don looked out into hell.
Next door, Rick and Tammy's property crawled with zombies. He tried to count them, but there were too many. Most were armed with shotguns and pistols, baseball bats and butcher knives. Many were his neighbors; he spied Schwartz, the Padrone kid from down the street, and Mr. Pabon among them.
Pabon ...
She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon.
Don smiled grimly.
'Fuck my wife, will you?'
Pabon's corpse was just starting down the strip of lawn between the houses. A fence ran down the center, and on Don's side was a long, narrow swimming pool, specifically designed to fit between the homes for the purpose of swimming laps rather than recreation. A black shape rested at the bottom of the pool but he couldn't discern what it was.
Three years earlier, Don had engaged in a private battle with his county's Board of Zoning Appeals regarding their prohibition against pools in the backyards. He'd gotten a lawyer, petitions from neighbors, the whole works, but the county government had ultimately forbidden him.
Finally, he realized that there were no laws against pools in the side yard, so he'd built one there instead, just to spite them. He and Rick had had a good laugh about it at the time.
Pabon was on the other side of the pool fence, in Rick and Tammy's yard.
As quietly as possible, Don slid the attic window open and pointed the Colt .45 at the top of the restraunteur's head. He knew that his grasp on sanity was slipping. He knew that he was throwing caution and his safety to the wind with this shot-that he would alert the creatures to his presence. But he didn't care anymore. All that mattered in that moment was Pabon. He shifted to get a better line of sight, and as he did, the zombie disappeared around the front. Exasperated, Don glanced at his neighbor's house.
He nearly dropped the pistol.
Directly across, only twenty-five feet away, an elderly black man in a minister's collar stared back at him from Rick and Tammy's attic window.
Martin pointed out the window. 'Jim, come take a look at this!'
'Damn it, Martin. Get the hell away from there before you get shot!' He knelt and gave his son a reassuring hug.
'No,' the preacher insisted. 'You don't understand. There's a man! Look!'
Automatically shielding Danny behind him, Jim turned to the window and froze.
'Holy shit...'
It was hard to tell in the dark, but the preacher didn't look dead. He pointed in Don's direction. Then the old man moved aside, and Don glimpsed another figure- one that seemed vaguely familiar. White male, middle to late
