Frankie shook him.
'Fuck this shit! Come on, Reverend!'
They jumped out of the Humvee, weapons at the ready, as the first cries of the undead drifted to them on the night wind. The zombies appeared at the end of the street and the doors to the houses began to open at the same time. The undead poured forth.
Martin's voice cracked. 'It-it was a trap. L-look at all of them ...'
'Shit.'
Frankie raised the M-16, aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. One corpse dropped and five more took its place. With a horrendous cry, the zombies charged.
Martin turned back to the Humvee, but Frankie grabbed his arm.
'Move your ass, preacher-man!'
They ran toward the house, to see what had become of their friend. More gunshots echoed from inside as they approached.
Above them, the newly risen moon shined down upon the world, staring at a mirror image of its cold, dead self.
TWO
The house was silent.
'Danny?'
Jim crept forward, his heart still pounding in his chest. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he held his breath. The living room was empty. Danny's movies were stacked neatly on a shelf, next to a row of video games. A thin layer of dust covered the coffee table and end tables. One of the sofa cushions had a crusty, reddish-brown stain in the middle and flies crawled over it.
'Danny! It's Daddy! Where are you?'
He walked into the kitchen and the smell hit him. Whatever was inside the garbage can was long since spoiled. Flies swarmed over its surface.
They crawled on the refrigerator, trying to get inside the airtight appliance as well. The incessant buzzing seemed loud in the silence. Jim gagged. Holding his hand over his nose and mouth, he backed out of the room and into the hallway.
He tilted his head from side to side and listened.
There was a sound above him, like something being dragged across the floor.
He went to the stairs.
'Danny? Are you there? Come on out, son! It's me!'
Only a week before (though it now seemed like a year), Jim had had a particularly vivid nightmare about this moment. In the dream, he'd reached the top of the stairs, and limped toward Danny's room. The bedroom door creaked open and his son stepped out to greet him. A zombie.
At that point, Jim had screamed himself awake.
He wouldn't be able to do that this time.
If ...
The top of the stairs lay hidden in shadows. The noise was not repeated.
Jim limped up each step, his second wind almost gone.
When they'd crossed the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey, Frankie had asked him a question. Now the conversation ran through his mind.
'Have you thought about what you'll do if we get there and Danny's one of them?'
'I don't know.'
But he did know.
If...
Pausing halfway up, Jim slid the magazine out of the pistol and checked his shots. Only a few left. But he had enough. Enough for Danny-and for himself.
If...
He continued upward, the stairs creaking with every step. The sound came again. A footstep? He stopped, listening. A hallway with four doors waited at the top of the stairs. Two of the doors led to the bedrooms; one belonged to Danny and the other Rick and Tammy. The third door led to the bathroom. The fourth led to the attic.
The sounds came from the attic. Unmistakable now,
they were the sounds of hesitant feet. Of someone trying to walk very carefully and quietly.
'Danny, it's your dad! Are you there?'
He reached the top and crept toward the attic door, passing by the bedrooms as he did. His breath hitched in his chest and the blood rushed in his ears. When he called out, his voice cracked.
'It's okay, Danny. You're safe. Everything's all right now. Everything is going to be fine.'
