Vin had trained for this kind of situation since he was eleven. Within range, he aimed the shotgun. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Vin said awkwardly. He knew the attacker should have been able to hear him, but he kept bashing the man’s head into the ground. Maybe crushed-face was the “good guy?” Even so, the other man was subdued enough. The attacker now killed in cold blood.
It occurred to him the attacker may be a cop, and he didn’t want to be branded a cop-killer. He made a split-second decision and aimed at the attacker’s thigh—that would get his attention.
He fired. Bloody-face’s upper leg exploded.
And bloody-face didn’t seem to notice.
Alexander ran through a storage area with two avenues of evasion: one, a bathroom with a lock on it; the other, double-doors with no lock that he guessed from the location was the refrigerated section.
Alexander knew he was remarkably intelligent. These zombies were fast, strong, and animalistic. They were savvy enough to break down front doors and search for prey, but if they weren’t diligent enough to search every nook and cranny, he had a chance. Maybe cold air would blunt the zombie’s sense of smell enough? And if he couldn’t be seen, smelled, or heard, maybe the zombies would pass him by.
In desperation, he blew through the swinging doors, looking for a place to hide. Luckily—for him to survive this, a lot of luck would be involved—a large empty crate stood halfway down the right side. He ran over to it, climbed inside, and put the top on as best as he could. Light shone through a small crack. He dared not take any more time to secure the lid.
Not one second later, the doors burst open with a fury. Horror and dread crept in. If he hadn’t guessed correctly, he was about to get his skull cracked, have his brain eaten, and become a zombie.
He held his breath. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he began to let out air slowly through his nostrils. All the while, heavy footsteps echoed about the room until they got close. Through the crack, he saw the zombie hover and look around.
Alexander thought about moving away from view—if it looked directly in the gap, the zombie would spot him for sure. But he feared any noise he would make, so he froze, stopping his exhalation.
Then the zombie disappeared from his view and the doors swung again.
Did it leave? Or did more come? He chanced a slow, deep breath in through his nose.
Soon his stomach grumbled, and he felt an acute tightness and an urge to evacuate his bowels.
Must be nerves.
Shit.
Emily Schumer had the whole tea party laid out. Inside her dollhouse in her backyard, six chairs surrounded a small table. All her princesses were there—Princesses Anna and Elsa from Frozen, Princess Ariel from The Little Mermaid, and Princess Belle from Beauty and the Beast. She was wearing her own Princess outfit—Snow White. And her best friend Allie was Pocahontas—on account she was Native American. Both had been to Disney World, separately, with their families, this past summer, and that was where they had gotten their costumes.
The other princesses were dolls. But to Emily they all were real. Pretend real, but still real. In pretending, that is.
They drank real tea. Well, that was pretend, but it was real liquid. She had filled the cups from the teapot full of “tea” her mother had given her. Her mom said it was tea, but when it came out as cold water, Emily didn’t mind. She was good at pretending. Besides, she was too young for tea. That was for older, but her parents had never told her how old she had to be. But she was sure it was old.
She couldn’t wait to become a grown-up. Then she could have real tea parties—not the real ones that were the pretend kind. Emily was five, and her friend Allie would turn five next month, in September.
Her mother said all the princesses could drink the tea this time. She showed her by pouring the “tea” onto Anna’s mouth. It fell down onto the doll and got it wet, but her mom said afterward she would dry them with a hair dryer.
She loved her mom. She loved her dad and her brother, too, but her mom was someone special.
Emily was drinking her tea when she heard the strange sound—kind of like a thud and a crunch at the same time. It was awfully loud. She wondered what could make such a horrible sound. Curious, she told her friend to stay and be a good hostess while she looked at what the noise was about.
“But Emily, I want to come too,” Allie pouted.
“I call dibs!” Emily exclaimed. She called dibs, which meant she won.
“But why can’t we go together?”
But to play a good hostess, one of them had to stay. Pretending wasn’t really pretending if you stop pretending just because of a silly noise.
So, Emily left the dollhouse and ran around the side of the house—the noise seemed to have come from the front. What she saw caused her to stop dead in her tracks.
Her little brother, lying on the grass in a pool of blood, dead, with his brain being eaten.
Suddenly, she felt warm urine trickle slowly down her legs. She heard her father say, “Run, Emily, Run!”
Getting more and more soaked down there, she looked up toward his voice. Her father was in the doorway—someone had smashed the door. A woman with long black hair, covered in dried blood and ugly sores and very white skin, bit her father on the neck. Blood gushed out.
She noticed her mother on the front steps, on her back. A man with the same super-white skin and ugly sores straddled her chest, beating her head with his fists. Then he grabbed her head and repeatedly hit it onto the corner of a step. Meanwhile, she saw her
