Jize nodded and accepted two pretend lumps into this cup.
“What about you?” Janice asked. “I’m sorry, but I already know you lost your wife recently. What was she like?”
“Sally? The day we met was the best day of my life, and the day she died the worst. This apocalypse wasn’t worse than the day she died.”
“Did she do anything for a living?” the sheriff asked.
He shook his head. “She went to Juilliard with me, before we were married, but once we had Julia, she decided to be a stay-at-home mom. And then when John left, she started touring with me. We had twelve years with her on the road with me, and it was pure bliss.”
This was what Jize wanted, to build up his relationship with the others. “How about your wife, sheriff?”
“You can call me Marty. You too, ma’am . . . uh, Janice, sorry. Anyway, my wife is dead. I killed her. And that’s all I want to say about it.”
Jize vowed to find another way to connect with Marty.
Day Eight
The next morning, Marty and Alexander were on guard duty in the front of the store when Alexander pointed at the parking lot. Marty looked in that direction, then grabbed his shotgun and leaped out of his chair. There he was—the first person they had seen in over a week—nonchalantly walking down the road.
“Hello!” Marty called, thinking this was too good to be true. The person didn’t acknowledge the greeting. Maybe the person was too far away to hear him.
“Come with me,” Marty said. “We should check this guy out.”
“But we just can’t abandon our post. Vin will think—”
It’s time I took charge of things. I am the sheriff. Vin should do whatever I want. “Vin thinks a lot of things, some of which is pure nonsense. Let’s hurry so we don’t have to go so far to catch up to him.”
Alexander took out his handgun from the holster on the brown belt that surrounded his green sweats, with the white racing stripe. “All right, you’re the sheriff. Lead the way.”
Marty pumped a shell into the chamber and walked toward the person. When he got halfway up the parking lot, Alexander, behind him, said in a low voice, “Stop, it’s a zombie.”
“The sheriff did what?” Vin asked.
Alexander was on shaky ground, and he needed Vin to understand so he wouldn’t go after Marty.
“The sheriff followed a zombie,” Alexander repeated. “Vin, if the zombies are back, we need to understand more of what is going on. This zombie did not attack! All he was doing was traveling south. He didn’t notice us, but he wasn’t looking for us, or any victim. We need to understand what is going on with these zombies. He’s our only hope to beat these guys.”
Vin scowled. “And I suppose you have a theory.”
“Yes, but you won’t like it.”
“Out with it, Poindexter! Don’t dare stall, or I’m liable to just up and leave to catch up to him.”
“The sheriff recognized the zombie as the bartender in a Clinton saloon. The zombie was heading toward Clinton.”
“So?”
“So the zombie was going home.”
“Again, so?”
Alexander rolled his eyes. Vin needed to be spoon-fed. “The zombies all marched up north. North to I-70 is the way to get to Denver. What if they were all heading for Denver, for population centers? What will they do when they run out of brains to eat?”
“I don’t know.” Vin scowled again. “Eat each other?”
“No, I think they’ll go back to where they left some food behind. They’ll come back home, Vin!”
Vin sneered. “You seem to know an awful lot about these zombies. I think you’re full of shit, or you know more than you let on. Damn if I can figure out which. You think you’re useful because you’re so smart, but I do have an engineering degree. I also have a shotgun, and I’m trained to use it, but all you have is a handgun. I’m the only one keeping us together and defended. I found this place; I rescued the sheriff; I rescued you. I’m in charge here—not the sheriff, and certainly not you.”
“You didn’t rescue me, and I was here first!”
Vin scowled. “Without a shotgun you didn’t have a chance.”
Alexander sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. You’re in charge. Yes, I’m speculating, which is why we need the sheriff to investigate, but who better to investigate than him? Besides, the zombie was getting away. We had to decide fast, there wasn’t any time to consult you . . . it’s my call, I take full responsibility for it.”
“That doesn’t mean shit here asshole. We’re all responsible for each other, and now there’s only one shotgun to protect ourselves.”
“Two won’t be enough if they’ve come back home. Besides, the saloon is a three-to-four-hour walk from here. The sheriff will probably return before nightfall.”
“For your sake, he’d better, or I’ll take that responsibility of yours and shove it up your ass!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Day Eight
The draugar had a huge hole in the side of its neck, one from which little blood was oozing. Jocelyn turned her head in the direction the gunfire came from. There was a man: white, balding, with brown hair and mustache, but young-looking with a smooth face. He must have been in his early forties. He was wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants in a terrible shade of orange.
Jocelyn looked back at the draugar. He was still walking toward her.
Jocelyn drew her sword. She leapt after the draugar and swept her sword in a long arc into its neck, severing its head clean off. The head tumbled onto the sidewalk while the body leaned forward and flopped to the ground, Jocelyn taking a step back to avoid being hit by the corpse.
She turned to face the man who had shot the draugar. He was pivoting back and forth, his shotgun pointed in front of him, apparently looking for more adversaries.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked in a mildly gravelly voice, almost like
