If I go, he has me right where he wants me.
“Sir?”
The voice makes my head whip to the right and my pistol is out before I know what’s happening. Hands shoot into the air as I level the barrel of my pistol on the man who has appeared at my side.
“Don’t shoot!” he cries.
“Who are you?” I bark, pressing myself to a standing position. “What are you doing here?”
The man is older, maybe in his fifties or sixties, and his hands shake as he reaches them to the night sky. His beard is mostly grey, but his head is still crowned with thick black hair. He’s chubby, and he looks like he has lost a great deal of weight in a short period of time. His blue jeans and a thick canvas jacket suggest a retired blue collar worker, though his eyes look too soft for that.
“Please,” he says in a shaky voice. “Please don’t shoot. I’m Jeff. You kill zombies, right?”
I roll my head slightly to one side and keep the gun pointed at him.
“Well,” he continued, “of course you do. I mean, we’ve been watching you for a while now. Killing zombies, that is. You see… Shoot. Could you not point that at me?”
I look down at the gun and back at the man.
“Guns really make me nervous,” he shares. “Keep it out if you like, but can we just…” He pats the air in a motion that pleads with me to lower my weapon. I point the gun at the ground beneath his feet and he lets out a shuddering sigh. “That’s… whew… That’s better. Thank you.”
“What do you mean you’ve been watching me?” I ask, trying to stay on topic.
“Well… Just that we keep an eye out for you. My grandkids call you the Lawman.”
“Your grandkids?”
“Yeah,” he continues, getting more animated. “Nicholas and Bonnie. She’s eight and he’s eleven. They sit around every day waiting to see you go by. Diane…she’s my wife… thinks you’re nuts, but the kids and I love it. You see,” he said, pointing up the block, “we only live about half a mile up the street, and you seem to go that way a lot.”
I flush at the realization. I do go that way often. In fact, most outings start going south on First and then branch off. The reason’s simple.
It’s the opposite direction from my parent’s house, and where they were murdered. I avoid South Murphy Rd at every opportunity. There’s enough death in the world. Why rub it in?
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Your whole family watches for me?”
“Well,” the man says, looking coy, “yeah. You’re kind of the local celebrity.”
“Huh?”
“The Patterson’s keep us posted when you hunt in their neighborhood, and Mr. Ma watches the window more than the kids do.”
“Mr. Ma?”
“His wife died in the first wave. He came to live with us after.”
“And the Patterson’s?”
“They live off Union and Summit, down by the college. White house. Red door. Great neighborhood. Well… Used to be, anyway.”
I hold me head and try to imagine a world where this conversation makes sense.
“Well, listen… Uhh…”
“Jeff,” he reminds me.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod, “Jeff. Listen, I don’t know why you’re here, but this really isn’t a good time for me. Unless you have a pile of food, water, and some clothes you won’t be needing…”
“But that’s just it!” he blurts. “That’s why I’m here. You see, we saw the mill go up, and figured you’d be needing a new place to live.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. “You… You want me to come live with you?”
“You can’t stay in the street,” he replied with a laugh, then made a serious expression. “Speaking of,” he said, looking around nervously, “shouldn’t we be going about now?”
“Oh, right” I said in a joking tone. “Yeah, the whole world full of the murderous undead things. Yeah, we should probably be going.”
I stand and get into the Jeep. “You walk here?”
“No other choice. Car got stolen before the zombies ever even showed up.”
I smile and shake my head. “Hop in,” I say.
◊◊◊
I scoop peas with my spoon under five pairs of watchful eyes.
The kids stare with a reverential glow in their faces. The tired, wrinkled, ancient man to my right is Mr. Ma. Across from me is Diane, Jeff’s daughter. She’s in her late thirties and is the mother of both kids. And then there’s Jeff at the head of the table, smiling like he just brought home the President for dinner.
The meal is measly. One can of peas that tastes like it’s been open all day. Saltines. Water. I don’t fail to notice that my portion is greater than everyone else’s.
With each small bite I take, the group silently studies me and my every movement.
My teeth click against the spoon and the noise is like a gong in my head, the room is so quiet.
“Again,” Diane says, “I want to apologize for not being able to offer you more. Food is getting pretty scarce nowadays.”
“Really,” I say for the fourth time, “it’s great. This is great.” To make my point I take another bite of peas but bobble the spoon and drop some on the floor.
“I got it!” Nicholas calls. Without another word, he dives to the ground and picks each pea off the floor. Jeff and Diane smile as the boy emerges with the green treasures and sets them back on my plate. “There you go!” the boy says with pride.
“Than… Thank you,” I spit out, trying not to think about how dirty this floor must be. At the mill, I had food to waste. And yet these people, living just down the street, have clearly been starving.
The little girl eyes me and my plate. She has a sallow look to her that gives the appearance of one who was running out of happiness. It’s a
