Fresh apple pie, Chubbs, and it’s pinned-down between a pair of gently used four-doors.
Something in me says to ignore them. The voice reasons that he’ll either be turned now or later. An idiot like that – trapping himself with no escape route – it’s amazing he lasted this long.
Then there’s the other voice. The one that reminds me that one fewer human is one more zombie to have to deal with. I can’t save him forever, but keeping him alive until he moves on means he’ll be some other town’s zombie problem.
Shit.
I scoot back to the stairwell, and in no time I’m cautiously gaining on Chubby, who is completely distracted by the town’s new resident. The wind is still firmly at my back, so there’s no chance of Captain Shuffles smelling me out. Even so, I really don’t like this. I’m keeping my eyes open and taking precautions to keep from being surprised by any unseen zombies, but I can’t ignore the danger I’m in. I’ve now put myself on the ground, on a level playing field with the horde, and I’m stalking one while it’s hunting. Catching a zombie who isn’t hungry is like bagging a tired preschooler: They make a bunch of noise but don’t really fight that hard. Snagging a hungry zombie is like trying to wrestle a giant snake barehanded with rodents tied all over your body.
Read: Stupid and Reckless.
So no, I’m not feeling great about my situation.
I whittle the distance between Chubby and myself to within twenty yards when the dealership comes into view. Just as I draw my net from my shoulder bag, the boy dives across the street all hunched-over like a character in some Halloween cartoon. Chubbs yells in excitement and I break into a full run. The boy reaches the curb and stops, sees us running at him and screams.
A long… high-pitched… horror movie queen scream.
Chubbs doesn’t care. If anything the noise is just setting the appropriate ambiance for turning this curb into a modern street café, specializing in only the most raw of delicacies.
For me, the sound stirs something deep within and makes me double my efforts. My mind switches to autopilot. The next few minutes were retained and reviewed in vacation slideshow fashion.
Net out and tossed onto the zombie. Chubby falls. Girl turns to run.
Girl. It’s a girl.
Chubby turns on me and claws at the rope. Catch pole out. Chubby pulls off part of the net. I scream and curse at Chubby. He swipes at me and tries to stand up. The girl stops and watches her fate play out before her.
Girl. It’s a girl.
I flick the end of the catchpole over Chubber’s neck and tighten the snare. He stands and lunges at me but with a twist I have him sprawled on the ground again. He pushes, claws, and gurgles at me ferociously, but Chubby isn’t going anywhere. In a flash I have dug out my framing hammer. It’s a special little tool I carry for such special occasions. There will be no dragging this one back to the ranch. I draw back and begin slamming the milled face of the hammer into the collapsing face of the zombie. Then I work his shoulders and arms. Then his knees. My arm aches from wrist to shoulder as I crush Chubby’s hips and pelvis. In a matter of minutes, what was a terrifying killing machine is no more than a shivering glob of zombie jelly. I slip the snare from the around Chubb-o’s head pudding and stand over what I’ve made. My pants and shirt are covered in zombie spatter. I’m pretty sure I taste z-jelly, causing me to subconsciously push the back of my hand across my lip. Recalling that I’m not alone, my eyes rise to meet the disgusted stare of the young lady, hand still at my mouth.
“Is it dead?” she asks.
The girl’s voice snaps me back to the situation. We’re still in the open. We’ve made a lot of noise. And there is never just one zombie shuffling around. Suddenly I’m mad again.
This is who I risked my neck for? Some stupid girl?
“Yeah,” I snap, “its dead. But it’s a zombie, so it’s been dead for a while now, hasn’t it?” My tone is harsh. Maybe too harsh. She looks at me and her face becomes stone.
“Yeah, well,” she stammers, “screw you too.” The girl turns to walk away.
Definitely too harsh.
“Wait,” I offer.
“No!” she blurts, rearing back at me. Now it’s her turn to snap. “Thanks for saving me, but I have enough problems without you treating me like I don’t matter.”
“Run.”
“What?”
She turns and gets my perspective. No less than eight zombies are jogging up 1st Street, howling and singing animatedly.
“Run!” I repeat.
I grab her wrist and pull the girl toward the milling facility and my van. It’s half-mile away but we’ll cover that easily, what with being motivated by a ravenous horde and all. As we run, my only real fear is another horde cutting us off and being penned-in. Fears gone to waste, we reach the van without encountering any other shufflers. Moments later we’re driving out of Cheney proper and heading to the county.
◊◊◊
We drive for several minutes without speaking. She’s tucked her knees to her chin and is staring out into the fading light of the evening. I’m grinding my teeth and trying to think of something to say that won’t result in her getting pissed and snapping at me again.
She saves me the effort.
“Amy,” she says, barely over a whisper.
“Kyle,” I reply.
“Thank you for saving me, Kyle.”
I think back to standing atop the mill and debating helping her at all or letting her be eaten. I choose to keep that deliberation to myself. Instead I glance her way
