She twists in her seat in response. Amy reaches behind her head and draws her hair out of a small tight bun. She sweeps a few nomadic strands from her eyes and sets to giving me an honest once-over. When her gaze drops to my hands, Amy’s nose crinkles and she makes a bit of a sour face for the briefest of moments before turning back to the road.
I look at my hands - all eight fingers. I raise my left hand and wiggle my thumb, index, and middle finger at my face. “Yeah,” I admit, “it ain’t pretty, but I lived.”
“How’d you lose them?” her timid voice squeaks.
“What else? Zombies.”
Panic takes over her expression as she tries to process this new revelation. “”But that means you’re…”
“Nah,” I interrupt, keeping my tone light. “I’m a carrier of the Z gene.” I stare at the mutilated appendage and the words seem to come out on their own, but they’ve lost any happy tone and have adopted the attitude of a biology lesson. “They can’t infect me. They can eat me, and try to, often. But I will never become one of them.”
“So, people like you… with the zombie gene…”
“Infected the world,” I finish for her. “They think the gene mutated and started attacking non-carriers.”
“So does that mean your family members are carriers as well?”
She would have been a smart kid in school, but she must have been helpless in the world.
“No,” I answer, a small part of me reliving the day the outbreak hit and the fire that killed my parents. “They’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They burned in a house fire, but not until they were turned.”
“Turned?”
“Into zombies.” I breathe hard and let the words just spill out. “In the end, they tried to kill and eat me. The fire, it took them both.”
“Where do you live now?” The distraction is nice for both of us right about now.
“I took a farmhouse up on the ridge. Harder to get to, and it already had a good fence.”
“You live alone?” The question carries no judgment and sounds like nothing more than just idle curiosity with a hint of surprise.
“Nah, not really. I mean, there are always the zombies,” I say with a strange smile.
“Yeah, they’re everywhere.”
“No,” I laugh. “I mean the zombies at the ranch. I keep them in pens.”
“Huh,” is all she says in response. Then, after a moment or two, “Why, Kyle? Why do you have zombies at your house?” She makes a disbelieving laugh and adds, “Are they like pets, or something?”
“Hardly,” I chuckle darkly. “I keep them and kill them. I practice snaring them and subduing them.” Yeah, I sound crazy. “When I’m done with them, I toss ‘em on the burn pile.”
She nods knowingly, but I’m worried that if I say anymore I’ll scare her off, so I decide to change the topic.
“So,” I begin, “I haven’t seen you in Cheney before. What brought you out here?”
God I sound lame.
“I have to find my brother.” Amy says it in that way which does not allow the listener to question the speaker’s sincerity. It is more than a statement. It’s a declaration.
She’s young, sixteen or seventeen, and she’s alone. No parents with her, which makes them dead and buried or dead and shuffling. Looking for her brother, which means he’s lost and probably dead as well.
Somebody has to tell this kid the truth. She could use some reality in her situation.
My eyes flick over to the girl riding shotgun. Her chin is on her knees again and her stare into the darkness is determined. I lose my nerve almost immediately. “Okay,” I respond. “Any idea where he is?”
“No.” There is a sadness to her tone, but it’s not without hope. “My little brother got sick and Tom went to Cheney to find medicine.”
“Where’s your little brother now?” The question is a stupid one, and I regret it the moment of its utterance.
“He’s dead.”
Dammit.
“And my mom. And…” She huffs and sucks the tears back with a rigid jaw and a tense neck. “And my dad.”
“Sorry, I…”
“It’s okay. I just need to find my brother.”
I can’t bear to tell her what I think. That her brother is probably strolling the countryside by now, eating everything with a heartbeat without the slightest thought for her or her dead family.
“So you’re what, fifteen?” I ask instead.
“Seventeen.” She exaggerates every syllable in the way girls do when they are trying to emphasize how mature they are.
“Damn. S’cuse me.” I laugh and she frowns back at me. “Got a plan, Miss Frickin’ Grownup?”
Amy’s head droops as she admits that she has no idea where to start.
“We'll hit the pharmacies and drug stores first. Not because there are any medicines left there, but we may bump into your brother while he’s searching. How long has he been gone?”
“Two days.”
“He’s probably still scouring the town.”
If he’s alive, that is.
◊◊◊
For the next week, it’s the same routine, day in and day out. Amy and I head out from the ranch. We cruise up and down the main drags of Cheney, breaking into any store that sells narcotics and antibiotics. Just like I promised, universally every shelf is bare.
And no sign of Tom.
Eventually we start breaking into eldercare facilities and medical offices. No drugs.
And no sign of Tom.
By the second week, we’re breaking into homes and rifling for any little plastic bottles we can find. Nothing.
And no sign of Tom.
Meanwhile, when we’re not searching for drugs and lost siblings, I teach Amy how to net and rope a shuffler from a safe position. I teach her to always gain the better location. Always have an escape route ready. Never feel safe when you’re in the open. It’s not over until the creature can’t move. Always keep your eyes open. Trust no one.
We take zombies back to the ranch. She watches in silence as I crush, burn, and grind them. Amy just stands there, watching the zombies being dismembered, disemboweled, and decapitated. As I purge
