Dylan smothered a sob. “Oh, Frankie. What did he do to you?”
Frankie growled and reached for Dylan with one hand. The other arm ended at the elbow, and her lower body was missing. She dragged herself forward a few more inches, leaving a trail of slime behind. Only her blonde hair was still recognizable.
“I’m so sorry, Frankie. I should’ve come here sooner. I could’ve saved you,” Dylan whispered as she raised the gun. Time slowed as she gazed into Frankie’s eyes, saying goodbye to the girl she’d once known. The blast seemed extra loud to Dylan, and her ears sang as she sank to her knees, dropping the pistol. “I’m sorry.”
Dylan sat for a long time, mourning her best and only friend. She remembered all the good times they’d had, and all the bad. The time when Frankie held her hair while she vomited her guts out after a night of heavy partying. The time Frankie came down with measles, looking like a spotty pink balloon. Also, the time that Frankie had asked her to stay, and her expression when Dylan refused, leaving her behind to move on to bigger, better things. Or, so she’d thought.
Now Dylan realized the real reason she’d run. Because she was afraid. Afraid of caring about someone other than herself. It made her vulnerable, and so she’d cut the ties before she could get hurt. A coward’s tactics.
Finally, she looked at the ticking time bomb on her wrist and forced herself to stand up. She couldn’t save Frankie, but she could save herself, and her friend would’ve wanted that despite everything.
With tears in her eyes, Dylan wrapped Frankie’s remains in a sheet and placed her in her bed. She did the same to Peter but left him downstairs. He was too heavy to drag all the way up steps. After saying a brief prayer for each, she set to work preparing herself for the journey.
She was covered in Peter’s blood, and her shoes stank with vomit, so she quickly stripped down and stepped into the shower. In Frankie’s cupboards, she found a set of clean clothes: jeans, a flannel shirt, boots, and a jacket. They were the same size, which was a bonus. She also grabbed an extra blanket, a couple of toiletries, and some food and water, stuffing it all into a backpack.
She sported a number of bruises from her fall, and the spot where Peter had bitten her had turned purple, though she was lucky the skin was unbroken. The last thing she needed now was a zombie taking yet another chunk out of her. After disinfecting and bandaging the cuts on her forehead and hand, she rolled up her sleeve and took a proper look at the bite mark on her arm. It was bad. A lot worse than she’d have thought possible in such a short time. Although it felt like an eternity since she’d been to the supermarket, in reality, it was only four hours.
Already it was oozing puss, the area swollen and warm. Black veins radiated outward from the crescent mark like the creeping tendrils of poisonous ivy. While it didn’t hurt much, it looked awful.
She cleaned and bandaged the wound while trying to avoid looking at the black veins. They reminded her of Peter and Frankie, and of what she’d become if she didn’t reach Fort Knox in time.
“It’s only five and a half hours’ drive, and I’ve got almost a full tank. I can make it,” she said, trying to bolster her courage. If nothing happens along the way.
She found a bottle of aspirin in a cupboard and swallowed a few, hoping it would help for the fever that would soon set in once the virus got underway. That and the pain from her various cuts and bruises. The rest she tucked into her pocket to take as needed. An energy bar and a bottle of water fortified her for the road, but she only had seven bullets left in her gun. She’d better find more soon or she’d be in real trouble. At least, a baseball bat joined her arsenal, as did a butcher’s knife which she tucked into her belt.
Once her preparations were done, she took a last look around. It felt final. She’d most likely never come back again. “Goodbye, Frankie. You were a good friend. A better one than me. Rest in peace.”
There was still the problem of getting to her car, however. The neighborhood which had been clear before was now filled with wandering zombies, drawn by the gunshots. After sneaking out of the front door, she made her way to the gate using shrubs and bushes for camouflage.
Once she was as close as it was possible to get, Dylan tossed her bag over the gate. It landed with a thump, and two nearby infected turned toward the sound. With rasping growls, they milled around the lump of canvas looking for food.
“Dumbasses,” Dylan muttered while rooting around for a sizeable rock.
She found one and tossed it over the two infected’s heads to land in the road with a clatter. Predictably, they rushed over, accompanied by three more that were nearby. After making sure none of the zombies were too close to her, she jumped over the gate, making as little noise as possible. Landing in a low squat, she grabbed her bag and ran to the car.
It was beginning to look like she’d make it without incident when she opened the door. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten about the hinges, and they squealed loudly enough to be heard for miles. As one, every zombie in the vicinity turned toward her, their black-veined, black-eyed faces monstrous to behold.
The closest one charged, and Dylan dropped the bag with haste. Setting her feet apart in a solid stance, she swung the baseball bat at its head. It connected with a hollow thump, and she watched with fascination as his head changed shape from the force of the blow. His
