After guiding us into the rear office, Bob gazed around, as if searching for any tools or weapons he might’ve left in plain sight. Spotting the pencil holder, he hastened toward the desk and plucked out the scissors and letter opener. I refrained from telling him that writing utensils could also serve as decent weapons in a pinch.
Clare, meanwhile, coaxed her mother toward the room’s only seat, an ergonomic office chair on wheels. I also noticed a disheveled cot in the corner—presumably Bob’s bed for the last few nights—but none of us opted to park our asses there. Instead, the ranger dragged three folding chairs from the collection by the front door and dispersed them around the desk.
“Sit,” he commanded.
My wife, who had yet to comply, looked up from tending to her mother, concern streaked across her face. “Could I get some water for my mom?”
Bob gazed at Jill, obviously aware that something was very, very wrong with the woman, and nodded. With the ranger watching her every move, Clare stepped around the desk and through the doorway, where she paused to snatch a small paper cup from a short stack atop the water cooler. After filling it almost to the brim, she carefully carried the cup toward Jill and tipped it over her mother’s open mouth.
After one small sip, Jill grasped the cup and waved her daughter away. “I’m not a child. I can hold it myself.” But after a few painful gulps, her face softened. “Sorry, Clare.”
“It’s OK, Mom. I know you’re hurting.”
Clare’s patience didn’t surprise me. Despite a handful of hotheaded moments over the years, she was typically a calm, tolerant person—especially when someone she loved was hurting. And Jill really did look as awful as she sounded.
Since her second puking, her complexion had turned from pale green to a yellowish gray. The infection she’d received from the scratch must’ve spread throughout her entire system and was now beating the hell out of her. We might not have gotten along over the past two decades, and in fact, her unwarranted—yes, I said unwarranted—hatred toward her only son-in-law had always bothered me, but still, I didn’t want to see her die in such an awful manner. I wished I could think of some way to save her—beyond risking my own life to snatch more useless drugs—if only to spare my wife from having to witness the coming transformation.
Clare toted one of the chairs toward her mother and dutifully sat beside her while George reluctantly perched herself near the far side of the desk, leaving one seat on the opposite side. Intended for me, of course—though I didn’t feel like relinquishing control just yet.
For a few awkward seconds, Ranger Bob and I simply stood in the dimly lit office, sizing each other up.
“You have to believe us,” I insisted. “We’re not lying.”
No response. Just kept staring at me.
In the eerie silence, a thought popped into the forefront of my mind. A new angle to convince him. “Don’t you think it’s odd how quiet the forest is? Haven’t you noticed a strange lack of birds, squirrels, and other rodents? Even the crickets have shut up.”
The skin above his nose crinkled. Perhaps he had noticed.
“It’s the fall,” he said hesitantly. “Animals are livelier in the spring and summer.”
“Since when? That might be true up north, but not in southern Mississippi.”
“Well, I mean…”
I gestured toward Jill. “This woman was scratched two days ago, by a zombie. Look how sick she is now.”
At the z-word, he noticeably flinched. Once again, I’d pushed the issue too far—but my patience had thinned too much for me to care.
I almost sighed, but instead, I implored him with my eyes and tried—fruitlessly—to conceal the disdain I felt. “The disease has spread, we believe, all over the country… maybe the world.” I took a deep breath. “Zombies are real.”
There it was again… the flinch. He just couldn’t believe in something so outlandish.
But before I had a chance to share my own disbelief at his stubbornness, he retreated toward the doorway. “I suggest you sit down, sir. You’ll probably be here a while. In the meantime, I’m gonna lock you in.” He pointed to the windowed door that separated the office from the rest of the station. “Gotta drive up the road to get some cell service.”
Yep, Ranger Bob was a world-class idiot, who would surely die as soon as a roving zombie reached his cozy middle-of-nowhere nook. Or if he crossed paths with one on his pointless search for cellphone service. Knowing him, he’d likely get out of his car and demand to see the creature’s camping permit—right before he, she, or it took a huge bite out of him.
I did have one positive thought, though, as he closed the door: As soon as he left, we’d simply break the glass and trek back to our ride. True, we’d lose a bunch of guns (the ones he’d left in his trunk), but I still had a few weapons and lots of ammo hidden inside the van, hopefully enough to get us to Michigan.
“Yep, he truly is a bigger idiot than you,” Jill spouted. “Too stupid to realize we can just break through the glass and get the hell outta here.”
I groaned in frustration.
Ol’ Bob might’ve been too stupid to realize that, but he clearly wasn’t too deaf to miss what she’d said. As soon as Jill had finished sharing her glorious words of insight, he reentered the room, opened a lower desk drawer, and pulled out some heavy-duty zip ties. His handcuffs still dangled from his utility belt, but one pair wouldn’t be enough for all of us.
“That’s completely unnecessary,” I said. “We won’t go anywhere, I promise you.”
But my protest was in vain.
Ranger Fucktard circled the desk and, naturally, made a beeline for me. Even though Jill was the biggest pain in the ass in the
