Luckily, the two spares were precisely where I’d left them.
“Oh, thank god,” I whispered.
Casey, who must’ve misread my tone, jerked his gun upward and gazed at the woods flanking the road. “What?”
“Nothing. Let’s get this over with.”
With his assistance, I managed to detach one of the two tires. Unfortunately, though, while kneeling on the ground, we both got a good look at (and whiff of) the unsightly condition of my step van. Between the taillights and moonlight, it was evident how banged up and dirty she’d become in just a couple days.
As I maneuvered my aching body back to an upright position, I shrugged sheepishly. “She’s pretty nasty, I know, but somehow, I don’t think I’ll find anyone to detail her for me.”
“I’ll help you clean her off.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You know, when we’re not running for our lives.”
I smirked. “When might that be, you think?”
He shrugged. “Even zompocs have to calm down sometime, right?”
A chuckle escaped my chapped lips. “Yeah, that’s how it always works in the movies.” I hefted the spare and lugged it toward the front of the van. “But thanks,” I added.
He trailed me back to the busted tire, keeping an eye on our surroundings. “For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know… everything, I guess.”
Before Casey could respond, I set down the replacement tire, reached for the nearest jack, and made a horrible discovery. Based on the kid’s gasp, he’d obviously seen it, too.
“Well,” I muttered, “now we know what was clunking like that.”
Attached to the tire was the can of Fix-a-Flat. Attached to that was a severed hand—Jill’s right hand, to be precise, and only her hand, still gripping the can as if her life, or at least her daughter’s, had depended on it. Which it had.
Apparently, the hungry zombies had gnawed through her wrist, bones and all.
Once again, I found myself impressed by her fortitude and determination. She’d refused to release the can, even as she succumbed to an unimaginably painful death.
“That’s messed up,” Casey whispered.
Considering all the horrible shit we’d experienced since the previous morning, I almost laughed at his comment. A dismembered hand seemed far tamer than some of the other stuff we’d never be able to unsee… but having known the victim definitely made it worse.
Yep, the kid’s right. That’s all kinds of messed up.
Then, I spotted Jill’s favorite ring glinting in the moonlight.
A simple gold band with a tasteful cluster of tiny diamonds and garnets, the ring had rarely left her finger. My mother-in-law had never been fond of flashy or ultra-expensive jewelry, but I knew she’d possessed a few valuable rings and necklaces. I also knew how much this particular piece had meant to her and that she’d intended to leave it—along with the rest of her modest treasures—to her only child.
I wasn’t sure how I’d explain having the ring in my possession to Clare, but I certainly couldn’t leave it on her dead mother’s finger.
“Yeah, let’s not tell the women-folk about this,” I replied, then unhooked the can and carried both it and the stiff, clammy hand toward the woods.
Perhaps sensing my conflicted feelings and assuming I needed a moment alone, Casey hung back by the van, which gave me a moment to pry Jill’s fingers from the can, carefully remove the ring, and gently set the hand between two pine trees. I didn’t have time to bury what remained of my mother-in-law, but I didn’t want to toss it unceremoniously into the forest either.
After slipping the ring inside my jeans pocket, I rejoined Casey, and together, we loosened the lug nuts and jacked up the rig. Kneeling on the gravel road, we were about to remove the flattened tire when Casey unleashed a yelp and crab-walked backwards.
“Holy shit,” he spluttered. “I think one of ’em’s under there! Just tried to grab me!”
“I’m so sick of these motherfucking kids in this motherfucking forest,” I growled, hopping to my feet.
Not that I knew for certain who or what had hitched a ride on my zombie-mobile. But it’d be just my luck to snag a tagalong during the whole cemetery-to-bridge fiasco.
I retreated a few steps, bent my knees, and peered carefully beneath the vehicle. Not sure what I expected to see, but I assumed it would be as awful as everything else we’d seen and been forced to endure.
The zombie apocalypse was in full swing, of course, and I had no doubt that we would witness a slew of disgusting sights before humanity finally lost the war against the undead. But in the past few days, I’d already encountered an unfair share of gruesome spectacles. Hell, even the past few hours had provided enough fodder to inspire a lifetime’s worth of nightmares…
Hundreds of children turned into zombies? Check.
All manner of nasty, flesh-ravaged, limb-missing wounds? Check.
A shredded, half-eaten ranger dragging himself across the floor? Check.
Brain matter and black zombie goo squirting on my shoes? Check.
My mother-in-law’s severed hand? Double check.
And now for something completely different.
“Jesus, she doesn’t have any legs,” Casey informed me—as if I hadn’t noticed her legless body hanging beneath my van. “Or even a waist!”
The kid sounded both freaked out and fascinated. A whiz with computers, he’d undoubtedly played a ton of video games during his young life, including plenty of fucked-up, post-apoc ones with gory, hyperreal graphics. Even after everything he’d experienced over the past few days—including having to shoot his own undead father—I’d still caught him gazing at the walking pus-sacks as if they were mere figments of someone’s cracked imagination, like cinematic special effects or game graphics, not actual, zombified carnivores ready to murder every organism on Earth.
Casey had certainly taken the whole zompoc situation seriously so far and proven to be a useful member of the group, even saving my dumb ass on several occasions. But from his wide-eyed expression, I suspected a part of him had remained in
