“Well, she gets the merit badge for the most fucked up,” I muttered.
“Must’ve hitched a ride back on the bridge,” Casey surmised, gazing around the area, as if searching for any other stowaways.
“Guess we’re just lucky she didn’t try to attack us back there…” I gestured toward the rear of the van. “When we were trying to free the spare.” Brandishing the tire iron, I added, “Better take care of her before we finish the job.”
Nodding uncertainly, Casey raised his gun. As I’d suggested on the bridge, shooting kids—even undead ones—was infinitely less traumatic from a distance.
“Lemme try to get her first,” I said, letting him off the hook. “A gunshot might attract more unwanted visitors.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, lowering the pistol. “Could make it tougher to change the tire.”
With Casey behind me, I stepped forward, gripped my weapon with both hands, and steeled myself to brain the girl, but before I reached her, the situation took a dangerous turn. One second, Casey and I were both fixated on the upper half of the zombified scout, and the next second, she was gone.
Even without her legs and the lower half of her torso, she’d managed to drop to the ground and scurry to the other side of the rig.
“Whoa,” Casey whispered. “Where’d she go?”
Instinctively, we both stepped backward and waited for her to reappear. In that unnerving lull, I could’ve sworn I heard a girlish giggle. We both looked at each other and shook our heads in disbelief.
“There she is,” Casey shouted, aiming his gun toward the back of the vehicle.
I pivoted in time to see her ghastly face peering around the rear driver’s-side tire, but before I could take more than two steps in her direction, she vanished again.
“Dammit,” I muttered. “What’s up with this bloody kid? Was she a gymnast in her former life?”
Casey and I stepped apart and searched furiously around the area, hoping to surprise her before she could surprise us.
“Think you might’ve been right,” the kid said, retreating toward me.
I followed his gaze to the front of the van, where the former Brownie was walking on her hands, her head awkwardly cocked so she could keep an eye on us. Half an upside-down zombie girl getting ready to charge us.
“OK,” I said, “that might be the most fucked-up thing I’ve seen yet.”
Just then, the driver’s-side door slid open, and George stepped down, armed with her rifle. “What the hell are you two doing? You’ve been out here so long, I started to get worried.”
“Mom,” Casey yelled, “get your ass back inside!”
“Don’t you snap at me, mister. I’m your mother. I have a right to be—”
But George didn’t get a chance to complete her irritated thought. The handstanding zombie girl had startled her by hastening toward her and clambering up her back.
Casey immediately shifted the muzzle of his Desert Eagle, but with George still facing us, he couldn’t pull the trigger without possibly hitting his mom.
Meanwhile, it took a few seconds for the danger to register on George’s face. As soon as it did, though, she let out a shriek, dropped her rifle, and flailed around, vainly trying to toss the creepy little monster off her back. But the one-track-minded girl had too much strength and determination—even for someone as tough as Casey’s mother.
I dashed forward, closing the gap as the zombified Brownie reached the tempting, uncovered nape of George’s neck.
“Duck!” I screamed.
Luckily, George complied, and I swung the tire iron as hard as possible. My aim was true, and I managed to smash the kid squarely in the head and launch her half-a-body a good twenty feet in front of the van—without nailing Casey’s mom in the process.
George immediately straightened, glanced at the twitching torso on the road, and then shifted her gaze toward mine. “What the hell was that?”
I didn’t have time to answer her. The extra-petite zombie had already perked up, hopped onto her hands, and charged back toward us. Apparently, I’d only whacked her across the face. Her lower jaw was now missing—which, yes, made her look even more gruesome—but clearly, her flesh-seeking brain was still intact, and regrettably, she was hurrying toward us with preternatural speed.
I readied my tire iron for a better-aimed conking when Casey stepped between me and his mother, aimed his trusty handgun, and, with the girl only six feet away, shot her point-blank in the forehead. Her gymnastic days had officially come to an end.
Turning to George, Casey said, “Sorry I yelled at you, Mom.”
She scrutinized the decrepit corpse, shook her head with both sadness and disbelief, and retrieved her rifle. “No worries. I would’ve yelled at you, too.” Then, she looked at me. “Thanks for the save.”
“Anytime.” I glanced at Casey. “But your son’s the real hero.”
“Sorry about the noise,” he said, returning my gaze. “I just had to—”
“I totally get it.” Rustling leaves drew my attention to the woods. “But, hey, why don’t we get the new tire on as quick as possible—and get the hell outta here?”
So, while Casey and George guarded my back, I switched the tires, secured the new one, and stowed the busted one in the back. In case I could repair it down the road.
After cranking the jack upward, I ushered my friends back into the van, climbed into the driver’s seat, and liberally coated my cracked hands with sanitizing gel—which, needless to say, stung like hell. Then, I revved up the engine and continued our journey up north.
None of us said a thing—either to Clare or to one another. Hunger and exhaustion dulled our senses, and we were all simply too dazed from everything that had befallen us. There could be no words to express the horror and hopelessness we all felt—and I suspected we’d find it ever more challenging to overcome our shell
