They cut through the city, waiting for the crowd ofshambling dead to follow them. Where had they all come from? How had the cityfallen so quick, so fast? His mind had no time to wander. His legs burned. Hehad run maybe three-quarters of a mile, but it was enough. "Hold up,"he said, bending over and gripping his knees.
Zeke slowed down, breathing just as hard as Lou. He puthis hands over his head and said, "Not like that. Like this. Bending overmakes your body work harder to get oxygen."
They walked slowly, the scattered dead of the citygaining ground on them. All Lou needed was a few minutes. He stood and put hishands on his head, though all he really wanted to do was double over and fallto the ground. He cursed the heavy, khaki boots on his feet. They werefashionable; the ladies seemed to like them, but damn did they get heavy quickwhen he was running.
They walked casually, their hands over their heads, thedead drawing closer and closer. "What's it like to be a hero?" Zekeasked.
"I don't know. You tell me. You're the armyboy."
Zeke nodded at him, not surprised that Lou had accuratelypinpointed his past profession. "Yeah, well, even in the military, I nevercalled down the wrath of a couple hundred cannibals just to save onefamily."
"You would have done the same," Lou said. Zekeshook his head in the negative, but Lou could see it in his eyes. He could seethe hero inside of him. Zeke didn't know it was there, and perhaps he evenbelieved he didn't have it in himself, but Lou could feel it.
"Come on. Let's cut across," Zeke said. Theyturned left and headed south down 3rd Ave., a dingy sort of street filled withbars and shithole convenience stores. Lou looked longingly at the food in thestores. He could see that the glass had been busted in and the shadows ofbodies milled around in their dark interiors. Lou glanced over his shoulder. Hewas shocked at how much ground the dead had gained. They weren't fast, but theydidn't slow down. Thank God they couldn't run, he thought.
They strolled down the middle of the street until theypassed the spot where the Morrison Bridge dumped out onto 3rd Ave. Then theywalked one more block, keeping out of reach of the dead behind them,alternating quick bursts of light jogging with fast walking. They turned lefton Morrison St, which surprisingly didn't even connect with the MorrisonBridge. Lou thought it always had, but it looked like he had been wrong. Itdidn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but he always hated being wrong.Ahead of them, two blocks to the east lay Waterfront Park. They had basicallymoved in a circle, drawing the dead behind them, and clearing the way beforethem at the same time.
"You ready?" Zeke asked.
"You know it," he replied, and then they brokeinto an easy trot, that didn't feel so easy the second time around. Hisfootsteps were heavier, and his boots felt like iron weights hanging off of hisfeet, but he pushed himself like he had never pushed himself before. His life dependedon it. He knew a boat and some open water would be waiting at the end of thejog. It would be worth it.
Once again, they set foot on the green grass ofWaterfront Park. There were no obstructions, and the dead were scattered about,too thin to pose much of a threat. Their tail was still following, buthopefully they had lost most of them with their twists and turns. Lou looked inthe distance to see if he could see the family, but all he saw was anotherbridge and a blob of corpses falling off its edge. With any luck they wouldspread out by the time they reached the dead. He looked further down, and sawthe unfurled sails of the boats even closer. They couldn't be more than a thirdof a mile away.
They approached a fountain, the Salmon Street Springs.Lou remembered playing there as a child, while his father had sold dope to thepeople who milled around its edges, watching the children scream and laugh asthe water doused them in the summer heat. Even in his happiest memories, hisfather was always up to something. Lou shoved the thought aside. Now was notthe time to start feeling sorry for himself.
"Get that gun ready," Zeke said. "I thinkwe're going to have to blast our way through the next batch."
Lou did as he was told. He ejected a clip from the handgun,shoved it in his pocket, and put in a fresh one. He would have liked to stopand reload fully, but there simply wasn't enough time. Even a minute or twocould be fatal out here. For the first time in his life, Lou wished he was oneof those skinny Kenyan runners that he always saw on TV. Then he could runforever. Then he would be safe.
They approached the bridge hoard and skirted around them,their guns at the ready. There was no way through, and they couldn't afford tohave more dead come crashing down right on top of them. Lou could see theirshadowy torsos milling around on top of the bridge. Zeke took the lead, andgunfire rang out. They had to slow their progress to make the shots count asthey moved through the dead. The last thing Lou wanted to do was walk past oneof the things he thought was dead only to have it latch onto him and take abite out of his ankle.
Lou held his handgun up and at the ready, while Zeke tookmeasured shots, walking heel to toe through the crowd. Lou's heart pumped inhis chest, and he could taste the fear in his mouth.
"Out!" Zeke yelled. He ejected his spentmagazine, and Lou took over, taking careful aim. The head, he thought, it'sgot to be the head. He squeezed the trigger, but the round simply blewthrough the shoulder of an old man. The old
