It was nearly dark when Jerome raised the double door on a garage, and Ed backed the four foot by eight foot enclosed trailer inside. After I unhitched it from the truck, he backed the Expedition in beside it. With the door closed, we were out of sight of zombies or other humans. We rested sitting up, but none of us slept soundly in the cold space even under heavy blankets we’d packed.
At dawn, we ate canned fruit and homemade pastries we'd brought along and washed it down with bottled water. After hitching the trailer, we continued ransacking houses. Some doors were unlocked, but most had to be pried open. We averaged one house every twenty minutes and were pleased with the results. During a leisurely lunch, we joked and spoke about our past and touched on future plans for the compound.
We'd finished the south side of the street, so we moved across to work the north side and started again. We'd been lucky and had only run into zombies three times during all our searches. They were noisy slow movers and were easily handled up close with our handguns.
Sunlight faded into dusk when we left the last house for the day. We'd found a huge amount of usable ammunition inside, and we were carrying it out and stacking it by the trailer. This gun collector hoarded ammunition like someone expecting a war. I looked around and realized Jerome wasn't with us. "Ed, where's Jerome?"
Ed shrugged and looked down the street. "He's at the next house. I'm ready to quit for the day. How about you?"
I yelled to Jerome. "Aren't you ready to stop and eat?"
He turned to us, grinned and waved with his right hand. "One more. I think this will be a lucky one too." The crowbar was jammed against the door, and with a mighty tug of his left arm the doorframe splintered.
I yelled, "Where's your Glock? Get it in your hand."
He pushed the door open with a hearty shove. Immediately, two rotting arms jutted out. Jerome leaned back from the impending danger and screamed as he was forcefully yanked inside the house. As we reacted, we heard the eager screeching of the undead before the chilling human cries reached us. Ed and I were half way across the seventy-five foot space to the house's front door wanting to blot out the horrible shrill cries brought on by Jerome's extreme pain and fright. We reached the doorway and were appalled by the gruesome sight before us.
Jerome lay prone on the living room floor in a spreading pool of blood. Three zombies jostled to stay on top of him as they fed while he thrashed and squirmed under them. A rotting female sat on his shins and bit hunks of flesh from a thigh. A desiccated male chomped the fingers off Jerome's right hand, and a young female sat on his stomach as she ripped hunks of skin and flesh from his face with her teeth. Jerome's legs kicked feebly, and his left arm waved sporadically at nothing as we shot the three monsters in their heads. The undead collapsed onto our defiled friend.
Jerome's voice carried weakly, "Oh God, oh God, help me." I stood beside the mass of grotesque, bloody, remains that no one would recognize as Jerome Watters.
"Goodbye, my friend," I aimed and shot him twice in the head to end his suffering ahead of his transformation.
Ed and I were haggard the next morning. Neither of us slept more than a few minutes at a time. The sight and sounds of Jerome's death stayed in my mind and defied sleep. Every time a friend died it reminded us harshly of how close we were to the same fate on a daily basis. The old saying, “There but for the grace of God go I” so aptly applied to all of us every single day.
At dawn, we wrapped Jerome's body in plastic sheeting and secured him to the top of the SUV. We were no longer in the mood to scrounge for ammo and morosely headed home.
Friday afternoon, we buried Jerome Watters during a solemn ceremony attended by all the survivors except the two people on watchtower duty. The day was murky, and lightning flashed in the distance as Jerome was lowered into the grave. Marcie Tanka uttered a brief eulogy defining the man Jerome had been to us. I spoke for a minute or so and a simple burial prayer followed. Those who had bowed their heads in prayer raised them, and some threw a traditional handful of dirt into the grave. Then we mourners drifted away.
When the grievers neared the building, Albert fired up the backhoe and pushed the dirt back into the hole. I took a deep breath and again wondered what had caused Jerome to let his guard down at the wrong moment. I suppose he got complacent because our search had gone so well. He was a good man, a good friend and intelligent. His death was the ninth person we'd lost to the undead menace since their onslaught began going on two years ago. I cringed knowing he wouldn't be the last.
Sunday morning, after breakfast, I stopped to join a discussion between Ed, Shane, John, and Ira. We were in the communal section at the middle of the building near the end of the shops section. The topic was, of course, zombies. As I sat, Kira and Vivian approached, said hi and were invited to join the discussion.
My attention shifted to Shane as he spoke. "– suspect the number of fast zombies has been increasing, but I don't know at what rate. Somehow, they've changed from the original slow movers to a new breed that is somewhat more agile and coordinated and much faster. I've also noticed
