Iver picks up one and strains his eyes to read the text.
“Size 7,” he mutters. “Twelve caliber.”
As he hears himself say it out loud, he realizes he has no idea if the bullets fit the shotgun. There’s only one way to find out.
Iver opens the pack and takes out two shells. He saw Fred reload the shotgun and recalls how he seemed to almost break it in half. Iver fumbles for a minute, then finds a tiny handle which needs to be pushed, and then the weapon opens to him willingly.
He puts in the bullets. They slip in with no problem. He snaps the barrel back into place.
“Seems about right,” he mutters. “Better bring the bullets.”
He puts down the shotgun and looks around for something else to carry the boxes in, spotting a plastic bag. It’s full of Christmas decorations, which Fred won’t be using now. Iver empties it out and instead fills up the bag with bullet boxes.
Below him, the undead are still groaning and waddling back and forth, pushing the table and chairs around. Iver does his best to ignore the sounds.
“Okay,” he says, looking around. “Now, how do I get back?”
His eyes have gotten used to the dark by now, and he can see cracks in the ceiling where the tiles are gaping a few millimeters, letting in strips of starlight.
He goes to the nearest one and feels the underside of the tile. It can be moved a little from side to side, but it’s lodged in place and can’t be removed.
Iver picks up the shotgun, turns it around and uses the butt end to tap the tile. It moves a little. Iver taps it harder. Then even harder. And finally, the tile cracks in half. He puts down the shotgun and pries the pieces out, revealing the early morning sky.
With one tile gone, Iver can now loosen the ones next to it without having to break them. He takes out four in total. The hole is now big enough that he can squeeze through.
First, though, he sticks out his head and surveys the roof. It’s wet from dew, which means it’ll be slippery. It’s not very steep, though, and he just might be able to make it to the garage roof without slipping and sliding down. From the garage, he’ll be able to jump to the ground.
The only problem is, he can hear the zombies standing around the house, groping the windows—even though he can’t actually see them from up here, his best guess is that there are at least ten of them, probably more.
As soon as I climb down to the garage, they’ll sense me and gather around … which means I need to move fast.
Iver pulls his head back inside. For some reason, he feels he needs to check on the zombies in the living room one last time, so he does.
Fred has joined them now in staggering around, reaching for the open hatch.
“Sorry about this,” Iver tells Fred, feeling a little silly, as the old guy obviously can’t understand him. He still goes on: “Thank you for the gun and the bullets.”
He then takes a deep breath, picks up the shotgun and the bag and ties them together with an extension cord before putting them out onto the roof. He secures the other end of the cord to the lath, so that the bag and the gun won’t slide down the roof.
Then he climbs out himself.
FIVE
They’ve walked for maybe an hour without saying much. The landscape hasn’t changed; it’s still an endless stretch of hills and heather, though things have become more visible as the fog has evaporated somewhat and the sun is beginning to rise.
Ozzy is the one to break the silence.
He suddenly growls from up front somewhere.
“What is it, boy?” William calls out.
Ozzy gives a single, low yelp, as though answering the question. Dan can make out the dog’s silhouette up ahead; he’s standing motionless, tail stiff, staring out into the fog.
“Who’s that?” a shrill voice calls back. “Anybody there? Please, I need help!”
It’s a woman, Dan can tell, and she’s speaking Norwegian. He’s just about to call out to her, when William grabs him by the arm, whispering: “Don’t.”
Dan looks at him. “What?”
“Don’t answer her.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have no idea who she is.”
William pulls him over to a cliff protruding from the ground. He lets go of Dan and climbs up unto the rock, scanning the surroundings.
Ozzy growls again.
“Ozzy, heel,” William says, loading the rifle.
“Who’s there?” the woman calls out again. “Please, answer me! Hello?”
Ozzy comes slinking back while darting watchful looks in the direction of the woman’s voice. He jumps up onto the cliff, positioning himself next to William.
“Hello?” the woman keeps calling. “Anybody? Who’s out there?”
Dan sees her coming out of the fog. She’s walking without watching her step, instead turning her head back and forth, obviously trying to not get surprised by anyone. She’s wearing what looks to Dan like underwear with a coat thrown over it. As though she left home in a hurry. She’s older than he thought, maybe around his mom’s age. In her hand is a big kitchen knife. She’s holding it like you’d hold a candle, and Dan can tell right away the woman isn’t exactly an expert in blade combat.
Ozzy growls from deep in his throat, and the woman snaps her head in the direction of the sound. Her eyes grow wide as she sees William standing atop the cliff.
“Don’t come any closer,” William tells her, holding up the rifle. He isn’t exactly pointing it at her, more like showing it to her.
The woman shakes her head. “I won’t. I just need help. Please. My husband … he’s … he’s been … and now he’s … he’s trying to …”
A noise Dan doesn’t pick up on makes the woman spin around and stare out into the fog.
She looks around for a
