“Shit,” he mutters, running to the other end—the one facing the driveway. Here are three zombies already gathered below.
Iver looks back up the roof. The extension cord is still there, and he might be able to climb back up to the hole, but what good would it do?
He puts down the bag and the rifle and goes back to the rear end of the garage. He looks down to see four other zombies standing there, clawing the wall, gazing up at him with their dead eyes.
Iver runs his hands through his hair, breathing deeply, as he realizes he’s trapped.
His only option of getting off the roof is jumping down, and that would mean jumping right into the arms of the zombies. He could take a running start, of course, and simply jump over them. They are standing up against the wall, after all, so he could surpass them easily. And he’s a lot faster than them, so he would probably have time to get up and run away before they could even turn around.
But jumping that far seems risky. The garage is a fairly tall building, maybe ten or twelve feet. And although the ground is covered in soft heather, it’s also very uneven, and he could very easily sprain an ankle.
Just the thought of landing behind the zombies and not being able to get back up is enough to make his blood chill.
It would also mean he would have to leave the weapon and the ammo behind. Or he could throw it beforehand, then hope he would have the time to pick it back up.
None of those look like good prospects to Iver.
I could shoot them?
The thought isn’t very appealing, but it’s an option he needs to consider. In the dawn light, though, he can already see a lot of houses and a lot of undeads. Shooting will just draw more of them. So that’s out too.
I need someone to distract them.
His hand goes to his pocket, but finds it empty. It takes him a few seconds to recall that Fred took his phone.
“Goddamn him!”
Iver begins pacing back and forth. It’s a habit he’s had from early childhood; whenever he feels stressed and needs to think, he’ll walk around restlessly.
He can’t risk jumping. He can’t call Chris for help. He can’t even shout for anybody, as the nearest neighbor is far away. And even if someone heard him, who would leave their house when the island is crawling with zombies?
It begins to dawn on Iver just how bad the situation actually is. He’s not in any immediate danger, but he can’t get away, either.
The zombies surrounding the garage don’t seem to plan on leaving anytime soon, and he’s not carrying any food or water. His mouth is already dry. Once the sun comes up in a couple of hours, he’ll have no shade, and he’ll begin to sweat profusely.
How long can you go without water? What was that they told us at the course?
Iver can’t recall it word-for-word, but it was something about the number three. How the human body can go for three weeks without food, three days without water and three minutes without oxygen.
Sounds about right. There’s plenty of air, which means I’ll die of thirst. And it’ll take me three days to do so.
The thought sends another shiver down his spine.
Relax, there’s still plenty of things that can happen. Maybe the zombies go somewhere else. Or maybe Chris decides to go look for me.
None of those seem like likely things to happen, though. Iver is pretty convinced the zombies don’t need to actually see a living person to know they’re there; why would they gather around a house with boarded-up windows if that’s the case? No, the zombies can sense the living. They’re drawn to the nearest prey. Which means the ones surrounding the garage will probably stay right here for as long as Iver does.
And Chris leaving the house to go look for him? Why would he do that? If he can’t reach him by phone, he will of course assume Iver didn’t make it.
The thought of Adam waking up in the morning and Iver not being there is surprisingly awful. He knows logically that Agnete is there and that she’ll care for the toddler. But somehow, Iver feels like the little guy is more bound to him. After all, he was the one who got him safely off the ferry.
Iver decides to try and calm his mind. Clearing his head might allow an idea to surface. So, he sits down on the bag of ammo, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
And then, without really thinking about it, Iver begins to pray.
“Dear Father in heaven, be close to us as we seek you in the quiet of our hearts. Grant us the strength of your Spirit, the strength to wait patiently for your help in our lives …”
He hasn’t said a prayer since he was very little and would visit his grandmother, who’s long since dead but in life was a devout Christian.
“Help us to hold to all that is good. Help us to feel, each one of us, that we are your children and that we may rejoice in your fatherly care. May your will be done more and more fully in us and around us …”
Iver never really incorporated any notions of faith and considers himself an atheist, which makes it all the more surprising to find how fluently the words come to him, as though he last recited them just yesterday.
“May your will be done so that we may be given ever greater freeing and your light can dawn where there is still darkness. Amen.”
He takes another deep breath, then opens his eyes. And what he sees makes him gasp.
Out there, in the dim dawn, a pair of headlights is coming this way.
SEVEN
The shot rings out into the
