All Our Tomorrows Read Online Free PDF Page B

how dependent it is on sight for confirmation.”
    Marge cuts him off, saying, “We don’t know if this will work, or for how long the deception will last, but if we don’t try something, sooner or later they’re going to breach the barn.”
    Down on the floor of the barn, David mounts a horse. Jane climbs up behind him, hugging him tight.
    David’s wearing a zombie suit, with thick padding lining his arms, legs and chest. A high collar reaches up over the back of his neck. In another age, his clothes would be akin to motocross leathers. Jane, though, is dressed like me. She doesn’t have any of the heavy padding. At a distance, it’s easy to confuse us, and my heart skips a beat as I realize what Marge is about to do.
    “It should be me on that horse,” I say.
    “You’re too weak,” Marge replies. “You wouldn’t make it.”
    “Neither will she,” I cry, but Marge ignores me.
    Marauders busy themselves strapping padding to the frightened mare, wrapping clothing around its legs and across its hindquarters. The animal is scared. Her eyes are wide with terror. Foam drips from her mouth.
    David struggles to keep the horse stationary, working with the reins and talking to the horse. Someone stands in front of her, holding the bridle and patting her neck, but she’s spooked and pulls against him. Somehow, she knows we’re about to send her out into the zombie horde and, like all of us, she fears for her life.
    A woman anchors a belt around Jane’s waist, binding her to David.
    Marge hands me a backpack, saying, “Stuff your clothing in here. We need everything. Your clothes, your underwear, the bandages on your arm, your bra, your socks. Anything that might have the slightest trace of scent or sweat.”
    I nod as Marge continues.
    “Olivia is going to scrub you down.”
    I’m too weak to protest. Something is sucking the life out of me.
    Shooters position themselves above the barn door, aiming their rifles at the zombies, ready to thin the crowd once David and Jane burst out through the doors.
    Dad and Ferguson walk back to talk with the marauders lining up their shots. There’s no privacy. There’s nothing to do but to strip down. I start with my socks, stuffing them into the backpack, followed by my torn trousers and underwear. I feel exposed, but I keep working at a frantic pace, unraveling the bandage from my arm before pulling off my shirt and bra. Standing there naked, I stuff my clothing into the bag.
    Olivia gestures to my hair. I pull the scrunchie from my ponytail and shove it into the bag.
    “We’re good to go,” Olivia calls out over the racket of zombies pounding on the barn, baying for blood.
    She tosses the backpack to Jane.
    Jane swings the bag over her shoulder and calls out, “Ready!”
    “Okay,” Marge says. “Let’s do this!”
    A bunch of marauders standing above the door begin throwing cinderblocks into the horde. Volley after volley of shots ring out as the shooters fire down into the swarm of zombies.
    I step forward to get a better look when a bucket of ice-cold water is dumped over my head, taking my breath away. Olivia begins scrubbing my skin with a horse grooming brush dipped in soapy water. The bristles are rough, harsh, scratching my arms and back. Someone dumps another bucket of water over me, soaking Olivia as well but she continues madly scrubbing. Soap lathers on my skin. With my arms outstretched and my legs apart, several women rub vigorously with brushes. Bucket after bucket of freezing cold soapy water dowses my body. The brushes hurt. It feels as though thousands of needles are tearing at my skin. Fingers massage the hair on my head, working the soap into my long locks, but they’re rough, pulling at my hair.
    Someone grabs me by the shoulders, turning me around and forcing me to bend over. There’s not an inch of skin that isn’t scrubbed, including the soles of my feet. I’m yelling, screaming in pain, only vaguely aware the main door has been opened and