Fortunes & Failures - 03 Read Online Free PDF Page A

thing I never considered when we used to talk about this sort of scenario.”
    “You used to plan for this ?” Peter asked incredulously.
    “It was sorta like a hobby,” Kevin said with a sheepish grin. “Trust me, nothing seems to have worked out like we planned.”
    “He was kind of a geek,” Heather said with a laugh.
    “Then, since you probably have the majority of ideas that we could use immediately,” Peter announced, “you should lay them out for everybody to sift through. I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants these past few months; it would be nice to have a plan of sorts.”
    “You asked for it,” Heather quipped.
    Kevin shot her a dirty look, then began laying out his plans. Everybody listened intently, occassionaly interrupting with a question or request for clarity. After almost an hour, blessedly uninterrupted by zombies, they had the outline of a plan. And Heather had an idea as to where they could implement it.
     
     
    * * * * *
     
    2
    Home Sweet Home
     
    I keep having the same dream.
    I’m back in my apartment in Seattle. I’m sitting on the couch with my Basset hound, Pluck, and I am watching television. My buddy Bill Wright is sitting in my recliner drinking a beer. He’s yelling at the ineptness of our team’s quarterback. Then, out of nowhere, he looks at me and shakes his head.
    “How you just gonna leave Thalia and Emily, man?”
    “I didn’t just leave them,” I snap back. “I led that herd away from the camp. I saved them like I was supposed to.”
    “Is that right?” Bill was starting to change before my eyes. He always did this. That would mean—
    “Just like you left old Pluck there to get his guts torn out baaa…” Bill’s transformation was complete. He was a putrid mess, and a dark, mucousy liquid dripped from his open mouth. His eyes were filmed over and bloodshot in black. For some reason, he was wearing a field utility jacket. I couldn’t recall if he’d been wearing it the entire time. The name on the breast stitched in white read “Ed.”
    Looking down—God, do I always have to look down in this dream?—I see my loveable footwarmer of a dog. He’s on his side, his belly torn open, its contents spilled out on the couch in a stinking wet pile. His tongue hangs out one side of his mouth, all black and hideous looking. That’s when, almost on cue, the banging and pounding begin on all the doors and walls.
    “They’re gonna get in.”
    I look up and see Jack standing in front of the television, one side of his head has a neat bullet hole; the other is a gaping mess. Only, that seems normal, I’m more concerned that the game isn’t on anymore and what looks like a bunch of home videos are playing. It is scene after scene of me telling Thalia that I would always watch out for her.
    “Is it my fault that you died, Jack?” I ask.
    “Absolutely.” Jack comes and sits on the couch with me and Pluck. He starts scratching the undead hound behind those big floppy ears. “Barry is your fault, too. But if we are gonna make a list, do you want me to go alphabetical or chronological?”
    “Are you gonna recite them?
    “No,” Jack says with a conspiratorial grin. “But I will go over the highlights. It started with Mary Kinnet, the girl at the gas station. You shot her and left her to be torn apart.”
    “She was bitten,” I protest.
    “Are you gonna make me skip ahead to Steve Johnson, the guy you took out into the woods and shot in the head?”
    “That’s not fair, he asked me to.”
    “How many others, Steve?” Jack picked through Pluck’s bloody entrails.
    “Why don’t you just say it?”
    “You mean this?” Jack plunged a finger into a hole that suddenly appeared in his head. A hole I’d put there. “Actually, you did the right thing, I was gonna turn.”
    “Really,” I gulped.
    “No,” Jack said without emotion. “That was just a tiny kernel of your conscience dying, so you could feel better. I would’ve been okay