elbows shook with the effort of supporting her weight. And she collapsed, her arms outstretched in mournful begging. The exposed bone of her fingers tapped weakly on concrete, but couldn’t compete with Dave and José.
Starving dogs couldn’t have made better moans. All the while blood dripped slowly from the bag, tiny kisses that drove them mad. They clawed and slapped at each other, tore at the air, as if pulling on it would lift them higher. And still, the female’s fingers tapped away, an incessant metronome of bone.
May lifted her bag from the concrete, the matches still tight in her grip. And slipped away from the starving zombies. All across the car lot, the shambling dead were coming. Without eyes, they stumbled, their path made more difficult by the cars in their way. But with their ears, they followed the only sound that mattered. No matter what lay before them, they bumped and shuffled until they worked their way around it.
The blood bag had only been up maybe fifteen-twenty minutes and already they flocked to it. Over the next few days, from a distance, she would watch the three bags she would hang outside the city limits.
‘I needed the time those blood bags bought me. It was a strategy my husband and I worked out early on: set up three blood bags on the outskirts of town, and let them sit for several days, while the smell attracted as many zombies as possible. After that, it was a bit safer to move around, collecting what we needed to set up a few permanent residences around the city. I still keep a list of supplies, the types of stores we hit. Only when we had everything we needed – no matter how long it took us – could we truly begin the reason we stopped in these small towns.’
• excerpt from August 24 th entry
She slunk across the car lot, staying low, hugging the lines of cars, until she reached the main building that butted up against a low rock wall. Behind that, and further up the hill, was a factory. She grabbed her bike and pedaled for the Danville bypass, then headed around the county school and across train tracks. On the train station’s platform she stopped, put the kickstand down.
Of all the places in Danville, the station felt emptier than anywhere else. No bodies moved in the shadows between cars, nor did they shuffle past the windows in the station. Only the wind whispered through metal. She left her bike there and walked the circumference of the station. Just above the roof was the bridge overpass leading to Main Street. She climbed up on the station’s railing, grabbed the roof, and scrambled up. The rough shingles burned her fingers but she climbed to the highest point, barely three feet from the concrete bridge. Leaving her pack there, she jumped the gap.
Arms flung out, she slammed into the bridge; her toes scrambled for a hold. And boosted her up and over. From both directions, cars and trucks choked the bridge. Debris from the passing seasons rolled around the tires, across the sidewalk. Right in the middle of both lanes, a car and truck had run headfirst into each other, cutting off the flow of traffic like a tourniquet. In the car, something moved. She pulled out her crowbar. Out of the corner of her eyes, a shadow shifted in the opposite direction of the sun’s rays.
Grasping fingers reached out for her. She slammed the crowbar into the zombie’s forehead. Bone fractured. With a wet, slopping sound, it sank to the ground. She backed up to the concrete railing and looked around. They were coming. Hungry and attracted by the sounds of fighting, their foggy eyes pointed her way, they bumped into the cars and trucks. She climbed onto the railing, jumped the three feet to the roof. Snatched her pack up.
The gap wouldn’t be wide enough to stop them, and even if it did, they’d only fall onto the concrete below and keep her from reaching her bike. But maybe falling wasn’t a bad thing, not if she timed things right. She hunkered down, standing where
Starving dogs couldn’t have made better moans. All the while blood dripped slowly from the bag, tiny kisses that drove them mad. They clawed and slapped at each other, tore at the air, as if pulling on it would lift them higher. And still, the female’s fingers tapped away, an incessant metronome of bone.
May lifted her bag from the concrete, the matches still tight in her grip. And slipped away from the starving zombies. All across the car lot, the shambling dead were coming. Without eyes, they stumbled, their path made more difficult by the cars in their way. But with their ears, they followed the only sound that mattered. No matter what lay before them, they bumped and shuffled until they worked their way around it.
The blood bag had only been up maybe fifteen-twenty minutes and already they flocked to it. Over the next few days, from a distance, she would watch the three bags she would hang outside the city limits.
‘I needed the time those blood bags bought me. It was a strategy my husband and I worked out early on: set up three blood bags on the outskirts of town, and let them sit for several days, while the smell attracted as many zombies as possible. After that, it was a bit safer to move around, collecting what we needed to set up a few permanent residences around the city. I still keep a list of supplies, the types of stores we hit. Only when we had everything we needed – no matter how long it took us – could we truly begin the reason we stopped in these small towns.’
• excerpt from August 24 th entry
She slunk across the car lot, staying low, hugging the lines of cars, until she reached the main building that butted up against a low rock wall. Behind that, and further up the hill, was a factory. She grabbed her bike and pedaled for the Danville bypass, then headed around the county school and across train tracks. On the train station’s platform she stopped, put the kickstand down.
Of all the places in Danville, the station felt emptier than anywhere else. No bodies moved in the shadows between cars, nor did they shuffle past the windows in the station. Only the wind whispered through metal. She left her bike there and walked the circumference of the station. Just above the roof was the bridge overpass leading to Main Street. She climbed up on the station’s railing, grabbed the roof, and scrambled up. The rough shingles burned her fingers but she climbed to the highest point, barely three feet from the concrete bridge. Leaving her pack there, she jumped the gap.
Arms flung out, she slammed into the bridge; her toes scrambled for a hold. And boosted her up and over. From both directions, cars and trucks choked the bridge. Debris from the passing seasons rolled around the tires, across the sidewalk. Right in the middle of both lanes, a car and truck had run headfirst into each other, cutting off the flow of traffic like a tourniquet. In the car, something moved. She pulled out her crowbar. Out of the corner of her eyes, a shadow shifted in the opposite direction of the sun’s rays.
Grasping fingers reached out for her. She slammed the crowbar into the zombie’s forehead. Bone fractured. With a wet, slopping sound, it sank to the ground. She backed up to the concrete railing and looked around. They were coming. Hungry and attracted by the sounds of fighting, their foggy eyes pointed her way, they bumped into the cars and trucks. She climbed onto the railing, jumped the three feet to the roof. Snatched her pack up.
The gap wouldn’t be wide enough to stop them, and even if it did, they’d only fall onto the concrete below and keep her from reaching her bike. But maybe falling wasn’t a bad thing, not if she timed things right. She hunkered down, standing where
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