gonna rest here awhile.”
The twenty-third zombie I killed was what had once been a little girl; she’d spotted me crossing a side-street. By this time, night was falling, and she came at me out of the little backyard of what I presumed was her house; no more than four or five years old, she was dressed in the dirty and stained tatters of a pink dress, her hair still in pigtails.
The moan she issued at me was anything but childlike, and she was light as a feather as she attacked me out of nowhere, biting and clawing. Her small teeth wouldn’t be able to break through my pants or jacket, but that didn’t mean I wanted her crawling on me; childlike or not, she was deadly.
She moved faster than any of the others I’d seen, and was on me almost before I could react. She clung to my leg, trying her best to make a meal of my thigh, and, as I tried to pry her off, I stumbled, falling back against the picket fence surrounding the small yard.
The fence had seen better days; it broke into splinters as I fell against it. I screamed as a huge piece of jagged wood pierced my arm. My balance gone, the girl swarmed over me as I landed hard on my back, and it took every ounce of will I had to fight through the pain from my arm and keep her from biting me as she snarled and spit, saliva and blood flying everywhere.
Suddenly, I saw my opening, and, grabbing her leg with my good arm, I swung her away from me into the stone wall of the house next door at full force. She hit with a sickening crunch and slid to the sidewalk, the creepy moans and gnashing of teeth silenced for good now. I groaned as the pain from my arm hit me again, and struggling to my feet, I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard as I gripped the spike of wood, took a deep breath, and pulled it out fast. I gasped as blood welled up from the wound, thick and black in the near-dark night.
Taking off my belt, I wrapped it around my bicep above the wound and cinched it tight, cutting off the blood flow. I’d have to do a more thorough job of cleaning and washing it later, when I had time, but for now all I could do was get moving again.
My scream had no doubt drawn the attention of every walker within a mile or more. As I retrieved my pack from where it had fallen, I tried to resist that bastard inner voice that told me I was a monster for killing a little girl, even though I would have been food if I’d given her even a ghost of a chance.
You’re still a jackass , the voice reminded me. You should’ve checked that yard before crossing the street, asshole .
My inner voice was not nice. Not anymore. Not after two days in this place.
This time, I checked the yard carefully before entering my little house on Roland Avenue. Not seeing any horror-film nightmares, I moved quietly to the porch and knelt down, covering the darkened interior with the pistol held in my good hand. I knocked softly on the frame of what had once been the front door; shattered and twisted, it hung off of the hinges, glass covering the entryway floor. As it had for the last two days, only quiet stillness answered me.
No moans, no shuffling of dead feet. The house was empty. Even so, the events of the last two days had rapidly instilled new survival traits in my psyche, and I searched the shadows warily as I moved into the entrance hall.
I listened for long minutes at the base of the stairs, waiting to hear any noise at all. I realized after sitting there for fifteen minutes that I wasn’t just listening anymore; I was avoiding going upstairs. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Upstairs I was certain, on some level, that I would find Eric. Or what was left of Eric. Even though I’d searched for him before, I had to do it again. To take one last chance of finding him alive.
Chance failed me, again. Upstairs, downstairs, the basement… all were empty. Eric was gone. There was no way for me to know if he was a zombie, had simply run off, or was
The twenty-third zombie I killed was what had once been a little girl; she’d spotted me crossing a side-street. By this time, night was falling, and she came at me out of the little backyard of what I presumed was her house; no more than four or five years old, she was dressed in the dirty and stained tatters of a pink dress, her hair still in pigtails.
The moan she issued at me was anything but childlike, and she was light as a feather as she attacked me out of nowhere, biting and clawing. Her small teeth wouldn’t be able to break through my pants or jacket, but that didn’t mean I wanted her crawling on me; childlike or not, she was deadly.
She moved faster than any of the others I’d seen, and was on me almost before I could react. She clung to my leg, trying her best to make a meal of my thigh, and, as I tried to pry her off, I stumbled, falling back against the picket fence surrounding the small yard.
The fence had seen better days; it broke into splinters as I fell against it. I screamed as a huge piece of jagged wood pierced my arm. My balance gone, the girl swarmed over me as I landed hard on my back, and it took every ounce of will I had to fight through the pain from my arm and keep her from biting me as she snarled and spit, saliva and blood flying everywhere.
Suddenly, I saw my opening, and, grabbing her leg with my good arm, I swung her away from me into the stone wall of the house next door at full force. She hit with a sickening crunch and slid to the sidewalk, the creepy moans and gnashing of teeth silenced for good now. I groaned as the pain from my arm hit me again, and struggling to my feet, I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard as I gripped the spike of wood, took a deep breath, and pulled it out fast. I gasped as blood welled up from the wound, thick and black in the near-dark night.
Taking off my belt, I wrapped it around my bicep above the wound and cinched it tight, cutting off the blood flow. I’d have to do a more thorough job of cleaning and washing it later, when I had time, but for now all I could do was get moving again.
My scream had no doubt drawn the attention of every walker within a mile or more. As I retrieved my pack from where it had fallen, I tried to resist that bastard inner voice that told me I was a monster for killing a little girl, even though I would have been food if I’d given her even a ghost of a chance.
You’re still a jackass , the voice reminded me. You should’ve checked that yard before crossing the street, asshole .
My inner voice was not nice. Not anymore. Not after two days in this place.
This time, I checked the yard carefully before entering my little house on Roland Avenue. Not seeing any horror-film nightmares, I moved quietly to the porch and knelt down, covering the darkened interior with the pistol held in my good hand. I knocked softly on the frame of what had once been the front door; shattered and twisted, it hung off of the hinges, glass covering the entryway floor. As it had for the last two days, only quiet stillness answered me.
No moans, no shuffling of dead feet. The house was empty. Even so, the events of the last two days had rapidly instilled new survival traits in my psyche, and I searched the shadows warily as I moved into the entrance hall.
I listened for long minutes at the base of the stairs, waiting to hear any noise at all. I realized after sitting there for fifteen minutes that I wasn’t just listening anymore; I was avoiding going upstairs. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Upstairs I was certain, on some level, that I would find Eric. Or what was left of Eric. Even though I’d searched for him before, I had to do it again. To take one last chance of finding him alive.
Chance failed me, again. Upstairs, downstairs, the basement… all were empty. Eric was gone. There was no way for me to know if he was a zombie, had simply run off, or was
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