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don’t come around their own stink.”
    “We’re gonna have to clear them though.”
    “No we won’t.”
    “What? Now who’s being stupid? You have to clear them or people will know you live around here. Dead undead on your doorstep is like a Welcome mat to Colonists. Your home could be compromised.”
    “It already is.” I say, my quiet voice dripping with venom.
    He reaches out and touches my arm, stopping me. I make a point of looking up at his eyes and ignoring where he’s touching me even though the contact is searing my skin through my clothes. He does it like it’s nothing and I think to him, having lived with his brother and surrounded by other people, it’s just that; nothing. They probably touch each other all the time. To me, though, it’s everything and it’s almost as beautiful as it is frightening.
    “You’re talking about me?” he whispers, his brow furrowing.
    “Of course I’m talking about you. You know where I live. You know what I have. I can’t stay here anymore. When you leave tomorrow morning, so will I.”
    “For good?” I nod and he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “You don’t have to do that. I swear to you, I’m not a threat.”
    “Maybe not now because you don’t need anything. But what happens in a month or so when the winter hits hard? What if you need something you know I have? What if your gang loses control of their home and it’s cold outside and you’re desperate? You’re swearing to me that you won’t lead them all straight to me?”
    “Yes.” he says, his eyes hard.
    I shake my head. “I don’t know you. Your word means nothing to me.”
    His jaw clenches as his hand tightens on my arm. He’s angry. That’s great because so am I.
    “I hate the thought of you losing your home because you saved me.”
    I roughly shake off his hand. “You and me both.”
    When we get to the gate at the bottom of the stairs I miss the wolves. If they were still here, the dead wouldn’t be. The wolves would have made quick work of them, shredding them to pieces and leaving nothing but a disgusting, comforting pile of gore and guts. The animals don’t eat the zombies. In fact, most of them stay clear of them, predators being the only ones who attack them. You can tell they’re around when deer go blazing by you down an alley or in the middle of a mall. Birds will take to the skies screaming and screeching like crazy. They’re a natural warning system but even they can fail you. Even the wolves will let you down sometimes.
    Waiting at the gate for us is a group of eight dead. Eight bobbing heads. Eight gaping, moaning mouths that I can smell from here, the thick rot of their insides wafting up and out toward us with each movement. Eight sets of hands clawing through the gate, some clawing through each other not caring if it hurts or if it’s right.
    It’s a lot of them. More than I’ve seen rounded up in one spot lately. They’re disappearing slowly, either being picked off by aggressive animals or by us, the remaining vigilante humans living in the wild. The people in the Colonies should be thanking us, maybe throwing a little of that homemade bread our way now and then for the service we’re performing. One day the outside world will once again be zombie free and they’ll have us to thank for it. The ones who refused to hide behind their walls and tend their fields. The ones still fighting the good fight. People like Ryan and I.
    “How do you wanna do this?” he asks. “Kill who we can through the gate? Open it up and try to shove them back into the street? Let them start coming up the stairs and pick ‘em off one, maybe two at a time?”
    “If we had a gun, I’d say kill ‘em through the gate.”
    “But we don’t.”
    I shake my head sharply. “Nope, we don’t. So that’s out. I don’t like the idea of getting out in the open with them where they can surround us.”
    “Right, going into the street is sketchy. We’d also have to push them back