He’d been right all along.
I was mad at myself for not being stronger, for not being prepared. Even if he let me stay, I had to be able to depend on myself to get out of trouble, and right now I couldn’t.
I headed straight back to the house, grabbed the kitchen shears, and walked upstairs. I put the garbage can in the bathroom sink. I stared in the mirror for a long second. Then I sucked in a deep breath, lifted the shears, and chopped off a twenty-four-inch chunk of hair.
Then, I cut a second chunk.
I cut until there was nothing left to cut.
It had taken me years to grow my hair to the length it’d been. I’d always considered it my best feature. Yet, now, without all that hair, my head felt light and free. Empowering. After running a hand through the dark stubble, I nodded to myself and headed back outside.
I marched to the smallest tin shed for supplies before picking out a solid tree in the middle of the open backyard and sprayed the outline of a zed on its trunk. Then I hammered the sandbag I’d stuffed with rags about where a head would go.
I took out my knife and put everything I had in my swing, completely missing the bag and impaling the tree instead.
“Damn it,” I muttered, examining the tanto blade to make sure I hadn’t damaged it. Taking a deep breath, I focused on the bag and swung very slowly, this time hitting the bag nearly dead center.
I’d never had any kind of training with weapons except for pepper spray, so it was improv based on what I’d seen on TV and what I knew about zeds. Slashing would be a waste of energy since to kill a zed its brain had to be destroyed. I knew better than to throw the knife because, if I threw my knife, I’d no longer have it to take down the next zed lurking around the corner. I had neither the strength nor the weapon to decapitate. And so I focused on stabbing.
I spent the next five hours trying to figure out how to kill a zed using nothing but my knife. I grunted as I thrust and stabbed at the bag, the entire time Clutch’s words you’re not ready echoed in my ears. But he was wrong about one thing.
“I will be ready.” I said out loud before every strike.
The poor tree suffered. I missed the bag as often as I hit it. I almost sliced myself wide open once. After that, I became more conscious of every movement. With short breaks to rehydrate, another two hours of stabbing, with sweat drenching my skin, I finally discovered my rhythm. Stabbing became a semi-natural extension of my body, though I knew I’d be foolish to assume I was an expert yet. The tree didn’t move or bite.
Zeds were a different story.
An engine rumbled in the distance. I sheathed my blade, grabbed the canteen, and took a long drink of water before setting off toward the house to meet Clutch at the driveway. As the engine noise grew louder, I slowed. Whatever was coming down the drive wasn’t nearly as hearty sounding as Clutch’s throaty truck.
Setting down the canteen, I pulled out my pistol and moved cautiously toward the drive. A familiar red SUV emerged from the tree line. Several boxes were still on top, and it looked like the back was piled full of clothes and bags. The SUV stopped abruptly in front of the house, and two boxes tumbled onto the ground. I warily holstered the .22 when I saw the driver.
He didn’t look so good.
Frank’s teenage son sat, shoulders slumped, with both hands gripping the wheel. The kid stared at the house. He was covered in blood, though most of it was crimson, not thick and brown like that of zeds. The painful realization hit me that, with Clutch gone, the responsibility fell on me to prevent the kid from turning.