All through it, Katie sat on the ground and stared at the fence. She didn’t look toward the woods once. She didn’t look at me either.
The police were no help. They wouldn’t get her out. She was outside the fence. She counted as infected. It didn’t matter that I’d been watching the whole time and that she didn’t have a mark on her. They couldn’t let her in. She might be a zombie.
They dragged me home and took my statement and I didn’t see the guys again who tossed Katie over. I heard that they were taken away in the night and executed.
She was still there the next day, sitting and staring.
“Katie?” I called through the fence. “Are you okay?”
She looked at me, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m not going to get out of here, am I?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Katie just shook her head and went back to staring. Her tears made trails through the ash that had settled on her skin. I’d never touched the fence before. I knew some people who had, but I never did, till that day. I was watching Katie’s tears, and I reached out and grabbed onto the fence.
When I woke up, my head felt like it had exploded and I couldn’t move my arms.
Katie was standing on the other side of the fence, one finger reaching through the chain links. “Are you okay?”
When I woke up again, she was still there. “Thing really packs a punch,” I said.
“It was made to put a zombie down long enough for a clean headshot.”
At least she wasn’t crying anymore. But it was getting dark. I got up slowly, flexing my fingers to make sure they still worked. “I have to go home.”
“I know,” she whispered.
I touched her fingertip, staying carefully away from the fence. Her skin was cold and dry. I wanted to hug her. “I’ll get you out.”
I tossed her a bottle of water and my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That night, I called every government agency I could find a number for, but they all repeated the same thing. She’s outside the fence, she could be infected. No one wanted to risk another outbreak. I called the volunteer fire chief, and he said the same thing.
So did Katie’s parents.
I heard it enough times I started to half believe it. After all, I hadn’t been watching her the whole time. She could have been bitten. I wouldn’t know.
I skipped school and went straight out to see her. “Are you infected?” I asked. She looked the same as always. But sometimes, they looked the same. Sometimes, they could even still talk.
“Of course I’m not,” she said.
I wanted to believe them so I could give up on her and mourn. “You’d say that if you were.”
That pissed her off. “You think I’m bitten? You think I’d be horrible enough to want out of here if I was? Do you think I want to be the cause of another outbreak?” She pulled off her shirt, then her pants, and unhooked her bra, all faster than I could think of a response. “See? No bites.”
She kept her underwear on. She’d whipped off her bra, but left those on. “What about on your hips?” I said.
Her face turned red, as if she suddenly realized that she was standing in front of me almost naked. “How could a zombie bite me through my underwear and not leave any marks on them?”
“Maybe it happened when you were going to the bathroom or something,” I said. I stared at her, searching for signs of the change.
“I didn’t get bit there.” She sounded close to tears.
“Prove it!”
She didn’t move.
I took a step back. She was lost. Dead. No, worse than dead—a monster. I started to walk away.
“Wait!” she shouted. “I swear, I didn’t get bitten.”
“Then prove it.”
“I was drunk.” Her voice shook. “I didn’t know what I was doing, and I’ve been saving up to get it removed.”
“What are you talking about?”
She took off her panties very slowly, then turned for my inspection.
There was no bite, but she had a tattoo that I hadn’t known about, just below the crest of her pelvis.
My name.
She was crying. Sobs this time, with painful gasping breaths between them. “I’m not infected.” Her voice was different when she was crying. I’d never heard it like that before. “I’m not!”
I didn’t know what to say to her. How could I? She was in love with me, and some tattoo artist somewhere knew it—half the school probably knew it—and I hadn’t? She was my best friend.
“Is this what happened on the Fourth of July?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes, but she refused to look at me.
“You should have told me,” I finally managed.
“What good would it have done?”
I couldn’t answer her. I just didn’t feel the same way about her and we both knew it. “I’m still looking for a way to get you out of there.”
“I love you,” she said. Her voice still sounded different.
I wanted to cry. I ran home.
The next day, she wasn’t there.
There was a dark spot in the shadows of the woods. It might have been blood. But it might not have been.
Where the Heart Was
By David J. Schow