“Says you,” I muttered, and took another shot.
I was so focused on the zombies I could see that I forgot one of the first rules of dealing with any zombie mob larger than three: Remember that they’re smarter than you think they are. Surprisingly strong hands grabbed me from behind, jerking me back.
Maybe it was the fall I’d taken earlier, and maybe it was just a natural flaw in the construction of my body armor, but when the zombie pulled, I heard something tear. I whipped my head around, looking for a shot, and saw to my horror that the entire left sleeve of my jacket was ripped along the main seam, leaving my arm—protected only by a flannel shirt—exposed.
The infected who was holding me hissed, showing me his shattered, blackened teeth, and brought his head down as I brought my gun up. The bullet caught him in the crown of the head, blowing a jet of brain matter out onto the pavement. The zombie’s hands went limp, and he fell, a look of comic bewilderment on the remains of his face. More infected were coming out of the woods. For the moment, however, I wasn’t sure how much concern I could spare for them.
Most of my concern was for the new hole in my flannel shirt, and the blood welling up through the fabric. The pain hit half a second later, but the pain wasn’t really that important. The blood had already told me everything I needed to know about the situation.
I grabbed the sleeve and yanked it back into place before running toward the bike, shooting as I went. The speaker in my helmet was beeping insistently. I didn’t know how long that had been going on. The encounter felt like it had started years ago, even if I was reasonably sure it had been only a few seconds. I nodded sharply.
g y—there? Shaun, please, are you there?”
“I’m here, Mahir.” I shot another zombie as it ran for me, and snickered. “Hey, did you know that rhymes? Where are you guys?”
“We’re coming back for you. Can you hold your position?”
“I can, but I gotta tell you, buddy, that’s not the best idea you’ve ever had.”
He took a sharp breath. “Shaun, please don’t tell me…”
“No test results yet, but I’m definitely bleeding.” The lights of the van blazed back into sight ahead of me. I groaned. “I told you not to come back!”
“Not in so many words, you didn’t, and if you think we’re leaving you without a test, you’re an arsehole. Now down!”
Mahir’s command was sharp enough that I obeyed without thinking, hitting the road on my hands and knees a second before bullets sprayed through the air where I’d been standing. The rest of the undead fell in twitching heaps. The gunfire stopped, leaving the night silent.
“Get on the bike and go,” said a voice in my ear. For a dazed second, I couldn’t tell whether it was George or Mahir. Then it continued: “We want the turnoff for Old Ferry Road.”
“Mahir, I really don’t think—”
“If you amplify before we get there, you’ll lose control of the bike. If you don’t, I’m sure Dr. Abbey will appreciate the chance to check your blood for signs that this is a new strain.” Mahir’s voice gentled. “Please, Shaun. Don’t make us leave you out here.”
“This is idiotic,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Just wanted to be sure you were aware.” I nodded again to cut the connection and took a moment to pull my sleeve closed as best as I could before righting the bike and getting back on. It started easily. There went that excuse for staying behind. I could want to protect them, but I couldn’t lie to them.
“Well?” asked George, next to my ear. “Are you going to follow them, or what?”
“I’ll follow,” I said.
The van turned laboriously around on the narrow road, taillights gleaming red through the darkness as Becks hit the gas and started forward once again. I squeezed the throttle, whispered a prayer for swift amplification, and followed them.
We took a tour of the government zombie holding facility on Alcatraz today.
A lot of people don’t like having it there, even though it’s been scientifically proven that Romero was wrong about at least one thing: Zombies can’t survive without oxygen. Since they’re too uncoordinated to swim, and they don’t know how to operate boats, if there were ever an outbreak, it would be naturally confined. That doesn’t maer. “Not in my backyard” comes out loud and clear where the dead are concerned.
I looked through the safety glass into the pens, into the dozens of eyes that looked just like mine, and I searched them as hard as I could for a sign of something, anything that would tell me they were still human. There was nothing there. Only darkness.
If I pray for anything tonight, it will be that when Shaun eventually does something insane and gets himself bitten, I’ll be there to shoot him. Because I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d allowed him to amplify. No one deserves to end up like that. No one.
—From Postcards from the Wall, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, originally posted June 24, 2034
Twenty-six