flailed wildly at her, mocking. Her first two shots missed, the
third hit one of the crawlers in the thigh.
She aimed again, trying to steady the gun
while running backward to keep some distance between her and the advancing
zombies. Seconds later, a neat hole appeared in the forehead of each of her
pursuers. Allie looked at her pistol in surprise; she hadn’t yet pulled the
trigger again. That was when Senna and Alan appeared beside her. Senna was
putting her rifle away.
“I was already bitten,” Allie managed,
“before he jumped on me. I can feel it, the disorientation, the headache.”
Senna and Alan backed away, Senna
signaling the other crew members to keep their distance.
“They were over there,” Allie said,
pointing to the pit, “hidden under the leaves.”
Pain doubled her over and she vomited.
Neither of them said it, but Alan and
Senna could see it was the slow turn. Pure protracted pain, a drawn-out agony
ending in undeath.
“I know what’s happening to me,” Allie
said, wiping spittle from her lips. Her insides felt like they were folding
over on themselves. “I know what you have to do, what I would do in your
place.” Her face was pale and gleaming with sweat. Then she locked eyes with
Alan. “Name your thrower after me, and burn those fucking things up, every single
last fucking one of them. For me.”
Alan nodded, and a second later there
was a muffled shot from Senna’s rifle, and Allie collapsed. She’d been a hero,
and she’d died like so many of the others.
Alan was the one who burned her while the
crew stayed and paid their respects. Some said prayers, but most said nothing. Afterward,
the rec-crew was pinned in place while a wave of zombies passed them at their
flank, and so they’d been forced to stay by Allie as the fire ate her away.
The replay was almost over. There were
just a few more details, ones he was trying to lop off at their roots. For the
moment, the film kept rolling.
He remembered how her hair had given
up faint crackles, and the smell. He should’ve been used to it by then, and then
there was that other thing that still lingered in his memory, the—
He didn’t want to think about that
now. Not right now, and not ever. He managed, thankfully and to his relief, to
cut off the playback before it reached the end.
22
Alan looked at Jack. Was he a young version of himself? Would he have to kill
and burn his friends to survive?
It took Alan a moment to remember what
they’d been talking about. Then it came back to him: his flamethrower, his
Voltaire II, Allie.
“Much larger than Allie,” he said, his
voice a whisper. “But lacking her precision.” He sighed. “The ones that we used
for the big fires, one man couldn’t handle a weapon like that by himself. Two
or three of us had to hold it steady on its treads, and another would pull the
trigger. Great sheets of flame would pour out of it, incinerating the
carcasses, and banishing the virus to hell.”
Senna looked quizzically at Alan, who
was himself unsure why he’d added that flourish. He didn’t want to feed Jack’s
imagination too much, or to romanticize something so terrible.
Maybe I’m finally losing it, he
thought. Maybe I lost it a long time ago.
“Wow,” Jack said. “That’s so great.”
He looked off into the distance, toward the town center, an odd smile on his
face. Sasha smiled too. She looked happy again, the fear gone.
Jack said, “You were going to say
something about spotters.”
“Right. When we were rounding up
zombies into one place to blow them up, the spotters’ most important role was
to warn us when the zombies we were grouping together were getting too close to
breaking. If that was happening, the spotters would make the teams stop and go
silent for a while, easing away, until the zombies calmed again. We’d all get into
position slowly and carefully, and then we’d execute the trap.
“After that, it was a matter of rolling
out as quickly as we could,
third hit one of the crawlers in the thigh.
She aimed again, trying to steady the gun
while running backward to keep some distance between her and the advancing
zombies. Seconds later, a neat hole appeared in the forehead of each of her
pursuers. Allie looked at her pistol in surprise; she hadn’t yet pulled the
trigger again. That was when Senna and Alan appeared beside her. Senna was
putting her rifle away.
“I was already bitten,” Allie managed,
“before he jumped on me. I can feel it, the disorientation, the headache.”
Senna and Alan backed away, Senna
signaling the other crew members to keep their distance.
“They were over there,” Allie said,
pointing to the pit, “hidden under the leaves.”
Pain doubled her over and she vomited.
Neither of them said it, but Alan and
Senna could see it was the slow turn. Pure protracted pain, a drawn-out agony
ending in undeath.
“I know what’s happening to me,” Allie
said, wiping spittle from her lips. Her insides felt like they were folding
over on themselves. “I know what you have to do, what I would do in your
place.” Her face was pale and gleaming with sweat. Then she locked eyes with
Alan. “Name your thrower after me, and burn those fucking things up, every single
last fucking one of them. For me.”
Alan nodded, and a second later there
was a muffled shot from Senna’s rifle, and Allie collapsed. She’d been a hero,
and she’d died like so many of the others.
Alan was the one who burned her while the
crew stayed and paid their respects. Some said prayers, but most said nothing. Afterward,
the rec-crew was pinned in place while a wave of zombies passed them at their
flank, and so they’d been forced to stay by Allie as the fire ate her away.
The replay was almost over. There were
just a few more details, ones he was trying to lop off at their roots. For the
moment, the film kept rolling.
He remembered how her hair had given
up faint crackles, and the smell. He should’ve been used to it by then, and then
there was that other thing that still lingered in his memory, the—
He didn’t want to think about that
now. Not right now, and not ever. He managed, thankfully and to his relief, to
cut off the playback before it reached the end.
22
Alan looked at Jack. Was he a young version of himself? Would he have to kill
and burn his friends to survive?
It took Alan a moment to remember what
they’d been talking about. Then it came back to him: his flamethrower, his
Voltaire II, Allie.
“Much larger than Allie,” he said, his
voice a whisper. “But lacking her precision.” He sighed. “The ones that we used
for the big fires, one man couldn’t handle a weapon like that by himself. Two
or three of us had to hold it steady on its treads, and another would pull the
trigger. Great sheets of flame would pour out of it, incinerating the
carcasses, and banishing the virus to hell.”
Senna looked quizzically at Alan, who
was himself unsure why he’d added that flourish. He didn’t want to feed Jack’s
imagination too much, or to romanticize something so terrible.
Maybe I’m finally losing it, he
thought. Maybe I lost it a long time ago.
“Wow,” Jack said. “That’s so great.”
He looked off into the distance, toward the town center, an odd smile on his
face. Sasha smiled too. She looked happy again, the fear gone.
Jack said, “You were going to say
something about spotters.”
“Right. When we were rounding up
zombies into one place to blow them up, the spotters’ most important role was
to warn us when the zombies we were grouping together were getting too close to
breaking. If that was happening, the spotters would make the teams stop and go
silent for a while, easing away, until the zombies calmed again. We’d all get into
position slowly and carefully, and then we’d execute the trap.
“After that, it was a matter of rolling
out as quickly as we could,
Similar Books
