the attacks. Had her mother’s tomato plants begun producing? She snorted. Unlikely. In the back of the fridge she found a pickle jar with seeds floating in the brine and one pickle left. Apparently whoever had stolen their food didn’t feel the one pickle was important enough or worth sticking their hand in the brine for the last small piece.
It was worth it to Jennie.
A sharp vinegar-laden smell struck her as she twisted the top and stuck her hand in the brine. The little piece floating inside was only about an inch and a half long. Good enough for one bite only. She put the piece in her mouth and chewed as slowly as she could, hoping it would last.
The sound of a gunshot reverberated through the house, a loud clap that overcame the droning background noise. Jennie jumped, and the pickle jar slipped from her grasp and shattered on the kitchen floor, splattering the noxious contents in every direction, including her jeans. She swallowed hard, and the piece of chewed pickle went so slowly down her throat that she felt its entire travel.
“No way. He didn’t,” she spoke to the air and left the pickle mess in the kitchen, running for the front door.
Reaching for the handle, she suddenly remembered the wailer outside. She pressed her ear against the door and heard nothing but the constant drone from the aliens. The deadbolt flipped quickly in her hand, and she ripped the door open. She stepped onto the porch and looked over at the Cassel’s porch next door. Her father stood on the bottom step.
His shotgun was pointed at a body on the lawn. The injured person gurgled and attempted to maneuver itself. In gory fascination, she walked across her front porch and leaned over the railing to get a closer look, hoping he hadn’t shot one of the Cassels.
From her vantage point, she could see that it was the wailer. His eyes were swollen shut and his hair was ripped out in huge chunks. The shotgun in her father’s hands clicked again and again. He was out of ammo.
Sweat beaded on Dad’s forehead and dribbled down his face like a trail of tears. The victim on the ground pulled at the clumps of grass, dragging itself in her father’s direction. The shotgun blast had ripped through its body and rendered its legs useless.
Taking a running half step, her father made a swift kick to the man’s head. Jennie closed her eyes against the gory horror but couldn’t block out the sickening crack as her dad made contact. Her world was caving in around her, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. She wrapped her arms around herself and sat on the porch, rocking. This couldn’t be happening. Surely she’d wake up and her mother would be fine. Her father would be fine. Her neighbors would be the nice old couple that always bought Girl Scout cookies from her when she was a kid.
How long she sat there like that, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t long enough because the pickle juice smell hadn’t gone away.
When she felt the hand on her arm, she opened up her eyes to see her father’s bloody hiking boot next to her leg. She screamed.
The SUV was the perfec t vehicle for the journey. Brad had it in four-wheel drive the whole way and trucked along at a steady twenty-five miles per hour over the medians and other grassy areas in order to make it around all the abandoned vehicles. The on-ramp to the beltway was backed up. When he couldn’t find a way around it, he drove up the cleared off ramp and made a three-point turn on the median to get going the right way again.
He found creative ways around every barrier. The music in the car blared as he drove. One of the bite victims had made the mistake of getting in front of his car once, and a reddish-brown stain on the hood was all that was left of ’em. Behind him, stretches of road packed bumper to bumper with cars scattered along the road and even in the median. But overall, the grassy space between the opposing sides of the highway was clear. Occasionally he
It was worth it to Jennie.
A sharp vinegar-laden smell struck her as she twisted the top and stuck her hand in the brine. The little piece floating inside was only about an inch and a half long. Good enough for one bite only. She put the piece in her mouth and chewed as slowly as she could, hoping it would last.
The sound of a gunshot reverberated through the house, a loud clap that overcame the droning background noise. Jennie jumped, and the pickle jar slipped from her grasp and shattered on the kitchen floor, splattering the noxious contents in every direction, including her jeans. She swallowed hard, and the piece of chewed pickle went so slowly down her throat that she felt its entire travel.
“No way. He didn’t,” she spoke to the air and left the pickle mess in the kitchen, running for the front door.
Reaching for the handle, she suddenly remembered the wailer outside. She pressed her ear against the door and heard nothing but the constant drone from the aliens. The deadbolt flipped quickly in her hand, and she ripped the door open. She stepped onto the porch and looked over at the Cassel’s porch next door. Her father stood on the bottom step.
His shotgun was pointed at a body on the lawn. The injured person gurgled and attempted to maneuver itself. In gory fascination, she walked across her front porch and leaned over the railing to get a closer look, hoping he hadn’t shot one of the Cassels.
From her vantage point, she could see that it was the wailer. His eyes were swollen shut and his hair was ripped out in huge chunks. The shotgun in her father’s hands clicked again and again. He was out of ammo.
Sweat beaded on Dad’s forehead and dribbled down his face like a trail of tears. The victim on the ground pulled at the clumps of grass, dragging itself in her father’s direction. The shotgun blast had ripped through its body and rendered its legs useless.
Taking a running half step, her father made a swift kick to the man’s head. Jennie closed her eyes against the gory horror but couldn’t block out the sickening crack as her dad made contact. Her world was caving in around her, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. She wrapped her arms around herself and sat on the porch, rocking. This couldn’t be happening. Surely she’d wake up and her mother would be fine. Her father would be fine. Her neighbors would be the nice old couple that always bought Girl Scout cookies from her when she was a kid.
How long she sat there like that, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t long enough because the pickle juice smell hadn’t gone away.
When she felt the hand on her arm, she opened up her eyes to see her father’s bloody hiking boot next to her leg. She screamed.
The SUV was the perfec t vehicle for the journey. Brad had it in four-wheel drive the whole way and trucked along at a steady twenty-five miles per hour over the medians and other grassy areas in order to make it around all the abandoned vehicles. The on-ramp to the beltway was backed up. When he couldn’t find a way around it, he drove up the cleared off ramp and made a three-point turn on the median to get going the right way again.
He found creative ways around every barrier. The music in the car blared as he drove. One of the bite victims had made the mistake of getting in front of his car once, and a reddish-brown stain on the hood was all that was left of ’em. Behind him, stretches of road packed bumper to bumper with cars scattered along the road and even in the median. But overall, the grassy space between the opposing sides of the highway was clear. Occasionally he
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