Slow Burn (Book 7): City of Stin by Bobby Adair

pointing at places in the distance where we had a favorite restaurant or bar. We talked about old girlfriends, avoiding mention of Mandi and Steph. We speculated about what the world might look like five or ten years down the road.
    We mostly ignored the carpet of bones and charred, rotting bodies spread across every visible open space below us. We watched the river flow by and listened to the birds in the trees. It was almost peaceful.
    When the helicopters came—two of them, flying from north to south as was their habit—the sound grew up out of the silence. At that point, we stopped talking and simply watched. They flew over Austin’s skyline, but before reaching the tallest buildings, they both descended and circled in the area just south of the university.
    I pointed. “It looks like they’re going to land on the Capitol grounds.”
    Shaking his head, Murphy said, “I doubt it. They’re probably just shooting at some more Whites like us.”
    “No,” I said. “Look.”
    The helicopters sank lower and lower.
    “See that pointy tip just behind that big blocky building. That’s the Capitol. I think they’re landing.” Sometimes stating your point twice helps it sink in.
    Both helicopters disappeared.
    “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Murphy. “That can’t be safe down there. Whites are all over the place.”
    “Unless the naked horde cleaned them out when they rolled through town.”
    “No way,” Murphy disagreed. “There are too many people in Austin to think those naked fucktards killed and ate all of ‘em.”
    “According to Jeff Aubrey’s calculations,” I said, “something exactly like that was supposed to happen. How long has it been now?”
    Murphy shrugged. “It’s what, late November? Early December maybe.”
    “Everything started in August. Three solid months. A lot of them could be dead.”
    “Yet we still see them everywhere, right?” Murphy asked.
    “Yeah,” I agreed, “but nothing like the massive hordes of them we were seeing. Not only that, but back in the beginning, they were like under every mattress, behind every door.”
    “Whatever,” said Murphy. “You’re thinking about it all wrong. Just because we’ve been holed up in that house up by the lake for awhile with no Whites around most of the time, you think they all wandered off. We only left that place two days ago and how many Whites have we seen?”
    “Lots,” I said. “But—”
    “No buts,” said Murphy. “We saw them at the house where we got shot at. We saw them at Camp Mabry—”
    “We always see them at Camp Mabry,” I argued.
    “That’s right. And there they were, just like always.”
    “No,” I argued. “ Not just like always. Usually, there are like a million of them there. This time it was a few dozen hiding in those empty bunkers.”
    “Fine. Whatever.” Murphy huffed. “All I’m saying is that we keep seeing them. They’re out there—a lot of them. As soon as you get to thinking that maybe we’ve turned some kind of corner and there aren’t that many, then you’re going to do something stupid and try to get us killed again. That’s all I’m saying. So, don’t think that stupid shit.”
    “I can think whatever I want,” I told him, feeling a tad petulant.
    “Then keep that stupid shit to yourself, because I don’t want to get munched by a pack of hungry Whites, okay?”
    “Damn,” I forced a smile. “Somebody misses Starbucks.”

Chapter 24
    Being close to Thanksgiving, the sun set earlier in the day. Murphy and I rearranged the cars just as we’d discussed, buttoned up the garage, and rolled down Mt. Bonnell Road with a full charge on the Mustang’s battery and a full charge on our night vision goggles. Unfortunately, we had less ammunition than we would have liked and few hand grenades.
    Nothing is ever perfect.
    We had a half moon and not many clouds. Through the night vision goggles the world looked bright and alive. Coyotes were prowling. Owls swooped