asks, panicked.
Amy blurts out the closest location she knows. “Let’s go to Madison’s place.”
Michael nods his head yes, and they turn around and run in the other direction. He always hated Madison. She and Amy were roommates in college all four years, so Michael had to get used to faking it around her. She was fat, loud, unhealthy, and from the Bible belt. He always wondered why the hell Amy hung out with her. He assumed some “beauty is on the inside” bullshit, or that they went through some sort of “first friend away from home” bonding in that daunting freshman year at an Ivy League university, where it’s all backstabbing and one-upping for the best grades. He thought he was rid of the blob until she landed a job in the city some years back. A few chaotic minutes later they’re knocking on the front door of Madison’s apartment building.
“This is fucking nuts. I told you we wouldn’t be able to leave,” Michael says.
“Well we didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Amy huffs under her mask, trying to catch her breath. “We’re still going to try for the PATH tunnel, right?”
Michael struggles to breathe as well. He takes a moment to answer. “If we can make it there in one piece.”
The infected wander the street. They see Michael and Amy and start to run at them. Michael panics. He pounds on the door repeatedly. “Come on you fat fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. “Open up, Madison!”
The door swings open and Madison tries to make them out through the gas masks. “Amy and Michael? Are you guys alright?” Her hearty voice booms even through her own mask. The flab on her arms swings and dangles as she props the door all the way open and hits the brick wall behind. “Come on in,” she says.
“Hurry. Get in!” Michael says, pulling Amy inside.
“What’s wrong?” Madison asks. Her head is turned away from the street as she looks at Michael.
“Look out!” he yells.
But before Madison can shut the door one of the infected rips a chunk out of her arm, just below the armpit, where the flab hangs the lowest. Amy kicks the beast back out into the street and they close the door. Madison brays like a goat, reeling with pain and marinating in the red gravy that pours from her arm. They walk back to her apartment door. Amy is covered in blood. Her fingers slip as she tries to squeeze Madison’s wound shut. It squirts everywhere, hitting the missing cats and furniture-for-sale flyers on the cork board, coating the mailboxes and stairs, and slicking up the shitty linoleum vestibule floor. Michael opens the door to her small, crappy ground floor studio. It’s the best she could afford in this neighborhood. Michael was always convinced that she moved there just to torment him. Close enough to fling a chicken wing at , he used to say.
Amy immediately wraps Madison’s arm with towels and anything else absorbent that she can get her hands on. Madison finally stops her incessant groaning and instead breathes like a wildebeest, sucking in and out like she just ascended 15 flights of stairs. A look of pure disgust coats Michael’s face under his mask. Someone so out of shape, and trying to breathe through a mask . That’ll do it . She’s winded .
“Her heart’s beating a mile a minute,” Amy says. “She’s burning up. Grab me something from the freezer, anything that’s still cold. I have to try and cool her down.”
Michael opens the freezer. It’s nearly empty. All that’s in there is a shrink-wrapped pack of hamburger meat, now half-frozen and squishy to the touch. He hands it to Amy, and she puts it on the back of Madison’s neck.
“The towels are soaking through,” Michael says, pointing.
“Grab me another?” Amy asks. She pulls back the blood soaked towels to reveal a blackened wound, festering with freshly formed pus.
Michael hands her a new towel, and pokes around Madison’s fridge for some water. But there is none. It too is almost empty. There’s
Amy blurts out the closest location she knows. “Let’s go to Madison’s place.”
Michael nods his head yes, and they turn around and run in the other direction. He always hated Madison. She and Amy were roommates in college all four years, so Michael had to get used to faking it around her. She was fat, loud, unhealthy, and from the Bible belt. He always wondered why the hell Amy hung out with her. He assumed some “beauty is on the inside” bullshit, or that they went through some sort of “first friend away from home” bonding in that daunting freshman year at an Ivy League university, where it’s all backstabbing and one-upping for the best grades. He thought he was rid of the blob until she landed a job in the city some years back. A few chaotic minutes later they’re knocking on the front door of Madison’s apartment building.
“This is fucking nuts. I told you we wouldn’t be able to leave,” Michael says.
“Well we didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Amy huffs under her mask, trying to catch her breath. “We’re still going to try for the PATH tunnel, right?”
Michael struggles to breathe as well. He takes a moment to answer. “If we can make it there in one piece.”
The infected wander the street. They see Michael and Amy and start to run at them. Michael panics. He pounds on the door repeatedly. “Come on you fat fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. “Open up, Madison!”
The door swings open and Madison tries to make them out through the gas masks. “Amy and Michael? Are you guys alright?” Her hearty voice booms even through her own mask. The flab on her arms swings and dangles as she props the door all the way open and hits the brick wall behind. “Come on in,” she says.
“Hurry. Get in!” Michael says, pulling Amy inside.
“What’s wrong?” Madison asks. Her head is turned away from the street as she looks at Michael.
“Look out!” he yells.
But before Madison can shut the door one of the infected rips a chunk out of her arm, just below the armpit, where the flab hangs the lowest. Amy kicks the beast back out into the street and they close the door. Madison brays like a goat, reeling with pain and marinating in the red gravy that pours from her arm. They walk back to her apartment door. Amy is covered in blood. Her fingers slip as she tries to squeeze Madison’s wound shut. It squirts everywhere, hitting the missing cats and furniture-for-sale flyers on the cork board, coating the mailboxes and stairs, and slicking up the shitty linoleum vestibule floor. Michael opens the door to her small, crappy ground floor studio. It’s the best she could afford in this neighborhood. Michael was always convinced that she moved there just to torment him. Close enough to fling a chicken wing at , he used to say.
Amy immediately wraps Madison’s arm with towels and anything else absorbent that she can get her hands on. Madison finally stops her incessant groaning and instead breathes like a wildebeest, sucking in and out like she just ascended 15 flights of stairs. A look of pure disgust coats Michael’s face under his mask. Someone so out of shape, and trying to breathe through a mask . That’ll do it . She’s winded .
“Her heart’s beating a mile a minute,” Amy says. “She’s burning up. Grab me something from the freezer, anything that’s still cold. I have to try and cool her down.”
Michael opens the freezer. It’s nearly empty. All that’s in there is a shrink-wrapped pack of hamburger meat, now half-frozen and squishy to the touch. He hands it to Amy, and she puts it on the back of Madison’s neck.
“The towels are soaking through,” Michael says, pointing.
“Grab me another?” Amy asks. She pulls back the blood soaked towels to reveal a blackened wound, festering with freshly formed pus.
Michael hands her a new towel, and pokes around Madison’s fridge for some water. But there is none. It too is almost empty. There’s
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