The Seventh Day by Tara Brown writing as A.E. Watson Page A

“Hey! What are you doing? That’s stealing.” A man’s voice
rings out into the silence of the dark warehouse.
    He chuckles back. “Now, son, it isn’t
stealing. I saw the owner of this food in a ditch, not even fifteen minutes
ago. That means it isn’t stealing. He’s gone and I know for a fact he was an
old man who had no wife or kids, so the food is fair game. I’m only taking a
little. There’s plenty. Run.” His sentence doesn’t make sense.
    “I found this place yesterday. It’s mine.” The
other man says. “What? Run what?”
    Mr. Milson sighs. “Just run. We can share
the food. I only need a little bit for me. RUN!”
    Is he
telling me to run? He must be. Oh God. The man must have a weapon I can’t see. I ignore the rest
of their conversation and get up to tiptoe across the warehouse just as I hear
feet moving quickly and a noise like a person blowing air.
    I freeze and prepare myself for the run I’m
about to make.
    Mr. Milson speaks again, “Sorry, it had to
come to this, son.”
    I close my eyes. I can’t believe I assumed
it was him who was hurt. As much as I’m relieved, there’s a feeling of
apprehension when I think about getting into the truck with him. He has
possibly just murdered a man.
    “Let’s get out of here, in case he isn’t
alone. We can always try this place again later. The worry is it’ll be picked
over, but it’s better to risk it being picked over than risk his friends
showing up and wanting revenge.” His words are hollow and as dark as the
warehouse, but I turn and walk to the truck. “This is nowhere near enough food,
kid. We will definitely be back.” He loads one more flat of food and gives me a
look. He pauses, seeing something on my face that makes him look worried. “I
didn’t kill him, I knocked him out.”
    I don’t believe that. I don’t even know
why. I don’t know him well enough to know if he could kill a man or not.
    In the dark I listen at the door as he gets
into the truck and shouts at me, “Push the button, run out the side door, and
I’ll swing back to grab you.”
    I nod even though he can’t see me. I count
to five before I push it, scared as soon as the noise of the door starts. He
backs out once it’s high enough for the truck to fit under it. I push the
button, desperately wanting to run under the door as it closes, but I don't. I
wait, alone in the dark with the dead man, listening for the sound of the vehicle
coming back around. When I hear it, I leap from the small side door, forcing my
eyes to ignore everything I see but the open passenger door to the truck.
    I block out the bloody hands and jerky
steps. I don't see the running feet or the snarling faces. I only see Mr.
Milson screaming, “RUN!” Just like my mother had in my dream that now feels
prophetic in several ways.
    I don't see the shadows cast by the moon or
listen to the sounds of desperate biters wanting nothing like they do my flesh.
    My feet dig in as I push hard, sprinting to
the open door and his reaching hand. When I leap in, he floors it, closing the
door with the force of the moving vehicle.
    We both sit, breathing heavily and staring
at the field of moving people in our way. We ignore them bouncing off the hood
or sliding off the doors as we hurry past.
    He drives to the gas station, parking next
to a pump and looking around as he turns the truck off. There’s sweat on his
brow. I can see it in the dark.
    “Here, take my gun and hold it on that
door. If you see me running, just shoot whatever’s behind me.” He jumps out and
runs inside. He doesn't wait for me to argue that the person might not be
infected and I might not be able to see that.
    My heart is still racing and my mouth is dry
since he decided to kill/knockout the guy at the warehouse, so adding the
prospect of me murdering people doesn't make it better. But when he runs back
out of the gas station with four gas cans, I’m grateful to see his old face is
alone. I lower my shaking hands when