middle-aged woman wearing green gardening gloves and knee pads. She must’ve been in the yard when all hell broke loose. She takes the birdshot in the chest and falls backward onto her ass, taking two more of the things with her. It’s like bowling, but with the undead. And if you lose, you die. Or not really die.
Lucy’s gun is still popping, and my ears ring. I raise the shotgun to shoot again, I fire, and this time a zombie’s head explodes. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
More of the shamblers are coming from the street. Soon there’ll be fifty or sixty. I’ve got to get the door closed.
But Jack-in-the-Box is lying dead in the doorway. I grab his feet and start to pull him away. The front-stoop shamblers are back on their feet, looking tattered and quite a bit worse for wear. I must’ve ruptured something in the gardener’s bodycavity, because black and green goo wells and drips from her mouth.
I give a great heave and pull Jack aside, hook the door with my foot, and slam the door shut with a crunch, but it sticks and rebounds a little. There’s a green glove peeking from behind the lip of the door. I shove the shotgun in the gap, pull the trigger, shaking the house, and the green-gloved hand is gone and the door shuts. I throw the dead bolt as the door begins to shudder. The Welcome Wagon has arrived.
I turn back to Lucy and realize it’s been ten or twenty seconds since she’s fired. But now I know why.
She stands, heaving, gun out, eyes wide and frantic. There’s a veritable dog-pile of shamblers on the floor. Seven or eight of them, all lying at her feet. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her, murdering people in the front hall of her own house.
“Luce. Come on. Reload, and let’s see if we can secure the house and find your family.”
I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Luce. We’re gonna be okay. Gus and Fred will be okay.” I try to keep my voice low. And she looks at me. Some of the shamblers must’ve gotten pretty close when she popped them because a fine tracery of blood spatters her face and mars the beautiful hollow of her neck.
“Reload.” I pull shells from the bandolier and feed them into the shotgun. I check my hammer; still hanging from the belt. She pops her clip, slowly feeds bullets into it. I know she’s got another clip, full, but she’s doing the right thing, keeping two loaded.
I go into the room Jack-in-the-Box came from and see boards have been nailed over the windows there.
“Lucy! Come here.” She turns, gun in hand, and comes to me. “Looks like Fred had time to take precautions. He’s boarded these windows. This is a good sign.”
She’s sluggish to respond. And that frightens me more than anything, really, that she might be losing it.
I put the shotgun on a table, grab her shoulders, and shake her. She looks annoyed and tries to pull away.
“Lucy! This means he wasn’t caught flat-footed! He was prepared.” Her eyes lock on mine. At first she’s pissed, but then she understands what I’m saying and nods.
“So let’s check out the rest of the house.” I say, grabbing my shotgun again. I walk to the other rooms. It looks like Fred did a fairly decent job of boarding up the ground-floor windows. He ran out of lumber—who has that amount of lumber lying around anyway?—and started using doors. Bookcases. Tabletops. It must’ve been pretty hairy around here.
But where is he now?
Lucy stands beside me, looking at the ruin of her house.
“Lucy, if you were Gus, and scared, where would you go to hide? Your room?”
She shakes her head and turns to go back into the darker areas of the house. The front door is rattling and glass breaks somewhere in the house and the sound of garbled speech and moans can be heard, but I don’t think they’re inside.
We have to climb over the corpses in the hallway. It’s a squishy, unpleasant thing, and I’m disturbed that I’m walkingon the dead. Once I shared the common bond of humanity
Lucy’s gun is still popping, and my ears ring. I raise the shotgun to shoot again, I fire, and this time a zombie’s head explodes. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
More of the shamblers are coming from the street. Soon there’ll be fifty or sixty. I’ve got to get the door closed.
But Jack-in-the-Box is lying dead in the doorway. I grab his feet and start to pull him away. The front-stoop shamblers are back on their feet, looking tattered and quite a bit worse for wear. I must’ve ruptured something in the gardener’s bodycavity, because black and green goo wells and drips from her mouth.
I give a great heave and pull Jack aside, hook the door with my foot, and slam the door shut with a crunch, but it sticks and rebounds a little. There’s a green glove peeking from behind the lip of the door. I shove the shotgun in the gap, pull the trigger, shaking the house, and the green-gloved hand is gone and the door shuts. I throw the dead bolt as the door begins to shudder. The Welcome Wagon has arrived.
I turn back to Lucy and realize it’s been ten or twenty seconds since she’s fired. But now I know why.
She stands, heaving, gun out, eyes wide and frantic. There’s a veritable dog-pile of shamblers on the floor. Seven or eight of them, all lying at her feet. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her, murdering people in the front hall of her own house.
“Luce. Come on. Reload, and let’s see if we can secure the house and find your family.”
I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Luce. We’re gonna be okay. Gus and Fred will be okay.” I try to keep my voice low. And she looks at me. Some of the shamblers must’ve gotten pretty close when she popped them because a fine tracery of blood spatters her face and mars the beautiful hollow of her neck.
“Reload.” I pull shells from the bandolier and feed them into the shotgun. I check my hammer; still hanging from the belt. She pops her clip, slowly feeds bullets into it. I know she’s got another clip, full, but she’s doing the right thing, keeping two loaded.
I go into the room Jack-in-the-Box came from and see boards have been nailed over the windows there.
“Lucy! Come here.” She turns, gun in hand, and comes to me. “Looks like Fred had time to take precautions. He’s boarded these windows. This is a good sign.”
She’s sluggish to respond. And that frightens me more than anything, really, that she might be losing it.
I put the shotgun on a table, grab her shoulders, and shake her. She looks annoyed and tries to pull away.
“Lucy! This means he wasn’t caught flat-footed! He was prepared.” Her eyes lock on mine. At first she’s pissed, but then she understands what I’m saying and nods.
“So let’s check out the rest of the house.” I say, grabbing my shotgun again. I walk to the other rooms. It looks like Fred did a fairly decent job of boarding up the ground-floor windows. He ran out of lumber—who has that amount of lumber lying around anyway?—and started using doors. Bookcases. Tabletops. It must’ve been pretty hairy around here.
But where is he now?
Lucy stands beside me, looking at the ruin of her house.
“Lucy, if you were Gus, and scared, where would you go to hide? Your room?”
She shakes her head and turns to go back into the darker areas of the house. The front door is rattling and glass breaks somewhere in the house and the sound of garbled speech and moans can be heard, but I don’t think they’re inside.
We have to climb over the corpses in the hallway. It’s a squishy, unpleasant thing, and I’m disturbed that I’m walkingon the dead. Once I shared the common bond of humanity
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