raising his head.
Dan handed him the notebook, pointing out the last paragraph of the long entry. Drew held it up over him as he read, his eyes widening and narrowing as he went over the narrative.
“Holy fuck,” he said. “He fucked a zombie?”
“Keep reading.”
Drew read for a minute longer, then pursed his lips and laid the notebook down beside him. He stared into space, his mind obviously as troubled as Dan’s own.
“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Dan asked, repeating Drew’s earlier sarcastic question.
Drew shook his head. “I took a psychology course in college,” he said. “One of my favorite discussions was about sociopaths; about how they have this genetic ability to turn off certain areas of their brains.”
“Yeah?”
“A lot of them are normal everyday people that you would never guess are like that,” Drew continued. “But they make good business men, lawyers; anything that requires that kind of indifference. The rare ones who can’t handle that type of ability are the ones who become the serial killers and school shooters and all that. Maybe the infection does different things to sociopaths, since their brains are wired differently.”
“Did you notice how he said that his wife almost seemed to remember him?”
“Yeah,” Drew said. “Just like the zombie lovers in the yuppie’s house.”
“So, if this guy got infected, then he might retain all of his memories, since his brain was wired differently?”
Drew nodded, silent.
“Y’all could be wrong, tho’.” Vincent said, apparently having been listening. “We ain’t doctors, or scientists; just a bunch of mutha fuckas tryin’ to live out the day. But then again, you could be right.”
They were quiet for a moment, then Drew nodded his head in an exaggerated speed. “Thanks, Vincent,” he said. “That was helpful.”
Vincent snickered and sat up. “Look, man, all we can do is survive. There ain’t no reason to go worryin’ about this mutha fucka. If he wants to do some psycho shit and come lookin’ for y’all, then we cap his ass. There’s four of us, and one of him. Dude obviously got no balls, dawg. He killed a helpless old lady and shit. No real man goes after an old lady.”
“She wasn’t exactly helpless,” Dan said. “She was one tough bitch, with an attitude to match. She had eyes like a hawk, and could shoot like a Marine sniper. I don’t know how he even managed to get into her house. She would have shot him before he got within a hundred yards.”
“Hmm,” Vincent said. “I don’t know, man. You see how fast those Shamblers can run, and how far that horse jumped across the gap. The ones who change like that look like they get better at certain things. Maybe this dude just blends in better, or is quieter. Something’.”
Dan sighed and laid back down to stare at the ceiling. Now his mind was whirling again. With all the chaos they had gone through recently, this was just one more thing to worry about. As long as crazy dude was out there, they would never be safe—zombies or not.
“Where the fuck is Jake?” Vincent asked.
“Garage,” Dan said. “Working on the flamethrower.”
“Ah,” Vincent said, lying back down. “Shit.”
As Dan’s mind went back and forth between anxiety and Vicodin-induced euphoria, he began to feel something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was a low rumble coming from outside in the distance, but he wasn’t sure it was an actual sound; possibly his own blood pressure being amplified by the Vicodin or the stress. He couldn’t decide.
Vincent decided for him. The thug sat up quickly, craning his neck to listen. Drew propped himself up on his elbows, his brow furrowed.
“What the fuck is that?” Drew asked.
Vincent stood up and went to the window, pressing his face against the glass. “Aw, shit,” he said. “That sound like helicopters.”
Dan and Drew both shot up. Dan slid open the patio door, poking his head out to
Dan handed him the notebook, pointing out the last paragraph of the long entry. Drew held it up over him as he read, his eyes widening and narrowing as he went over the narrative.
“Holy fuck,” he said. “He fucked a zombie?”
“Keep reading.”
Drew read for a minute longer, then pursed his lips and laid the notebook down beside him. He stared into space, his mind obviously as troubled as Dan’s own.
“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Dan asked, repeating Drew’s earlier sarcastic question.
Drew shook his head. “I took a psychology course in college,” he said. “One of my favorite discussions was about sociopaths; about how they have this genetic ability to turn off certain areas of their brains.”
“Yeah?”
“A lot of them are normal everyday people that you would never guess are like that,” Drew continued. “But they make good business men, lawyers; anything that requires that kind of indifference. The rare ones who can’t handle that type of ability are the ones who become the serial killers and school shooters and all that. Maybe the infection does different things to sociopaths, since their brains are wired differently.”
“Did you notice how he said that his wife almost seemed to remember him?”
“Yeah,” Drew said. “Just like the zombie lovers in the yuppie’s house.”
“So, if this guy got infected, then he might retain all of his memories, since his brain was wired differently?”
Drew nodded, silent.
“Y’all could be wrong, tho’.” Vincent said, apparently having been listening. “We ain’t doctors, or scientists; just a bunch of mutha fuckas tryin’ to live out the day. But then again, you could be right.”
They were quiet for a moment, then Drew nodded his head in an exaggerated speed. “Thanks, Vincent,” he said. “That was helpful.”
Vincent snickered and sat up. “Look, man, all we can do is survive. There ain’t no reason to go worryin’ about this mutha fucka. If he wants to do some psycho shit and come lookin’ for y’all, then we cap his ass. There’s four of us, and one of him. Dude obviously got no balls, dawg. He killed a helpless old lady and shit. No real man goes after an old lady.”
“She wasn’t exactly helpless,” Dan said. “She was one tough bitch, with an attitude to match. She had eyes like a hawk, and could shoot like a Marine sniper. I don’t know how he even managed to get into her house. She would have shot him before he got within a hundred yards.”
“Hmm,” Vincent said. “I don’t know, man. You see how fast those Shamblers can run, and how far that horse jumped across the gap. The ones who change like that look like they get better at certain things. Maybe this dude just blends in better, or is quieter. Something’.”
Dan sighed and laid back down to stare at the ceiling. Now his mind was whirling again. With all the chaos they had gone through recently, this was just one more thing to worry about. As long as crazy dude was out there, they would never be safe—zombies or not.
“Where the fuck is Jake?” Vincent asked.
“Garage,” Dan said. “Working on the flamethrower.”
“Ah,” Vincent said, lying back down. “Shit.”
As Dan’s mind went back and forth between anxiety and Vicodin-induced euphoria, he began to feel something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was a low rumble coming from outside in the distance, but he wasn’t sure it was an actual sound; possibly his own blood pressure being amplified by the Vicodin or the stress. He couldn’t decide.
Vincent decided for him. The thug sat up quickly, craning his neck to listen. Drew propped himself up on his elbows, his brow furrowed.
“What the fuck is that?” Drew asked.
Vincent stood up and went to the window, pressing his face against the glass. “Aw, shit,” he said. “That sound like helicopters.”
Dan and Drew both shot up. Dan slid open the patio door, poking his head out to
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