air, a seemingly endless waterfall of decaying flesh as they spilled over the side; their bodies hit the ground with dull thuds, the snapping of bones so loud that it was almost like the constant crackling of a fire hidden somewhere in their midst.
Doc slowly shook his head as if he were looking upon a mystery of nature.
“Crazy fuckin' zombies... ”
I felt like an idiot standing there, grinning at my friend as wave after wave plummeted toward the ground: but the sun was warm, the birds in the forest behind us were chirping, and we were alive, by God, we were alive !
“New rule, Doc.” I said as I spat blood from my busted mouth. “Number twenty-two: Stay the hell out of the cities.”
Doc started to laugh then and I soon joined in, slapping him on the back as we began trying to salvage what supplies we could from the fallen remains of our once-proud chariot: I thought again how the sun was warm, the birds in the forest were chirping, and we were alive... if only for another day.
It was only later, as we limped through the woods with our supplies jangling and clanking in the “backpacks” we'd fashioned from a piece of tarp and bits of cord from the car's trunk that my mind turned to the past. Maybe it was the way the sunlight dappled through the canopy of leaves overhead, the way the shadows danced over the forest floor as the wind rustled through the branches; or perhaps it was the smell of honeysuckle and pine mixed with that old vegetation smell that's almost like mildew but not quite.
Whatever the cause, I grew quiet as we trekked through the wilderness. At one point in my life, I probably would have been appreciating the beauty of the leaves that had just begun turning into the brilliant yellows and oranges of fall. I would have found a sort of solace in the gurgling of the streams we leaped across and the way the squirrels scampered up the sides of trees in an almost corkscrew pattern.
As it was, though, my thoughts and emotions were as jumbled and twisted as that wreck of a car we'd left in our wake.
I was tired; so tired that I just wanted to lay down on the forest floor and sleep for a thousand years. A dreamless sleep, preferably, where the faces of those I had known and loved, or even those I had simply met in passing, didn't haunt me with visions of a past that could never be recovered. And yet I kept walking, kept putting one foot in front of the other for reasons I myself couldn't begin to understand.
After what must have been nearly forty minutes, I cleared my throat and glanced over at my companion. But it was only a quick look. I knew I would never be able to hold his gaze while I told the story I was about to share.
“Doc,” I finally said, “I ever tell you about the time I shot a kid?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN: JOSIE
I had read about people looking down the barrel of a gun: how time seems to slow down and they look back over the course of their lives, flashing back to childhood or perhaps a wedding or the birth of a child; sometimes they even notice the smallest details of the weapon pointed at them, from the darkness of the bore to the smudged fingerprint on the barrel. In real life, however, it wasn't like that at all.
In fact, it was all over so fast that I only had enough time to throw my hands up as if believed I were Wonder Woman and my bracelets could deflect the bullet. At the same time, there was a sharp crack and a puff of smoke rose like magic from the pistol.
There was no time to think a final thought, no time to beg for mercy; there was only the blast of the gun immediately followed by something that almost sounded like a gnat whizzing by my head.
My muscles had tensed in expectation of the shot and for a moment I couldn't understand why the burst of pain never came. My hands scrambled over my body, desperately searching for the blood I was sure had to be oozing from the wound but coming up clean time and time again.
Doc let out a long whoop and threw both of
Doc slowly shook his head as if he were looking upon a mystery of nature.
“Crazy fuckin' zombies... ”
I felt like an idiot standing there, grinning at my friend as wave after wave plummeted toward the ground: but the sun was warm, the birds in the forest behind us were chirping, and we were alive, by God, we were alive !
“New rule, Doc.” I said as I spat blood from my busted mouth. “Number twenty-two: Stay the hell out of the cities.”
Doc started to laugh then and I soon joined in, slapping him on the back as we began trying to salvage what supplies we could from the fallen remains of our once-proud chariot: I thought again how the sun was warm, the birds in the forest were chirping, and we were alive... if only for another day.
It was only later, as we limped through the woods with our supplies jangling and clanking in the “backpacks” we'd fashioned from a piece of tarp and bits of cord from the car's trunk that my mind turned to the past. Maybe it was the way the sunlight dappled through the canopy of leaves overhead, the way the shadows danced over the forest floor as the wind rustled through the branches; or perhaps it was the smell of honeysuckle and pine mixed with that old vegetation smell that's almost like mildew but not quite.
Whatever the cause, I grew quiet as we trekked through the wilderness. At one point in my life, I probably would have been appreciating the beauty of the leaves that had just begun turning into the brilliant yellows and oranges of fall. I would have found a sort of solace in the gurgling of the streams we leaped across and the way the squirrels scampered up the sides of trees in an almost corkscrew pattern.
As it was, though, my thoughts and emotions were as jumbled and twisted as that wreck of a car we'd left in our wake.
I was tired; so tired that I just wanted to lay down on the forest floor and sleep for a thousand years. A dreamless sleep, preferably, where the faces of those I had known and loved, or even those I had simply met in passing, didn't haunt me with visions of a past that could never be recovered. And yet I kept walking, kept putting one foot in front of the other for reasons I myself couldn't begin to understand.
After what must have been nearly forty minutes, I cleared my throat and glanced over at my companion. But it was only a quick look. I knew I would never be able to hold his gaze while I told the story I was about to share.
“Doc,” I finally said, “I ever tell you about the time I shot a kid?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN: JOSIE
I had read about people looking down the barrel of a gun: how time seems to slow down and they look back over the course of their lives, flashing back to childhood or perhaps a wedding or the birth of a child; sometimes they even notice the smallest details of the weapon pointed at them, from the darkness of the bore to the smudged fingerprint on the barrel. In real life, however, it wasn't like that at all.
In fact, it was all over so fast that I only had enough time to throw my hands up as if believed I were Wonder Woman and my bracelets could deflect the bullet. At the same time, there was a sharp crack and a puff of smoke rose like magic from the pistol.
There was no time to think a final thought, no time to beg for mercy; there was only the blast of the gun immediately followed by something that almost sounded like a gnat whizzing by my head.
My muscles had tensed in expectation of the shot and for a moment I couldn't understand why the burst of pain never came. My hands scrambled over my body, desperately searching for the blood I was sure had to be oozing from the wound but coming up clean time and time again.
Doc let out a long whoop and threw both of
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