The Infected (Book 1): Jim's First Day by Joseph Zuko Page A

the right size. I put spandex shorts on and
slip the plastic cup into position. I have no idea what I might face out there,
but I do know that if you get hit right in the dick or balls you can’t move for
a very long time. I would hate to die because I could not move after I got hit
in the grapes.
    I
slip on the new pants and the cotton feels so much better against my skin than
the polyester dress pants. I get the thick socks on and slide my feet into the
new boots. They feel great. There is a black long sleeve Under Armour shirt on
the rack and I grab it. It is the kind meant for football so it has little pads
on the shoulders and elbows. I pull off my tie and button up shirt. I pull the
new shirt over my head and it fits great. I find a light camo-hunting jacket
and grab that too. I grab two sets of shin guards from the soccer section and strap
them on my shins and forearms. This should help against those biting bastards.
    In
the last corner of the store is a display of guns and knives. I step up to the
counter and look over the twenty or thirty rifles and shotguns. I have not shot
a rifle or shotgun since I was in the Boy Scouts, that was twenty-three years
ago. The last gun I shot was a year ago and it was a handgun my brother helped
me buy. The two of us shot off a couple hundred rounds the first day I got it
and I was a terrible shot. Even my brother said there was only so much practice
could do to help with my aim. My body was blessed with quick hands, but cursed
with horrible aim. My wife Karen was a better shot with the handgun. Still I
need more protection if I am going to make it home. I go behind the counter and
try to take down one of the shotguns, but it is locked into the display. I look
over at the dead manager on the ground.
    “Devon,
check that one for keys,” I point.
    I
had not been paying attention to Devon but obviously he was behind me the whole
shopping adventure, he is slipping on the same jacket as me in addition to
everything else I chose to wear. He also straps on the same set of soccer
guards to his limbs. We look like twins. Great. I don’t know why it matters but
the idea of us rolling down the street dressed exactly the same embarrasses me.
Even if the world is going to shit I do not want to get teased by the infected
for looking like a couple of dorks. Devon stops walking my way and makes a sad
face. It is clear that he doesn’t want to touch the dead guy’s body. I stare at
him, waiting for him to comply with my request. It is a mini staring contest.
One I am not about to lose. Devon’s a good-looking young man. He is a couple
inches shorter than me and about forty pounds lighter with a clean-shaven face
and big bright eyes. Someone might mistake him for my much younger brother. He
doesn’t say anything. He only shakes his head no. He really doesn’t want to
touch that dead body.
    “Come
on. He’s dead. Get the keys.” I try asking more like a friend than a boss. He
slowly walks over to the body and digs through the man’s pants pockets and
pulls out the set of keys. He tosses them to me and I find one that looks like
the lock. It pops open and I pull down the shotgun.
    “Shotguns.
Sweet. Do you know how to shoot it?” he asks.
    “No.
Not really. There must be instructions around here.” The gun feels heavy in my
hands. The side of the stock reads Remington 870. It is all black and has a
pistol grip. I try and slide the thing that cocks it. I don’t even know what
that part is called, but it doesn’t move. I pull open a couple of the drawers
that sit below the display and finally find one that is full of little books. I
sift through the books, find one for the Remington 870 and start reading. Look
at me. I am such a nerd. I don’t know how to use this stupid thing and I am
reading the instructions. Movies make it look so easy. They pick up a gun and
know everything about it. The first thing it mentions is eye safety that reminds
me to grab some safety sunglasses. I hate