me gently by the shoulder. I push off the cushion on the couch only to realize I’m pushing against clothing, and beneath that, muscle and bone. Steve groans. I’ve been lying beside him, half on top of him, squishing him against the back of the couch like a crumpled throw rug.
For a moment, the world seems normal. There’s no horror, no zombies, nothing wrong with my dad, and then reality washes over me like a flood.
“Come on,” Jane whispers, not giving me time to wallow in self-pity.
It’s still dark outside. There’s a faint glow on the horizon, but it’s not yet dawn. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days instead of a few hours. I’m surprisingly refreshed.
Steve follows us into the kitchen. A candle casts a dim light on four backpacks—they’re much more robust than the rucksack I’d been preparing the night before. David works feverishly, but without making any noise. It’s impressive to see him handling machetes and baseball bats, strapping them to the side of the packs with just the briefest sound of Velcro catching.
“We let you sleep as long as we could,” Jane says. I’m still a little overwhelmed. The events of last night are as hazy and cloudy as my dreams.
David props open the door with a wooden wedge, again without so much as a sound. He picks up two of the packs, handling them as though they weigh nothing, and carries them outside. In seconds, he’s back again, grabbing the last two packs. Steve’s still yawning while I’m trying to figure out if I’m lost in a dream.
We walk out into the cool of the morning and I start to say something, but David holds his finger to his lips, gesturing for quiet. He points at the first-floor windows, and I understand. We each take a pack and creep away to the oval.
I’m breathing hard by the time we reach the bleachers. It’s been a hundred yards, which is nothing compared to what we have to cover today. We rest on the concrete steps and Steve asks the question I’ve been silently wondering about as we hiked over to the oval.
“How do we get out of the commune?”
“Oh, getting out is easy,” David replies. “This isn’t a prison. No one’s trying to keep us in. The guards won’t be looking for someone leaving.”
I rummage around in my backpack.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask, pulling out a set of knuckle dusters and a length of steel chain. It’s no wonder my pack is so heavy.
“Redundancy,” David replies. “Once we get out there, we’re on our own. We’ve got to carry everything we need.”
Jane adds, “And we need at least two of everything in case we lose equipment along the way.”
I’m busy emptying the contents of my backpack.
“I won’t make it half a mile with all this stuff,” I say, knowing David means well. “I’m no marauder. I can’t carry all of this stuff.”
David’s silent, but he’s watching as I separate the contents of my pack into two piles. It’s pretty obvious which pile I’m taking with me, as that’s the one with water and food.
“At least take the arm pieces,” Jane says.
I count ten greaves, but I’m guessing everyone is carrying the same number. You only ever need four at a time—two for your legs, two for your arms. I’m thinking David’s given us two complete sets each as they’re designed to break away in a zombie attack. And the remaining two are for good measure.
I look at one of the greaves. It’s just over a foot long and designed to wrap around my forearm or my lower leg as a shin pad. The strapping is flimsy because if Zee bites, the greave is supposed to come away. I’ve never seen them used, but I’ve heard they’re intended to confuse and disorient zombies. I was told Zee will think he’s torn off my arm and be too busy chowing down on the supple leather to notice as I flee with all my appendages intact. Such a delightful thought, but such is life in the apocalypse.
I put four greaves back in my pack and strap one on each arm. I’m not going to
For a moment, the world seems normal. There’s no horror, no zombies, nothing wrong with my dad, and then reality washes over me like a flood.
“Come on,” Jane whispers, not giving me time to wallow in self-pity.
It’s still dark outside. There’s a faint glow on the horizon, but it’s not yet dawn. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days instead of a few hours. I’m surprisingly refreshed.
Steve follows us into the kitchen. A candle casts a dim light on four backpacks—they’re much more robust than the rucksack I’d been preparing the night before. David works feverishly, but without making any noise. It’s impressive to see him handling machetes and baseball bats, strapping them to the side of the packs with just the briefest sound of Velcro catching.
“We let you sleep as long as we could,” Jane says. I’m still a little overwhelmed. The events of last night are as hazy and cloudy as my dreams.
David props open the door with a wooden wedge, again without so much as a sound. He picks up two of the packs, handling them as though they weigh nothing, and carries them outside. In seconds, he’s back again, grabbing the last two packs. Steve’s still yawning while I’m trying to figure out if I’m lost in a dream.
We walk out into the cool of the morning and I start to say something, but David holds his finger to his lips, gesturing for quiet. He points at the first-floor windows, and I understand. We each take a pack and creep away to the oval.
I’m breathing hard by the time we reach the bleachers. It’s been a hundred yards, which is nothing compared to what we have to cover today. We rest on the concrete steps and Steve asks the question I’ve been silently wondering about as we hiked over to the oval.
“How do we get out of the commune?”
“Oh, getting out is easy,” David replies. “This isn’t a prison. No one’s trying to keep us in. The guards won’t be looking for someone leaving.”
I rummage around in my backpack.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask, pulling out a set of knuckle dusters and a length of steel chain. It’s no wonder my pack is so heavy.
“Redundancy,” David replies. “Once we get out there, we’re on our own. We’ve got to carry everything we need.”
Jane adds, “And we need at least two of everything in case we lose equipment along the way.”
I’m busy emptying the contents of my backpack.
“I won’t make it half a mile with all this stuff,” I say, knowing David means well. “I’m no marauder. I can’t carry all of this stuff.”
David’s silent, but he’s watching as I separate the contents of my pack into two piles. It’s pretty obvious which pile I’m taking with me, as that’s the one with water and food.
“At least take the arm pieces,” Jane says.
I count ten greaves, but I’m guessing everyone is carrying the same number. You only ever need four at a time—two for your legs, two for your arms. I’m thinking David’s given us two complete sets each as they’re designed to break away in a zombie attack. And the remaining two are for good measure.
I look at one of the greaves. It’s just over a foot long and designed to wrap around my forearm or my lower leg as a shin pad. The strapping is flimsy because if Zee bites, the greave is supposed to come away. I’ve never seen them used, but I’ve heard they’re intended to confuse and disorient zombies. I was told Zee will think he’s torn off my arm and be too busy chowing down on the supple leather to notice as I flee with all my appendages intact. Such a delightful thought, but such is life in the apocalypse.
I put four greaves back in my pack and strap one on each arm. I’m not going to
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