bother with my legs. If things get so bad that I’ve got Zee all over me, snapping at my legs as well as my arms, I doubt extra greaves will make any difference.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to acknowledge the work David and Jane have put into preparing the packs while dumping almost half the contents. David doesn’t look impressed, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.
Steve lightens his pack as well. I put my hand on his arm and say, “Listen. I appreciate everything you guys have done for me, but this isn’t your fight. It’s my dad, my fight.”
“No, no, no,” Steve says, shaking his head.
“Just get me outside the gates, and I’ll go on alone.”
“Honey,” Jane says, sorting through her pack but not taking anything out. “That’s not happening.”
David says, “No offense, but you’ll never make it out there by yourself.”
Yet again, he’s probably right, but the thought of my friends risking and possibly losing their lives on my fool’s errand is too much.
“I have to try.”
Sitting here on the bleachers, looking out at the blood-stained grass and smoldering embers from the fire, I struggle to hold back tears. The cart is still there, knocked to one side. The burnt remains of the frame that held the skin is just visible in the ashes. The broken glass and decapitated zombie head are gone. Probably tossed over the fence by one of the marauders.
“I’m not leaving you,” Steve says, losing his normal calm demeanor and speaking with a passion that shouldn’t take me by surprise, but does.
“But this could cost you your lives!”
“It could save our lives,” Jane replies. “If your dad’s right, this could change everything.”
“Quick,” David says. “The wagon’s coming.”
He grabs his pack and runs along the front of the bleachers, disappearing into the shadows. The sky above is lit up with streaks of deep purple and hints of ruddy pink as the first rays of light cross the distant horizon. Already, the silhouette of the dark mountains beyond the city is set in contrast against the sky. The cold of night is giving way to the warmth of day.
We follow David, crouching behind him as a horse-drawn wagon trundles by. The steel-rimmed wheels are surprisingly loud on the gravel. There are two soldiers sitting at the front of the wagon, guiding the horses. The deck of the wagon is easily nine feet above the ground, putting it out of reach of zombies.
“They’re taking supplies to the workers camped out in the cornfields,” David whispers.
As the wagon passes, he runs out behind the cart and tosses his backpack on the rear deck. We run after the wagon. David has already jumped up and is climbing under the canvas. Jane swings her pack up. David grabs it and stows it to one side. He reaches out and pulls her up over the low wooden tailgate. Steve is next. He scrambles up onto the wagon, kicking with his feet against the wooden frame. If it wasn’t for the noise of the wheels, I’m sure the soldiers would hear us.
I swing my pack, but I’m short and my pack falls short, almost wrenching my arm out of my shoulder socket as it swings back down. I’m five foot nothing. Oh, for a teenage growth spurt right about now, I think as I run madly behind the wagon. David leans down with his arm outstretched. Steve’s beside him, hanging out of the wagon.
I run hard. I can see the main gate ahead. I heave my pack, more throwing than swinging it, and I risk losing the whole pack if I miss. Steve grabs a strap and pulls it up. David pats the back of the wagon, signaling for me to jump. But I’m out of breath and tiring fast.
The wagon slows as it approaches the gate, giving me the chance to catch up. David and Steve have their arms outstretched toward me. I’ve got my hands out. Our fingers touch, but it’s not enough to get a handhold.
David swings his legs down as though he’s getting off the wagon. He’s got one arm over the back of the deck while his body hangs beneath the deck.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to acknowledge the work David and Jane have put into preparing the packs while dumping almost half the contents. David doesn’t look impressed, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.
Steve lightens his pack as well. I put my hand on his arm and say, “Listen. I appreciate everything you guys have done for me, but this isn’t your fight. It’s my dad, my fight.”
“No, no, no,” Steve says, shaking his head.
“Just get me outside the gates, and I’ll go on alone.”
“Honey,” Jane says, sorting through her pack but not taking anything out. “That’s not happening.”
David says, “No offense, but you’ll never make it out there by yourself.”
Yet again, he’s probably right, but the thought of my friends risking and possibly losing their lives on my fool’s errand is too much.
“I have to try.”
Sitting here on the bleachers, looking out at the blood-stained grass and smoldering embers from the fire, I struggle to hold back tears. The cart is still there, knocked to one side. The burnt remains of the frame that held the skin is just visible in the ashes. The broken glass and decapitated zombie head are gone. Probably tossed over the fence by one of the marauders.
“I’m not leaving you,” Steve says, losing his normal calm demeanor and speaking with a passion that shouldn’t take me by surprise, but does.
“But this could cost you your lives!”
“It could save our lives,” Jane replies. “If your dad’s right, this could change everything.”
“Quick,” David says. “The wagon’s coming.”
He grabs his pack and runs along the front of the bleachers, disappearing into the shadows. The sky above is lit up with streaks of deep purple and hints of ruddy pink as the first rays of light cross the distant horizon. Already, the silhouette of the dark mountains beyond the city is set in contrast against the sky. The cold of night is giving way to the warmth of day.
We follow David, crouching behind him as a horse-drawn wagon trundles by. The steel-rimmed wheels are surprisingly loud on the gravel. There are two soldiers sitting at the front of the wagon, guiding the horses. The deck of the wagon is easily nine feet above the ground, putting it out of reach of zombies.
“They’re taking supplies to the workers camped out in the cornfields,” David whispers.
As the wagon passes, he runs out behind the cart and tosses his backpack on the rear deck. We run after the wagon. David has already jumped up and is climbing under the canvas. Jane swings her pack up. David grabs it and stows it to one side. He reaches out and pulls her up over the low wooden tailgate. Steve is next. He scrambles up onto the wagon, kicking with his feet against the wooden frame. If it wasn’t for the noise of the wheels, I’m sure the soldiers would hear us.
I swing my pack, but I’m short and my pack falls short, almost wrenching my arm out of my shoulder socket as it swings back down. I’m five foot nothing. Oh, for a teenage growth spurt right about now, I think as I run madly behind the wagon. David leans down with his arm outstretched. Steve’s beside him, hanging out of the wagon.
I run hard. I can see the main gate ahead. I heave my pack, more throwing than swinging it, and I risk losing the whole pack if I miss. Steve grabs a strap and pulls it up. David pats the back of the wagon, signaling for me to jump. But I’m out of breath and tiring fast.
The wagon slows as it approaches the gate, giving me the chance to catch up. David and Steve have their arms outstretched toward me. I’ve got my hands out. Our fingers touch, but it’s not enough to get a handhold.
David swings his legs down as though he’s getting off the wagon. He’s got one arm over the back of the deck while his body hangs beneath the deck.
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