Free Reanimated Readz by Rusty Fischer Page B

cheap cow blood on his pale, stubbly chin. His eyes are dark, almost gray, where once they were such a vivid, striking blue. Of all the changes he’s been through, it’s his eyes I miss the most. Well, that and his soul, his friendship, his laughter, but…it’s best not to dwell on all that.
    His hair is stubbly, too, black bristles against his cold, pale skin.
    While he’s busy chewing, I touch the side of his head lightly. He pauses, wary, almost feral, nostrils widening, but the power of the meat, the hunger for constant blood nourishment deep in his cells, is too much. He abides my touch and returns to his steady, almost rhythmic chewing.
    It’s the only time he’s soft, when he’s eating. Really, it’s the only time it’s safe to go near his face. I spot a trace of blood by his ear and wipe it off with a towel I keep handy for feeding times.
    He finishes with a not-quite-satisfied grunt, but he finishes just the same. I look at the empty container, at the puddle of blood that’s collected in the corner, half-congealed from the heat of our long pilgrimage to the last Checkpoint.
    I’m tempted to try it, to get a taste of what life will be like on the other side of the Checkpoint, in the Z-Zone. I raise the plastic to my face, all prepared to do it, then I take a whiff. Big mistake.
    It smells like raw hamburger, ugly and moist and almost…hot with an acrid, belching steam that hits my face like a wet rag. I retch, wondering if I’ll ever be able to adapt as Sam has to his world. To their world.
    He snorts, almost laughing, or maybe he’s just still hungry. His eyes are so vacant and gray, it’s hard to tell. I offer him the plastic container and he takes it greedily, roughly, making my stomach hurt at the thought that he was never smiling at all.
    At least, not smiling at me.
    “Walk,” I say. Command number three. He stands abruptly, dropping the plastic container to the ground, dried now of every drop of blood. I wipe the last of it off his chin. His gray eyes are soft now.
    I look down at the container, tempted to pick it up, clean it off, save it. Then I frown and turn on one heel. That’s human thinking, and I’m minutes away from no longer being human. I leave it behind, like the house a few miles back, my frilly pink room, the fridge stocked with raw meat Sam will never eat and the chain in the wall next to his bed.
    I start walking. He follows dutifully. You may have to tell him what to do, and often, but once he gets started, Sam’s pretty good about following. It’s been like that for nearly three months now, ever since the virus came and sank its teeth into my brother.
    The pavement is smooth under our feet, the streetlamps dull and just now buzzing to life every few feet or so. Not many people use old Ranger Road anymore, not since they set up the last Checkpoint into the Z-Zone.
    Sam walks quietly by my side. I’d reach over to take his hand but I’ve tried that a few times before and, well, it never ends well. Either he squeezes too hard and threatens to snap a pinky bone or he jerks away like we’re total, random, complete strangers.
    I’m never quite sure which of his reactions hurts the most.
    His new sneakers scrape the pavement beneath his feet, creating odd sounds that are still somewhat less disconcerting than his usual flat-footed shuffle. To think he was All-State in cross country less than four months ago breaks my heart.
    Or would, if I had a heart left to break.
    I don’t know why I bought those shoes. Old habits, I guess. Mom used to give me money to take Sam shopping every summer, you know, for back-to-school clothes.
    Even though he was older, he could never be trusted to pick out sensible things. If he had his way, mom knew and I soon realized, he’d blow the whole two-hundred-fifty dollars on a new pair of shoes and a trucker cap and just wear those until she gave me another two-hundred-fifty dollars to take him winter shopping.
    I guess, waking up today, I felt