to the woods and then slowed. “Shit!” He turned back to the house, one hand flying to his head. He’d left the jug of water sitting on the kitchen counter. His feet moved unsurely, as though one foot wanted to go back and the other wanted to go forward.
He looked forward through the woods, to the back of the next line of houses. He could hole up in one of those, take a minute to barricade the doors and windows, keep watch and wait for the neighborhood to be clear of infected before running back for the water…
He shook his head.
Bullshit . He wasn’t going to get himself killed over a half-gallon of water, no matter how thirsty he was. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to escape one house just to cram himself into another one less than a hundred yards away from the first.
He stepped into the woods with fresh urgency, picking his way as quickly and as quietly as he could. The dried leaves and twigs felt more like tripwires and sensors, threatening to give him away at each step.
Deuce was already on the other side of the strip of woods, looking back at him with what seemed like impatience.
Yeah, I’m working on it…
Lee forced himself to focus completely on the forest floor and where he put his feet. In his mind he pictured a pack of the filthy creatures tumbling around the corner of the house and seeing him picking his slow progress through the woods, locking onto him like a pack of wolves on a wounded deer.
Just get to the other side.
His feet hit grass. He looked up and found himself in another back lawn and he broke into a jog. Deuce lingered for a few seconds, sniffing the air, his body language cautious. The houses here were packed close together so that the side of two adjacent houses created a narrow alley perhaps ten feet wide. Lee went to the left of the house directly in front of him, making for the street on the other side.
Halfway down that narrow alley, he stopped and looked behind him. Deuce wasn’t following.
“Deuce,” he said at a loud whisper. “Come on!”
When he faced forward again, something large and dark stood in front of him and it lashed out and turned his vision into stars and he tasted blood.
CHAPTER 6: GUT CHECK
Lee hit the ground on his back. He rolled onto his side and tried to bring himself up, gripping the knife in close to his body and praying that he wouldn’t lose it. He could smell dirt and grass and when the sparkles cleared in his vision, he was looking at mildewed vinyl siding, wriggling patterns cut through the green by the slime trails of slugs.
“Stay down!” someone shouted. “Drop that knife or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
Lee opened his mouth, felt blood dribble out onto his chin, and he wondered if he’d lost another tooth. He twisted slightly, slumping against the dirty vinyl siding. The figure stood over him, just an impressionist blur. Lee blinked rapidly, trying to bring the figure into focus.
A large man, well over six feet. A giant, reddish-brown beard that looked like it had been grown long even before the collapse, only now it clumped into dreadlocks towards the bottom. An old black cap with no logo and a crumpled and tattered brim shaded the man’s narrowed eyes, dark and suspicious. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves bunched up at the elbows, revealing a clutter of blue tattoos on both forearms. The man held an M4 carbine, the barrel oriented perfectly with Lee’s face.
“I said, ‘drop the fucking knife’!” the man yelled again.
Lee complied, half because he truly believed the man would shoot him, and half because he wanted him to stop yelling. He held up both hands, palms speckled with dirt. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I dropped the knife. You need to be quiet.”
“What the fuck did you say?” two thick eyebrows came together in the center of the man’s face.
Lee’s mind kicked into gear. Slightly delayed, but better late than never. The barrel of the man’s rifle was
Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Martin A. Lee, Bruce Shlain