Free Chicago Fell First: A Zombie Novel by Aaron Smith

through her like fire, Danielle actually smiled when the little boy peeked cautiously out from behind the couch. He was small, about seven or eight, she guessed, and looked very afraid.
    “Come on, Brandon,” Danielle said, trying to sound reassuring, taking a step toward the boy. “We have to get out of here.”
    Brandon emerged from his hiding spot, walked toward Danielle.
    “Why did Uncle Martin hurt Aunt Phyllis? Is she dead?”
    Danielle wouldn’t lie, and saw no reason to after what the child had seen.
    “Yes, Brandon, she is. Come with me. We can’t stay here.”
    She grabbed hold of his hand and quickly dragged him out the front door, got him into her car, tossed the crutch into the back seat after brushing its tip against the grass to try to leave behind some of the blood and eyeball glop.
    “Where are we going?” Brandon asked as Danielle began to drive away from the little house of death. “You’re a stranger … I shouldn’t go with you … but it was worse in there. But where are we going?”
    “I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” Danielle admitted. She wondered how she was going to explain about his parents and brother.
     
    The resurrection of Pac-Man took just under three hours. Some sweat, some swearing, a few adjustments and the familiar beeping sound of a little round yellow being navigating his way through a maze of dots and avoiding those colorful ghosts resumed.
    Doug rubbed his hands together in satisfaction and smiled. He put his tools back in their case, went to secure them in his trunk, and headed back into the diner to collect his payment. As he approached the door again, he noted the name of the establishment and laughed. “Mirage.” Did that mean the food looked good but tasted like sand?
    Doug realized he was hungry. It was nearing dusk and he hadn’t eaten all day. Food sounded like a good idea before the long drive home. He got his check from the owner and selected a booth along the wall.
    “How’s the patient?” the waitress said as she came over and stood beside Doug’s table. It took Doug a second to realize what she meant.
    “Pac-Man’s alive and well,” he reported, looking up at her and smiling without realizing it. She was attractive in a petite, cute sort of way. Her hair was brownish-blonde with a hint of red to it, her glasses looked appropriate for her face, balanced on the bridge of a slightly upturned nose, and she had an aura of polite intelligence about her that Doug immediately noticed.
    “Good, glad he’s okay,” she said. Her name was sewn onto the breast pocket of her white uniform blouse. “KACEY,” it said in bright blue lettering. “What can I get for you?” she asked.
    He hadn’t even read the menu, so he improvised. Certain things were common to all diners.
    “I’ll have a turkey sandwich, side of fries and a Coke.”
    Kacey scribbled the order down on the pad she took from her apron pocket. Doug watched and his shadow-self began to see through his eyes. He watched her fingers as they manipulated the pen across the paper, applying just the right pressure in just the right pattern to form the words on the sheet. Those fingers were being guided, he knew, by the muscles in her hands which were in turn guided by those in her arm and all those actions began with electrical impulses sent from her brain, which was cooperating with her eyes that sat behind the spectacles held up by that cute little nose. The fingers at the end of that brain-guided arm were composed of various segments, joints working in tandem with fingertip nerves made sensitive by their partnership with the circulatory system. Kacey was a glorious machine and Douglas was fascinated.
    “I’ll have this out in a few,” she said, breaking the spell. Doug coughed and looked down at the placemat on the table, forcing his shadow-self back to its hiding place.
    Kacey returned a minute later with the Coke. She set it down on the table, dropped the paper-wrapped straw beside