Free Death and Biker Gangs by S. P. Blackmore Page A

to stare at the window, but it was coated in a fine layer of ash, concealing anything inside. I pulled my jacket sleeve over my hand and reached out.
    “Vibeke,” Dax muttered, “don’t…”
    Hey, I used to be a reporter. I was supposed to go digging for the real story. I wiped away some of the ash.
    The ghoul slammed against the window, its jaw hanging from the left hinge. I couldn’t even tell whether it had been male or female; the short, stringy blond hair could’ve belonged to anyone.
    It threw itself against the window again.
    I wish I could say I felt some sort of empathy, or that the sight of it made me ponder the deeper questions in life, but all I could wonder was whether its jaw had been ripped off before it died, or whether it had jarred loose during decay. It’s the important things, you know?
    “Moving on,” Dax said. “ Now , please.”
    We edged ahead, easing between car doors. After five minutes, we came to a complete stop, the way blocked by what must have been tons of abandoned belongings. “Not sure about this,” Tony said.
    When people fled, they brought all kinds of stuff with them. When they realized they couldn’t carry the stuff or were simply banned from bringing it with them, apparently they’d just dropped it and moved on, leaving it behind as they ran ahead into darkness. All of it had stayed where it fell. 
    I pictured Hammond and his men standing there at the roadblock, ordering people to bring only food and warm clothing and themselves, forcing them to drop the heirlooms, the cutlery, and the portable televisions.
    I caught sight of a mangled-looking pile of fur, and quickly looked away. We had a few pets in the camp: a handful of dogs and cats, and one very irate parakeet that I suspected would outlive us all.
    Still, I had expected a greater animal to human ratio. Millions of people had pets; how was it that only a few had been brought along? 
    It wasn’t for lack of effort. Hammond, that hardened military man, had flung open the doors to pets and livestock.  They’re someone’s family,  he said whenever someone’s beloved critter turned up. 
    I think some people just left them behind. How many more were still in houses? How many had waited for their owners to come back?
    Our own pet yipped nervously, pacing back and forth. I kept a tight grip on her leash, fearful she might dart off into the gloom.
    We edged forward another half-block before Tony stopped us. “We might as well see if we can scavenge anything.”
    A sea of human cast-offs crowded the street in front of us. Suitcases and other luggage clogged our path, and stray pieces of clothing—jackets, shoes, a ridiculous amount of socks—were strewn everywhere. A box sat off to the side, and I steeled myself before taking a look. Dust-covered video games, family photograph albums, and a handful of horror novels sat inside.
    I reached in and picked up the top book, one with a grinning, malevolent-looking skull on the cover. “ Beach Getaway of the Dead ,” I read aloud. I turned it over to read the back cover copy. “They came for the sunshine. They stayed…for the flesh!”
    The boys stood there, possibly trying to decide if I had made the title up. 
    Dax peered into the box, and his eyes lit up with rather unholy glee. “Oh my God, the owner was a zombie fan. Look at this.  Farm of the Dead, The Dead Machine …” Dax began pulling out other titles. Most of them looked well-worn, as if they’d been read many times. “ Subway of the Dead ,  Cab Ride of the Dead, Dead Mennonite Walking …”
    “Oh, I’ve heard of that one.” Tony casually plucked the book out of Dax’s hands. “Ezekiel Amman and a washed-up action star team up to take on the living dead. In Amish Country.”
    For a moment, the only sound was the dog’s panting.
    “Amish zombies,” Dax mused. “I never thought of that. Wait, are Mennonites actually Amish?”
    “No. They’re different groups.” I only knew that because