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

I’d once interviewed a drummer who had discovered punk rock while on  rumspringa .
    “Yeah, well, most of the country doesn’t realize that.” Tony flipped through the book. “It’s a sequel. In the first book,  Mennonite Man , Ezekiel is killed off, but is resurrected before he can zombify.” He tapped the cover. “Hence the title. He’s chosen by God to fight off the outbreak.”
    Dax seemed to perk up at that. “So he’s like the Boondock Saints?”
    “Sort-of. He has a better hat, though.”
    I rooted through the box a little more and came up with a candy bar. “Tony,” I said, “why do you know this?”
    He didn’t even look embarrassed as he tucked  Dead Mennonite Walking  into his backpack. “I read  Mennonite Man  when it came out. It won a bunch of awards, you know.”
    “I did not know.” I hadn’t realized zombie literature existed, much less won awards, and I had always pegged Tony as the kind of guy who’d polish an antique rifle before picking up a book, much less a zombie book. 
    This required further investigation. “So,” I said, “do you read a lot about the undead?”
    He suddenly seemed to find our surroundings fascinating. “Not really.”
    Dax nudged me and cleared his throat. “Did you have a zombie escape plan, Tony?”
    Tony scoffed and strode off toward a discarded group of suitcases. “If I’d had a proper zombie escape plan, I wouldn’t be traipsing all over the Midlands Cluster with you losers.”
    “Did you have an  improper  zombie escape plan?” I asked.
    “I don’t know if it’s worth picking our way through this.” Tony surveyed the debris field, doing his very best to evade the question.
    Dax sent me a genuinely delighted smile. “He totally had a plan.”
    “Why am I not surprised?” I asked.
    Tony continued to ignore our side discussion. “Check some of those boxes, will you? Maybe there’s food in them.”
    I waded a little deeper into the debris field and came up with a pair of stilettos. I stuck a finger underneath the ankle strap and lifted one of them up, brushing some of the ash from its red surface. “Damn. These were some chick’s pride and joy.”
    Dax barely looked up from his book juggling. “Who brings  that  shoe with them during the freaking apocalypse?”
    I considered the shoe. “Actually, I bet you could brain someone pretty easily with this. Look at that heel.”
    Dax looked at the heel, then at me. “You're very interesting, Vibeke.”
    I set the shoe down next to its mate and lifted up a molding chunk of cardboard. Several photo albums rested underneath it, relatively protected from the elements. I should’ve just dropped the damn thing, but instead I reached out, pulling open one of the volumes. Two adults, three kids, and a dog smiled out from one of the photos.
    The faces didn’t look familiar, though that didn’t mean anything. Thousands of people roamed the camp, and I could hardly expect to have met all of them. Just because I hadn’t seen them didn’t mean they weren’t there. 
    I let the cardboard fall back into place, half-wondering if it had been left there as a shield. Maybe someone in that family thought they’d be back for their printed memories.
    It probably wasn’t the same guy who owned the zombie books.
    “Any food?” Tony called.
    “No…just  stuff .” It’s almost funny, how many of our belongings are utterly useless. Yeah, pictures are nice to look at, but you can’t fight off a ghoul with a picture…although I guess you could bludgeon one with an album. That might have the desired effect.
    The sudden whine in the air sounded almost like the dog, but it was drifting toward us from down the street. I lowered the jar of birdseed I’d picked up and stared into the haze, aware that the asphalt was vibrating slightly under my boots. It didn’t feel like another tremor.
    The whine increased, growing into a mechanical screech.  
    “Oh,  shit .” Tony did not sound happy.