Free Summer Of 68: A Zombie Novel by Kevin Millikin

at his friend with sickness, guilt, and remorse. “Still, you need to sit.”
    Cohen sighed. There was a deep, moist rumble in his lungs. His eyes looked lost, scared and alone. It was painfully obvious that soon, he would be dead. It was a silent reality that hung between them.
    Begrudgingly, Cohen nodded. “Yeah,” he coughed, “might as well.”
    Baker lowered his deputy to the ground. Cohen felt like dead weight and settled into place with a pained groan. Sadness swelled in the Sheriff’s gut as he took a step back, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The barn’s temperature was stifling, thick with a horrid combination of both carrion and manure. It was an awkward tension that swung around them both.
    “It’ll be alright,” Baker lied, closing his eyes.

 
    Chapter Six
     
    Before too long, Cohen went cold, his body limp, and suddenly, he screamed. His back arched pushing himself forward, where he struggled to stand, and somehow managed to pull upright and onto a pair of wobbly knees.
    “Ellie,” he muttered.
    Baker stepped forward and felt a sharp pang in his gut. Ellie was Cohen’s wife—seven months pregnant and alone at home.
    “You need to sit,” Baker ordered, sharply.
    “Ellie, I love you…”
    “I know you do,” Baker said.
    “I’m sorry for letting you down baby, I really am…”
    “Mark, you’re not letting anyone down. Now please—sit…”
    Cohen took a deep breath and winced. He nodded, looking back to the ground like a child buying time.
    “Let me give you a hand,” Baker said and eased Cohen back to the ground. The deputy sat cross-legged, one hand still clinching his torn throat. He was in horrible shape. The gash continued to bleed, though far from the severity it had. Baker needed to escape and head back to the cruiser and try for Janet on the radio, but Cohen was dying, and Baker couldn’t stomach a good man like him dying alone.
    “Hold up,” Baker said and promptly knelt. He examined the dark blood crusted across his knuckles. Some of it was red, most of it was black. It smelled sour. Baker furrowed his nostrils, but couldn’t tell if it had anything to do with the dead rotting slowly around them. Either way, it wasn’t good.
    Cohen mumbled something, speaking not to Baker, but to Ellie.
    “Let me take a look at it,” Baker said.
    Cohen looked him square in the eyes, his were glossy and bloodshot. He nodded, his head wobbled across his shoulders. “Okay,” he coughed, as blood trickled from the corner of his lips and down his chin in a frothy stream.
    Cohen removed his hand from the wound as a fresh jet of blood trickled out. He winced, hissing from the sting of it. “Hurts like a mother,” he groaned. 
    Baker leaned in for a better view. The wound was gangrenous, without question. The zombie’s teeth had flayed the skin, peeling muscle from bone. By now, the initial blood rush had crystallized, appearing black around the edge. Lucky for Cohen, the corpse had missed his jugular by a couple of inches, prolonging his life by a handful of minutes.
    Cohen whimpered, his body trembled, the cause and effect gave Baker the opportunity to his tendons as they flexed beneath his skin. What he saw made him sick, Baker gagged and turned. After a moment, he built up the courage for another peek—his stomach fought in protest.
    Cohen looked him in the eyes, wanting the truth, nothing more, and nothing less. The two of them sat in awkward silence—waiting for the other to speak.
    “I’m not going to lie,” Baker spoke softly, “it doesn’t look good.”
    Painfully, Cohen snorted and with a saddened grin, he said, “Give it to you not to bullshit me, huh?”
    Baker didn’t respond. He couldn’t. No longer able to find the words to express himself, he let his emotions take control and shut him down, if not momentarily—he looked away, unable to glimpse it any longer.
    “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Cohen said, “this goddamn thing