Free Summer Of 68: A Zombie Novel by Kevin Millikin Page A

feels like it’s on fire.”
    Looking everywhere except the deputy, Baker lied, “That’s good. It means your body’s fighting the infection.”
    Cohen smirked and had seen through his response as clear as day. Baker hung his head and cradled his knees against his chest.
    “I’m sorry, buddy, I really am.”
    Cohen drew a breath. “Me too,” he said and finally, after all of this time, allowed himself to cry. His eyes shifted, following the footpath leading to the door and there they remained, unblinking.
    “Mark?” Baker asked thinking death had come.
    “At least…” Cohen mumbled. His mouth remained open long after he spoke.
    Baker waited. “At least, what? ” he asked.
    “At least...at least I got off easy…” Cohen repeated and incoherently mumbled something else, but Baker couldn’t understand what was said.
    And then, there was silence, Deputy Mark Cohen was dead.
    Baker took a step back. He stopped as the heel of his boot came to rest atop a lifeless hand of one of the corpses. He jumped as bones cracked underfoot.                                                                                                                                                             
    He stared at the corpses scattered around the barn and seethed with hatred and disgust. He didn’t know why he did it, as it was petty in every respect, but when he looked down at the hand beneath his boot, he shifted his weight and dug his heel down into it—harder and harder, until the sound of tiny bones popping, rang like music to his ears.
    “Bastard,” he whispered, casting a look back at the creature that had ultimately killed his friend. He was a scrawny man, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt—your average Joe in every respect. The key difference was that his brains now seeped from a quarter-sized hole in his head, dribbling to the dirt like curdled milk.
    Baker felt everything coming to a head. “You piece of shit,” he howled and with a solid kick, rocked the man’s broken crown across the gravel, dislodging additional fluid in the process.
    He took a series of breaths and suppressed the urge to act on his remaining rage. He didn’t have the time, and to do so was worthless in his eyes. What was done was done, and there was no going back.
    “What am I going to do with you?” Baker asked, as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders and laid it across Cohen’s face.
    His initial plan was to head to the farmhouse and utilize Ruth’s telephone—that was if the radio was still out of commission. He paused, dreading the inevitable visit he would eventually pay Ellie. That was later, first and foremost, Baker needed to get out of the barn and away from this gruesome scene.
    He bowed his head and closed his eyes, contemplating the words to say. When nothing came to mind, he chuckled sadly. His hiccupping cackle left him hollow inside. His sorrow soon found ways to fill the gap. Mark Cohen was a good man, one of the best and there was nothing he could have said that would articulate such kind words.
    “I’m sorry,” Baker whispered , fishing last of the bullets from his pocket, reloaded, and took his leave without ever looking back.
     

 
    Chapter Seven
     
    Ruth Miller never did as she was told. She never locked the doors and she never left her perch in front of the foyer windows. When the shooting began, she sensed a new level of fear, one she never felt before—a fear which grounded her experience in the barn, and brought about a new level of realism to this nightmare.
    The pops and cracks of gunfire never sounded like she thought they would, more like Chinese fireworks than anything else. She closed her eyes as they progressed and dreaded the pause between each discharge. The old woman was scared—scared that when the firing ceased, the prevailing team