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

wouldn’t be who she hoped it would be. Having grown up in a rural environment, Ruth was accustomed to the occasional report of a hunter’s rifle, both in and out of season. This was different. Every spent bullet marked a malevolent change, which chilled her blood and rattled her bones.
    Abruptly, the shots stopped. She caught her breath. Soon they were followed by a quick succession of pistol fire. Even that ended, seemingly as quickly as it began. 
    Her mind was a blank slate, incapable of rational thought. Rather than locking the doors or hiding, she remained still. It was as though she had become an extension of the house’s design—a living, breathing defect in her Grandfather’s craftsmanship.
    When she first saw the Sheriff emerge from the barn, she gasped. “Thank you, Lord!” she said as she clapped her hands. “Oh thank you, oh thank you…”
    From her vantage point, she watched as the Sheriff stumbled and fell, using the barn as a means of support to pull himself along.
    While the sight of him was enough to calm her nerves, it hadn’t been enough to quench them entirely. Something wasn’t right, though she couldn’t reckon what. It was then that a horrific thought entered her mind. What happened to the other guy, the deputy—was he wounded or was he dead? The thought sickened her.
    “Wait,” she said with a smile as the deputy stumbled out from around the barn, following the sheriff. She looked toward the ceiling and repeated her praise.
    She watched as the sheriff staggered for another forty feet and was nearly to the car. Still, he paid no mind to the deputy.
    Ruth looked from one to the other, when she recognized the slow and shaming haste that the other guy made to catch up. Even from a distance, her poor eyes noticed the red splotches running down the front of his uniform and the damage to his neck.
    How can someone walk with that much blood loss? She wondered and then she remembered.
    “No…oh, no…”
    The deputy had become one of the creatures she had seen in the barn. Panicked, Ruth watched the Sheriff stop. It looked as if he was catching his breath, his chest and shoulders heaved. Unbeknownst to him, his deputy was closing in.
    Without a second thought, Ruth slammed her thick hand against the windowpane. The glass rattled, threatening to shatter.
    She screamed, “Look out!”
    Ruth might’ve been nothing more than a simple country woman, but it didn’t take much for her to know that the deputy should’ve been dead, and that her nightmare was far from over.
                 
    ***
     
    What the hell was that? Baker thought, crawling along the side of the barn. He staggered forward, catching his balance and came to a halt. His adrenaline had ceased, leaving him fatigued. His nerves were frayed and his legs felt numb, growing weaker with each step. Every move was a struggle, an uphill battle he fought to win.
    He staggered forward—closer and closer with each step. He heard it again, and stopped. It took a moment, but he recognized Ruth’s tired voice. He turned in its direction, spying her bulbous figure clouding the window.
    What is she doing…?
    She screamed, slamming her fist against the glass. His first thought wasn’t what she was screaming about, but why she was assaulting the glass in such a way. A strange thought, sure, but it was all his tired mind could muster.
    Ruth Miller screamed again, and this time he heard exactly what she was screaming: “Behind you, he’s behind you!”
    Baker spun around, the motion disoriented his senses and when the fog cleared, he saw Mark Cohen lurching forward—his upper body hunched forward, arms outstretched and swiping at the air.
    “Oh Christ, not you, too,” Baker groaned, seeing what had become of his friend.
    Cohen’s corpse sighed, a long and agonized cry—more like a wheeze escaping through the gap in his throat.
    Before Baker could react, the two collided, tumbling to the ground. Cohen’s zombie growled fiercely,