Free Notes From the End of the World by Donna Burgess Page B

completely. “Well, maybe not so many.”
    I look down the length of the mall toward Sears. The gate is pulled down. There isn’t another person in sight between here and there.
    “Well, I guess that gets you off the hook, Audrey. No more boring stores.” I bounce the ball a couple more times on one knee and then the other, then volley it as hard as I can. That’s one thing I can add to my ever growing list of things I’ve never done until the zombie apocalypse—kind a soccer ball the length of Palm Dale Mall.
    Amazingly, Audrey doesn’t mention going to A.E. or any other store. Instead, we head for the Bed Bath and Beyond entrance. I wonder if Dad will be disappointed that we’re returning with so few things on the list. Last week’s trip was better—Audrey’s list of bleach, tampons, toilet paper and whatnot. It turns out the Dollar General is the place to go for those things. Even more so, because there’s a good chance Audrey might die of shame if anyone sees her going in or coming out of a discount store.
    Lost in my own thoughts, I move ahead of Nick and the cart and start to push open the door, before realizing a Shambler is standing just outside. Instinctively, we all jump back although it’s obvious this newbie has already lost the ability to open or close a door.
    It’s a boy, about thirteen years old. His surfer blond hair hangs just below his ears, streaked with dried blood. His tanned skin has given way to the gray complexion that accompanies death. His pale blue Reef hoodie is filthy, one sleeve torn off. His thin legs jut out from his wide-legged shorts like a pair of twigs, and what appears to be the whitish glint of bone shows through from the shin to the knee of one leg. He’s lost a flip-flip, and the other one sits sideways on his foot, barely hooked at the toes.
    Pulling his lips back in what might be mistaken for a grin, he pounds the glass. Faintly, we hear him grunting like an animal struggling to get at its next meal.
    “This sucks,” Nick whispers, like it matters if the Shambler hears him.
    We freeze, watching the spastic movements of the boy as he slams the doors with his open hands. He presses his face to the glass, squashing his nose and mouth, smearing blood and snot, and snaps his jaws open and closed as though he might devour us through the window.
    “Looks familiar,” Audrey says.
    “That because he looks like any of us,” Nick replies.
    The surfer-boy’s eyes holds nothing behind them, his expression totally blank. Audrey places her hand on the glass and he lunges at her, his mouth greedily working.
    She drums her fingers, tap, tap, tap , like she’s teasing a fish inside an aquarium. The boy rams his face against the window, desperate to take a bite of her hand, breaking off one of his perfect front teeth in the process.
    “Ew!” Nick and I cry in unison.
    “Don’t tease them. I ain’t proper to tease the dead,” comes a scolding voice from behind us. This time all three of us jump. A wizened old woman wearing a black beanie cap, a woolen plaid wrap and sporting a couple-days growth of stubble on her chin scowls at us for what seems like an eternity. Then she scuttles away, a heavy-looking reusable shopping bag hanging swinging from the end of each arm.
    “Stupid thing,” Audrey says. I’m not sure if she’s referring to the Shambler or the old woman.
    Nick sighs. Backing the shopping cart up, he turns and heads toward the next exit, only a few stores down. He looks troubled and I know what he’s thinking. It’s the same thing I’m thinking.
    That kid could’ve been any of us.
    Exiting the mall, we scan the parking lot for more infected. There’s nobody out there—dead or alive. We double back to the car and Audrey stands watch, holding the bat as Nick and I load our skimpy loot.
    In silence, we drive back toward our end of town. Audrey, taking advantage of the lack of traffic and cops, keeps the needle hovering at seventy all the way