Free Zomburbia by Adam Gallardo Page A

huffy pile of humanity by the time I crested the hill. It’s not even like it goes down after that, it just levels out. But believe me, after that climb it felt like I was coasting. I realized that the hard work of climbing the hill had actually held back any fear I might have felt. Once I could breathe normally, that feeling started to creep in on the edges.
    I turned down 12th Street toward my part of town, and the streetlights were few and far between. A lot of those had been busted out. I found myself riding from one insubstantial puddle of light to the next. The occasional car that did pass me wasn’t reassuring at all; their lights created weird swaths of shadow where anything could be hiding. For the most part, I rode in the middle of the street where, theoretically, it would be easiest for me to avoid any attacking undead. My heart rate spiked every time I had to swerve to the sidewalk because of a passing car.
    Because my mind is a bitch and likes to conspire against me, I started to think about every zombie attack I’d ever seen, whether it was real or not. Real life scenes started to get mixed up in my mind with stuff I’d seen in horror movies. Dead, gray hands reaching out of the dark, rigor-mortised lips pulled back from hungry teeth. It didn’t matter if the shuffler coming after you was a complete stranger or your best friend or your mom when they had been alive, because after they’d been turned, all that mattered was their unending hunger for live flesh. Nothing was going to stop them till they got their teeth into you.
    I found myself panting again even though I was on flat ground. I was tempted to stop there in the middle of the street and grab my pistol out of my bag and maybe shove it in my waistband like some TV show cop. Somehow the thought of stopping there in the dark was even worse than the thought that my gun was so hard to get to, which meant I was unprotected.
    I shuddered as my mind flashed on the image of a pair of zombies crouching over a still-screaming woman and feasting on her guts. At least that was a scene from a movie. Thank God. I needed to get a grip on myself. I needed something else to occupy my stupid brain.
    I started thinking about how I would tell off Brandon the next time I saw him. I’d start by pointing out I was very much alive and intact and in no way eaten by any stupid shufflers. Then I’d ask where he got off assuming I couldn’t take care of myself. I’ve probably been through more attacks than him and could handle myself better—
    I nearly let out a scream when I rounded a corner and saw someone on the sidewalk. I was just a few blocks from home by that point and was really not expecting anyone to be out, especially not on foot. It was a woman and I relaxed a little when I saw she had her hands on her swollen belly. Jeez, what was a pregnant lady doing out here by herself after dark?
    â€œHey,” I called out, “are you okay?”
    I swerved the bike toward the curb, and she turned more swiftly than I thought possible, her yellow teeth bared, her desiccated hands outstretched. I tried to maneuver the bike away from her, overcorrected, and toppled over. The next thing I knew, my cheek was pressed against the asphalt—that was gonna hurt like a bitch later. If there was a later. My legs tangled in the bike and I felt panic setting in, my breath coming fast and shallow.
    I forced myself to slow down my breathing and to actually look at my legs. It only took a second after that to get them free and under me. By that time the zombie had made it out into the street and bore down on me. I swung my bag around and tore at the zipper. My pistol. I needed my pistol. I could hear the zombie right behind me, her shuffling steps so loud despite my ragged breath. There wasn’t enough time. Why did I have so much crap in my bag? Why couldn’t I find the pistol? It was the only gun-shaped object in there!
    I became dimly