Free Mistakes I Made During the Zombie Apocalypse by Michelle Kilmer Page B

window to study the world before the light disappears once again. A thick fog has come in and for a moment he pretends the world is normal beneath it.
    A corpse, a thick man in a motorcycle jacket, breaks free of the white veil. “I know him,” Ian says to himself. “I remember him from before Walgreens. From when…”

 
     
     
     
    …I JOINED AN UNSKILLED ARMY
    The zombies continued to pursue them, unconcerned for the boys’ emotional well-being. They just had to keep on living; to survive and to survive hard.
    If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you might think the local motorcycle club’s “clubhouse” was just another biker bar; a bar you never dreamed of setting foot in and most likely crossed the street to avoid walking in front of. But it was more than that. Even before the end of the world, with its few windows and secure entry, it was a stronghold that kept unwanted folks out and protected the membership from other gangs and public scrutiny. As an apocalypse bonus, zombies had a hell of a time breaching the fortress.
    Grant and Ian stood on top of a pawnshop on the other side of the road, observing a row of twenty motorcycles parked in front of the bar. They couldn’t stay an army of two any longer and the motorcycle club seemed to be a good answer.
    “Look, I know the guys,” Grant assured Ian. “My dad used to ride with them before he left. He intentionally withheld the part where his dad had been kicked out of the club for losing his kutte , or club vest, in a bar fight with a rival gang.
    • • •
    That was an important bit of information.
    “He didn’t know that.”
    I think he did. It would have saved a lot of trouble.
    “Can I keep telling the story, please?” Ian asks the airspace.
    Go right ahead.
    • • •
    A man—dressed in true biker getup: jeans, boots, and a leather jacket with a large 3-piece patch on the back—stepped outside of the club to smoke. His beard was a memorable shock of red hair.
    “That’s Big Jack,” Grant said as they watched the man casually finish his cigarette while the dead closed in on him. “He’s the president.”
    “So if we want to join up with them, he’s the guy to talk to?” Ian was hoping for someone more approachable, not the six-foot-five bearded giant who clearly felt no fear.
    “He’s the only guy to talk to. If we ask anyone else, Big Jack will get mad.”
    The motorcycle club president flicked the butt of his cigarette at a zombie who’d made it within five feet of him, punched the walking corpse in the face, turned toward the door of the fortress, and went back inside.
    “Yeah, let’s not make him mad,” Ian said.
    The boys watched the small crowd of zombies build, tear at the brick facade of the club, and then give up when they could make no progress.
    “Time to reintroduce myself,” Grant said with a sigh.
    “Here goes nothing,” Ian said.
    • • •
    That would have been a good opportunity to walk the other way.
    “I know, I know. But Grant insisted the club would help us.”
    • • •
    Ian knocked on the door.
    • • •
    I thought you said no one knocks in the apocalypse.
    “This was different. These guys were clearly dangerous. You’re interrupting too much.”
    • • •
    The dead turned on their heels when they heard the sound. Grant knocked next, louder and more insistent. Ian watched nervously as the reanimates moved closer. They were nearing the parked motorcycles and had begun to filter through them.
    Come on , Ian thought. Let us in.
    A thickly set man, who Grant later told Ian was nicknamed Tank, opened the club door.
    “Whatcha want?” he asked gruffly.
    Ian could hear the bikes being jostled back and forth behind them as the dead pushed through the makeshift barricade.
    “Who is it?” Big Jack yelled as he came back to the front door.
    “A couple boys,” Tank replied as he moved aside to allow the club’s president to see them both.
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” Big Jack said