Free All Our Tomorrows by Peter Cawdron Page B

in the trees, and I remember how David looked to them for early warning. Zee is close. But where?
    Ferguson positions himself between the two horses and yells, slapping them hard on their hind flanks, just behind the bound, growling zombies. The two startled horses break into a short gallop, but within ten to fifteen yards, they slow to a trot and finally come to a halt not more than fifty yards from us.
    Ferguson ducks down beside me, pushing his back against the log and breathing hard, surprising me with how quick he can move. He holds his rifle to his chest with the barrel pointing straight up. Slowly, and with pains to be quiet, he works with the lever, silently loading a bullet into the chamber.
    My heart races. What is he doing? We need those horses. What has he seen? I can’t see anything, just trees in the forest, but whatever spooked him, it must be behind us, out of sight behind the log. I want to say something, but Ferguson is deathly quiet. His eyes dart up and to the side as though he’s expecting Zee to come bounding over the top of the log.
    I’m petrified.
    The horses look relaxed. One of them bends down to eat some grass growing by the edge of the trail. The other looks back at us with bewilderment.
    I want to run.
    And it’s then I see them.
    Zee is all around us, hiding behind the trees.
    “I’ll be damned,” Ferguson whispers, shrinking down another half a foot below the edge of the fallen log.
    Across from us, on the other side of the trail, dozens of zombies turn behind the trees, keeping a tree trunk between themselves and our horses. There must be hundreds of them, perhaps thousands stretching back into the woods. The closest is not more than ten feet away—a young girl with ragged, dirty clothing standing behind a tree just off the track, but she’s motionless, like a statue. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old when she turned. I shrink a little further into the ditch.
    “They’re supposed to be dumb,” I say under my breath.
    “That’s pretty damn smart,” Ferguson whispers in response.
    For now, they haven’t seen us. Their hands touch the tree trunks as though they’re a part of the woods, as though they can feel the cellular life pulsing within the bark. None of them peer out from behind the trees. They stare blindly at the wood. Perhaps that’s why they don’t notice us crouching beside the fallen log.
    Ferguson peers back along the trail. There are zombies as far as we can see off behind the trees.
    “They’re stalking us.”
    It’s all I can do not to scream at the terror of so many of these monstrous creatures. Torn rags reveal rotting green skin. Dark eyes peer out from behind gaunt, starved cheeks. They have only to turn their heads slightly and they’ll see us.
    “No breeze,” Ferguson whispers. “Our scent will stay on the path. It won’t drift.”
    I’m struggling to understand how that’s relevant, but Ferguson thinks it’s important.
    With his hand resting gently on my forearm, he whispers “Follow me. Stay low. Don’t make a sound.”
    He slips his backpack over one shoulder and holds his gun by its wooden stock, which leaves me thinking he doesn’t intend on using it. And why would he? He might drop maybe half a dozen zombies, but there are hundreds of them lining the path. Gunfire is only going to make matters worse.
    Crouching as he moves, Ferguson darts along the edge of the track, staying in the shallow drainage ditch. I’m not letting him get more than a few feet away from me. I have my fire iron out, which is feeble, really. I could take one, maybe two zombies before they dragged me down.
    Once we’re out from behind the log, it’s apparent the zombies on this side of the trail can see us. They’re not more than a few feet away, but somehow we don’t register. Zee stares blindly at the tree bark. Zee is focused on remaining hidden from our horses. Regardless of the soft crunch of pebbles under our boots, the zombies don’t