Free Infernal Sky by Dafydd Ab Hugh Page A

only to succumb to diseases already coursing through our bloodstreams.
    In the evening, I saw Albert at dinner. He was a worse poker player than Fly because he couldn’t keep emotions from marching across his face.
    â€œArlene, are you all right?” he asked, noticing Jill’s smile a second later. “Are all of you okay?” he added.
    â€œWe’re fine,” Fly assured him, grinning.
    â€œWe needed the practice,” Jill added.
    â€œStop giving him a hard time,” I told the other two. “Don’t mind these kill-crazy kids, Albert.”
    â€œHey!” Fly protested, still smiling.
    â€œSeriously, Albert, after all we’ve done together, this was no big deal.” I noticed that other tables frequently occupied by now were only half full. The death toll hadn’t been that high, considering the surprise element. All the zombies were accounted for, and wasted. (At least Ackerman kept good records.) The only explanation for the sparse crowd was that a number of our comrades had been put off their food by a first sloppy encounter with the drool ghouls. So we could have seconds if we wanted.
    Albert sighed and joined us. The tables were set up cafeteria-style, and our little group tended to gravitatetogether. We were so taken with Ken that he’d probably belong to our little supper club if he ever ate solids again.
    â€œI didn’t hear about the zombies until I returned,” he said almost apologetically.
    â€œHow was town?” asked Jill.
    â€œI was shopping.” Those innocuous words came out of Albert freighted with an extra meaning. I wasn’t the only one who heard it.
    We ate our Salisbury steaks in silence. I finished and started to get up with the intention of depositing my tray in the proper receptacle. I figured my figure didn’t really need the extra calories of seconds, after all. Albert was only starting to eat, but he abandoned his food. And Albert is a growing boy.
    â€œDo you mind if I walk with you?” he asked. The style was definitely not him. I couldn’t help noticing Jill’s eyes burning into him. She sensed something was up. Fly was busy paying close attention to his pineapple dessert.
    â€œSure,” I said. For one moment I let wishful thinking override the rational part of my brain. I wanted to believe that Albert had changed his mind about our sleeping together. I’d forgotten that where this big, wonderful guy was concerned, the most important aspect of sleeping together was the dreaming that went along with it—and the promises.
    I don’t know what surprised me more. That he’d come up with a ring during his shopping expedition, or that he put it to me with such direct simplicity: “Arlene, will you marry me?”
    I’d opened the door to this when I made a play for him. If I had a half a brain, I’d have realized what my interest would mean to a man of this caliber.
    We stood together next to a perfect facsimile of a World War II era poster proclaiming, “Loose lips sink ships.” He watched me closely, especially my mouth, waiting for words promising his own personal salvation or damnation. I’d have been happier if he’d looked away. Suddenly I wasn’t as brave as I thought I was.
    â€œAlbert.” I only got the one word out. His expression spoke volumes. He’d certainly wrestled with all the problems haunting me. I wouldn’t even insult him by bringing them up.
    â€œThat ring . . .” he began.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, but I couldn’t dream of accepting it until . . . I mean, I need to think . . .”
    It was like one of those comedies where the characters talk at cross-purposes. Who would think a simple gold band could present a greater challenge than escaping from the Disney Tower?
    â€œI’d like you to keep it,” he said. “You don’t have to think of it as an engagement ring, or anything