I can’t help the tears that streak down my face, but I brush them off because I can’t afford to wallow. I’ve done enough of that, and I’m lucky Enzo has been so very patient over these last few months.
Frankly, I was a bitch on wheels, and I snort in amusement at some of the facial expressions I saw from him during that time, but he never said anything mean and never insisted we leave. In fact, he went out of his way to accommodate my unreasonable requests, and instead of escaping, he stuck around. I’m grateful for his presence. I can admit that now.
After a few more days of lingering, we agree to break the seal and truly go out, eating a hearty breakfast of dried cereal and Gatorade before we pack our backpacks with the necessities and make our way to the door. My heart pounds a little heavier because after spending the winter holed up, I’m not quite ready to face the deadly race we always encounter when we leave.
Enzo pulls the door open far enough to attract any unwanted attention, and we wait in silence for anything to appear, but after a few beats of nothing, I lean out and glance around. The parking lot is silent, the exit clear. With a nod, he pushes it farther, and I step around him before holding the door for him to follow.
The streets are quiet and the air brisk from the elevation, but the sun shines nicely and warms our backs. I soak in the rays, grateful for a bit of vitamin D, noting that even Enzo is a little paler than normal after our self-imposed exile in the store.
A glance to my left reveals him walking confidently, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scans the street. He’s several inches taller than me, his chest broad and strong, his arms wrapped in ropy muscle.
He’s always been the perfect specimen, but when I look at him now, I realize I don’t see the sex bomb anymore. I don’t drool, even though he is still all that and more. Now I just see a friend, a comforting presence, maybe even a brother. The thought makes me smile. I’ve come a long way from suspecting he’s a mass murderer to considering him like family.
Apart from an occasional zombie, not much can be seen, and the quiet echoes in my brain. Once again, I marvel at how different our world has become. This place used to be crawling with college students, tourists, and locals, a bustling little city. Now, it’s so quiet I can hear the shuffle of a zombie’s feet on the ground, the crunch of glass as it’s displaced, and the hum of a group of them loitering together nearby.
Our city tour is uneventful, although I did find a new tire iron in the trunk of an abandoned car. We will need to plan further scavenging, as we have a lifetime of food and water we need to find. Still, we don’t bother with it today. Today was to remind ourselves of how dramatically the world has changed. It’s easier to forget when you’re locked in a concrete box and to let yourself relax, but on the outside, you don’t have such a luxury. You can never forget that every day is a struggle for survival.
After a couple of hours exploring and spotting a hipster zombie group outside the record store, a few zombies finding God outside the church, and tourist zombies loitering at the welcome center, we head back.
Although it was good to get the fresh air, I’m ready for the sanctuary of our home. And I’m pondering the shitty world we now live in when a zombie steps into our path. It sways on its feet, entrails, which are now a black, dirty mess, spill out of its body. Dried blood turned black with time rings its mouth, hands, and stomach. The stench alone has my eyes welling in self-defense, the acrid smell stinging my nose.
It doesn’t move forward in attack mode. It just stands there and sways. As we draw nearer, I realize it’s a woman who once had blonde hair. Her blue eyes are ringed with black and are dull and lifeless as they stare at me blankly. Her clothes, shredded in pieces, are unidentifiable after so much time, and scanning her body once more, I see that it’s not just her intestines hanging out, but also an umbilical cord.
The urge to vomit, previously held back out of self-preservation, takes over, and I repeatedly retch onto the ground. Enzo reaches over to rub my back, but I pull away because I need to process this on my own. This is Sissy. I tried to save her pregnant ass. I did. But she was foolish and never quite ready for a world where you have to protect yourself from zombies.
At times, I still hear her cries of anguish when they tore her body apart in front of me, and the shame I felt as I slid behind the spectacle and used the distraction as an escape still haunts me. But I couldn’t help her, and I didn’t want to die.
My skin prickles and I huff out a breath before drawing myself up and stalking forward. She—it—sways in place and I sob as I bring the tire iron down on her head. The soft pop as the metal hits bone rings out and black ooze slides from the hole. Her dull blue lifeless eyes, shrouded in darkness meet mine for an eternity before she slowly crumples to the ground at my feet.
My limbs go noodle-y and I suck air into my constricted lungs before I sag. She can rest in peace now that she isn’t wandering around as a lifeless Turned anymore. I couldn’t save her, and I regret that every day, especially for Cole, who never got to meet his child. But in the fucked-up zombie apocalypse way, I made things right by saving her from a life of zombiedom.
Enzo wisely keeps his trap shut, and we walk on in silence, avoiding the zombies for the most part because there’s no point in riling the beast if we aren’t in danger. We make it back to Sam’s Club in time to find a group of people standing by a truck, relaxing in the afternoon sun.
They spot us immediately, and I curse myself for not being more vigilant, but at the same time, I can’t help the surge of excitement that maybe we’ve found a new group, and we won’t have to be alone anymore.
Their relaxed stance doesn’t change as they observe us walking toward them slowly. I’m relieved by their posture but also wary because, of course, everyone is dangerous now, and I’m not willing to give up my cozy, safe place with food and water for a bunch of asshats.
However, we’re outnumbered. The group includes two men and two women casually dressed in jeans, sweaters, and boots. They’re clean and well-fed, with no sign of hungry desperation about them. They are also far too relaxed for having come upon a couple of strangers, and I search their faces when we approach and stop about ten feet away.
A man steps forward, and I squint into the glare from the sun because he seems familiar, and I realize who he is when speaks. “Howdy.”
Enzo gives a single nod, and I side-eye him to find his expression grim, his eyes searching before I turn back to the group and strain to remember this guy’s name. They’re the same group that found us the last time we were trying to get into the Sam’s Club.
They had a community somewhere and offered to help if we found ourselves in trouble. Maybe this is our chance? It’s too good to pass up if so because even though I like our setup and feel marginally safe, we need more people to survive, even if more people bring more danger.
“Hello,” Enzo answers, calling up his trademark grin for the newcomers. I follow his lead and approach a few steps behind him, my hands free to grab my gun if need be. They seemed friendly the first time around, but we can’t afford to take any chances.
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m David,” he says as he approaches with his hands out in front of him.
Enzo nods his head, and I do the same.
“We met before, right about here, I expect,” David says.
David towers over us with long dark hair and muddy eyes. Nothing about him triggers my you-are-seriously-fucked radar, but I’m cautious nonetheless.
The women with him appear fine, as they did before. There are no signs of abuse or fear, which has me relaxing. In fact, they both hold shotguns, face down while they take in our appearance.
“You remember Mathew, Faith, and Hope?” He points to each of them.