Unfortunately, many of these people must have little experience with the Turned because they flail around helplessly instead of fighting back. At least ten are already dead in the street, and we’re about to have several more if the asshats don’t start defending themselves.
One such enterprising zombie looks my way, his eyes cloudy with hate, and I glance over him but don’t see any apparent injuries. Is this another insta-zombie scenario? Does the weapon, or whatever it is, hide in our bodies like a ticking time bomb?
The men of the group who are used to fighting outside the barricades stride forward and begin taking them down, swinging bats, axes, and other assorted weapons while the others stand back and watch.
I glance around absently when someone gasps, and turn to find Marie standing behind me, gripping her stomach. Her face is pale, and she worries her lip but otherwise remains frozen in place.
Has she never killed one?
Jesus, is she another Sissy? I can’t stomach the thought, and I move away with disgust.
I don’t have the energy for a fight, and luckily, I don’t need it because the men make quick work of them before it grows into true danger.
Still, I can’t help but wonder at the occurrence. This place is regulated so tightly. Did we have new arrivals recently? Or did someone come back and not report a bite?
Cole’s face is grim when he steps back from his last zombie and brings his gaze around, searching the crowd before it sweeps over me and swings back. He looks me over from head to toe before relief softens his features, and I can’t help the warmth that spreads through me at his genuine concern, which is why I turn away and try to pretend it wasn’t for me.
Cole is with Marie, and I am with Enzo, and that is all people need to know for the safety of all of us.
Enzo disappears into the crowd, and I don’t see him as we’re ushered back into the building and encouraged to eat. Cole doesn’t re-emerge either, maybe because Marie brings her plate over and sits down beside me to finish her meal. I scoop mine up and eat for all I’m worth, watching her move her food around on her plate, still pale and shaky.
“You need to eat,” I murmur. “You never know when your last easy meal will be.”
She blanches but leans down and forces the food into her mouth, and when we finish together, we return our plates and walk back toward our homes in silence. Soon we approach the street that leads to her house. I need to keep going for two blocks before reaching mine.
She waves half-heartedly at me and turns away, and I call out softly, “Hey, I just want to thank you for, you know, helping me.”
She smiles, waves her hand as if to say, “no big deal” and turns back toward her home, and as I watch her go, I see she is truly at risk because everything about her is too nice. Without someone to protect her, she will either have to step up or die. I only hope if she’s in that situation, she steps up—not only for her but for her baby.
???
I’m exhausted once more, but I lie awake, waiting for Enzo until he finally enters and sits on the bed hours later. He’s so quiet, with his head bent in his hands, that I feel a pulse of worry and reach over to touch his back.
But he moves away from my hand, saying gruffly, “Don’t.”
Stung, I lie back and stare at the ceiling. I can’t get a read on Enzo. He used to be a flirt, a playboy who seemed to be only out for the fun of it, and even at Sam’s Club, he was more playful and easygoing. Now he’s grim, tense, and almost angry.
I feel bad for not asking sooner, for not paying attention, for once again wallowing in self-pity instead of being there for a friend. “What’s going on, Enzo?”
“Nothing,” he replies gruffly.
“Bullshit.”
“Lola,” he says in warning.
“Something is wrong with you. Just tell me, please,” I say in exasperation.
“Let it go, Lola.”
“No.”
“No?” he says, turning to me with wide eyes.
“No, Enzo! You’re my friend. I can’t just let it go,” I huff.
“I’m your friend?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
“Of course.”