Apocalypse of the Dead. Joe Mckinney

He liked the way she said it, like there was still a part of her capable of appreciating a sick joke. He hadn’t expected to find that among the uncles.

      “And you guys?” he said. “What’s your story?”

      She started to tell him when they heard Barnes cussing at his radio.

      They both turned and watched him throw it down to the pavement, where it shattered.

      “What’s wrong?” Richardson asked.

      “What the fuck do you think is wrong?”

      Sandra said, “They’re not coming for you, are they?”

      Barnes kicked a piece of the radio, looked off into the distance, and huffed.

      “No, they’re not,” he said.

      She looked at Richardson. “Looks like you guys really are screwed.”

      Barnes walked over to the rest of the group and eyed them each in turn. One of the group was standing off from the others, and Barnes’s gaze locked on him.

      Richardson noticed it was the man who had been surprised by the zombie in the alleyway. He was sitting on his haunches, hugging himself, rocking back and forth. His breathing sounded ragged. His face was pale and sweaty.

      “You,” Barnes said, pointing at the man. “Stand up.”

      Barnes advanced through the crowd. Sandra followed him.

      The man rose painfully to his feet. He kept his left side turned away from the others.

      “You’re infected,” Barnes said.

      “No, I’m not,” the man said, but you could hear it in his voice.

      “Bullshit,” Barnes said.

      He grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him around. The man had his hand clamped over his bicep, but blood oozed between his fingers and rolled down the back of his hand.

      “Show me,” Barnes said.

      Sandra came up behind him. “Rob? Are you okay?”

      The man’s gaze dropped to the ground. He took his hand away, exposing a nasty bite mark that was already showing the first sign of decay. It smelled bad.

      “Oh, no,” Sandra said.

      Beside her, Barnes drew his pistol.

      “Hey,” Sandra said. “Hey, wait!”

      But she couldn’t stop what happened. Barnes leveled the pistol at the man’s face. The man put up his hands and Richardson could see the man’s lips starting to form the words No, wait, but it was wasted effort. Barnes fired a single shot that took the top of the man’s head off and laid him out on his back on the pavement. Then Barnes holstered his weapon with a casualness that suggested he did stuff like this every day.

      “What is wrong with you?” Sandra said. She was practically screaming at him. Her face was pulled tight in a grimace of rage and pain and shock. “Why did you do that?”

      “He was infected.”

      “We have a way of dealing with this,” she said.

      “You have a cure?” Barnes asked sarcastically.

      “No, we have a way of letting somebody take care of themselves when they get infected. We give them the choice of how they want to—”

      “I’m not interested,” Barnes said. “I’m getting out of here.”

      “And just how do you intend to do that?” Sandra asked. “They’re not coming to rescue you.”

      He ejected his AR-15’s magazine, checked it, then slapped it back into place. “I’m not staying inside the quarantine,” he said. “I don’t care if I have to shoot my way out or not, but I’m not staying inside this city. You people can come along if you want. You can stay here if you want. I don’t care. Me, I’m getting out.”

      And with that, he began walking north across the parking lot.

      Slowly, silently, the others fell in line behind him.

      CHAPTER 9

      Billy Kline stopped at the corner of a pink stucco wall and glanced inside the entrance to the Springfield Adult Living Village. There was a guard shack about twenty feet in with gates on either side. Both gates were hanging open.

      So where’s the guard? he wondered.

      Beside him, Tommy Patmore was almost as far gone as the infected that had just escaped.

      “I didn’t mean to hurt him. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, I really didn’t. God, there was so much blood. So much of it…it got everywhere.”

      “Shut up,” Billy said.

      They had seen only a few cars that entire morning. One was going by them now on Tamiami Street. Billy watched it roll by. A moment later, he heard a horn and the sound of skidding tires.

      There was a crash.

      He heard a woman scream.

      When her screams were cut short, Billy made up his mind. “Listen,” he said to Tommy. “Hey, you hear me? Tommy.”

      Tommy made a low groan that was not quite a sign of understanding.

      “I killed him, Billy.”

      “I know you did. But Tommy, listen to me. We are in deep shit, you and me. I need you to stay sharp and keep your eyes open. Follow me.”

      “Where are we going?”

      “Just follow me.”

      Billy grabbed his bloody garbage spike and made for the gates. Past the guard shack he could see a wild profusion of shrubs and trees and flowers.

      “Seems safe enough,” Billy said.

      He grabbed Tommy by the shoulder of his orange scrubs and pulled him along.

      But as they came up even with the guard shack, Billy looked over and saw something that made his guts turn over.

      Inside the guard shack, seated on the floor against the wall, was the guard. His Smokey the Bear hat was on the floor beside him. His left shoulder and part of his face were dark with blood. In his other hand he held his pistol. He was watching Billy and Tommy as they went by, his eyes two inscrutable milky clouds.

      He started to move.

      “Ah, for Christ’s sake,” Billy said.

      He reached for Tommy’s shoulder again to pull him back, but Tommy was already walking toward the man.

      The man rose to his feet.

      “Tommy, what the hell are you doing?”

      “I didn’t want to,” Tommy said. He dropped the shank on the pavement and walked toward the guard with his hands spread wide, a sinner begging forgiveness. “Please, I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. You’ve got to believe me.”

      “Tommy, for Christ’s—”

      The guard stepped out of the shack. His head was leaning to one side. His left arm hung limply. But in his right, he still held his pistol, and this came up with his hand as he reached for Tommy.

      Billy saw the guard’s fingers clutching for Tommy, and he knew what was going to happen.

      A moment later, there was a shot.

      The bullet hit the ground between Tommy’s feet and glanced off into nowhere with a high-pitched zing.

      The second shot hit Tommy in the gut.

      Tommy dropped to his knees, a look of profound surprise on his face, a startled grunt stuck somewhere in the back of his throat.

      Billy backed away.

      The