Alex Read Free Page B

one of its walls. For a moment, waking up with a layer of frost crusting the blanket and my clothes, with the smell of the campfire stinging the back of my throat and the birds just starting to sing—I thought I was dreaming.
    I’d thought I would never see the sky again. Anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
    The attack came sooner than we were expecting.
    It was just after noon when we heard them. I knew right away they were untrained—they were making way too much noise.
    â€œYou”—Rogers pointed at me—“up there.” He jerked his head toward a small embankment; at the top were the ruins of a house. “Everyone, split. Spread out. Just let ’em pass.” But he shoved a gun in my hand, one of the few we had.
    It had been a long time since I’d held a gun. I hoped I’d remember how to shoot.
    The leaves crunched under my shoes as I jogged up the hill. It was a clear day, cold, and my breath burned in my lungs. The old house had the rotten smell of an unwashed sock. I pushed open the door and crouched in the dark, leaving the door cracked open an inch so I could keep watch.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?”
    The voice made me spin around and nearly topple over. The man was filthy. His hair was long, wild, and reached below his shoulders.
    â€œIt’s all right,” I started to say, trying to calm him down. But he cut me off.
    â€œGet out.” He grabbed my shirt. His fingernails were long and sharp, and he stunk. “Get out. Do you hear me? This is my place. Get out.”
    He was getting louder and louder. And the zombies were close—would be on top of us any second.
    â€œYou don’t understand,” I tried again. “You’re in danger. We all are.”
    But now he was wailing. All his words ran together into a single note. “Getoutgetoutgetout.”
    I shoved him down and tried to get a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. There were voices from outside, the cracklecrackle of feet through the dry leaves. While my attention was distracted, he bit down on my hand, hard.
    â€œGetoutgetoutgetout!” He started up his screaming as soon as I drew my hand back. “Getoutgetoutget—”
    He was cut silent only by the first volley of bullets.
    I’d rolled off him just in time. I threw myself flat on the ground and covered my head. Soft wood and plaster rained down on me as they emptied twenty rounds into the walls. Then there were other shots, this time farther off. Our group had broken cover.
    The door squeaked open. A band of sunlight grew around me. I stayed still, on my stomach, hardly breathing, listening.
    â€œThis one’s dead.” The floorboards creaked; something skittered in the corner.
    â€œHow about the other one?”
    â€œHe’s not moving.”
    Holding my breath, willing my muscles not to move, not to twitch even. If my heart was still beating, I couldn’t feel it. Time was slowing down, stretching into long, syrupy seconds.
    I’d killed only once in my life, when I was ten years old, just before I moved to Portland. Old Man Hicks, we called him. Sixty years old, the oldest person I knew in the Wilds by far, crippled by arthritis, bedridden, cataracts, full-body pain, day in and day out. He begged us to do it. When the horse ain’t no good, you’re doing the horse a favor. Put me down , he used to say. For the love of God, put me down .
    They made me do it. So I would know that I could. So I would know I was ready.
    â€œYup.” The man stopped above me. Toed me with one of his boots, right between the ribs. Then squatted. I felt his fingers on my collar, searching for my neck, for my pulse. “Looks pretty dead to me, all r—”
    I rolled over, hooked an arm around his neck, and pulled him down on top of me as the second guy brought his gun up and let two bullets loose. He had good aim. The guy I was using like a shield got hit