step at a time. At the top, she had a choice: go for the gun or shut the pit’s door. It might not matter which one she accomplished first, but it could also mean the difference between life and death. She chose to go for the gun.
Zombies, like humans, differed from each other. Some were loud, while others could be quiet or quick. Her father had told her tales of zombies that could track a human, following the scent like a bloodhound.
She grabbed the rifle, feeling more at ease. Now all she had to do was… A low growl emanated from behind her. Spinning, she saw the zombie; its lips pulled back revealing blackened teeth. Time seemed to pause, as the girl stared the monster down.
Riley pictured the scene as if reading a book of Western fiction. She was a gunslinger. The zombie, an unwanted hooligan who’d entered her town. The zombie came forward, rapidly.
She raised the rifle, aimed and fired. Steady, careful pulls of the trigger like her father had taught her. The zombie’s right shoulder exploded. The second shot hit its face, just below the nose, tearing through its upper lip and shattering the central and lateral incisors. The third shot hit square between the eyes, halting the creature before it collapsed like a bag of bones.
She went up to the zombie, making sure it was out of commission. It appeared dead enough, the eye-brain connections severed. She grabbed a knife and stabbed the eyes anyway, just to be certain.
Next, using a hammer and nails—the nails taken from a rusted old coffee can in the pit—Riley reattached the doorframe’s external strike-box, allowing for the door to be locked. It wasn’t as secure as it had been, but it was better than nothing. She cleaned up the mess in the cabin, the items the men destroyed and the splattered flesh amongst the walls and table. When she was finished with the area, she hit the pit.
Most of Bud had been devoured, making Riley’s job easier. She brought out two legs, a hand, the scalp and bits of torso, piling them together outside. Using a small amount of lighter fluid she torched the body parts before burying them.
The sun was going down by the time she finished. Tired and hungry, she made dinner and went to bed.
She spent the next couple of months alone, receiving no visitors. Her daily routines remained tediously monotonous, but a certain amount of comfort was found. Eat, hunt, eat, read and sleep. The hunting helped prolong the food supply. She had about three months left. Some of the jarred items had spoiled, but for the most part everything kept.
She knew the woodland area surrounding her like the inside of the cabin—extremely well. Not a tree or rock looked like another. Fearing she’d go out of her mind as she sat in bed, Riley decided for tomorrow she’d visit town. A birthday present to herself.
Chapter Two
Roscoe
May 18: Riley’s birthday. She was turning thirteen, a ceremonial number in many cultures. The number when a child became a young adult. She packed a small backpack, taking with her a flashlight, matches, binoculars, ammo and beef jerky. She brought the .30-30 along, leaving the .38 hidden outside the cabin in a plastic bag under a rock.
The weather was becoming warmer as the wintry months passed, but for May it was still chilly. It rained almost every other day with eerie regularity. Thankfully, the sky showed no signs of precipitation; only the usual depressing gray of pollution.
She hiked the trail leading to Old Route 17 and crossed the bridge over the Beaverkill River before arriving in town. She crouched, peering over a weed-infested dirt mound. Using the binoculars, she surveyed Roscoe.
The town looked dead, lonely. Store windows were either broken or layered with dust and grime. The roofs of the buildings were falling apart, shingles missing. A fire had taken one building to the ground. Seeing no danger, which meant very little, Riley headed into town.
The way in was wide
Zombies, like humans, differed from each other. Some were loud, while others could be quiet or quick. Her father had told her tales of zombies that could track a human, following the scent like a bloodhound.
She grabbed the rifle, feeling more at ease. Now all she had to do was… A low growl emanated from behind her. Spinning, she saw the zombie; its lips pulled back revealing blackened teeth. Time seemed to pause, as the girl stared the monster down.
Riley pictured the scene as if reading a book of Western fiction. She was a gunslinger. The zombie, an unwanted hooligan who’d entered her town. The zombie came forward, rapidly.
She raised the rifle, aimed and fired. Steady, careful pulls of the trigger like her father had taught her. The zombie’s right shoulder exploded. The second shot hit its face, just below the nose, tearing through its upper lip and shattering the central and lateral incisors. The third shot hit square between the eyes, halting the creature before it collapsed like a bag of bones.
She went up to the zombie, making sure it was out of commission. It appeared dead enough, the eye-brain connections severed. She grabbed a knife and stabbed the eyes anyway, just to be certain.
Next, using a hammer and nails—the nails taken from a rusted old coffee can in the pit—Riley reattached the doorframe’s external strike-box, allowing for the door to be locked. It wasn’t as secure as it had been, but it was better than nothing. She cleaned up the mess in the cabin, the items the men destroyed and the splattered flesh amongst the walls and table. When she was finished with the area, she hit the pit.
Most of Bud had been devoured, making Riley’s job easier. She brought out two legs, a hand, the scalp and bits of torso, piling them together outside. Using a small amount of lighter fluid she torched the body parts before burying them.
The sun was going down by the time she finished. Tired and hungry, she made dinner and went to bed.
She spent the next couple of months alone, receiving no visitors. Her daily routines remained tediously monotonous, but a certain amount of comfort was found. Eat, hunt, eat, read and sleep. The hunting helped prolong the food supply. She had about three months left. Some of the jarred items had spoiled, but for the most part everything kept.
She knew the woodland area surrounding her like the inside of the cabin—extremely well. Not a tree or rock looked like another. Fearing she’d go out of her mind as she sat in bed, Riley decided for tomorrow she’d visit town. A birthday present to herself.
Chapter Two
Roscoe
May 18: Riley’s birthday. She was turning thirteen, a ceremonial number in many cultures. The number when a child became a young adult. She packed a small backpack, taking with her a flashlight, matches, binoculars, ammo and beef jerky. She brought the .30-30 along, leaving the .38 hidden outside the cabin in a plastic bag under a rock.
The weather was becoming warmer as the wintry months passed, but for May it was still chilly. It rained almost every other day with eerie regularity. Thankfully, the sky showed no signs of precipitation; only the usual depressing gray of pollution.
She hiked the trail leading to Old Route 17 and crossed the bridge over the Beaverkill River before arriving in town. She crouched, peering over a weed-infested dirt mound. Using the binoculars, she surveyed Roscoe.
The town looked dead, lonely. Store windows were either broken or layered with dust and grime. The roofs of the buildings were falling apart, shingles missing. A fire had taken one building to the ground. Seeing no danger, which meant very little, Riley headed into town.
The way in was wide