Zomblog 04: Snoe Read Free Page B

see if they can recruit. On the average, six or seven kids around my age usually get a bee in their bonnet and decide to join.
    I say all of this because we were very surprised to discover a detachment of soldiers guarding the entrance to the 205 Corridor. It seems that the reports we received about a few communities banding together to start securing the corridor were only partially true.
    Our wagon leader and Captain Ross met whoever was in charge of the outpost, and there was a lot of yelling. From what I can gather by what I heard and saw, we had to pay some sort of toll to pass through the gates. Captain Ross had to let the soldiers peek through all our stuff and write down what we were carrying.
    That was a bad start to the day. Did I mention that it was also raining so hard that you had to yell to be heard by the person next to you because the rain was so loud hitting all the tarps covering our wagons? That meant all of our strung weapons were wrapped in oil cloth and stashed.
    The 205 has a huge grassy median that separates the two roads. One of the wagoneers told me that he used to drive this road to and from work, and that it was so thick with cars that it would take him an hour to get home. He must have seen the look on my face because he quickly explained that without traffic, he could make the drive in fifteen minutes. I still think I missed the point.
    Once we cleared the military checkpoint, the group split into two units. My part of the caravan was on the southern side (the right hand side). To our left was the tree-filled median. To our right were thick woods and a downhill slope in places that fell away to passing streams.
    I guess the heavy rain is to blame, because we never heard the rear escort call for help. To be honest, I probably did everything wrong an escort can do before we got hit. I was walking with my head down. At some point I’d just gotten sick of all the water in my face. Even with my hooded poncho, I was totally soaked.
    A hand grabbed my sleeve and pulled. My first thought was that somebody was about to get slapped. I spun around ready to really give them an earful. I found myself looking right into the grey-green face of a zombie. Even in the downpour, some of the fresh blood still dripped from its chin.
    My eyes flicked past the zombie for a split second, because on the ground about ten feet away, three of those things were pulling apart one of the other escorts. I couldn’t see who, and I still don’t really know who made it and who hasn’t. (Did I forget to mention that we are all in quarantine at what the residents are calling Willamette Refuge?) That was the first time I have ever seen somebody actually attacked by a zombie. The way they tear a person apart is bad, but I had no idea that the human body smells so awful on the inside—like poop.
    I went for my blade as I jerked away from the one that was yanking on the sleeve of my poncho. I barely had the blade free of the scabbard when an axe came down on the top of the zombie’s head. I jumped back as it fell and slipped. I don’t know how, but I ended up under the wagon I’d been walking beside.
    It seemed to take forever before it rolled past and I was clear to get to my feet. A hand was already reaching down for me and I came an inch away from chopping off all or a good part of it. I am nursing a nasty bruise from where she kicked me. That is how I met Phaedra Woods.
    She helped me to my feet and covered me while I waded into the tall grass where my blade had flown when she kicked my arm to keep me from attacking her. Together, we hacked down a dozen or so zombies and made our way to the last wagon in the convoy where they had lost their horses. Okay…that isn’t exactly true; they didn’t lose their horses. Both of them were easy to spot under a dogpile of zombies.
    The kills were pretty easy. The zombies were so involved in ripping the guts out of the poor horses that they paid us almost no attention. A few managed to