Five More Bodies Later
I am elbow-deep in zombie intestines when I hear it.
Click.
The undeniable, soul-chilling click of a gun being cocked behind me.
I freeze and ever so slowly and I raise my blood-slick hands in surrender. I don't turn. I don't breathe. I sure as shit don't say anything smart. Not yet.
"Okay," I say carefully. "If this is about the vending machine, I swear I wasn't actually gonna eat the Snickers."
A voice growls behind me. "Try anything funny, and I'll blow your brains out."
Argh, Jesus. It just had to be from one trouble to another, didn't it?
I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch the speaker in my peripheral.
He's big and bearded. Dressed in a patchy parka and muddy boots. Looks like he's been squatting in a sporting goods store since Year One of the Apocalypse. And he's holding a rusty shotgun, barrel aimed directly at my skull.
