Frankie checked the street for movement again. "What now?"
"We wait," he told her. "We wait and we watch for them to come out."
The night air turned chilly, and it whistled through the hole in the ruined windshield. Frankie shivered. Jim had been right. There was something foul on the breeze.
"So how old is Danny, anyway?"
"Six," Martin answered. "He was-I mean is-a cute kid. Looks like Jim."
"You saw a picture?"
He nodded.
"How long you two been traveling together?"
"Since West Virginia. Jim got attacked outside my church. I saved him and then promised to help him find his son."
Frankie was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again.
"Tell me something, preacher-man. Do you really think his son is alive in there?"
Martin watched the house. "I hope so, Frankie. I hope."
"Me too. I think that..." Her voice trailed off and she checked the street and surrounding yards again. Carefully, she hefted the rifle.
The stench was getting stronger.
"What is it?" Martin asked.
"Can't you smell them? They're coming."
Martin cracked his window and sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
"I reckon they know we're here, somewhere. They're hunting for us."
"What should we do?"
"Like I said, we wait. Not much else we can do. Just be ready."
They grew quiet again and watched the silent houses around them. Martin turned back to Danny's house. His jittery legs bounced up and down and he cracked his leathery knuckles in the dark. His arthritis was acting up and he doubted he'd find any medicine lying around for it soon.
"Stop fidgeting."
"Sorry."
Random Bible verses ran through his head and Martin focused on them so that he would not have to wonder what was going on inside the house.
Blessed are the peacemakers ... Jesus saves ... For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life ... And on the third day, he arose from the dead ...
Martin glanced back at the house again, fighting the urge to get out of the Humvee and run toward it. He thought of the father and son who had saved them from cannibals in Virginia. The father had been mortally wounded and before he could turn into a zombie, the son shot him and then turned the gun on himself.
He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life ... And on the third day, he arose from the dead ...
... His only begotten son ... he arose from the dead ...
. . . His only son ... arose from the dead ...
Martin froze.
"Frankie, I-"
A gunshot suddenly rang out, shattering the stillness. It was followed by a scream. Silence returned and then a second gunshot followed.
Both had come from inside the house.
"Frankie, that was Jim screaming!"
"Are you sure? It didn't sound human to me."
"It was him! I'm sure of it."
"What do we do now?"
"I don't know. I don't know!"
Martin's mind whirled.
He shot Danny and then himself! He got in there, and Danny was a zombie.
His only begotten son arose from the dead!
Frankie shook him.
"Fuck this shit! Come on, Reverend!"
They jumped out of the Humvee, weapons at the ready, as the first cries of the undead drifted to them on the night wind. The zombies appeared at the end of the street and the doors to the houses began to open at the same time. The undead poured forth.
Martin's voice cracked. "It-it was a trap. L-look at all of them ..."
"Shit."
Frankie raised the M-16, aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. One corpse dropped and five more took its place. With a horrendous cry, the zombies charged.
Martin turned back to the Humvee, but Frankie grabbed his arm.
"Move your ass, preacher-man!"
They ran toward the house, to see what had become of their friend. More gunshots echoed from inside as they approached.
Above them, the newly risen moon shined down upon the world, staring at a mirror image of its cold, dead self.
TWO
The house was silent.
"Danny?"
Jim crept forward, his heart still pounding in his chest. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he held his breath. The living room was empty. Danny's movies were stacked neatly on a shelf, next to a row of video games. A thin layer of dust covered the coffee table and end tables. One of the sofa cushions had a crusty, reddish-brown stain in the middle and flies crawled over it.
"Danny! It's Daddy! Where are you?"
He walked into the kitchen and the smell hit him. Whatever was inside the garbage can was long since spoiled. Flies swarmed over its surface.
They crawled on the refrigerator, trying to get inside the airtight appliance as well. The incessant buzzing seemed loud in the silence. Jim gagged. Holding his hand over his nose and mouth, he backed out of the room and into the hallway.
He tilted his head from side to side and listened.
There was a sound above him, like something being dragged across the floor.
He went to the stairs.
"Danny? Are you there? Come on out, son! It's me!"
Only a week before (though it now seemed like a year), Jim had had a particularly vivid nightmare about this moment. In the dream, he'd reached the top of the stairs, and limped toward Danny's room. The bedroom door creaked open and his son stepped out to greet him. A zombie.
At that point, Jim had screamed himself awake.
He wouldn't be able to do that this time.
If ...
The top of the stairs lay hidden in shadows. The noise was not repeated.
Jim limped up each step, his second wind almost gone.
When they'd crossed the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey, Frankie had asked him a question. Now the conversation ran through his mind.
"Have you thought about what you'll do if we get there and Danny's one of them?"
"I don't know."
But he did know.
If...
Pausing halfway up, Jim slid the magazine out of the pistol and checked his shots. Only a few left. But he had enough. Enough for Danny-and for himself.
If...
He continued upward, the stairs creaking with every step. The sound came again. A footstep? He stopped, listening. A hallway with four doors waited at the top of the stairs. Two of the doors led to the bedrooms; one belonged to Danny and the other Rick and Tammy. The third door led to the bathroom. The fourth led to the attic.