We need to eat more than we have been. As though it had a mind of his own, Dakota’s hand slid down his chest, lightly touching the now-visible bones. It doesn’t matter. This is why we came.
Sliding forward, Dakota pushed himself in the small space between the two bottom shelves and reached for another can, desperate to grab it. They couldn’t risk going another week with only five cans of food.
Or a half-week, he thought, grimacing. We can’t keep sharing one can a night.
Something rolled past him.
Dakota shot out of the small space, scraping his shoulders in the process.
“Dammit!” he hissed, tears springing to his eyes. “What the hell was that?”
A lone jar of mayonnaise continued down the aisle.
“Steve?” he asked, standing. “Are you there?”
Silence.
“Steve? Come on—this isn’t funny. Stop screwing around.”
Again, he was greeted only by silence. This time though, a figure stumbled into the aisle.
A zombie, caked with dirt and dried blood, turned its head as it caught sight of Dakota, then stretched its arms out like a friend long since lost to time.
Reaching down, Dakota grabbed his backpack off the floor, slid his hand down to his belt, and fingered for his holster.
At that moment, he remembered he didn’t have the gun—Steve did.
Great, he thought. Just fucking great.
Turning, he ran down the aisle, not bothering to look back and see if the zombie gave chase. It obviously would—because like all predatory creatures, it would chase its prey to the death—but it wouldn’t run him down. An entire month of decay and exposure to the elements had ensured that most of them could no longer run, at least not in this lifetime.
Rounding the corner, Dakota made for the entrance, all the while searching every aisle he could. At the front door, he stopped, looked toward the security lounge, then sighed. Steve stood behind the glass doors, rummaging through a desk.
“Steve!” he hissed. “Steve!”
“Dakota?” Steve called. “Why are you yelling?”
“We gotta go. Now.”
“Go? What?”
“Zombies.”
He didn’t need to explain further. Without another word, Steve grabbed the gun sitting on the corner of the desk and ran out of the office.
It was their turn to play cat and mouse.
They ran.
Around street corners, between dead, idle cars, across wide stretches of road and through long, winding alleys, they stopped for nothing, not even when Steve’s pack dropped from his shoulder and spilled out nearly half its contents.
“Come on!” Steve screamed, grabbing Dakota’s arm and dragging him along when he fell to gather the supplies. “We can’t stop!”
“I know!”
Something howled.
The hairs on Dakota’s arms rose.
No, there can’t be. The fast ones all rotted.
They’d found a freshly-killed zombie. That could be the only explanation.
“RUN!” Steve screamed, pushing Dakota ahead.
“What are you doing?”
A zombie burst into the open.
It screamed.
Steve shot. The bullet tore through the creature’s head and put it down for good. “We’re almost there,” he gasped, leading Dakota through the last stretch of the alley. “We just gotta turn up here and jump onto the fire escape.”
“The fire escape?”
“It’s the only way back into the apartment building unless we want to run up ten flights of stairs.”
“That’d be safer than jumping onto the fire escape!”
“Not with the zombies chasing us it won’t.”
He’s crazy if he thinks we’re going to be able to jump that high.
Regardless, they had to get back into the apartment building—now.
When they rounded the final corner, the metal skeleton of the fire escape came into view, complete with its hanging ladder of a tongue and its twisted face of support beams and wire flooring.
“It’s too high, Steve. We’re gonna have to go another way.”
“No we’re not.”
Dakota cried out as Steve ran forward, wrapped his arms around his waist and pushed him into the air. Unable to think, Dakota grabbed onto one of the cold, steel bars and began to pull himself up, only barely managing to force his upper half over the safety rod once he cleared the ladder.
Just as he stood up, the zombies came around the corner. “STEVE!” he screamed.
“HURRY DAKOTA! HURRY!”
He threw his upper body over the railing and grabbed Steve’s hands, digging his fingers into his friend’s wrists so hard it hurt. The muscles in his back caught fire as Steve’s weight pulled his arms forward, creating a pressure so unimagined he didn’t think it was possible. His back felt like it would snap at any minute, while his neck and collarbone screamed to be set free of his ribcage.
Steve was too heavy. He couldn’t maintain his weight.
“Come on, Koda,” Steve said, despite the howling zombies just feet below him. “You can do this buddy.”
“You’re too heavy, Steve.”
“No I’m not. You can do this. Come on. Just believe you can.”
“I can’t.”
“Listen to me Dakota.” Steve’s wrists slipped. The older man dug his fingernails into Dakota’s arms, nearly drawing blood. “On the count of three, you’re going to lunge back and pull me up, all right?”
“Steve—”
“Just do it! On the count of three. One… two… thu-ree!”
An opposing force tugged Steve back.
Dakota’s chest slammed into the bar.
A huge zombie, at least six-and-a-half feet, held Steve’s ankle in a death grip.
“FUCKER!” Steve cried, lashing out with his other foot. “Let go of me!”
“QUIT STRUGGLING STEVE!”
“It’s got a hold of my fucking foot!”
“Three, Steve! THREE!”
“JUST DO IT!”
Dakota threw himself back.
Stars exploded over his vision.
This just in: The president has declared a state of emergency in the United States of America just after the CDC issued this statement: ‘It is with our utmost concern that we alert everyone in the continental United States that the bodies of the dead are coming back to life. Our research has concluded that once a victim has been bitten, scratched, or has exchanged blood or saliva with an infected host, the immune system begins to fail. This process can take days, hours, or even minutes to occur. Once this happens, the victim clinically dies, then comes back to life within anywhere from one to five minutes later with an increasing sense of violence and rage. We suggest anyone who sees these infected victims to remain indoors and wait for help to arrive.’
Help?
Help?
What help?
Dakota…Dakota…wake up, Dakota! Wake up!
“Wha-What?” he managed. “Stuh-Steve?”
“It’s me, buddy.”
“What happened?”
“You pulled me up.”
Eyes focusing, vision clearing, Dakota sighed as Steve came into view. “Thank God,” he said, somehow managing to push himself into a sitting position. He wrapped his arms around his friend and buried his face in his neck.
“Come on. We need to get inside.”
“Just… give me a minute, Steve.”
“Just one more minute.”
Dakota closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
Somehow, despite everything that had just happened, they’d managed to make it back alive.
With a final laugh, he blacked out.