Dead Sea

Chapter Three

The dark sidewalks steamed in the heat. Even with the washcloth pressed to my face, sweat poured down my forehead and into my eyes. My lungs felt like they were burning. I tried to keep from coughing so I wouldn’t give my location away. It was hard to see clearly. The air was thick with smoke and my stinging eyes watered. To make matters worse, I heard screams and gunshots everywhere, but couldn’t see where they were coming from. All around me, the inferno crackled and roared.

I’d only gone about a half block when I encountered the first zombie, an old woman dressed in a soiled nightgown. I smelled her before I saw her, and figured that if her stench was stronger than the smoke, she must be close indeed. I had time to hide behind a green garbage Dumpster before she lumbered out of the haze. Her wig was missing. Her bald scalp looked like a peeling onion, and her varicose veins had burst right through her skin. The corpse’s lips were shredded, hanging from her face in gray-white strips. I let the dead woman wander by. She moved in silence. The only sound was the buzzing flies inside of her.

When the coast was clear, I continued on my way. Flames flickered in the night. I didn’t see anyone else on the street. Either the mass exodus of survivors had gone another way, or the fires had trapped them, or they’d ended up as dinner for the dead. I moved cautiously, but quickly, too. Stayed mindful of what was behind me. Eventually, the smoke grew less thick. I passed by the burned-out shell of a car. A family of four had cooked inside the vehicle. They were just blackened shapes now, two adult-sized and two child-sized—a zombie’s well-done Happy Meal. I wondered how it had happened. Was that horrible, agonizing death by fire preferable to facing whatever had trapped them inside? And what had burned them and their car? It couldn’t have been the current inferno. The flames hadn’t reached this street yet.

Eventually, I got far enough away from the fires to drop my washcloth. The smoke cleared and visibility improved. I immediately wished that it hadn’t. More wrecked and abandoned automobiles choked the street and the bloodstained pavement was littered with body parts: severed heads, organs, and scraps of human meat. I recognized one of the heads. It was the guy who’d owned the liquor store around the corner. He was still functioning, despite the fact that he no longer had a body. His eyes focused on me, and his pale tongue slid across his dry, cracked lips. I tried kicking him across the street, just like Alan had done earlier that night, but his teeth clamped down on the toe of my boot. He didn’t break the leather, but held firm just the same. I hopped around on one foot, trying to shake him off. His head came loose and soared through the air, shattering a storefront window. His teeth lay scattered on the pavement. They crunched beneath my heels as I walked on. It made me long for the days when the only thing littering the sidewalks in my hood was empty crack vials.

I passed by a Catholic church—a gothic-looking building with a cross-topped steeple and bell. Several of the stained glass windows were broken and neon red spray paint covered the front doors. The graffiti said god is dead. Across the street was a pawn shop. Our neighborhood had plenty of pawn shops and liquor stores and check cashing places, but not many banks or factories. In truth, I was happy to see the liquor stores burn. They were blight. Cautiously, I peeked inside the pawn shop, hoping there were some weapons left, but the looters had picked it clean. The only things left were a few musical instruments, an old video game system, and a severed hand lying on the floor. Mopping sweat from my forehead, I continued along past a newsstand, another liquor store, and a row of houses. A bloodstained flyer advertising the Fourth Annual East Baltimore Black Singles Weekend fluttered by in the hot breeze. The rear end of a car stuck out of a barber shop. A pizza joint stood open to the elements, ransacked of everything, even the tables and fixtures. My stomach rumbled. Despite everything, despite the danger and the stench in the air and the body parts in the streets, I was hungry.

Shuffling footsteps caught my attention, followed by a low moan. Then came the stench. I ducked into a doorway and waited. Three zombies stumbled out of an alley. I could smell the rot wafting off of them, even from the other side of the street. I held my breath, waiting for them to pass and praying they wouldn’t see me. My prayer went unanswered. The graffiti on the church doors had been right. God was dead now. Just like everyone else. God was a zombie and these were his children.

He must have smiled upon them.

They saw me, lurched toward the doorway, and I wondered how it was possible that dead men could still drool.

The first corpse was in bad shape: both his arms were missing, an ear hung by a thread of cartilage, and one empty eye socket festered with maggots. His face was expressionless. He showed no emotion, just blank hunger. His two companions followed close behind him; a teenage girl who barely looked dead, and a middle-aged man whose wrists were cut downward rather than across. He’d wanted to make sure he did it right. Too bad it hadn’t kept him from coming back. The bite mark on his forearm, right in the middle of the cut, was proof enough of that. I wondered if he’d been bitten first and committed suicide in some effort to stop the infection or had cut himself before the zombie attack. It didn’t matter. Either way, he was back now. Death was not the end.

“Damn, you guys stink.”

If they understood me, they gave no indication. I tried to laugh, but my mouth was dry. It sounded more like a frightened whimper.

They were slow and stupid enough that I could easily get away from them. Just slip out from the doorway and run around them, making sure to keep a wide berth. But before I could do that, more creatures wandered into the street. None of them carried weapons or showed the slightest bit of cunning or tactical ability. If they had, I’d have been dead. One clutched a cell phone in its hand. When I took a closer look, I realized its arm had been burned somehow, and the phone had melded with its skin. Melted flesh stuck to the plastic like taffy left out in the sun.

Taking a deep breath, I raised the pistol and shot the first zombie—the one with the eye socket full of worms—in the throat. Blood, flesh, and maggots spun through the air. I’d been aiming for his head. That left me with one bullet, and the fucker was still coming. He staggered a few more steps, almost close enough to touch. His head tilted to one side because of the damage I’d done to his neck. It didn’t matter. Cursing, I darted from the door and ran the gauntlet. The creature reached for me as I sped by him, his thick fingers clawing at my shirt. Fabric tore. I shook him off and danced away from his friends while he stuffed the torn piece of my shirt in his mouth. The girl spun and tripped over her own feet. The dead man with the cut wrists moaned unintelligibly, and then fell overtop her. The two corpses sprawled in the road.

Running for the other side of the street, I couldn’t help but laugh again. They were so clumsy. So… stupid. All I had to do was keep moving and not let them touch me, and I’d be fine. Outthinking them was no problem. Neither was outrunning them.

Being outnumbered, however, had its disadvantages. And a second later, I found that out.

More of the creatures blundered into the area, attracted by the gunshot. Before I could reach the curb, they had me surrounded. The stench was brutal. My laughter turned to a scream. I glanced around, frantic, but there was nowhere to go. Just that quickly, the odds had changed. They swarmed toward me, grasping and clawing, gnashing their stained teeth.

And then the odds changed again.

“Hey, mister.” A child’s voice; sounded like a boy. “You’d best duck unless you want to get shot!”

I couldn’t see the speaker. Hoping that my last bullet would be true, I raised the pistol and aimed at the closest zombie. Before I could squeeze the trigger, a thunderous blast rocked the street. I jumped. There was a flash from the second story window of a nearby row home. The creature’s head exploded, splattering the creature behind it. The second zombie licked the gore from its lips. Luckily, none of it had landed on me.

A girl’s voice shouted, “Malik, you could have shot him!”

“I told him to duck. It ain’t my fault if he gets hit.”

With a yell, I lowered my head and plowed through the zombies, shoving them aside. It was like pushing slabs of meat. Several toppled over. A few more grabbed at my clothing, ripping it further. I wrestled free of them and ran for the row house where the gunfire had come from. Another blast rang out. I heard something splatter behind me. It sounded wet. Dead footsteps padded after me. I waited for a third shot, but there was none.

“It’s stuck!”

“Push down on it,” the girl hollered.

“I can’t.”

“Give it here.”

“Stop pulling on it!”

Wondering what they were yelling about, I jumped up onto the concrete stoop and tried the door. It was locked. I turned around and the zombies were drawing closer. Over their stench, I caught a faint whiff of smoke. The fires were getting nearer, too.

“Hey,” I shouted, still unable to see the kids. “Unlock the door!”

“Can’t,” the boy hollered back.

“Why?” My voice cracked.

“You’re a stranger. We ain’t supposed to open up for strangers. You might be one of them child molesters.”

The dead clambered onto the sidewalk. A few of them had trouble negotiating the curb. One of them fell over, sprawling in the street. When it got up again, I noticed that its foot was twisted all the way around, the toes pointing behind it. Some of the creatures moaned, but most of them were silent. There was no hint of intelligence in their expressions—just raw, naked hunger. Need. I fired my last bullet and the closest one dropped. My ears rang from the shot.

“Please,” I screamed. “Let me in.”

The children didn’t respond, and I thought that was it. I was dead—and then I’d be undead. I pulled my knife, trying to decide if I had the balls to slash my own throat before the creatures reached me. Wondered if I could stab one hard enough in the head to penetrate the skull, and if so, if I could free the knife quick enough to do another one. But then I heard a rustling sound on the other side of the door. The first of the horde, a fat zombie with a broken rib poking out of his side, started up the steps. I slashed at him with the knife. It startled the creature. His mottled arms drew back, but then he started forward again.

The door opened a crack. A young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, stared out at me. Her eyes widened when she saw the zombies.

“Open up!”

“You promise not to hurt us?”

“Yes!” I had to strain to hear her because my ears were still ringing. “I’ll promise anything you want. Just open the goddamn door right now!”

She removed the chain and I shoved the door open and pushed past her. She slammed it behind me and slid the chain back in place. Then she fastened the deadbolt. Finally, she slid a thick piece of wood across the middle of the door; each end fit into brackets that had been nailed into the wall. Someone had reinforced the building, and I doubted it was her.

“Thanks,” I whispered, catching my breath.

A length of pipe lay propped against the wall. She picked it up, held it out in front of her, ready to strike, and looked me up and down.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Tasha. Tasha Roberts.”

“Thanks for letting me in, Tasha. My name’s Lamar.”

She glanced down at the empty pistol. “That thing got any more bullets?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“We got a shotgun upstairs,” she said. “Found it in Mr. Washington’s apartment. But we’re almost out of bullets and can’t get it to work now.”

Fists pounded on the door, slow and plodding. We both jumped.

“Will that deadbolt and plank hold?” I asked.

Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know. This is the first time they’ve tried to get in. We’ve stayed quiet. Didn’t let them know we lived here. They’ve left us alone until now.”

I searched the hallway for something more to brace the door with—a potted plant, a bench, even a coat rack—but the corridor was empty. The hallway was dark. Ugly green wallpaper peeled away from cracked plaster, and the dusty floorboards creaked with every step I took. The building smelled of mildew and piss. Outside, the pounding grew louder. I turned back to Tasha.

“You said that you have a gun upstairs?”

She nodded.

“Show me.”

We took the stairs two at a time. I had to run to keep up with the girl. Tasha ran through the darkened hallways with the confidence only someone who’d lived there could have. She was skinny, her hair beaded with multicolored beads. Gold earrings dangled from each lobe. She wore dirty red shorts and a pink-and-white striped shirt. Her shoes were old and worn out, and one of the back heels flapped as she ran.

On the second floor, she stopped in front of a door and raised her hand to knock. Before she could, I stopped her.

“Your parents? Will they be okay with me being here? Maybe you should warn them first that you’re coming in with a stranger. I don’t want to get shot.”

Her voice softened and she stared at her feet. “We ain’t got no parents. It’s just me and Malik. He’s my little brother. Momma, she…”

Hesitantly, I put a hand on her bony shoulder. She jumped a little, but that was all.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stir up anything bad.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sniffling, she knocked on the door. “Malik, open up.”

“You okay?” the boy said from the other side of the door. He sounded defiant, but afraid. “That dude with you?”

“Yes, he’s with me. His name is Lamar and he’s okay. He ain’t gonna hurt us. He just wanted help. Now do what I told you and open the door.”

“Don’t boss me.”

“Malik…”

The door opened, revealing a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old, in a Spider-Man shirt and ragged black jeans. He frowned at me, refusing to step aside.

“You cool?” he asked.

I smiled. “Yeah, man, I’m cool.”

“You better be. I ain’t no punk. I’m hardcore, G. You try messing with my sister and I’ll mess you up instead. And if you think I’m playing, just try me.”

I choked down my laughter, careful not to offend him. The sincerity and ferocity in his voice was really something, and I had no doubts he’d try to do that very thing.

“Malik,” I said, holding up my hands, “I promise, you’re in charge. I just needed to hide out here for a second. Okay?”

“Okay.” His attention was drawn to the pistol. “Cool. Can I try that out?”

“Can’t. No more bullets.”

“Damn. Well what good are you then?”

Tasha waved her hand, angry and dismissive. “Malik, get the hell out of the way and let us in.”

“Don’t boss me,” he repeated. “What’s that noise?”

“There’s dead folks beating on the door downstairs.”

Malik’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I told you we shouldn’t let him in. Now they know we’re here.”

“It’ll be okay,” I assured them. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath, and then we’ll figure something out.”

“Damn straight.”

I shook my head. “Did your mother let you talk that way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she let you curse like that?”

“Shit, man. I’m eight years old. I can say what I want. Before she got sick, Momma said I was the man of the house.”

“No she didn’t,” Tasha said. “Momma told you to mind me. If she’d heard you cursing like that, she’d have washed your mouth out with soap and then beat your ass.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh!”

“Enough,” I snapped. “Both of you knock it the hell off.”

Tasha got quiet, but Malik frowned at me.

“You can’t tell me what to do. You ain’t my father.”

Sighing, I laid the empty pistol on the coffee table. Then I knelt down and looked the boy in the eye.

“No, Malik, I’m not your father. You don’t even know me. But I am a grown-up, and I do know things and I can help you and your sister, if you’ll let me. I’d like to help. Would that be okay?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“Good.” I stood up and looked around the dismal apartment. It was small and cramped and dusty. Empty food wrappers and dirty plates littered the floor and coffee table. The furniture was threadbare. Soiled laundry lay heaped in piles. On one shelf was a picture of a heavyset woman: smiling, cheerful eyes beaming behind gold-rimmed eyeglasses, her arms around Malik and Tasha.

“That your mom?”

Tasha nodded.

“Anybody else left alive in this building?”

“No,” Tasha said. “Everybody else is gone. They either left or…”

She didn’t have to finish.

“Mr. Lahav helped us out after Momma died,” Malik said. “He let us stay in his apartment. Cooked for us. Read us bedtime stories. I liked him, except when he made us brush our teeth. He said we got to be our own dentists now, so it was important to brush three times a day, even if we didn’t eat. But he went out for water and never come back.”

“And how long ago was that?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe five days?”

“He’s dead by now,” Tasha said. “Those things got to him.”

“We don’t know that,” Malik insisted. “Maybe he got hurt, or trapped. We should go out and find him.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s one of them now, Malik. A zombie.”

“No he ain’t.”

“He is too.”

“Guys.” I held up my hands. “Let’s not fight, okay? That won’t help us get out of here. Other than Mr. Lahav, is there anybody else in the building?”

They both shook their heads.

“Are there any zombies?”

Tasha shuddered. “No. Thank God.”

“And this shotgun is your only weapon.”

“Yeah,” Malik said, holding it out to me, “but I can’t get it to work no more.”

“Let me see it.” I took the shotgun from him and pumped it, the way I’d seen it done in the movies. An empty cartridge ejected from the side and bounced off the wall.

“I tried that,” Malik said, pouting. “Wouldn’t do it for me. Stupid gun.”

Before this, I didn’t have much experience with kids. One of my old boyfriends had a daughter (he’d been married for several years before finally coming to terms with the fact that he was gay), but I’d never really interacted with her, and had dumped her father after a few dates.

“Tell you what.” I smiled. “Let me keep this one, and soon as we find more, I’ll pick out one more your size. Sound good?”

He looked reluctant. “I guess so. You best not be tricking me, though. Just because I ain’t strong enough to use this shotgun don’t mean it don’t belong to me.”

“It’s all yours, little man. I’m just borrowing it until we find a safer place to stay.”

“Safer?” Tasha asked, confused. “Hold up a minute. We’re not going nowhere. Malik and I are staying right here. Momma and Mr. Lahav both told us to—”

“Listen,” I interrupted. “You hear that? They’re going to get in. If they can’t break the door down, sooner or later one of them will get lucky enough to bust a window. Then we’re screwed. And there’s something else, too.”

“What?”

“The city is on fire. That’s how you guys found me. I was running away from it when I got trapped down there.”

“Fire?” Malik’s eyes grew wide. “How bad is it?”

“My whole neighborhood is gone. It’s spreading block by block and it’s coming this way. It’ll be here soon. We don’t have much time.”

“But if we go outside, the zombies will get us,” Tasha said.

“And if we stay in here,” I reminded her, “we’ll burn to death.”

“So we’re screwed.” Malik folded his arms across his chest.

I patted him on the head and smiled. “Not quite yet.”

My knees popped as I stood up. Downstairs, the pounding continued. I glanced out the window and saw more zombies converging on our building. They were four deep around the door, clawing and shoving each other. More of them emerged from side streets and alleys. I didn’t know how they communicated, or even if they did, but somehow they knew that dinner was inside this building. All they had to do was get inside.

The fires were spreading, too. The entire horizon was now glowing orange and yellow. As hard as it was to believe, it looked like the entire city was going up in flames. The rain we’d had earlier in the day had done nothing to slow it down, apparently. And it wasn’t like there were firemen or other emergency personnel to battle the flames. I’d once seen a Civil War documentary on TV. In it, they’d talked about how General Sherman had burned Atlanta to the ground. At the time, I’d tried to picture that. It seemed inconceivable; unreal. But now, I had a good idea what that had actually looked like.

The kids had lined up the remaining shotgun shells on the windowsill. There were four of them; not nearly the amount I’d hoped for. I had no idea how many the shotgun could hold; indeed, I’d been surprised I was able to figure out how to pump it so easily. Rather than trying to load them into the weapon and risking jamming it or something, I scooped the shells up and stuffed them in my pants pocket.

Malik frowned. “Ain’t you gonna put them in the gun?”

“Not now. Maybe later.”

“Later? Nigga, do it now!”

“Hey,” I scolded. “You shouldn’t use that word.”

“Nigga? Why not?”

“Because it’s not a nice word. It means you’re ignorant.”

“I’m ignorant?”

“That’s what it means.”

He stomped his foot. “I’m not ignorant.”

“I didn’t say you were. But when you use that word, that’s what you’re calling other people—and yourself.”

Malik frowned in concentration.

I turned to Tasha. “You got any other weapons in the apartment? Anything you kids could use against the zombies?”

“No. But I think Malik is right. You should load the shotgun now. Might not have a chance later.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll load it.”

I pulled the shotgun shells out of my pocket. Then I fumbled with the weapon, wondering how they went in. There was a slot on the side, about the same size as the ammunition, but I wasn’t sure which way the shells were supposed to face. The kids watched me in bewilderment.

Malik smirked. “You don’t know how to load it, do you?”

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t know much about guns.”

“And you calling me ignorant? Here, let me show you.”

He took the gun from me and quickly inserted the shells with his little fingers. Then, with a smug, satisfied grin, he handed it back to me.

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Washington taught me how.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got eaten.” The boy clammed up then, and stared at the floor. It was obvious that he was reluctant to say any more.

I checked outside again. The creatures were still coming. The pounding had grown louder and more insistent. We heard a cracking sound, like wood splintering. Tasha and Malik suddenly looked as scared as I felt.

“Okay,” I whispered, “is there another way out of the building?”

Tasha nodded. “The laundry room, down in the basement. It’s got a pair of storm doors that lead up into the alley. And there’s the fire escape. But it’s broke. Don’t extend all the way to the ground.”

“Could we drop to the ground from it?”

“No, it’s too high up.”

“Which side of the building is the alley on?”

“The right.”

“Do any of your windows face it?”

She pointed to a side room. “In there. That was Momma’s bedroom.”

“Stay here.”

Their mother’s room was still full of her presence. It smelled like perfume, lavender, baby powder, and vanilla body lotion. The scents were faint but lingering. It made me sad—in a few more weeks it would probably fade forever. The feeling surprised me. I thought of my own mother, and then pushed those emotions aside. No sense getting maudlin. Not while we were still in danger. The bedroom was dark, but the glow of the fires outside provided light. The bed was made up with a white, lacy comforter and light-green flannel sheets, two pillows, and a ratty old stuffed animal. Dust-covered picture frames and cheap knickknacks lined the top of the dresser. The kids were smiling in all the photos. There were a few books, mostly paperbacks by Toni Morrison, Chesya Burke, and some cheesy African-American romance titles, along with a well-worn copy of the Holy Bible.

I moved to the window and stared down at the alley—a narrow slice of pavement running between the apartment buildings. An empty paper bag fluttered by, but there was no other movement. So far, the alley was free of zombies. They’d stupidly clustered their forces at the front. It occurred to me that maybe I was giving them too much credit. They didn’t know tactics or planning. The only knew hunger. Need. They’d seen their prey go in the front door, so that was where they’d gathered. In a way, it was kind of pathetic.

So the alley was clear. The question was if it would stay that way in the time it took us to get down to the laundry room. And even then, what was waiting for us down in the streets?

One step at a time, I thought. Just get down to the laundry room first.

I walked back into the living room. The kids stared at me expectantly.

“You guys still have water?”

“Yeah.”

Tasha took me into the kitchen, where they’d lined up plastic buckets and jugs full of rainwater. Mosquito larvae squirmed in some of them. She explained that they’d been putting the buckets out on the roof. I had the kids wet down their clothes and I did the same again with mine. I also grabbed three more washcloths and soaked them down. I explained how they would help with the smoke if the fires got too close. Then we were ready. The kids still looked frightened, but they didn’t argue or give me any lip.

“Okay,” I said. “Stick close, but stay behind me. Breathe through your washcloths and duck down as much as possible. Smoke rises, and the air will be better lower to the ground. Try to keep quiet. You ready?”

They nodded. Tasha crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

“You scared?” I asked her.

“No. Well, yeah. ’Course I’m scared. But that’s not why I’m shivering. I’m cold. My clothes are wet.”

“Sorry about that,” I apologized. “We’ll find you some dry clothes when we get to safety.”

“Where are we going?” Malik asked.

I paused, not sure how to answer him.

“I don’t know. Somewhere else. Somewhere other than here.”

“Someplace where there’s no zombies?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “Somewhere without zombies or fires. Someplace where we can chill for a little while. Rest up. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m tired. I’d like to stop all this running and fighting. I’ve had enough for one night. Let’s get to where we don’t have to do that.”

Privately, I wondered where that place was—wondered if it even existed anymore, and if it did exist, how we’d get there.

We left the apartment, and Tasha locked the door behind us. I thought about asking her why, but then thought better of it. This was their home. It wasn’t much. None of the homes here ever were. But it was probably the only one they’d ever known, and all their memories were here, and now they were leaving it with a stranger, while a bunch of dead people pounded on the door. Deep down inside, Tasha must have known that she’d never see the apartment again. I don’t cry easily, but the look on her face damn near broke my heart.

The noise got worse as we reached the landing and started down the stairs. It kept growing louder as we neared the first floor, until finally it was almost overpowering. I wanted to scream at the dead, tell them to shut the fuck up. Glass broke somewhere, maybe in one of the first floor apartments. I couldn’t tell for sure. It was hard to concentrate. The zombies stink filled the hallway and the smoke was getting stronger again, too. The front door shuddered with every blow, and long splinters of wood fell off the bottom of it. Cracks split open on its surface as the hammering continued.

“Which way?”

Tasha pointed toward the back of the hallway. We slipped down the passage, quick but quiet. I was in the lead, followed by Tasha and then Malik. Brother and sister were holding hands. I glanced back at them and smiled, trying to reassure them. I didn’t feel very sure, but they smiled back.

And that was when the door burst open. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang, spilling zombies into the foyer. The first wave toppled to the floor, and more of the creatures rushed inside, clambering over the fallen ones. Their stench burned my nostrils. It felt like a thin layer of film in my sinus and throat. Tasha and Malik both screamed, but not as loud as me. They froze, staring at the onrushing hordes.

“Go!”

I pushed them behind me and raised the shotgun. The first zombie made it through the crowd and stumbled down the hallway after us. She’d once been a female. One swollen, purple breast had fallen out of her blouse. She moved in a series of spasms and twitches. There was hunger in her dead eyes, and I wondered how she’d eat me. Her jaw was hanging by only a few tendrils from her skull. With each jerking step that she took, her jaw swung back and forth like a kid’s swing blowing in the breeze.

With one squeeze of the trigger, I solved that problem for her. The zombie’s head just vanished. There was a spray of red and then nothing. The corpse dropped to the floor. My arm went numb from the shotgun’s kick, but I managed to pump it again. I took down a second creature, which had once been a child about Malik’s age. Despite the gruesomeness of it all, I got a thrill as I jacked a third shell. I was a much better shot with the shotgun than I’d been with the pistol.

Keeping the gun aimed at them, I retreated down the hall. Tasha was holding the basement door open for me. Malik had already run to the bottom of the stairs. I backed into the stairwell and pulled the door shut behind me. There was no lock.

“Shit.”

“This way.” Tasha tugged on my sleeve. She led me down the stairs and into a dark, wet cellar packed high with boxes and junk. A ten-speed bike. A damp mattress with wires poking out. Roller skates. A deflated basketball. A television with a broken screen. Mildewed clothes. Stacks of newspaper and magazines bound up with twine. The cement floor was cracked and uneven. Moisture spread in gray patterns along the walls. At the far end was another set of doors. They led into a small laundry room with three coin-operated washers and dryers. Two laundry baskets sat against the far wall. Clean clothes that somebody would never wear again spilled out of them and onto the floor. Beyond those was a small set of stairs and a pair of closed storm doors.

The doors were fastened with a bright, shiny padlock.

Above us, the dead began pounding on the basement door. It was in much worse shape than the front door had been. They’d be through it in a minute—maybe less. I stared at the padlock, my mouth hanging open. Then I turned to Tasha in disbelief.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was locked?”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “You think we’re stupid? We’re the ones that locked it. Mr. Lahav had us lock all the doors. We just didn’t have a padlock for the front door, so we used the plank.”

The pounding grew louder, in time with my pulse rate. Over in the corner, behind a pile of boxes, something skittered in the shadows. I wondered if there were rats in the basement, and if so, if they were the dead kind.

I turned back to the lock. “You have a key for this one? If not, stand back and let me shoot it off.”

Smiling, she pulled it out of her pants pocket and held it up. She started for the storm doors, but I stopped her.

“Wait. There might be some of them in the alley by now. Let me go first.”

She stepped aside. My fingers were sweaty and it was hard to hold the key and the shotgun. Plus, my hands were shaking, which made turning the key even more difficult. When it clicked open, I breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly, I opened the storm doors and stuck my head out—shotgun barrel first. The coast was clear.

“Come on.”

I helped them up into the alley, and then shut the doors behind us. The kids put their wet washcloths over their faces and waited for me. After hunting around for a moment, I found an old skid and managed to tear a board loose from it. I wedged the board between the door handles.

“That should slow them down.”

Malik squeezed my hand. “What now?”

I checked both sides of the alley. The front led out into the main street, where the zombies had surrounded me earlier. The rear intersected with another alley running along behind a bail bondsman’s office. We went that way as carefully and quietly as possible. Behind us came a muffled thump. The zombies in the basement had discovered the storm doors.

“This way,” I whispered, hurrying the kids along.

We turned left, and then right, and then left again, working our way toward the waterfront, more out of need than any sense of direction. I wasn’t trying to reach the harbor. That was never my plan. We were just trying to stay ahead of both the fires and the zombies. Several times our progress was blocked by one or the other. I preferred the flames. Didn’t have to waste ammo on them. Whenever possible, we stuck to side streets and back alleys.

We’d made it a few more blocks before we were attacked again. We were behind a used sporting goods store and I was trying to get a bearing on the fires. The smoke was getting thicker again, making it hard to tell how close the flames actually were. Every time the wind shifted direction smoke billowed toward us.

Without a sound, a corpse lurched out from behind a Dumpster. The only reason we noticed it was because it accidentally kicked an empty forty-ounce while stalking toward us. Its face was concealed by a hockey mask. The zombie clutched a hockey stick in its hand but never tried to use it as a weapon. I think it held the stick more out of instinct than anything else. With its free hand, it reached for my head, trying to pull me toward its gaping mouth. I ducked, sidestepped, and swung with the shotgun. The stock crashed against its jaw. The corpse stumbled backward. Gripping the shotgun barrel in both fists, I clubbed the creature’s legs, breaking both of its kneecaps. As it collapsed, I smashed its head in. The zombie’s face imploded behind the hockey mask. Black sludge that must have been curdled blood squirted out of the mouth and eyeholes like wet clay. It lay on the pavement, twitching.

“Hit it again,” Malik cried. “Smack that son of a bitch.”

I did. I struck the zombie on the side of the head, and its mask flew off. Its face looked like a bowl of spoiled spaghetti. Black mold grew on its skin. I slammed the shotgun down again and the skull cracked. The zombie quit twitching and lay still. Bending over, I picked up the hockey stick and wiped the mud and gore off of the handle.

“Here.” I tossed the stick to Malik. “Think you can use this?”

“Hell yeah, I can.” He grinned like a kid who’d just unwrapped his Christmas presents. Then he swung the stick around in a circle, making a sound like a light saber.

“Knock it off, Malik,” Tasha said. “You’re gonna get blood on me.”

“No I ain’t. I know what I’m doing. Next zombie we see, I’m gonna crack it in the head just like Lamar did.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said. “Just don’t hit me or your sister with it”

“You should have given it to me,” Tasha said. “He’s too little to hit anything with it.”

Malik frowned. “Say’s you.”

“It’s not fair.”

“We’ll find something for you,” I promised Tasha. “Don’t worry.”

After I’d cleaned the gore off the shotgun butt so that I wouldn’t accidentally infect myself, we continued on. I wiped the sweat from my brow and wished for a cold beer or just some water. The hot summer temperatures combined with the heat from the fires had made it pretty much unbearable. Add to that the fact that we were running and then fighting and then running again—I was exhausted. Sweat dripped from the tip of my nose and soaked my already wet clothes.

We came across some other survivors as we neared Fells Point, an area of the city where mostly rich, white college kids from the suburbs went to drink on weekends. It was full of bars and music stores and vintage clothing shops-stuff like that. (They called it vintage clothing, and paid top dollar for the shit. Meanwhile, you could buy the same pair of pants at the Goodwill store for a dollar). Every night, you’d see Eminem wannabes stumbling around drunk, shouting to each other, groping their girlfriends or even strangers passing by, pissing in alleys and puking all over the brick sidewalks.

Now Fells Point was a battleground. We’d cut through a very narrow alley, the old kind with crumbling brick archways over it. We heard the gunshots and the screams but they were muffled by the buildings on each side of us. It wasn’t until we’d reached the end of the alley that we really saw what was happening. There was a riot going on in the central market area—human versus zombie and even human versus human. It was hard to keep track of anyone. Hard to focus. I held out my hand, motioning for the kids to stay behind me. Then I stared in disbelief.

The street was littered with body parts and un-moving corpses, and the gutters ran with blood. Gunfire echoed off the buildings and smoke filled the air. It was a nightmare. The stench, the screams, the chewing sounds. Even over the explosions, you could hear the zombies as they fed.

I saw a car that was upside down, its tires sticking up in the air like the legs of a dead animal. It must have just wrecked right before our arrival because there were people still inside it. They screamed as the zombies pulled them out through the shattered windows and ripped into them, tearing their flesh with teeth and hands. Another corpse staggered by a burning antiques store. Its arms were missing. Someone shot it from inside the store. The store’s display window shattered, and the zombie crumpled to the sidewalk. Then the store’s roof collapsed with a roar, sending fiery embers soaring into the night sky. Someone, probably the shooter, screamed inside the burning building.

In the street, a pack of undead dogs chased a woman and her baby. A zombie pit bull ripped the infant from the fleeing mother’s arms and tore it apart, shaking the screaming baby like a rag doll. A wayward bullet took down the mother a second later. At least I hope it was wayward. Maybe the shooter had been aiming for the dogs and hit her instead. Or maybe they were aiming for her after all; a mercy shot. There were a lot of zombie animals among the chaos. Mostly rats and dogs, but I also saw a few dead cats and what I think was an iguana. The dog zombies moved faster than their human counterparts, and I wondered why that was. Maybe it was because they had four legs instead of two, or maybe they hadn’t been dead long.

A man stumbled by us, close enough for me to reach out and touch if I’d wanted to. He wasn’t dead yet, but he was certainly dying. His hands were clasped around his bleeding stomach, trying to hold his guts in. Half-dollar sized drops of blood speckled the pavement behind him. A child zombie in bloodstained rags trailed after him, chewing what looked like a length of intestine. The man seemed oblivious to his pursuer and the zombie seemed in no rush. I shot it in the back of the head as it passed by us. The man never paused. Just kept walking. I ducked back into the shadows, worried that my Good Samaritan act may have given away our hiding place.

But it didn’t matter because a second later things got even worse.

Civilians in a commandeered half-track barreled through the crowd, crushing both the living and the dead beneath the vehicle. A teenaged corpse in a Slipknot shirt tried to climb up onto the half-track, but one of the men kicked him back down with a boot to the face. Another of the men opened fire with a mounted machine gun. Bodies—both living and dead—jittered and danced as the rounds punched through them. I gasped. These guys didn’t care who they shot. They were just as bad as the zombies—maybe even worse. The dead couldn’t use guns. Clearing a path, the vehicle rolled on. The humans they’d just killed stayed dead. They were the lucky ones.

Another man ran by us. He was carrying a rifle.

“Hey,” I shouted, trying to get his attention.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he gasped, and kept running.

I started to tell him that we didn’t know where to go. Figured he might know of a safe place. But he rounded the corner and disappeared.

The median in the middle of the brick-lined street was carefully landscaped, full of trees, flowers and shrubs. As I watched, the treetops burst into flames, fed by the fire in the antiques store. More. stray bullets chewed up the pavement. Something shattered a car’s windshield nearby us, and chunks of cement sprayed through the air. The stench grew stronger; decay, cordite, burning fuel and flesh. The screams got louder.

“What are we going to do?” Malik asked. He didn’t sound brave anymore. He sounded like a scared little boy on the verge of tears.

That was when the idea of making it to the harbor actually occurred to me. I was pissed off at myself for not thinking of it earlier, when we’d been fleeing in that direction anyway. Fells Point bordered the Inner Harbor area. The Inner Harbor was Baltimore’s main tourist attraction. It had the National Aquarium, the big Hard Rock Cafe, the three-story Barnes and Noble store, Port Discovery, the World Trade Center, Fort McHenry, the Maryland Science Center, the Pier Six Concert Pavilion (I’d seen Erik B and Rakim along with some other old-school hip-hop acts there last year), tons of shops and restaurants and bars, and quick access to hotels, the stadium, and the convention center. But Inner Harbor was also just what its name implied—a fucking harbor. It emptied out into Chesapeake Bay. The open water—someplace where the zombies couldn’t reach us, just like I’d promised the kids.

There were ships and boats all along the waterfront. The Pride of Baltimore II, which was a reproduction of an 1812-era clipper ship. The USS Constellation, the last Civil War vessel still afloat in America, built in 1854 and still seaworthy. Both of those were out of the question. I didn’t know the first thing about sailing one, but I knew that you needed a whole crew just to get underway. There was a coast guard vessel, the USCGC Spratling, which they let tourists tromp around on. It had permanently replaced the Cutter Taney, which had been sent out for repairs and restoration a year or so ago. Before that, both coast guard vessels had been open to the public. Again, the Spratling was out of the question, just like the other big ships. But there were smaller boats, too; ferries, water taxis, and tour boats. Hell, there were even paddleboats, and I certainly knew how to operate one of those. There were also several marinas nearby full of yachts and fishing vessels and pleasure cruisers.

I didn’t know shit about boating, but how hard could it be—especially given our alternatives? If we could reach the Inner Harbor or one of the marinas without getting killed or eaten, and manage to steal a small boat, we’d be well away from land before the entire city burned to the ground. Even if I could just cast off from the dock, we’d at least be able to drift far enough out into the bay to where the zombies couldn’t touch us. Maybe even into the ocean. Drifting on the open sea was better than staying here.

The Inner Harbor was only a few blocks away. No telling how many zombies and crazy fuckers with guns we’d encounter between here and there. It would be tough, but what choice was there? We had to try.

I ushered the kids even farther into the shadows and then I knelt down. The smoke was really getting bad, and when I spoke, my throat felt raw and dry.

“Listen,” I croaked. “I have an idea, but you guys are going to have to stick close to me and do exactly as I say. We’re going to try to get to a boat—”

Tasha interrupted. “What boat?”

“Any boat. There’s hundreds of them at the harbor. All we have to do is get there.”

“How?”

“Well, we’re gonna have to make a run for it. That’s why I’m—”

“Run?” Tasha looked stunned. “Out there? Into that mess? Are you crazy?”

“I know it’s dangerous, but there’s no other way. Everybody is fighting each other. If we’re quick, the zombies might not even notice.”

“I ain’t afraid,” Malik said—but his eyes said different.

“I am,” Tasha admitted. “I don’t want to go out there, Mr. Reed. Please don’t make us.”

I squeezed her hand, hoping to calm her down. Instead, she began to cry.

“I don’t want to go. They’ll get us. Just like everyone else. All our friends. Momma…”

Sobbing, Tasha flung herself against me, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. Malik started to sniffle, and then he began crying, too. I pulled him to us in a three-way hug. I held them while their tears and snot soaked into my already wet shirt. From the street came more shots and screams, followed by a volley of nearby machine gun-fire.

“Guys,” I said softly, “I don’t know what else to do. The city is on fire. Don’t you see? It’s reaching here already. We just can’t stay put, and we can’t fight them all. All I know to do is run. The water is our only chance. I promise—I promise you that I won’t let those things get us. I’ll die first.”

I knew deep down inside that I meant it. I’m no hero. Earlier that night, I’d watched a woman get slaughtered outside my apartment and I’d done nothing to help her. A few moments before, when I’d shot the child zombie, it had been more out of instinct than any desire to help the creature’s prey. But in the short time I’d known Malik and Tasha, I’d grown fond of them. They seemed like good kids. Brave. Resourceful. Didn’t deserve the crappy hand life had given them. They deserved something better; a fighting chance at least. Besides, they’d saved my life. Figured I should return the favor.

I meant what I said. I’d die before I let the dead claim them. But my promise was a lie, because the minute I was dead, there’d be nothing I could do to protect them. Instead, I’d be hunting them, just like the other zombies.

Malik pulled away from me and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Then he wiped that on his shirt. After a moment, Tasha stepped back as well.

“How many bullets we got left?”

I shrugged in defeat. “I don’t know, Malik. I’ve lost count.”

“Don’t matter,” he said. “I’ve still got my stick. If they come at us, I’ll take them down while you two run.”

Grinning, I stood up.

“Okay, here’s the plan. We run out into the street and turn right. Stay on the sidewalk if possible and stick close together. Next street up, we’re gonna go, left. That will take us out to the old Sylvan Learning Center building. There’s a marina near it—some kind of private yacht club for rich folks. If the gates are locked, we’ll have to climb. If I remember correctly, the fence is like twelve feet high. Are either one of you scared of heights?”

They shook their heads in unison.

“Can you climb?”

They nodded.

“Good.” I nodded. “Once we’re over the fence, we should be good to go.”

“Smooth sailing?” Tasha asked.

For a second, I didn’t realize she’d made a pun. Both of them began to giggle, elbowing each other and laughing at the joke. Then I laughed with them—until a low growl made the sound dry up in my throat.

It was a zombie dog, a pit bull, the one who’d killed the baby only a few moments before. Apparently, it was still hungry and looking for dessert. It stood at the mouth of the alley, blocking our way into the street and making all my planning and pep talks pointless. It took another step forward, its claws clicking on the bricks. It didn’t growl again; just watched us silently with black, staring eyes. A pale white tongue drooped from its mouth. A broken rib jutted from its rancid flesh, and there were large patches of fur missing from its maggot-infested hide. Guts hung out of its open stomach. A big metal tag around its collar said the dog’s name was Fred. Despite my terror, I almost started laughing when I saw that. Fred wasn’t what you named a pit bull. The people in my neighborhood gave their pit bulls names like Killer or Butcher or Satan. Fred was what you named a good dog, a shy and timid dog, the type to inch toward a stranger with its tail tucked firmly between its legs and its ears drooping down.

Fred was none of those things. Fred was teeth on four legs. Sharp teeth.

There was a crackling sound from above us as the roof of the nearest building caught fire. The flames spread quickly, racing along the power lines connected to the roof and then jumping to the next building. The power lines fell to the ground. Luckily, there was no electricity running through them. Another gunshot rang out.

The dog inched closer. Behind it, at the entrance to the alley, two more zombie dogs appeared. Then another. And another. I raised the shotgun. Fred the pit bull tensed, his haunches flexing beneath matted fur. The other four dogs in the pack filed into the alley and lined up on each side of him.

I tensed. “Kids…”

Fred leaped, trailing his guts behind him like streamers.

“Run!”

I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened—just a heavy, metallic click. The shotgun didn’t fire. It must have been jammed. Shouting, I bashed Fred in his snapping jaws with the barrel while he was still in midair. Canine blood and teeth flew through the air. The dog landed on the bricks. I turned around and ran, shoving the kids forward, not daring to look over my shoulder. Malik dropped his hockey stick but kept running. Behind us, I heard the pack giving chase. Their feet padded along the alley and their nails tapped the bricks, but other than that, they were silent. No growls or barks. Not even panting.

If we trip, I thought, we’re done for. That’s it for us.

“The shotgun,” Tasha gasped. “Shoot them!”

“Can’t—it doesn’t work. Keep running!”

We dashed from the alley and into another side street, free from all the fighting and chaos. Another building burst into flames beside us. We weaved our way around wrecked and abandoned vehicles. The pursuing dogs drew closer. Already I was winded, and both of the kids were gasping for breath. All the smoke in the air and the stench of decay made it even worse. There was no way we could outrun the pack. Even though they were dead, four legs still moved faster than two.

“High ground,” I shouted. “We need to find higher ground. Some place where they can’t climb.”

Tasha darted toward a parked SUV and scrambled up over the hood. She held her hand down for her brother and pulled him up behind her. The hood buckled under their combined weight. They climbed up over the windshield and onto the roof as I jumped up onto the vehicle as well. Flipping the useless shotgun around in my hands, I gripped the barrel and used it as a club, swinging at the dogs. They jumped and snapped but couldn’t reach me. Fred clumsily leaped into the air and his front paws landed on the hood. I smashed them with the shotgun and he slipped back down again, his nails scratching the paint with an awful shrieking sound, leaving furrows in the paint.

We huddled together on the SUV’s roof as the pack surrounded the vehicle. My throat burned. I tried to work up some saliva so I could talk.

“What—what do we do now?” Tasha asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Can they get up here?”

“I don’t think so. We’re safe.”

“How are we gonna get away?”

“I don’t know, damn it. Let me think.”

The dogs attempted a few more leaps and then gave up. Refusing to leave, they sat back on their haunches and waited. Their dead, black eyes never left us. Death was patient. Desperate, I examined the shotgun, trying to figure out what was wrong with it. I didn’t know if I was out of ammo or if it was jammed or what, and like I said earlier, I didn’t have much experience with guns until the robbery.

“Can you fix it?” Malik asked.

“I don’t think so,” I admitted. “But I can still bash their goddamn brains in with it.”

Tasha watched the pack with wide, terrified eyes. “Are you sure they can’t get up here?”

“I don’t think so. We’re okay for now.”

“But how are we gonna get away from them?”

“Maybe they’ll lose interest in us,” I said. “Go off and find an easier meal. Or somebody might show up and help us.”

“What about the fires?” Malik asked.

I didn’t have an answer for that. The flames leapt from building to building, turning night into day. The kids had both lost their washcloths and their faces were dirty with soot. I wondered if smoke inhalation would kill us before the zombies did.

A dead man emerged from a burning bookstore. His shirt sleeve was on fire. As we watched, the flames engulfed the creature’s entire body, spreading from its arm to its head and chest, and finally its legs. The corpse kept walking until its brain boiled. Then it collapsed in the street.

Several more zombies appeared from farther down the block. One was missing a leg and it crawled along the sidewalk, pulling itself by its hands. Its fingernails were gone and the tips of its fingers had split open like squashed grapes. Another one didn’t even look dead. Could have just been a pizza delivery man out for a stroll, but its slow-moving, jerky gait was a giveaway. Seeing us up on the roof of the SUV the zombies lurched toward us. The undead dogs didn’t acknowledge these new arrivals. They simply kept watching, drool dripping from their jowls.

When I heard the shot, I didn’t think much of it at first. Figured it was just more of the same from the main battle. But then I noticed that one of the creatures had fallen over face-first onto the pavement. It jittered and then lay still. A second later there was another shot, and one of the dog’s heads blew apart. One of its pointed ears careened through the air and skull fragments clattered onto the street. A third shot slammed into the side of the SUV, causing all three of us to gasp. The vehicle rocked gently back and forth. With the fourth shot, the shooter found his mark again, and another dog collapsed.

“Where’s it coming from?” Malik glanced around.

“I don’t know.” I studied the buildings and rooftops. It was hard to see any gunfire flashes because of all the smoke and fire. When the fifth shot came, I followed the sound, and on the sixth, I spotted the shooter. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but they were crouched down between a mailbox and some newspaper vendor boxes on the corner. Slowly, the person stood upright and walked toward us, still firing. It was a man, and as he got closer, I could make out the details. Caucasian. Good-looking guy. What some of my friends would call a “bear.” Not my type, but handsome just the same, despite the fact that he’d been living the same way we had—without a shower or a clean change of clothes. He appeared to be in his early forties but in good shape, well over six feet tall, and wearing blue jeans and a leather biker vest. He had no shirt on underneath, and thick curls of black chest hair poked out from beneath the vest. His arms were covered in tattoos, and several gold hoop rings dangled from his ear. Several weeks’ worth of beard covered his face. He had a pistol in his hands, the barrel still smoking from the rounds he’d just drilled into the zombies. A rifle was slung across his shoulder, as well as a small backpack, and he had two holsters (one of them held another pistol) strapped around his waist, along with some kind of ammo belt. Round objects dangled from the belt. After a moment, I realized they were grenades. Whoever he was, this guy wasn’t playing.

He moved swiftly, his eyes roving and watchful. One of the dogs ran toward him. The pistol jerked in his hands. The dog dropped. Another human zombie closed in on him from the right. The pistol roared and the creature’s head exploded. One by one, he brought them down until the street was littered with corpses. Then he looked up at us and smiled.

“Come on down. Coast is clear.”

Hesitant, I eyed him warily. The kids hid behind me. If he meant harm to us, I knew there wasn’t anything I could do to stop him. He must have sensed our suspicion, because he holstered the handgun.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said. “I just saved your sorry asses. So climb on down from there and let’s go while we can. There’ll be more of them on the way any second.”

As if on cue, another group of zombies lurched into view. They headed straight for us. With one fluid movement, the biker yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and tossed it toward the zombies.

“You folks might want to duck.”

There was a massive explosion, louder than anything I’d heard that night. I could actually feel it push against my eardrums. Dirt and shards of brick and mutilated body parts rained down onto the street.

“Hey,” Malik said. “Can I have one of those grenades?”

The biker laughed. “Better ask your father first.”

Malik glanced up at me. “He ain’t my dad. Mr. Reed’s just been helping us.”

“We saved him earlier,” Tasha added.

The biker arched and eyebrow and looked at me.

I shrugged. “Yeah, they did. I would have been a zombie dinner if they hadn’t helped me. And now you saved us all. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I climbed down off the SUV, and then helped the kids down. The biker stuck out his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong, his palms callused and sweaty. I checked out the tattoos covering his arms—a winding snake, a half-naked woman, the Harley-Davidson logo, and several tribal designs.

He squeezed my hand harder. “Mitch Bollinger.”

“Lamar Reed. And this is Tasha and Malik Roberts.” I paused, unsure of what to say next. Living like a hermit, with only Alan for company, had apparently affected my conversational skills.

“Let’s get out of the street,” Mitch suggested, releasing my hand, “and away from these burning buildings. We stand here jawing and the smoke will kill us before the dead do.”

“We were going to try for the harbor,” I said. “No zombies in the water. You know anything about boating?”

Mitch nodded; his expression was excited. “A buddy of mine at work had a boat. We used to take it out fishing on the bay all the time. Don’t know everything there is to know, but I can navigate, if that’s what you mean.”

“Figured if we got out into the bay, we’d be safe from the fires and the dead.”

“Good plan,” Mitch said. “Can I tag along with you?”

In truth, I was surprised he asked. He didn’t need us, but we needed him. I think he knew that, too. Maybe he was just being polite.

I grinned. “I was hoping you would.”

“Then follow me. I know a shortcut to the marina.”

He strode off onto a side street and we followed him without question. Still didn’t know anything about him, but what choice did we have? My gut told me he was okay. If he’d wanted to rob us, or do something to the kids, he could have just gunned me down in the street. He’d drawn his pistol again and held it at the ready as he guided us toward another alley. Malik was fascinated with Mitch’s weapons, and asked again for a grenade. Mitch promised him that when we got to safety, he’d teach him all about them.

“You out of ammo?” he asked, nodding at my shotgun.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know shit about guns. It quit working. Jammed up or something.”

“I’ll take a look at it later, if you want. In fact, I think I have some shells in my bag that should fit it. Meanwhile…” He reached behind him and grabbed the rifle slung over his back. Then he handed it to me. I gave the shotgun to him and took the rifle. It was gray and heavy and had a black scope attached to the top of it.

“That’s a Remington seven-ten,” Mitch told me. “Looks a lot like the seven hundred, but it’s more reliable. At least I think it is. I used to argue about that with people on the gun message boards online. I rescued it from a pawn shop a few days ago, along with the rest of this stuff. It’s got a single-stage trigger, better lock time, and a sixty-degree bolt throw so you can be quick with your follow-up shots. Not that you’ll need them with that scope. It’s bore-sighted, but you may need to adjust it for yourself a bit. Nice gun, though. The three rings really do make a difference. Your magazine box holds four rounds. After that, you’ll have to reload. Cool?”

I stopped walking and stared at him, speechless.

“Mitch, I don’t understand a fucking thing you just said. You want to try it again—in English?”

He paused, and then laughed. “Sorry, man. Sometimes, I forget that some people don’t know as much about guns as I do. My wife used to tell me the same thing when I started going on about them. I’ll give you a crash course. The safety is off. Set the rifle against your shoulder, sight through the scope, line up the crosshairs, and squeeze the trigger. Try aiming at something right now.”

While I sighted on a glass bottle lying in the gutter, he handed the second pistol to Tasha. She needed less instruction than me, and my ears and cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“What do I get?” Malik asked.

Mitch looked at me and I shrugged. He stroked his salt and pepper beard, considering the request.

“Can you throw a Softball?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “Better than anybody on my street.”

“Can you throw it really far?”

“Damn straight I can.”

“Here.” Mitch handed him a grenade. “Now listen to me. This is really, really dangerous. You pull this little pin here and throw it as far and as fast as you can. Then get behind something. Can you do that?”

Malik puffed his chest up proudly. “Find me some dead people and I’ll show you.”

“Hopefully,” I said, “you won’t get that chance. If we can get to the marina without running into any more of those things, that would certainly be okay with me.”

We started walking again, going slowly, all four of us watching for more of the undead. Behind us we heard the crackling roar of flames as the fires continued spreading, punctuated with the occasional gunshot or scream. The smoke wasn’t as bad, though—maybe because the buildings in Fells Point were mostly two-stories high and the smoke could rise into the sky easier, instead of getting trapped in the city’s concrete canyons.

“You must have owned a gun store, right?” I asked Mitch.

“Nope.”

“A gun salesman, then?”

He shook his head. “No, but you’re close. I was a salesman, but not guns. I’m just a firearms enthusiast. I always liked hunting and target shooting.”

“So what did you sell?”

Mitch grinned. “Bibles.”

“Get the fuck out of here. You look like a Hell’s Angel.”

“I’m serious, Lamar. I was a Bible salesman; sold to Christian bookstores and churches and private academies, mostly. I covered my tattoos up with sleeves when I needed to, and took out my earrings. Bibles were my business. Guns are just my hobby.”

I frowned. I don’t know what it’s like for other gay people, but in my experience, the Christians I’d known had been less than understanding when it came to my sexuality. Of all the people to fall in with as we escaped the city, it looked like we’d joined forces with a possible fundamentalist who would judge me based on some old book supposedly written by the world’s most omnipotent bigot.

Mitch must have been able to read the expression on my face. “Don’t worry. I’m not a believer in the product. I’m just a spokesman.”

I snorted. “You don’t believe in God?”

He waved the pistol around. “Do you, after all this shit?”

“No. But you sell Bibles.”

“Sold,” he corrected. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll have much business anymore. Yeah, I sold them. I sold lots of things-televisions, cars, computers, insurance, and vacuum cleaners. There was just more money in Bibles.”

Laughing, we continued on our way.

Behind us, the fires spread, driving the dead forward.