Chapter 11 #2
The next department is hunting gear, and my heart swells.
I stare at rows and rows of knives behind a locked glass countertop and start to daydream about which one will be mine.
I take a few brisk steps around the backside of the counter to look for the keys to the case, but as I turn the sharp corner, I freeze.
A carrier. A sleeping carrier. His skin is gray and starting to shrivel, just waiting for a cough or a dropped canteen to awaken.
I throw up my hands to get the group’s attention and give everyone the signal to freeze.
In response to their questioning looks, I mouth the word “carrier” and point down at my feet.
I grip my bedpost and reel back but pause, thinking better of it. Nurse Patrick needs to buck up. He hasn’t swung a weapon yet, and he’s got more muscle than me and Keisha combined. I wave him over toward the body, inviting him to take a swing.
He gulps audibly and lets out a shaky breath. Across the room, Jan’s sniffles start.
“Go!” I mouth.
He grips his bedpost and takes a swing, easily cracking the carrier’s skull and spilling his brains onto the tile floor. Then, right on cue, Nurse Patrick heaves his breakfast. For Christ’s sake.
I look over the body, curled up in the shelter of the knife display. He grips a large, serrated blade in his cold fist, and I notice a shallow bite on his left hand. He was hiding here. What the hell was he hiding from?
I snap to attention when I realize Nurse Patrick’s heaves aren’t quiet. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I scan the area around me. The other girls do the same, wide-eyed and on edge.
I hear their fast footsteps before I see them.
The sound echoes throughout the store, and I whip from left to right trying to guess which aisle the noise is coming from.
Finally, two rotting bodies emerge from the aisles and move straight toward us.
Lucia lets out the tiniest “yip” of surprise and draws the attention of one of the carriers.
The other is still locked in on Nurse Patrick, who, thankfully, has stopped vomiting long enough to pull himself together.
In horror, I watch Keisha step in front of Lucia protectively with her bedpost ready.
The carrier is moving too fast and is way too tall for her to reach its head.
“Keisha! Trip it!” I shout, hoping she’ll react quickly enough.
The other carrier charges with its foggy, empty eyes on Nurse Patrick.
Unfortunately, I’m directly in its path.
I take my own advice and stick my new boot out in front of it.
As the carrier spills onto the floor, Nurse Patrick swings at it but only succeeds in breaking its nose.
It scrambles toward him on its belly. I punch my bedpost through the glass display case and grab the biggest thing I can find.
I aim carefully and swing downward, slicing halfway through the carrier’s neck.
The carrier goes still, but I take another swing to be sure I’ve finished the job.
I look down and marvel at my new weapon.
The way it cut through the air. The way it sliced through the carrier’s flesh so easily.
The machete in my hands feels like it was made for me, and for a moment I’m in awe.
Another yip from Lucia snaps me back to reality, and I run over to her and Keisha to help, but they’ve already taken care of business.
The carrier has a screwdriver in its eye, and I don’t have to wonder how it got there.
“I did what you said.” Keisha smiles shakily. “I tripped it.”
“And I got him in the eye!” Lucia says proudly.
I can’t help but smile.
“Good job,” I say, meaning it wholeheartedly.
Nurse Patrick is vomiting again. He’d better snap out of this crap fast.
“Where are Jan and Ginger?” I ask. They shrug.
“Jan?” I call out. There’s no use being quiet anymore. Any carriers left in the store would have been here by now.
“Jan! Ginger! You can come out now,” I say.
They peek around an arrow display and rejoin us cautiously.
“Did anyone get bitten?” Keisha asks.
Everyone shakes their head. But I look them over, just in case.
“Good. Everyone pick a knife,” I instruct.
The group walks toward the broken display case, and I see January reach for a hunting knife with a wicked double blade. “Not you, Jan!” I say a little too sharply.
“January can have a knife!” Ginger says, defending her. I can see the tears welling in January’s pouty eyes. “Give her a Swiss Army knife,” I say, giving up easily. “The other one.” I point to the smaller of the two models.
I hope she won’t be able to do too much damage with the two-inch blade.
Of all the girls here, January is the most unpredictable.
She’s also the only one with attempted murder on their record.
She’s emotional, vindictive, and childishly irrational, and I’m not about to let someone like January carry dangerous weapons.
When Ginger passes her the knife, her tears dry almost as fast as they came. Spoiled brat.
I find a heavy-duty nylon holster for my machete and fasten it around my hips.
Fits like a glove. I pick up the hunting knife January reached for too, just in case.
Once we’ve each chosen a knife and a sheath, we move on to the next aisle.
The bows look incredibly cool, but none of us know how to use one.
We pass up the guns too. One shot would wake up who knows how many sleeping carriers.
Unless you have a death wish, using a gun would be completely stupid.