Chapter Thirty-Nine
“WE’LL TAKE THE DEER TO Sling tomorrow,” Greeley says. We jet down the highway, and the setting sun plunges below the horizon. “He loves skinning.”
“How did Sling get his name?” I ask, wondering if his apparent love of skinning has anything to do with it.
“Apparently, as a kid, he had an obsession with slinging rocks at squirrels. When his dad found out, he wasn’t disturbed like you might imagine. He was impressed. From that point on, his family exclusively ate game. Butchered all their own winnings. And Sling earned his title.”
“That’s why he’s so good at cooking,” I muse.
Greeley nods.
The familiar green I-25 sign tells me we’re close to where we left Andrew. I don’t feel terrible about taking his truck, though maybe I should.
I peer out the window, but I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find. If he had any smarts and skill, he’d be home by now.
Three exits from the Split, a zombie slogs down the road. Not just any zombie . . . a zombie wearing swim shorts. He—it—turns around as Greeley’s headlights shine on his pudgy frame.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, slowing the truck to a crawl. Her solemn tone doesn’t match her insensitive words, and disappointment pulls down her shoulders—a small chip in the callous front she wears; she was hoping he’d make it, too.
“Can you stop?”
“The idioms? No.”
“The car. Please stop the car.”
The car rolls to a stop, and a zombified Andrew stares directly into the headlights and meanders toward the truck. Unlike most zombies, especially newborns, he—it, dammit—doesn’t have a lot of pep in his step. His slow pace and clumsy limbs will make this an easy takedown.
Physically, at least.
Milo’s face flashes through my mind’s eye.
My choices led to this, just like they led to Milo’s. My fault. What good am I at making choices for myself if all I do is cause death?
Yet . . . I wouldn’t have a truck, a fish, and a deer if I hadn’t made those choices. I wouldn’t have discovered strength—the strength I need to provide for myself and my family. I had to choose what served me, even if it put another in harm’s way.
And right now, I choose mercy. Rest in peace, Andrew.
Knife in hand, I step out of the truck and limp toward him. A smell of unwashed armpits and rotten apples overwhelms me. I grab the greasy hair on the top of Andrew’s chomping head, pull it toward me, and strike. He tumbles straight to the ground with a loud thump.
I gasp, startled at how easy it was to kill. I took down two zombies in one day. I’m proud of myself for that, but I’m horrified that I’ve become the kind of person who could leave another behind.
With weak knees, I bend down and fish around in his pocket for the knife and flask I gave him. Shit—he was speaking the truth before. He isn’t wearing underpants. And his pocket has holes.
Zombie penis: something I never thought I’d have the distinct displeasure of coming into contact with.
Greeley drums her hands on the steering wheel as I slide in and slam the passenger door.
I take a swig from the flask. Andrew left a mouthful. Or maybe it’s his backwash. I’m full of all kinds of Andrew fluid today.
I swipe the back of my hand along my mouth. “I feel like shit.”
“Told you it wouldn’t always be easy.”
Yeah, but . . . this was our fault.
Greeley reaches over the console, and I think she’s going to slap me or punch me or both. Only, she squeezes my shoulder. “Congratulations,” she says. A puffy green bruise is forming under her left eye. “You’ve officially won my approval.”
I smile, but it feels like sucking on a lemon. I’ve never met someone so calculating, so loathsome. And yet earning her respect has made this entire fucked-up day worth it.
What does that say about me?
As soon as I buckle up and slouch back in my seat, my ankle throbs. Had that waterlogged zombie bitten me—had it been its gnarly teeth that pierced my flesh instead of its fingernails—I would be like Andrew right now.
Instead, I fought it off. I swam away. Against it all, I survived.
When he hears about this, I hope Jasper will be proud.
Dammit, Kota. No. You do not need his approval.
I squeeze my eyes shut, images swarming behind my lids: Jasper’s warm smile, his pleading eyes, the shape of his lips when he said those infuriating words . . .
I don’t want you to die.
Jasper’s voice echoes in my head. I want him to have meant those words, more than I care to admit. Honestly, I don’t want to die, either. Because then I’d never get to see him again.