Dead Sea

    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!"