Dead Sea

    "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.

Chapter Four