A wet nose nudging my hand wakes me up, and I have to blink a few times from the sunlight that's streaming through the window. It's sometime late morning or early afternoon, if I had to guess. Mike lets out a low huff and pushes his wet nose against my fingers again and I absent mindedly pet him.
The dog switches tactics and puts my entire hand in his mouth and I sit bolt upright. I don't think he would hurt me, but he is a flesh-eating dog, and you can never be too careful. I pull my hand out of his mouth carefully and he lets it go, much to my relief.
I glance around the room and am relieved to see Ryan didn't go far. He's sprawled out beside me on the bed, and I smile at the wall of pillows that he's built between us, like a grade-school kid afraid of catching cooties. I highly doubt actually Ryan thinks I'm going to give him cooties, it's much more likely that he did this for my own modesty, and it was a sweet gesture.
Mike whines again, bringing my attention back to the dog and I frown at him. "Whats the matter?" I ask him as I struggle to swing my feet over the edge of the bed. I'm stiff and sore from the last couple days adventures, but the most likely culprit for this fresh wave of pain is my spill off the bike last night.
I gingerly slip my boots back on and tie them, making sure my gun is still at my hip, I open the door and Mike goes shooting past me. I follow him a lot more carefully, this is an unfamiliar house and even if Ryan did clear it at some point, he didn't clear it last night. Mike has disappeared, off to inspect the house, and I find the kitchen and start pulling cans out of the cupboard.
I settle on some fruit cocktail, with stale crackers and peanut butter spread on top and even find a can of cat food for Mike- he won't know the difference.
As if on cue, Mike shows up at the rattle of the can opener and I get his breakfast first, dumping the large can of congealed brown goop into a mixing bowl that I find up in the cupboard. Mike wolfs it down and then stares at me until I give him half of my peanut butter and cracker pile. It's probably not the best diet for the dog to be eating all this junk, but we've got to make do with what we can find.
I finish eating my fruit straight from the can right around the same time Mike starts whining at the patio door. I walk over and stare outside the glass door, glad the private deck can only be reached by a set of steep stairs, or the glass wouldn't be very useful against pounding zombie fists. Mike whines again and I scan the yard and visible river bank for any sign of zombies. The dog wants outside badly, but I don't know if I should.
I know the dog can hold his own against a zombie, I'm more worried about attracting the dead to our hide out. Mike lets out an impatient bark and I shush him, even as I slide the patio door open in defeat. He takes off like a shot and I nervously step out onto the deck and take-a-look around. Mike runs down towards the river and starts pacing along the banks.
I'm about to turn and go back into the house when a faint noise is carried to my ear on the breeze. Gun shots. I stand up a little straighter and peer down at Mike, who's staring across the river at Louisville. I strain my ears to listen and more shots ring out from across the river- and I could almost swear I hear screaming.
I turn to rush back into the house to wake up Ryan and nearly scream myself when I come face to face with him standing in the doorway watching me. "You shouldn't be outside." He tells me and I shrug.
"The dog needed out." I tell him, then motion for him to join me outside. "Do you hear that?" I ask and confusion lights his face.
"What?" He says peeking out to look both ways before joining me at the railing.
"Gun shots." I tell him and he frowns.
"Yeah." He finally admits after a few minutes of straining our ears. "Its not that unusual though in this world, someone is probably just shooting zombies." He says with a shrug. As if to punctuate his words a hoarse cry reaches our ears, though its faint and sounds far away.
