We stopped a few more times, and crammed three more people in the car. In the time that I had finally controlled myself, the boys awkwardly introduced themselves, and so did we. We picked up an older woman, about thirty-something, dark-haired and baggy-eyed, who smelled of cigarettes and wore a faded gray sweatshirt with Mickey Mouse on it. Her name was Helen. Then we picked up a man, about twenty, who really was the action-hero type. Muscular and brash, he said his name was Pedro, and squeezed himself beside Wayne and little Dave. Lastly, we drove by a younger girl, about twelve, crying beside the crumpled shape of a person. We drove up and she looked like she was about to bolt, but Helen jumped out of the passenger side and shouted, "Hiya honey, we're here to rescue you." And the girl ran right over at the sound of her motherly, if a bit harsh from a lifetime of cigarettes, tone.
She introduced herself as Hailey, sat on Helen's lap, and I squeezed between Rayford and Helen. There were now seven of us, and while it was tight, we wished there were more. But anyone we saw after that point—anyone at all—were growling, crawling, and moaning across well-kept lawns, empty parking lots, and in the middle of intersections. The uninfected were quickly running out, and they were beginning to roam. I could see them adapting still further, they'd evolve if they weren't stopped. I hoped the army would stop them before they learned how to hunt.
YOU ARE READING
Bite
HorrorA motley crew of survivors during the zombie apocalypse head for a skyscraper where safety is promised. A short story that tries to answer the question - what do ZOMBIES think about?
