Bite

The Walking Dead

"I took a few extra minutes to stop in the shelter in the basement and get enough goods to make dinner," Rayford said. "I've seen a few employees around the halls, but they've all appeared to be eaten—not bitten and left to rise again. I shot each one I saw—just in case—in the head, twice. We can go back to the shelter for more food when it is daylight."

We nodded, agreeing. No matter what this man said, we'd probably do it. We leaned on his advice as naturally as we would have accepted a father's command—he was older, wiser, and smarter. I put my full trust in him—he stopped by my house when he saw me at the door. He could have left and saved his own skin—but he risked it, for me, a stranger and daughter of a neighbor who was not his friend.

If there was anyone to trust, this man was the one.

We got out of the car, and Pedro and Rayford unloaded the firearms kept under the cushion compartments of the backseat. Helen and myself were each given a small gun, and the rest were put into a canvas bag, which Rayford shouldered. Hailey actually took some initiative and pulled out a bundle of grocery store bags from glove compartment, and then began to put what we stole from the gas mart inside of them, passing them to us like an assembly line until we had our supplies safely in the elevator.

"Can't risk desperate individuals stealing it," Hailey said flippantly, clearly quoting some tv show she had probably watched. "You know how these things go. A couple of people pretend to befriend the survivors and then steal all the supplies."

"How old are you again?" Pedro asked slowly.

"Old enough to watch the Walking Dead," she snapped.

Pedro quietly calculated her age and the rating of the television show.

After a pregnant pause, he hissed, "No, you're not!"