Don’t know if it was strength or courage I conjured, but taking that first step was not easy. Still, I took it. Each step after -- no easier.

I had to take one hand off the shovel to feel along the wall. I was looking for a door, or doorway. Last thing I wanted to feel, but the one thing that kept coming to mind, was the touch of a cotton nightie. I shivered.

My fingers grazed over fuzzy wallpaper. Reminded me of mold. I almost pulled my hand away. Instead, I pushed forward. Seemed like I’d covered more than a hundred yards. A chanced look back told me maybe I’d crossed a foot or two. The baby steps weren’t getting the job done.

Molding. A doorway. I felt around. The door was open. I reached across to the opposite wall, the wall on the east and touched fuzziness. So no one was behind me. I took a deep breath. Held it, and sent the end of my shovel into the room ahead of me. I poked and jabbed at air. Followed in close behind. I swung it back and forth, just to make sure Mannequin wasn’t standing right there, waiting for me.

She wasn’t. The window across the room let in some outside light. I could turn on the light. Josh and Dave had indicated the back yard was clear. This room faced that direction. I didn’t want to risk it. Didn’t seem worth it. Instead, I stood at the threshold a moment, hoping my eyes would adjust. I didn’t have all night. A few extra seconds wasn’t going to hurt, especially if it helped my sight.

Or so I thought.

Chapter Twenty-One

There should have been a warning. Some kind of sound. I should have smelled the decaying flesh. Instead, I tried to jump back as stumps where fingers should have been slammed into my back, sending me forward, reeling. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I lost balance and stumbled toward the bed.

Under the covers lie a man. What was once a man. Best I could tell, it had been a man. If his face had been green, he’d of resembled a watermelon sliced in half and eaten by a dog. Nose, mouth and upper jaw . . . gone. So was most of the brain. His face looked more like a bowl. A deep, hollowed out hole. Only thing that told me it was a male, was the pajama top. Mannequin was in an old-fashioned nightgown, and this old guy wore pajamas. Didn’t think people wore that kind of stuff anymore.

And then I was on him. Chests criss-crossing. I smelled him. Insides reeked, emptied bowels mashed by the extra weight of me on the deceased.

Before I could push off, or roll off of the dead guy, Mannequin was on me, fell or dropped onto my back. Envisioning those gooey stumps slapping at me, as if trying to get a finger grasp on my shirt, or to dig fingernails into my skin for a hold, had me bucking like a bull that did not want to be ridden.

I felt trapped, pinned between two bodies. The shovel useless, sandwiched like this. I’d seen enough horror movies to know I was in some shit. Had no idea if getting bit infected me with whatever they had. Would I become one of them? That thought alone had my own bowels ready to release.

Unlike when I first entered the room, I heard her. Mannequin. She breathed hard and heavy. Like an excited woman. She seemed to be scaling my back. Perhaps getting her head in position to chomp down on my exposed and highly vulnerable neck.

This kicked my adrenaline into hyper-drive. I thrashed. Twisted. I was not going to be bitten, but neither was I able to throw her off my back.

Her hot breath was on my skin. Near my neck.

The inevitable happened. I felt a prick on my shoulders. Sharp teeth sinking into my flesh. I screamed. Couldn’t help it.

“I got her,” I heard.

Dave.

All at once, the weight was lifted off me. The sound of a body hitting the floor followed. I rolled over, and off of the dead man. In the dimly lit room, I saw Dave. He stood with a two-handed grip on his pitchfork.

I sat up, looked down. The tines of his weapon had pierced Mannequin’s head. He stepped on her back and pulled free the pitchfork. My hand went to my neck. There was some bleeding. Warm, and sticky. “I think she bit me,” I said. I felt sick. Thought I might throw up. I had no clue what was in store.

“Let me see,” Dave said. He slapped a hand on my shoulder and spun me around. “My bad.”

“What’s your bad?”

“She didn’t bite you. The pitchfork went too far. I think those marks are from this,” he said, and held up his weapon.

“Not a bite?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

I wanted to cry. Relief washed through me. My shoulders deflated. I sighed. And sighed again. “Oh my, God. Thank you. Thank you.”

“For stabbing you?”

New respect for the slow man filled me. I stood up. Put out my hand. “For saving my life.”

He shook it. “It was nothing. You saved ours earlier. It’s what friends do.”

I’d not had many opportunities to save lives. Of friends, or otherwise. There was the one time a guy was choking on a mouth full of french fries at Schaller’s. I performed the Heimlich. He spat a wad of chewed potato across the room, but he was breathing, and alive. “I suppose in days like this, it is. I appreciate it.”

I wanted to apologize for being a dick, but figured I’d wait it out. See what type of friendship actually blossomed.

“Josh is watching the back. Allison’s at the front door still. She was worried. I came to apologize about the radio. She told me you were up here. That there was one of those things up here. I didn’t want you to go at it alone. Thought I might be able to help. Have your back, you know?”

“I’m glad you did. Again, thank you.” I looked around the room. My shovel was on the opposite side of the bed. I walked around to retrieve it.

“She musta ate her husband?”

“Looks that way.”

“This is fucked up, you know? I mean, seriously fucked up shit.”

“Tell me about it.” I clapped him on the back. “Let’s check the rest of the rooms up here. Just make sure there aren’t any more surprises.”

“Good call.”

We cleared a second bedroom and bathroom at the end of the hallway. There was a door that led to an attic. We looked at each other. Chance of this old couple having more people in the attic did not seem plausible. Dave volunteered to give it a once-over. I stopped him. “Let me,” I said.

A thin cord dangled just over the third step. Didn’t suspect the attic had windows. I chanced the light and pulled the cord. A naked bulb bounced and swung back and forth from the tug. It cast moving shadows in every corner of the attic. With just my head at floor level, I prairie-dogged it. Gave the room a full 360. Aside from neatly stacked and black marker-labeled boxes, no one was hiding in the attic. Relieved, I turned off the light and went back down the stairs.

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Clear.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Josh and I sat at the kitchen table. Dave had raided the fridge, found left over deep fried chicken and a saran wrapped bowl of mashed potatoes. He pulled a few cans of French cut green beans from the cabinet, added some Italian salad dressing to it, and together, and in silence, we ate a meal.

The front lawn was loaded with what seemed like camped-out zombies. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere. They wondered up and down the driveway, went around the side of the house and explored the backyard, came back and walked up and down the driveway.

It was 4 a.m. We’d sent Dave and Allison to sleep on sofas in the family room about an hour a half ago. No sense all of us staying up. Josh told me to get some sleep too, but I wasn’t interested. When there was a break in zombies, I wanted to be ready to run. Thought it might have lasted a half hour or so. Never expected them to remain.

My gut was in knots. I’d eaten, but feared I’d not be able to keep the food down. It went down easy. Stayed down, too. Mannequin had been an amazing cook.