She bit down on her lip, nodded.

I spun around. “Got a plan, David?”

His eyes opened wide. “Me?”

“You. Yes, you. Have a plan?”

He tried to hide a smile. Not sure if his opinion, if his ideas or suggestions were often sought. It was kind of putting him on the spot. The more I looked, the more I realized the situation appeared a bit less than hopeless. We were on a bridge. The mob might be moving slow, but it was in our direction, leaving us little choice for paths toward an escape.

“They’re pretty close,” Dave said.

“And the plan is what? What are we going to do?”

It looked hopeless. Completely hopeless.

Dave’s face contorted, he looked determined.

“Dave?”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“The shadows,” he said.

“The shadows?”

“Let’s move to the right. Cross the bridge. Get into the trees beside the expressway ramp, from there we can go behind the Distillery, and wait until the monsters pass,” he said.

I looked at the trees. Wasn’t enough to call them a forest. Thick enough to seek cover in, deep enough to hide behind. Only problem I saw, was that the trees were on the south side of Ridge. Stone was on the north. We’d be headed in slightly the wrong direction. It was significant, though. Getting from point A to B was not a straight line any longer. The shortest distance was turning out to look more like a connect-the-dots game. There was nowhere to go on the left though. The exit ramp, the vacant restaurant parking lot, then Famous Dave’s and Starbucks. Going to the right, as much as I didn’t want to, made the most sense.

I nodded. “Okay. I like it. As long as they haven’t seen us, we might be okay,” I said, agreeing.

“Really?” Dave said.

“Really. You lead the way. You’ve done a good job so far,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, “follow me.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

We bent forward while we ran. Staying low. Using the disabled vehicles for cover. We crossed the bridge that ran over I-390. Dave, Allison and I looked both ways before darting past the eastbound expressway exit ramp, and were in the woods. Best I could tell, undetected.

The leaves did crunch underfoot. A plus. There was all that rain to thank for that. The mush and mud wasn’t great. I felt the ground suck at my dress shoes. Didn’t care if they got dirty. Just didn’t want them pulled from my feet.

“Help, please. Help!”

We stopped. Looked at each other.

“Where’s that coming from?” Dave said.

“Not that close,” I said. The voice, clearly a female, echoed. “Other side of the trees?”

Allison kind of shrugged, shaking her head. “Could be.”

“We have to find her,” I said. I know it sounded heroic, chivalrous-like. And it was. I did care. But her yelling was going to get all of us in trouble, too. Whoever was yelling for help had no idea what kind of swarm was headed in our direction. “That way,” I said.

We cut diagonally through the trees, could see the end, only yards away. The Distillery parking lot was full. Just east of it were both an Applebees and Olive Garden. This small section of Greece was like restaurant central. And I was hungry. Very, very hungry.

It still seemed a bit funny to me that we stayed armed with garden tools. One would have thought we’d of come across weapons. Guns? Machetes? Harpoons? Anything. Guns had to be out there. It’s all that was in the news as of late. Civilians and their personal armory stashes.

I loved my shovel, felt good in my hands, and now I had one of Josh’s hand shovels in my back pocket, too. Dave’s pitchfork was tough. He had Josh’s other hand shovel. And Allison seemed to have mastered the multitude of hedge clipper uses.

We must have resembled crazed farmers scampering between trees and out into the back parking lot of the Distillery.

The woman still screamed. Not constant. Not always calling for help. She was clearly in trouble. Being chased, was my guess. We needed to hurry.

I chanced a look up at Ridge Road. We were at least a few hundred yards from the main street. Behind the restaurant was a Hampton Inn. Cars in the lot. From here, without the burst of cries and screaming, it looked peaceful. Not much different from the Marriott, just smaller.

“There she is.” Dave pointed.

The woman wore a grey knee-length skirt, what once must have been a nicely pressed white blouse. She carried heels in one hand as she ran in the grass, toward Hoover Drive. A fast zombie in a dark business suit, complete with a thin black tie, was right behind her. He reached for her, swiping passes with bloated blue hands. She serpentined. Left. Right. Doubling back. Good moves. She was like an over-dressed running back. Her shoes the ball.

We ran at her. At the businessman. Dave had his pitchfork tines out front, ready to thrust them through the zombie. The closer we got to them; I raised my shovel, ready to bat his head into the outfield. Allison just ran, her clippers in one hand, not worrying about readying her weapon until the last minute, less it slow down her approach.

Just feet from saving her, the businessman won.

He tackled her, and tried to bury his head onto her shoulder. She let out a blood-curdling scream and arched her back and bucked him off her.

Dave reached them first.

He drove the pitchfork into the guy’s back and hoisted him off the fallen woman as easily as bailing hay. Thick black blood oozed from the puncture wounds. Dave leaned his weight onto the fork, not letting the zombie roll over, stand up, or move at all.

Allison stood in front of Businessman’s head. She spread the clippers wide. She got into a stance, one foot by each of his shoulders. Almost like eyeing a putt, she dropped the teeth of the clippers low, a blade on either side of its neck, and chopped. Hard. It did not cut off his head. It did bite into his throat, severed arteries. She repeated the process, over and over and over.

I held out a hand.

The woman took it. Her other hand was pressed onto her upper chest, just below the shoulder. Blood stained the blouse, where before some bleach and cold water might have washed out the dirt and grass stains.

“Were you bit?”

“No. It’s not my blood. He didn’t bite me. I’ve been in there, in the back office, locked in the back office for days now. Days. I just wanted to sneak out. Get something to eat,” the woman said. She babbled. She shook. Shock, I thought. She’s going into shock. “The kitchen was close. I’d done it earlier. Should have grabbed more food. I just took what I could carry. I needed more. The monitors showed it was clear. No one was in the halls. I didn’t see anyone in the hallway.”

Her name-tag read, HELLO, I AM SUES MELIA.

“Sues?” I said. I pronounced it like zoos, with an “S.”

She stopped talking. Stared at me.

I pointed to my chest, and looked at where her name-tag was pinned to her blouse. She looked down, snorted out a laugh.

“Are you okay?” I said.

I heard it first. In the silence that surrounded us, it was like thunder.

“He almost bit me,” she said.

She pulled at her blouse.

I stuck my fingers into the holes of her blouse and tore the fabric, pulling the sleeve clear off. She gave me a harsh look, brows furrowed.

“That was an expensive blouse.”

“It was ruined, Sues. I just wanted to be sure your skin wasn’t broken.”

She opened her mouth to say something else. I held up a finger.

“I don’t care about the blouse. Really, I don’t. I just, you know what?  I just don’t want to change. I don’t want to become one of those things. Because, you know, he almost bit me.”

“But he didn’t. I don’t see any broken skin. We’ll keep an eye on it. But I think you will be okay,” I said. I had no way of knowing. I made my hand into a fist. Stop. Listen.