Up ahead, I saw the two Humvees and the other vehicles stopped. They sat across a dirt parking lot from a loading dock, a small copse of trees occupying the middle of the space. A few rusty shipping containers stood to their right, and to the left, I could see the main building and the larger brewing facility beyond.

Dad, Blake, and Mike stood in a huddle while Tyrel rested his hands on the stock of an M-240, barrel trained toward the loading dock. I had a moment to wonder what was holding them up, but then I drove closer to Mike’s Humvee and the mystery was solved.

Infected.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Sophia reached in the back and grabbed her rifle. “Dad said I need target practice. Guess this is as good a time as any.” Before I could say anything, she was out the door and headed toward the parking lot. I grabbed my own weapon and scrambled after her.

“Sophia! Hold up.” I caught her in six running strides. She had already reached Mike, who stood in her path, hand upraised.

“Whoa there,” the big Marine said. “Where do you think you’re going, little girl?”

She gave him a withering glare. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Sorry. Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

“I was thinking about going over there and shooting those infected.”

Mike’s face closed down. “Like hell you are. Get back in the truck. Let us take care of these things.”

“I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad,” Sophia said. “You don’t get to order me around.”

She went to brush by him, but Mike’s hand shot out and seized her arm. “Sophia, stop it.”

Her eyes tracked coldly from the hand to her father’s face. “Let. Go.”

“Sophia …”

“Let. Go. Now. Or I swear to God, I will leave this place and you will never see me again.”

She sounded like she meant it. I stood and stared, shocked at her sudden anger, wondering what the hell had gotten into her. Mike looked pained, mouth half-open, unsure what to say. In a flash of inspiration, I stepped up and put a hand on both of them.

“Okay, hold up a minute,” I said. “I have an idea.”

They both looked at me, Mike with desperate hope, Sophia blankly. “Listen, Mike. These things are everywhere. She’s going to have to learn to deal with them sooner or later. There aren’t that many of them. This is a good opportunity to let her get some real world experience in a controlled environment.”

I could see the gears turning behind Mike’s eyes. His hand loosened on her arm and fell away. Pressing my advantage, I said, “She can stay close to the two of us. Me on one side, you on the other. We’ll watch her flanks while she takes out the infected ahead of us. The three of us can work one side of the parking lot, Dad and Blake can set up a crossfire on the other. If things get too heavy, we’ll all fall back and let Tyrel light ‘em up with the heavy machine gun. Sound good to you?”

Mike looked to the others, who gave short nods, then back to me. “Sounds like a plan.”

I turned to Lance. “You mind staying here in the middle? Hang back and take out the ones that slip by?”

He checked the safety on his carbine, then slid back the charging handle to make sure there was a round in the chamber. “I can do that.”

“All right then,” I smiled at Sophia. She smiled back. “Let’s do this.”

The infected were spread out across the parking lot, perhaps a hundred of them, more emerging from a stand of trees to the left of the main building. It was roughly the same number Lance and I had faced the day we found Bob and Maureen killed in their home. If the two of us could handle that many on our own, I felt confident of our chances with Dad, Blake, Mike, and Tyrel helping out. Not to mention Sophia.

Mike led the way, walking toward the shipping containers. Looking at them, a thought occurred to me. “Hey Mike.”

“Yeah.”

I pointed at the closest container. “Ever heard the saying about working smarter, not harder?”

Mike looked where I pointed and grunted approvingly. “Think you can haul my big ass up there?”

“We’ll manage.”

We broke into a jog; the infected were drawing close enough to be worrisome. Mike slid his rifle around to his back, leaned against the container, and interlaced his fingers at hip level. I stepped into them, hauled myself up high enough to grasp the top of the container, then pushed off his shoulder with my right foot. It was enough to get me over the top, and once there, I told him to send Sophia up.

After helping her up the container, I told her to grab hold of my belt, dig in her heels, and lean back as hard as she could.

“What for?” she asked.

“So your bear of a father doesn’t drag all three of us to the ground.”

“You ready up there,” Mike shouted, casting a worried glance at the steadily approaching undead.

“Ready,” I said. “Come on up.”

He backed off, took two running steps, and with surprising agility for a man his size, leapt up and seized the edge of the container. Then, feet scrambling for purchase, he pulled himself up until his chin was over the edge, at which point I was able to grip the back of his vest and haul him the rest of the way over. That done, we stood up and sorted ourselves out.

“Cut it close enough didn’t we?” I said, pointing at a ghoul who now occupied the space where Mike had stood a few seconds ago.

“They’re faster than they look,” Mike said. “The ones that ain’t messed up too bad can really move.”

“Yeah, I noticed the same thing.”

“Well, are we going to stand around admiring them all day,” Sophia said, “or are we going to kill the damn things?”

She stood at the edge of the container, rifle at port arms, eyes bright with anticipation. It seemed odd to me that she should be so eager to kill the undead. Sure, they were a threat, but they had been people once. Human beings. I had killed a number of them, but felt no elation or satisfaction at doing so. It was a simple matter of survival, of necessity. I derived no pleasure from it.

Watching her, I was reminded of everything I had read over the years about projection and catharsis. How some people have a need to externalize their fears and insecurities and purge their inner pain. They find a target, an outlet, someone or something they can point their finger at and say, That is bad, and feel better about themselves. Or in Sophia’s case, designate an object of contempt and diminish it so low on her scale of regard that killing it carries no more meaning than squashing a mosquito against her neck.

I have met a great many people who feel the same way. They have an unreasoning hatred for the undead and will go out of their way to kill them, even when it is dangerous or unnecessary to do so. These people see the dead, and they see the reason for everything they have lost, for everything the world has become, for all the death, and pain, and suffering, and all the shattered dreams and lives, and the screams of the dying that haunt them in the night. I can see how these people come to this conclusion, and I understand where they are coming from. But I do not agree with them.

When I look at the infected, I see victims.

When I put them down, it is not retribution. I am doing them a kindness. And God forbid, if I am ever infected, I hope some merciful soul will do the same for me.

“All right, Sophia,” Mike said, stepping next to her. “Remember what I taught you now. Stay relaxed, lean into the rifle, let out half a breath before you shoot, and make sure you squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”

“I know, Dad,” she said, motioning for him to back up. She took a breath, brought the rifle to her shoulder, sighted through the red-dot scope, took aim, and fired.

And missed.

“Shit.” She shuffled her feet, re-aiming.

“You’re too stiff,” Mike said. “It’s making you jump when you pull the trigger.”