He meets my eyes and shrugs. “Your home, your call.”

“Do you know this neighborhood?”

“A little.” he responds vaguely. “If I had to run, I’d make it out. I’m pretty sure.”

I nod, thinking. It’s tempting. But it’s also dangerous. Sure, he could lure the zombies away from my front door and I’d be safe for the night but who’s to say they wouldn’t lose him and come right back? Obviously the scent of blood and living flesh is strong enough here for them to be swarming. This rain might wash more of it away but how soon?

“What would your gang do?”

“We’d kill them. We always kill them when we can.”

“Do you think we can?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can’t count them. Maybe.”

“You willing to work with a maybe?”

He grins. “A maybe, one knife and a busted hand? How could it go wrong?”

“We can do something about the knife.”

“I almost want to stick with it just to see if I can do it.”

“Yeah, well,” I begin, leading him toward the wall beside the door. “I’d rather you didn’t try to get me killed again.”

There’s a large, discolored drop cloth hanging from the wall. I reach up and pull it aside, unveiling my collection. Ryan’s eyes light up as he whistles at the sight.

“Joss, I’m gonna be honest with you.” He reverently runs his hand over each tool, all of them dented, dinged, mangled and well used. Well worn. Well wielded. “If you weren’t so hostile, I’d be in love with you by now.”

I can’t understand that statement and I can’t look him in the eyes. So I stick to what I know. Silence.

He picks up a weapon, a tire iron. Not your average, store it in the trunk of your car tire iron. This one is long and incredibly sharp at one end, round and blunt on the other.

“That’s really not the best—“ I begin, but he cuts me off with a smile.

“It’s perfect.” He swings it around, spinning it back and forth, testing its weight and reach.

I grab my go to weapon, the most used of them all.

“Is that what I think it is?”

In answer I whip my hand out. The baton extends to its full length of 16 inches. It’s all steel, all deadly.

“It’s an ASP.” I reply proudly.

“It’s badass.”

I can’t stop the chuckle from rising out of my chest. I flip it in my hand, offering the handle to him. He takes it up eagerly to test it out with a couple practice swings.

“It can break bone, can’t it?”

“Oh yeah. It’ll crack skulls.”

“Where did you get this and are there more of them?” He collapses it down then swings it out as I did, snapping the baton out to attention. He laughs when it extends.

“I found it in an apartment years ago. It was the only one.”

“Dammit.”

“I know. I did a happy dance when I found it.”

He hands it back to me. “You? Happy dancing? I can’t picture it.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I’d rather see it.”

“That’s not going to happen.” I stash the ASP in my pocket and lift the wood from the door. “You ready for this?”

“I’m always ready.”

I look back at him, eyebrows raised. “How’s your hand?”

He rolls his eyes at me and I hate the gesture so much I feel a little like punching him again. “I told you I made a mistake. It was one time.”

“Your one time mistake almost got both of us killed. It still might.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No you did not. When did this imaginary apology happen?”

“Well I meant to say it.”

I lean back against the unsecured door, crossing my arms over my chest.

“What?” he asks impatiently.

“I’m waiting.”

“Seriously?” When I don’t respond he sighs heavily. “Joss, I am so terribly sorry. Please forgive me.”

His voice is dead, completely insincere. I continue to wait.

He sighs again as his shoulders slump slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” I say happily, popping up off the door and swinging it open.

Before I head out into the hall I look both ways like I’m crossing the street. I’ve been blindsided by a zombie before. It’s like being hit by a truck that’s all teeth, drool and stink. It sticks with you.

“Is this really a good idea?” he whispers as we step out into the hall.

“Now?” I whisper back sharply. “You’re asking that question now?”

“I’m just saying maybe we should wait until first light.”

I know what he’s really worried about; squaring off with Risen with an untested partner. Fighting with the wrong person, or another person at all, can prove fatal. You put your faith in them to cover you in some way but what if they make a mistake? What if they fail you? What do you do then?

You let the infected have them and you run, that’s what.

Then you live alone and you keep your mouth and memory shut.

I shake my head, not willing to let him use this lame excuse. It’s a shady way of saying I don’t trust you.

“You know why that’s stupid.”

“Because there will be more of them by then.” he mutters grudgingly.

“Exactly. If we kill what’s out there now, they’ll work as a deterrent for others. They don’t come around their own stink.”

“We’re gonna have to clear them though.”

“No we won’t.”

“What? Now who’s being stupid? You have to clear them or people will know you live around here. Dead undead on your doorstep is like a Welcome mat to Colonists. Your home could be compromised.”

“It already is.” I say, my quiet voice dripping with venom.

He reaches out and touches my arm, stopping me. I make a point of looking up at his eyes and ignoring where he’s touching me even though the contact is searing my skin through my clothes. He does it like it’s nothing and I think to him, having lived with his brother and surrounded by other people, it’s just that; nothing. They probably touch each other all the time. To me, though, it’s everything and it’s almost as beautiful as it is frightening.

“You’re talking about me?” he whispers, his brow furrowing.

“Of course I’m talking about you. You know where I live. You know what I have. I can’t stay here anymore. When you leave tomorrow morning, so will I.”

“For good?” I nod and he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “You don’t have to do that. I swear to you, I’m not a threat.”

“Maybe not now because you don’t need anything. But what happens in a month or so when the winter hits hard? What if you need something you know I have? What if your gang loses control of their home and it’s cold outside and you’re desperate? You’re swearing to me that you won’t lead them all straight to me?”

“Yes.” he says, his eyes hard.

I shake my head. “I don’t know you. Your word means nothing to me.”

His jaw clenches as his hand tightens on my arm. He’s angry. That’s great because so am I.

“I hate the thought of you losing your home because you saved me.”

I roughly shake off his hand. “You and me both.”

When we get to the gate at the bottom of the stairs I miss the wolves. If they were still here, the dead wouldn’t be. The wolves would have made quick work of them, shredding them to pieces and leaving nothing but a disgusting, comforting pile of gore and guts. The animals don’t eat the zombies. In fact, most of them stay clear of them, predators being the only ones who attack them. You can tell they’re around when deer go blazing by you down an alley or in the middle of a mall. Birds will take to the skies screaming and screeching like crazy. They’re a natural warning system but even they can fail you. Even the wolves will let you down sometimes.

Waiting at the gate for us is a group of eight dead. Eight bobbing heads. Eight gaping, moaning mouths that I can smell from here, the thick rot of their insides wafting up and out toward us with each movement. Eight sets of hands clawing through the gate, some clawing through each other not caring if it hurts or if it’s right.

It’s a lot of them. More than I’ve seen rounded up in one spot lately. They’re disappearing slowly, either being picked off by aggressive animals or by us, the remaining vigilante humans living in the wild. The people in the Colonies should be thanking us, maybe throwing a little of that homemade bread our way now and then for the service we’re performing. One day the outside world will once again be zombie free and they’ll have us to thank for it. The ones who refused to hide behind their walls and tend their fields. The ones still fighting the good fight. People like Ryan and I.