Nowhere To Hide

A desert. Now, exactly which one, I don't know, but it's obvious I've gotten out of my car somewhere in the middle of Africa. Last night the undeads followed me to a creepy village a few miles back and I've run out of food. Great. And there's nowhere to hide in the desert.

My plan is simple: I'll stay here in the Volvo wagon for now, take inventory, and drive as far as I can tonight, hopefully before they catch up to me. Which by the looks of it won't be long. Back in the village, everybody I saw was infected and most were dying. The desert in this case is beginning to seem much, much better.

I tuck myself under a blanket in the old car and try to settle down enough to fall asleep--a near impossible task due to my 'situation.'

A few days ago a zombie took a chunk out of my thigh, but the pain is starting to subside. Maybe the infection is working its way into my bloodstream? I don't know and there's no reason to care, because I can't do anything about it.

You see, people with strong immune systems don't get bit.

Well, they can, but they don't get infected.

Not usually.

At home I was a runner, and rarely ever got sick. I ate my vegetables. I took medicine if I needed it. My immunity has to be pretty good then, right?

There's not much more to do than wait...and "hope for the least bad."

That was my dad's motto.

A few hours later the sun has almost set and I'm recharged and ready to kill. The undeads can't really go out in the sun, which is only an advantage to those who think it is. I'm one of those.

It means, though, that you can't dispose of them during the day. They just dissolve into the ground at any touch of sunlight, only to come back at night. How helpful is that?

I realize I've wasted most of my time taking stock. One blanket, check. I spread it out on the hood of the Volvo to have a nice bird's-eye view of danger.

A six-inch fillet knife. Machete. One gallon bottle of water; it's warm and probably nasty. Another one half-full of coins. I've also got a gun without any bullets.

One earplug, a Black Keys cd, a gum wrapper, a hairband, and my keys. No maps. No manual. What kind of car doesn't have a manual?

Suddenly I hear a thump and a 'whoosh' from somewhere behind my dune. (Something actually went 'thump' in the desert, and I was guessing it wasn't an elephant).

I grab the knives and gun (who knows?) and scramble up to the roof of my car. Laying myself flat down on the blanket, I watch as three or so blurry figures gradually appear out of the swirling sand. They're dragging something. I get a sick feeling as I realize it's a body.

It seems to take forever for the pack to reach my car, but by then I'm prepared for them. I kneel into a crouch and bare my teeth, expecting a fight. Then, one of them speaks.

"It's okay. We won't hurt you."

My heart thuds. That's what they always say.

"Really!" says another. If I didn't know, I would be tempted to believe them.

"Show yourselves," I yell.

The last thing I remember seeing is the face of my father, who is supposed to be dead, telling me,

"It's okay, Linsie. We're clean!"