Zocopalypse (Death Fields 1)

“I didn’t say that.” But okay, yes, I was thinking it.

“My dad grew up on a farm outside of Burlington. His dad had an American dream. So yeah, my family is totally country, even though I just wanted to sit inside and watch TV. I’ll admit though, taking down that Eater was mostly luck.”

“At least you could do it. I panicked.”

“Why do you think I’ve been living here? I found a safe spot and claimed it. God knows what will happen if and when I need to leave. At least you have a plan of some sort.”

“Tonight was a pretty big sign of how unprepared we are,” I admit. The confession makes me uncomfortable and I start to fidget with the ring on my finger.

Paul shook his head and says, “No one is prepared for this, Alex.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

~Now~

Wyatt and I go around the back of the diner while Cole and Chloe hit the front.

“Let me see your cut,” I say, finally getting a moment alone with him.

He pauses and lifts up his shirt and I peel back the bandage. The cut looks ugly, red, and painful. I have no idea if it will get infected but at least we can try to manage it.

“Here,” I say, digging through my bag. I locate the aspirin and some antibiotic cream, handing it over. He swallows the pills dry, gritting his teeth as he chokes them down. Next he tucks his shirt under his chin and spreads the ointment over the cut, wincing from the pain. I cover the edges of the bandage with fresh tape.

“Make sure you keep it covered,” I say.

“What are you, a nurse?”

“No, but I don’t want that to get nasty and then we’ll have all kinds of other apocalypse stuff on our hands. I don’t need another page in my diary titled “Had to kill another traveling companion today because he let his wound get infected.”

He squints and drops his shirt. “You have a diary?”

“Shut up.”

I hold back as he taps on the back door in an attempt to rouse any Eaters inside. He waits to the count of five and takes a deep step back before slamming a boot clad foot into the metal door.

His foot bounces back so he tries again, this time the veins on his neck and forehead bulging. “Mother f-er,” he grunts. He’s about to wind up to do it again when the door swings open, revealing a crossbow and a mop of short blonde hair.

“Need some help?” Cole asks.

“Thank God, I thought Wyatt was going to hemorrhage or something,” I say pushing past him.

We enter the kitchen, welcomed by flies and the undeniable, suffocating stench of rotting food. Stale, shriveled hotdogs lie skewered on the counter top, their machine no longer rotating. And a rat skitters out of the buffet warming pan with a chunk of fried chicken in its mouth.

Chloe walks up, waving her hand in front of her face. “Ugh, the flies.”

“Let’s make this quick,” Wyatt says going straight for the non-perishables, plucking cans stacked high on metal shelves and dropping them into his bag.

We each take a corner of the diner, lit by the wide glass front window. Cole goes for the water bottles, while also fil

ling our canteens from the sink. Chloe picks through the small stash of packaged food on the racks by the register.

“Get jerky,” Cole tells his sister. She grunts and even in the barely lit room I see her roll her eyes. Her action doesn’t stop him. “And some of those packaged cheese snacks. We need protein.”

I turn to look for Wyatt and spot the back of his head disappearing into another room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask. Even I can hear the shrill tone.

“What the hell, Alex, I’m just looking in the back to make sure we’re not missing anything.”