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He backs up, crowbar in hand. The zombie is still making its way toward him, that horrible creeping crawl—pull with its arms and scrabble with its one leg. There’s no belt on the other leg any longer, as if that part had been an illusion, luring Henry in with the possibility that the old man lived.

“Edgar,” Henry says, giving the old man back his name. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”

He’s not killing a man; he’s setting him free. Remember that.

He wraps both hands around the crowbar and pulls it back. Then he rams it, and he’s not relying on TV logic working here. He’s a paramedic. He aims for the old man’s eye and braces himself for the horror of that, but it goes in so fast he doesn’t have time to notice the process. One second he’s jabbing the crowbar with all his might and the next it’s embedded deep in the old man’s brain.

Edgar shudders once, twice, and then falls face-first onto the road. That’s not enough. Henry may have hated that show, but he paid attention, and he knows this trick well. He resists the urge to nudge Edgar’s body with his foot. He isn’t getting within biting distance. He strides to a stick on the road—the same one he and Ellie laid out to warn the next car?—and he picks it up.

Edgar lies face down and motionless, but Henry still pokes him several times with the stick. When he’s convinced Edgar is dead—again—he backs up to Raymond’s car, lowers himself to the driver’s seat, and exhales a long, shuddering breath.

He’d come to the cars to lure in Raymond, but if the guy isn’t here by now, he isn’t coming.

So now what?

Go look for Ellie. That’s what he’s wanted to do all along, and now that he’s tried the more logical strategy of trapping Raymond, it’s time to follow his …

Gut? Heart?

Who knows. Who cares. He’s allowing himself to find Ellie. He grabs the headrest to heave himself up and out of the car—and something grabs his hand.

Henry goes to yank his hand away, but it’s held in a viselike grip, and he twists to see rotting fingers wrapped around his wrist. A head rises over the seat back. A half-collapsed head, flesh falling from it. His gaze flies to the face, but it’s no one he knows.

Random Zombie Number Three.

He rumbles a laugh, partly at that and partly at how calm he’s being. Worst nightmare overcome? Maybe.

He yanks his hand harder, but the thing has him firm, milky eyes staring at him, head wobbling like a cobra trying to entrance a victim.

Look at me, your greatest fear come to life. Whooo …

Henry slams his other fist down on the zombie’s, and its wrist snaps with the most satisfying crack. Then he yanks free and—

Something grabs his foot. He kicks, not even looking, and his foot makes contact, but then another hand has his other foot, and the zombie in the car is crawling over the seat. He looks then to see two zombies outside the car, one holding each of his legs.

The panic comes then, washing over him as the creatures drag him from the car. He kicks with all his might, but he feels like a toddler struggling against a grown-up. All his life, he’s felt as if his size and power is a weapon held in reserve, keeping him safe, and now he needs all of it and it’s not enough.

Kick. Thrash. Punch.

Scream.

That’s what he does last. He screams as the zombies drag him out and more appear from the forest. The one from the car leaps onto him, and it twists around as the zombies drag him toward the forest. That terrible face is right over his, and he punches and grabs, but he can’t get hold of it.

Deep in the woods, a shot rings out, and he knows who it is and what is happening.

Her worst nightmare.

“Ellie!” he screams, just as the zombie on his chest grabs his arm and sinks its teeth in.

THIRTY-THREENOEMI

Caleb is dead, and it’s her fault.

Dead in the most horrible way—or maybe not dead, but conscious in that creature and …

Her fault.

How many times had she listened to friends complain about their partner being inconsiderate? The partners who were either incapable of understanding what their lover needed or just didn’t give a shit.