Page 26

Love that for me.

My fingers lock around the crowbar, but I step forward anyway because apparently this is who I am now. A woman with a bad leg, tear-swollen eyes, and a crowbar being gently pushed into personal growth by a mute lumberjack with murder skills.

The infected sees me the second I step into the doorway. Its head snaps toward the sound of glass crunching under my boot, and the groan that tears out of it is wet enough to make my skin crawl. Leon’s hand lands briefly at my back. Not pushing. Steadying.

The touch is gone almost immediately, but my body notices anyway. My brain is trying to focus on the undead woman shuffling toward me with half her face caved in, and apparently the rest of me has decided Leon’s hand on my lower back deserves equal attention.

Terrible survival instincts.

He gestures again. Two fingers down. Lower. Then a tap near his own temple.

Aim for the head.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I whisper.

His mouth twitches.

The infected lurches closer, and I step out onto the sidewalk. Cold air slaps my face, sharp enough to clear the last of the tears from my skin. The street looks different now. Not quiet anymore. Not empty. Movement stirs in alley mouths, behind cars, inside busted storefronts. Shapes turning. Heads lifting. The dead pulling themselves toward us one rotten body at a time.

The one Leon gave me is close enough now that I can see the old name tag pinned to its coat.

MARGE.

Oh Lord.

Marge reaches for me, and I swing too soon. The crowbar clips her shoulder with a dull crack, not hard enough to drop her but hard enough to spin her half a step sideways. She comes right back, mouth open, black gums wet and shining.

Panic jumps up my throat.

Leon snaps his fingers once.

He points at his feet, then shifts his weight back.

Move.

Right.

I stumble backward as Marge lunges, and her fingers swipe through the space where my arm was. Leon gestures again, sharp and clean.

Side. Knee. Head.

“Really?” I mutter. “This is how you want to train me? In the street? Surrounded by the undead? With Marge?”

He shoots an arrow past me without looking away. A body drops somewhere behind my right shoulder with a wet, final thud.

Then he smiles.

My fear flickers into something else.

Annoyance, maybe.

Fine.

I can work with annoyance.

Marge comes at me again. I step sideways instead of back and slam the crowbar into her knee. The joint buckles with a sound like celery snapping under a boot. She drops crooked, arms still reaching, fingers clawing at my jeans.

I yelp.