Page 66 of One Adult, Please

"More than the adventure part. More than the garden part. A lot."

"A lot isn't a number, Grace."

"A lot is a feeling, Beck. And the feeling is bad."

Joel, being Joel, had actual data. "Solar Plaza had six operational restaurants, four gift shops, two first-aid stations, and multiple support buildings at the time of the shelter order. If even half the guests and staff sheltered in those buildings, and if even a fraction of them turned..." He paused. Did Joel math. "We could be looking at forty to sixty."

"Forty to sixty."

"In the buildings. Plus whatever's been wandering the open plaza."

"Joel, I want you to know that I heard that number and my body had a response and the response was to eat a funnel cake, which I'm doing right now, and I'm not sorry."

That was this morning. Now it's midday and we're crouched behind the big fountain in the big middle, the four of us and Kevin, because Kevin followed us through the service corridor and nobody could stop him because Kevin doesn't recognize barriers or authority or the concept of "no, Kevin, you can't come to the zombie fight."

Kevin is eating a decorative planter. The planter has a small tree in it. Kevin is eating the tree. The tree did nothing wrong.

"Okay," I whisper, unfolding the where picture on the fountain base. The crayon plan now has a new section: BIG MIDDLE CLEARING - DO NOT DIE. I've drawn the plaza layout in yellow crayon, which was a mistake because yellow on white paper is essentially invisible, so I traced over it in purple, which makes the whole thing look like a bruise with labels.

"Six food rooms. Four supply bedrooms. Two band-aid houses. Captain draws as many as he can to the east side of the plaza. We go building by building, same as before," I say.

Grant nods. Lifts his arm. Captain launches with a scream that splits the air and every wrong person in the plaza turns.

They shuffle east. Most of them. Some are stuck in their own loops, walking into benches, circling planters, one of them opening and closing a trash can lid repeatedly.

"There's like six still in the plaza," Beck says.

"I see the trash can one," I say. "And the bench bumpers. And... is that one wearing a Wondie hat?"

It is. A wrong person, formerly a guest, currently a biological malfunction in cargo shorts, is wearing one of those oversized foam Wondie heads from the gift shop. The big spherical mascot hat with the sunglasses. It's wearing it at a tilt, the sunglasses askew, and it's shuffling in a slow circle near the frozen yogurt stand.

"That's the saddest thing I've ever seen," I say. "And also the funniest. It's both. I'm feeling both at the same time and I don't know which one to go with."

"Go with funny," Beck says. "Funny keeps you moving."

"Funny it is. Joel, first building. What's closest?"

"Sunrise Grill. West side. Two entrances, main and kitchen. I'll take kitchen, Beck takes main."

"Grant and I take the windows?"

"There are no tactical windows, Grace."

"I meant watch. Take the watch. The watching. We watch while you go in."

"Yes. Watch."

We move. Crouched, quick, using the planters and overturned vendor carts as cover. Kevin follows at his fifteen-foot radius of chaos, hooves clicking on the tile, chewing a piece of decorative shrub he brought with him from the planter. Kevin has packed a lunch for the apocalypse. He's better prepared than any of us.

Sunrise Grill is a big restaurant, one of those theme park dining halls that seats three hundred and serves burgers that cost sixteen dollars and fries that come in a souvenir bucket that you'll throw away before you reach the parking lot. The windows are intact but dark. Through the glass, I see tables. Chairs. The buffet line with its sneeze guard. And shapes. Moving shapes. Slow shapes. Wrong shapes doing the wrong-person shuffle in what used to be a family dining experience.

"How many?" Joel asks, pressing against the wall near the kitchen entrance.

I peer through the glass. "Eight. Maybe nine. One's behind the buffet line and I can't tell if it's standing or just... propped."

"Nine," Joel says, assigning the higher number because Joel always rounds up on threats and rounds down on optimism.

"Grant, the sleepy stick. If any come through the door, can you zap them?"