Page 91 of Doomsdate

After a second, I nod. I don’t want to, but it’s the truth. Maybe it’s just the well-trained fear Mom cultivated in me responding to her still, but she taught me to listen to that fear. To believe my instincts. And all those instincts are screaming that we shouldn’t be here right now. That we should turn around and run.

“Okay,” Everett says simply. “We’ve had a perfect day in New York City celebrating your birthday, and now we can go home, wherever that is for tonight.” He caresses my cheek.

“Okay,” I finally say, relief flooding my body at the decision.

“Come on. Let’s get our bikes and head back toward the waterfront.” Chicken mewls from his back side as if in agreement.

We pass by a street vendor’s abandoned wares laid out on a white sheet on the sidewalk. Knit hats, shirts, purses, umbrellas, and souvenirs lie scattered about, kicked out of their neat rows by trampling feet. Everett starts digging around in the pile of shirts. The vendor’s gone, or perhaps he’s one of the former humans swaying listlessly around the tipped-over hot-dog cart halfway down the block. It’s hard to say—both the zombies and the hot-dog cart are covered in cooing, pecking pigeons.

Everett stands up triumphantly, a couple of thin white T-shirts emblazoned I NY clutched in his hand.

“One for me, one for you.” He slips mine over my head, then uses it to gather me into a tender, sweet kiss. Chicken yowls, an urgent warning.

“Everett,” I murmur against his mouth, my eyes over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Is that pigeon…staring at us?”

He glances over his shoulder fully prepared to blow this off—I can see the nah forming on his lips—but he stops. Frowns. Pulls us a step backward.

“Um. Maybe?”

We stare at the pigeon. It stares back. It’s perched on top of a park bench, its gnarled, knobby talons blocking out the eyes of the personal injury attorney in the bright yellow ad below it. A hot dog dangles obscenely from its beak, but its small, beady eyes are fixed on us. They’re orange still, but they seem to glow from within.

“Are New York City pigeons territorial or something?”

Another pigeon joins it, then another, until the bench is lined with unnatural, staring birds.

“They’ll fight you over a pretzel, but generally territorial? Not that I’ve ever seen.”

The lead bird leans its head back and gobbles the hot dog, deep-throating it, never breaking eye contact.

“That’s…unsettling,” Everett says.

I tug Everett’s arm. “Let’s hurry back.”

“They’re probably just extra ballsy right now, thanks to all the zombies letting them get away with murder.”

Chicken hisses vociferously.

Slowly, I turn to look at Everett. “Animals never get the zombie virus, right? In the movies?”

“Well, they usually don’t, but there are some examples. Resident Evil. Zoombies. I Am Legend.” Everett swallows. “Poultrygeist.”

“Poultrygeist? So there’s zombie bird precedent?” I grab the Tasers at my sides, firing them up as the rest of the flock join their leader. There are hundreds, more arriving every second. I glance behind me.

They’ve formed a circle around us.

“If you count chickens, then yes.” Everett sparks his Tasers to life just as the birds begin slapping their wings together and stamping their feet, a strange preamble to whatever lies ahead. Suddenly, it stops.

Head Bird grunts, lifts its wings, then flies straight for us.

“Run!” I shriek, wielding my Tasers like swords at the onslaught of feathers and snapping beaks. They’re faster than us, of course they’re faster, but at least we’re wearing the nigh-impenetrable flight suits. Everett yanks his T-shirt over his head, and I do the same. Together, we duck and race down the sidewalk, running blindly, with Chicken caterwauling from Everett’s back. Electrocuted pigeon bodies rain down around us as we go.

Something sharp tears at my ear, and I scream. The shirts aren’t strong enough!

“We’ve got to get inside—now!” I screech.