Page 117 of After the Burn

There was a scraping sound. Wood dragging across wood and something heavy shifting inside the building.

The front door trembled.

One.

Two.

Three loud impacts.

Then…

The doors burst open, and the infected stumbled out into the street, led by a priest whose tattered collar still hung around his neck.

“Fuck,” the giant mumbled.

Things were about to get FUBAR, as my dad used to say.

A window shattered in the small post office across the street from the church. Branches snapped in the woods, and several infected emerged from between the trees.

The trailer park was no longer empty. Infected poured out of broken doorways and dark crevices. Some crawled from under the broken-down mobile homes, dragging themselves across the ground, unable to walk because their legs were gone.

Wayne whispered, “Now you’ve done it, Clark. Dealing with you is like trying to pick up a turd by the clean end. Fucking impossible.”

Clark didn’t answer because he knew Wayne was right. He’d just killed us all.

“Clinic!” Beck roared.

I pulled my bat free.

Beck raised his rifle and fired at the first infected coming down the church steps.

Its head snapped back, but the gunshot only drew more movement from every direction.

As I watched the disgusting group of infected approaching, I realized Wren was right. Infected didn’t describe what they’d become.

Rotters was a much better description.

Wren drew her knife. “If we’re going to hang out, I at least need to know your name.” She turned to her new shadow.

“Colson.”

He didn’t tell her to stay behind him. He simply made it impossible for anything to reach her without going through him first.

It looked like my older sister now had a protector. I was happy with the new development. She was kind of growing on me… like a fungus.

Wayne took off running. Peter followed close behind. Clark stayed frozen, the gun hanging limply at his side as he stared at the church.

A rotter lunged from between two trailers.

I swung.

The bat struck its temple with a crack, but my weakened arms failed to put it down. It staggered sideways and came at me again.

Beck buried his knife through its eye, then his hand closed around my upper arm. “You haven’t gotten your full strength back.”

It wasn’t a question.

Another rotter crashed through the post office window.