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Taking a steadying breath, I followed the path my ex-zombie had taken, feeling adrenaline starting to pump through my system.
You never really got closure in real life.
Notreally.
But in this life-after-the-collapse?
It seemed I could get the ultimate sort of closure.
That is, of course, until a yell startled me, stopped me in my tracks.
I had a rule.
I didn’t intervene.
I mean, half the time, it was too late. They were bit. It would just mean I’d have to kill them too eventually. And they wouldn’t be decaying yet, so it wouldn’t be as easy to think of it as a game.
But, I don’t know, something about the sound the guy was making had me turning my back on my zombie-ex, and making my way across the graveyard.
I’d just made my way around the side of a mausoleum when the sight before me made me stop dead in my tracks.
Because I understood why the sounds the dude were making were so strange.
He wasn’t screaming.
I mean, not exactly.
He was making a ruckus, sure. Which was, you know, reckless seeing as there seemed to be more hungry zombies than yummy humans around these days. But he wasn’t yelling because he was getting munched on.
Nope.
He was dancing around a little blue kiddie pool in a bright yellow banana-printed tank top and his rubber ducky patterned board shorts while singing—but, to be honest, it sounded a lot more like squealing—along to whatever he was listening to on his wireless headphones.
I actually closed my eyes for a second, sure that I was hallucinating or something.
But when they opened again, the same scene was there.
Kiddie pool with a big round tube in it. A lawn chair with a towel draped over the back. A red and white cooler with the top popped open, vodka bottles filling the inside.
What the hell was he doing?
As if sensing me there, he suddenly turned.
By turned, I mean he kind of shimmied his dancing hips around until his body was forced to follow.
Then there he was.
Possibly the hottest guy I’d ever seen.
And I’m counting the movie stars. The poor, dead, or zombified movie stars.
Yeah, he was that hot.
Tall, just the right amount of muscled, with an angular face with a broad forehead, a strong jaw, cheekbone hollows, and big blue eyes with an unfair amount of dark lashes that matched the somewhat messy hair on his head. Not long, or short, but choppy. Likely because he’d been cutting it himself since the virus.
“You don’t look dead,” he said as he yanked his headphones down to rest around his neck.
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
