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“What did you do to her?” Kimber shouted at Bly and the other man. “What’s wrong with you people? Why are you doing this to us?”
But I never heard the answer.
When I finally came around again, it was late in the night, and Kimber was curled up beside me, with an arm carefully wrapped around my waist.
“How are you doing?” she asked softly when she noticed me stirring.
“Sore, but I’ll survive.” I winced and craned my head, trying to get a look at her in the bit of starlight that spilled in through the cracks. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, because she didn’t know I could see the fresh bruise forming on her cheek, where Bly had likely hit her. “What happened? What did you see when you got out?”
“We are an island among a sea of zombies, and I have no idea how we could possibly sail away.”
26
Harlow
In the night, Kimber squeezed me hard enough that it hurt, but even the pain was weirdly comforting. It let me know that she was there, that I was not alone, and that made all of this almost bearable. Almost.
It was never silent in the stables, but since the zombie apocalypse, I had learned to fall asleep wherever I could whenever I needed to. Survival often relied on resting in uncomfortable places when the opportunity presented itself.
Kimber’s arm had tightened around me again. She reflexively squeezed from time to time, maybe in conjunction with bad dreams or twitching in her sleep. The sharp pain in my abdomen woke me, but her grip quickly loosened. I relaxed back into her arms when I heard a garbled noise.
The sound itself wasn’t uncommon here at all, but it was the proximity that was disturbing. It was coming from right inside our stall.
Kerrigan slept on the other side from us, and in the dark, I could make out his silhouette on the ground, like he was lying down.
“Kerrigan?” I asked the darkness, and I carefully untangled myself from Kimber as I sat up.
“Harlow,” he replied in a weary voice, but it soothed my fear because I’ve never heard a zombie say a name.
“What’s going on?” Kimber asked, already alert and on edge. “Is he still alive?”
“I think so. Kerrigan, are you okay?”
“No, no, no,” he mumbled. His words were distorted and his voice raspy, but the pain came through clearly. “Harlow, it’s happening.”
“Shit, he’s turning,” Kimber said, and she moved, blocking my body with hers.
“I’m sorry!” Kerrigan shouted, and then more plaintively, “I never – I never – nuh-nun-nnn…” He made a guttural gagging sound, followed by a despairing cry for his mother.
His voice was lost to an enraged scream that echoed through the barn, and then he fell silent.
“What do we do?” I whispered into the night.
Kerrigan’s body jerked, his arm jutting out to one side, and he pulled himself up to his hands and knees. He crawled toward us with quick jerky movements, thrusting himself into a pool of light from a hole in the roof, and I finally got a good look at the zombiefied Kerrigan.
His fingernails were cracked and covered in fresh blood. His lips were bloodied and torn open, as if he’d been chewing on them, and I had the grotesque realization that Kerrigan must have been devouring himself before he fully became a zombie.
“Stay back, Harlow,” Kimber commanded.
“I know how to fight a zombie,” I told her in protest.
“Your hands are all torn up, and his are all covered in blood. You can’t go near him or you’ll be infected.”
Kimber stood up, and he lurched toward her, surprisingly fast and agile given his injured arm and leg. She kicked him in the head, and he went flying backward.
The only things we had that even remotely resembled weapons were the metal bowls that the Loths fed us rotten meat in. I was closer to it, so I grabbed one and handed it to Kimber.
