Four: Probably Not Canada

Some here and there back story

            I had seen the road. Yes, when I had reached the stream, I looked down both of the directions it ran and wouldn’t you know it? Through the clearing in one direction I could see the road. And a road meant signs, and signs meant city names and highway numbers. If I hadn’t two cracked ribs I would have run back to camp immediately. But the news could wait.

 

            Instead, I sat down and pulled a rock from the river. The stones at the river were similar to the ones that could be found in the river at my old house - flat, for the most part, and jagged. They were big, too. They made a moderately useful cutting/serving board, though they were pretty heavy as well.

 

            I pulled out my survival knife and set out to slicing it up; first horizontally, and then vertically, finally cutting up the quarters into slices. I quickly dipped my blade in the water, running a hand over it to make sure no sticky fruit juice stuck to it before replacing it in its sheath. I kept the quarters of the watermelon separate from each other and, lifting the particularly heavy stone, I headed back for the camp.

 

            I was careful to creep up to camp silently for both the purpose of practicing my own skills and surprising my companions. It made me feel surprisingly giddy. I deftly dodged the crispy leaves littering the ground, though the majority of the trees around me had been pines. Hiding behind a particularly thick trunk of an evergreen, I watched my allies.

 

            Oliver seemed to be going about packing everything up in a robotic way. I couldn’t help but feel he was trying to ignore the argument going on nearby. It was only when everything was packed and all three of the spare blankets were neatly folded and in his arms when he stood, waiting for further instructions. With the watermelon occupying the extra bag, there would be no room for those blankets.

 

            “Why did you have to go and get her upset like that?” Natasha asked, crossing her arms at Jackson.

 

            The man was obviously fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “How was I supposed to know her dad died from smoking?” The argument actually amused me to some point, and I fought a mental battle between eavesdropping some more and telling them about the road. In the end, my amusement temporarily won over.

 

            “Well, for starters, you could have been less insensitive, yeah? Or maybe even a little thankful? She did bring this group together after all,” retorts Natasha. I remembered thinking at that moment, wondering whether Natasha was defending me because she actually liked me or because she wanted to get moving. Or maybe she just highly disliked Jackson. They were all very probable.

 

            I forcibly ceased my giddy feeling. This was a zombie apocalypse (was apocalypse a little over doing it for the current situation?) for God’s sake. And we were on a schedule. I stepped out from behind the tree, straightening my back. “Relax, Natasha,” I interrupted. “I’m not a teenage girl, I don’t need defending. Let’s forget about my dad for a bit and have some watermelon.”

 

            Jackson and Natasha looked at me in surprise, both appearing slightly flustered. Oliver on the other hand, had a grin plastered over his young face as he hurriedly put the blanket currently in his arms down to meet me by the remnants of last night’s fire, where I carefully place the flat stone. Natasha and Jackson continue to stare between the watermelon and myself, seeming wary.

 

            I motioned them over and they hesitantly seated themselves around the rock. I eventually realized later that day - though I couldn’t remember when - that they were acting like that because I had been in such a different mood earlier. Perhaps my moods did swing a little too much, but I had a pretty good reason to be feeling positive.

 

            The breakfast would have been completely silent, were it not for Oliver’s tries to keep the moment from becoming awkward. “So how did you manage to get a hold of beef jerky?” he inquired. It was an expensive thing to come by nowadays.

 

            I myself was just as appreciative of the little bag of meat. “It was pretty easy, actually. I scammed it out of some poor guy. I want to save it for when we’re out of food though.”

 

            “How did you scam him?” Natasha asked, joining the conversation with pink juice dribbling down the side of her chin. I noticed she had been looking especially lean - thinner than the rest of us, and that was saying something - lately. She hadn’t managed to bring a lot of food, though she had a surprisingly large amount of medical equipment - more than what I thought was manageable in this situation.

 

            “Ah well, see there are some things that rise in demand when we get stuck with zombies. Food in general - non-preparation foods especially. But you know what else was really popular? Drugs.” I grinned widely, remembering the moment I had come up with my bit of a scheme. I noticed Jackson looking at me with mild distaste. He seemed like the kind of man to be against drugs. “Of course, to some extent, drugs were worth more than food. And I didn’t have anything to trade in for drugs. But one things no one really cared for, was sugar.”

 

            At this point, Oliver grinned, holding back a few laughs. “You gave people sugar and told them it was drugs?” he asked, wiping some watermelon juice that had been starting to dry around his mouth.

 

            I nodded. “Yep. And drugs became unofficially legal after the zombies, so I could sell it to everyone - even the police. Of course… there wasn’t a lot of sugar, so there was only so much I could get from it. Besides, once your clients realize that you haven’t really given them actual drugs… Well, it’s obviously safer to not sell - or even say hi - to them anymore.”

 

            “Why are you in such a chipper mood?” Jackson asked, sounding suspicious.

 

            I held back another grin. Right, the road. “I found a road.”

 

            “A road?” Natasha repeated, unimpressed.

 

            “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Finished with my quarter of the watermelon, I stood up. “I’ll show you when you’re all done. It’s by the stream. I need to wash my hand anyway.”

 

            “Why are we happy about a road again?” Oliver asked. I fought the urge to send him a scrutinizing look. How was this not obvious to them? I looked over to Jackson, wondering if he was as lost as the rest of them.

 

            But that piece of the puzzle must have clicked in his head a while ago. He gave me a knowing look and I silently thanked any deity within ear shot that I was not completely surrounded by people that found it hard to notice the obvious. “Have you ever been on a road?” At the slow nods, I continued. “And have you ever noticed those green signs that will list the closest cities and tell you how far you are from them? Yeah, that’s why. We need to find out where we are and the roads can help us.”

 

            The others finished off their watermelon quickly. I imagined the fruit was a bit more filling than whatever they had been eating lately. When I picked up my bag, I found it to be disappointingly lighter. Like I had just lost a lot. It was probably just in my head.

 

            After a bit of confusion, we decided the best way to carry the extra blankets was to let Jackson, Natasha, and Oliver drape one each around themselves. I donned my jacket and we headed out in the direction of the river, Jackson carrying the extra bag.

 

            When we reached the river, I pointed out the direction of the road and, after filling up all of our canteens and water bottles (and washing hands left sticky from watermelon juice), we walked alongside the river towards the road. We took up a single file line, ordered from front to back as Natasha, Oliver, Jackson, and then myself. My eyes flickered around, observing everything I could. Unfortunately, the constant array of pine trees meant nothing to me, as it was a common sign of vegetation.

 

            After a few moments of silence - apart from the occasional rustling of leaves - my eyes landed on Jackson’s backside. I wish I had found a different, less perverse way to word that, but that was the honest truth. It wasn’t that it was a particularly attractive a*s, but I would be lying if I said it was completely unattractive. But that was beside the point and not why I was looking. I had noticed a perfectly rectangular shape slightly protruding from Jackson’s right back pocket.

 

            The shape struck a familiar memory through me and I remembered the rectangular shape of my dad’s breast pocket, always filled with a small container of cigarettes. It was pretty uncommon for people to put a pack of cigarettes in their back pocket, as they could easily sit down and squash them. But he probably didn’t have anywhere else to put them. No jacket or shirt pockets and his two front pockets on his pants would probably bend, break, or destroy any cigarettes if he happened to move his waist at an angle, like sitting or crouching.

 

            Barely thinking, I doubled the pace of my footsteps until I was right behind Jackson - probably a little closer than he or I really preferred - my hand shooting down inside his back pocket. Jackson whirled around, eyes wide in surprise and hand flying over to his hip (as if there was a gun there; was there usually?), and quickly backed up. “What the hell are you doing?” he cried, backing up into a surprised and rather jumpy Oliver.

 

            Natasha turned around wordlessly to see what was going on. I couldn’t fight the smile on my face. “Cigarettes,” I replied wordlessly, holding up the pack I had successfully picked from Jackson. His hand flew to his backside protectively, apparently surprised to find his smokes missing. I used a finger to flick the lid back and tip the contents of the box out into the river. Once I was sure it was empty, I dropped the box.

 

            I looked back at Jackson innocently and shrugged. He was gaping at me wordlessly, affronted by my behavior. “Why…? Jenna, you just… Why the fu-?”

 

            “I would think you should be thanking me,” I interrupted coolly. I ignored the look of frustration on his face.

 

            “And why the hell should I be doing that?”

 

            I felt oddly smug about my accomplishment. “Because now zombies are the only threat to our life,” I replied easily. “Shall we go on then?”

 

            I noticed that Jackson’s eyes flickered over to the river, searching for any cigarettes that may have possibly survived, or been caught by something to keep them from floating away. The look was hopeful, but not desperate. I received no reply from Jackson, save for an agitated huff before he sauntered off. Oliver silently followed as Natasha sighed like a mother with kids that just couldn’t get along. It reminded me of home.

 

            When we had reached the road, we looked around expectantly. Nothing but woodland and asphalt stretched in both directions. I pulled my compass out, reading it as I listened to Jackson speaking. “I guess we need to just follow the road until we find a sign. But which way should we go?”

 

            “I don’t know where the rest of you were planning on going, but I’m going to Missouri, whether the rest of you are or aren’t,” I said, shoving my compass back into my bag and looking in the direction I needed to go.

 

            “What’s in Missouri?” Oliver asked, sounding hopeful. I was starting to think the kid hadn’t even thought of a plan when he set out. I noticed that Jackson and Natasha looked expectant too.

 

            “I’ve got some family there. In a big house near a small town; they’ve made a fenced off community there with some of the others. It’s safe enough, but I had to go out and see them for myself.”

 

            There was a pause where no one spoke. “Do you think they’ll take others in?” Jackson finally asked.

 

            “Probably. They’re on my land, and I know most of them, so I’m sure I can convince them to let you stay. You guys didn’t have plans when you left California?” I questioned.

 

They all just stood around, looking hesitant an unsure. Oliver shook his head, and Natasha replied, “I’m kind of running away from something.” Nervously, she rubbed the back of her head.

 

“Something worse than the zombies?” I asked with surprise and a raised brow.

 

Natasha smiled sheepishly, shaking her head vigorously. No more questions then.

 

“What about you, Jackson?”

 

He cleared his throat. “No, I uh… I was just planning to travel and live off the land.”

 

“What?” My jaw dropped down into an O. “You’d get yourself killed!”

 

“It wasn’t my best plan. I get that, alright!” He snapped. “Can we just get a move on?” He seemed very on edge. Maybe it was the whole cigarette deal. I decided to leave him be on the matter.

 

 “So, are you guys coming with me or are you taking your own directions?” I asked them. It hit me like a bullet to the chest that I may be losing the companions I had suddenly found myself appreciative to have. I silently begged them not to leave, though I kept my expression unreadable.

 

            You’re pathetic, said the British voice. You can’t even do this by yourself. What is wrong with you? What, you need a strong army man to protect you? Or just a female companion to gossip with? Or is it the fresh young boy you want to get your hands on?

 

            Is he suggesting I want to have sex with Oliver? And what could I possibly gossip about anyway? That thing about the army man though: How did he know if Jackson was a soldier? It would indeed explain some things about his behavior. And his reflex to reach for a gun at his hip. And the scar on his face. He could be a police officer.

 

I worked hard to block out the voice, waiting for my answers.

 

            “I’m going with you. I didn’t have a plan when I was kicked out anyway,” Oliver hurriedly replied. “I didn’t get a choice when I left. Eric didn’t have enough to keep us both there so he sent me on the train.”

 

            I didn’t ask who Eric was, not yet anyway. Oliver’s (along with everyone else’s) tales would make for good chatter along our way. I looked to Natasha and Jackson next. “Well I suppose I didn’t really have any plan other than to run,” says Natasha, “so I’m in.”

 

            Jackson nodded. “Better than my own plan. Lead the way, Jenna.”

 

            I felt ridiculous for wanting to grin. I got to keep all of them. “Alright, let me check something. We’re heading that way, north, by the way. Come one.” I set off down the road, feeling odd. It had never felt right to me to have a whole road to myself. It was so bare.

 

            The others followed, Jackson walking beside me and Natasha and Oliver behind us. Jackson seemed oddly content to be standing beside me, despite losing his cigarettes.

 

            Jackson’s eyes looked at everything, watching anything but me. His eyes were sliding around the scenery carefully, watchful for any upcoming zombies. It occurred to me then - and I honestly don’t know why not earlier - that I had guessed Jackson to be older earlier because of his hair. It wasn’t thinning and there were no bald spots - it was actually moderately thick - but his hair was gray. That had definitely been a factor in it. He looked older from this point of view because I couldn’t see the half of his face that had the lighter-toned scar.

 

            I think I was staring at Jackson’s face for too long, because he pulled part of his attention form keeping an eye out and decided to start conversing. “You said you were going to your house. How much of your family is there? And what are you still doing living with your paren- er, mom?”

 

            Why was he curious? Was he actually interested in these things? Or was he just finding something to occupy his time with? Were these questions even important? No, so I mentally stamped the file of questions with the words ‘IRRELEVANT’ and tossed it in the nearest bin. Metaphorically, of course. “My sister will be there too…” I murmured quietly, and it sounded a bit like I didn’t want my sister to be there. It wasn’t that I wanted my sister to die or turn into a zombie, but I didn’t exactly get along with her. She was always too lax and I was always too uptight.

 

            “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

 

            “Well I can’t say I’m thrilled to be seeing her,” I replied, looking up at Jackson. “We never got along very well. We were always exact opposites.” I laughed a little, thinking back to childhood. “She was a big old social butterfly, and all she ever had on her mind was boys and going out with friends. I had my nose shoved in books and I was always perfectly content to spend nights on my own.”

 

            “But you dislike her strongly enough to not want to see her?”

 

            I chewed my lip. Well when you put it like that… “I want to see her; I just don’t exactly want to talk with her. It’ almost like we have a subconscious urge to argue when we’re around each other.” I took a moment to think about that. “Actually, that’s exactly what it is.”

 

            “Ah, I understand,” Jackson replied. “I never got along too well with my siblings either.”

 

            I looked up at him, a bit surprised. That realistic aspect made him a bit more human now. Before, he had just seemed like a character from a show. Now he was a person. He had a history, a childhood. The sun was on the other side of his face, and it made him glow a bit. He looked down at me and I could feel my face heat up like a furnace. What was I, fourteen?

 

            I cleared my throat and readjusted the bag on my shoulder. “And it just makes it worse when we are both naturally argumentative, you know? I was worse about that, but once we got started, she was the meaner one. She really knew how to cut you deep.”

 

            “Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll get eaten by zombies.” Jackson and I chuckled. Natasha did not agree with out humor so much.

 

            “Jackson! That’s terrible,” the woman said.

 

            Time passed, and we exchanged stories. Jackson told us about a time when he and his army buddies (I was glad to see that I was correct in my earlier assumption), stationed in the Middle East, drove into a town one night for a drink or two. The three of them woke up the next day scattered throughout the little town, Jackson finding himself shirtless, covered in some kind of oil, and precariously balanced on top of a swing set. “I think it was some kind of vinaigrette, or whatever. It had some of those herbal spices and leaves that you floating around in that stuff. Those are vinaigrettes I’m thinking of, right?”

 

            Oliver told us about his first time having sex. It was a hilarious story, but he made us take an oath not to tell. I don’t blame him; it was pretty embarrassing. Natasha informed us that she was a biochemist, and told us some stories of chemical mishaps, which were more amusing then you would think. These lead me to tell my stories of sophomore year of high school, in my chemistry class. I had taken a sudden interest in the magic of chemistry that year, and spent a lot of my own time researching chemical reactions and their properties. For the most part, I used this knowledge for pranking.

 

            There was silence for a few moments longer before Oliver decided to speak. “Er… What- what was that bit about lighting pants on fire? You’re not doing that to us, are you?”

 

            Of course they would think I would do that. “No, of course not. The ‘friends’ whose pants I lit were… well they just weren’t very good people. We’ll leave it at that, shall we?” Part of me disliked talking about my school years - they certainly weren’t my favorite times. My hint was clear enough and the subject was dropped.

 

*

 

            “Toronto?” Natasha read slowly.

 

            The green sign in front of us did indeed say ‘Toronto 43 Miles’. But I was sure we were not in Canada. Besides, we were supposed to be going to Kentucky. “Whoa…” Oliver mumbled, “we’re in Canada?”

 

            I looked at him like he was stupid - which he obviously. I thought about arguing but it’s not as if I knew where we were. For all I knew, we could be in Canada. I thought again and realized that when I had checked by compass while on the train a few days ago, it had said we were heading east. No, definitely weren’t in Canada.

 

            “Are you an idiot?” Jackson asked.

 

            Oliver seemed offended. “Of course not! Toronto’s in Canada; everyone knows that.” Natasha - if her expression was anything to go off of - seemed to be thinking similarly, though she apparently had the sense to know something was a bit off kilter there.

 

            “Christ,” Jackson murmured in exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He looked tired, and I felt bad for him. “Did you know there are several Springfields? One is in Illinois, another is in Missouri, and a third is in Colorado. There’s probably a fourth one too, I’d bet. My point being, there’s a Toronto in Canada, yes, but there’s also one in Colorado too. That is exactly where we are: eastern Colorado.”

 

            Oliver looked down in embarrassment, wringing his hands. “Oh… yeah, I guess that could be possible… How did you know there was a Toronto in Colorado?”

 

            The army man shrugged his shoulders. “When I was a kid, I got really bored, so I would always study any map I could get my hand son.”

 

            “What, didn’t you have any toys?” I asked.

 

            “No, my family was pretty poor. That’s why I joined the army, instead of going to college. Thought I couldn’t afford it. But so long as there’s a sign listing the closest town, we’ll almost always be aware of our location.”

 

            “Oh, I gotcha,” I said with a small smile. “My family was well enough off, but we lived in a small town full of ghetto broke families. And that’s reassuring. There’s a Springfield in Ohio too, by the way.” I looked over to Jackson and realized he looked rather uncomfortable. His expression was slightly pained and he kept shifting his left shoulder, readjusting the strap of the bag on that shoulder. I decided his arm was probably bothering him. I should have taken that into consideration when he grabbed the bag.

 

            Living alone really had put me out of social practice. “Let me take that bag.”

 

            Jackson blinked in surprise at my random comment. He took a step back to match my step forward to claim the bag. “Why? I can carry it just fine.” I took another step forward, and he another backward.

 

            “No, you can’t,” I answered, shaking my head. “Your broken arm is obviously bothering you. Let me take the bag.” I held out my hand.

 

            “Don’t give me your crap pity.”

 

            “It’s not pity; it’s teamwork. Now hand it over or I’ll wrestle it from you.”

 

            There was an awkward silence, followed by Natasha’s cautious tone singing, “What’s gonna work? Teamwork!” The word ‘team’ was elongated and took on an upward inflection. It was a little tune from some show when I (and Natasha) was a kid. I could never remember the show, but if I was in a good mood while working with others, I might find myself randomly tossing out that tune.

 

            I could see the smile bubbling up at the corner of Jackson’s mouth. I found that I was already smiling. Normally he probably could out-wrestle me, but with his injury, I’d probably win. Still, I was glad I didn’t have to. I chuckled a bit, then stopped and hissed with a hand on my side.

 

            After a moment of coddling me (and me pushing him away), Jackson accepted that he had lost the fight and handed me he bag. I slung it over my shoulder, successfully banging it against my side. I gasped at the repeated pain emanating from my own ribs. I heard Jackson huff. “Looks like you’re not too fit to be carrying that bag either, now are you?” I ignored him. We were wasting time just standing around. I took a deep breath (and cringed at the reactive pain) and walked onward, checking my compass once again to make sure I was going in the right direction. “This road will lead us north, don’t worry,” Jackson continued, catching up to me and matching me in stride.

 

            I could hear Natasha and Oliver following.

 

            The group continued on silently, apart from Oliver and Natasha conversing quietly behind me, talking about their pre-zombie lives. I couldn’t be bothered to listen, as much as I enjoyed eavesdropping. I was too busy keeping my eyes to the forest surrounding us. I carefully watched the trees, waiting and waiting to spot the movement.

 

            I nearly jumped out of my skin when Jackson spoke.

 

            “Take some painkillers.”

 

            “Hm?” I mumbled, after promptly flinching like an abused wife. “Why?”

 

            I hadn’t actually noticed, but my side was very sore and the corner of my mouth unintentionally twitched in pain every time the bag bumped into my side. Natasha didn’t wait for Jackson to answer my question before catching up to me and handing me a few ibuprofens which I promptly swallowed. Seeing Jackson watch me carefully, I realized he was waiting for me to not be a hypocrite. I took an accompanying sip of water. Didn’t need to start a fight about being a hypocrite, now did I?

 

            Jackson, I could see, was looking for a bit of conversation himself - that or I had something on my face and he just couldn’t stop himself from staring. I ignored him as best I could, scanning my eyes across the endless array of pine trees bordering the empty road. My eyes felt heavy from my lack of sleep, but luckily my body wasn’t too tired, since I had not been too active lately.

 

“Should I be worried that you’re going to light me on fire?”

 

            The sudden voice surprised me, but this time my reaction was more internal. I thought we had dropped the subject earlier. Hadn’t I told him I didn’t want to talk about it? Caught unawares, I snapped my head in Jackson’s direction. “Have you done anything to condone it?” I asked innocently.

 

            “Well how do I know where you draw the line between good and bad people?”

 

            I made a small huff and rolled my eyes. “I lit certain people’s pants on fire because I felt like kids back then weren’t properly punished for their improper behavior. I still do. When it comes to discipline with adolescents, some need to be told, some need to be hit, and some need their pants lit aflame.”

 

            There was a pause of silence, save Natasha and Oliver’s soft murmur of talking. Jackson‘s tone, when he spoke, was apologetic and cautious. “They embarrassed and picked on you often, didn’t they?”

 

            Fury immediately flared inside my gut at the familiar tone. It sounded the same as that damned counselor, mentally poking and prodding me. Why couldn’t she just stop asking? She acted like my social ostracizing was a mental disease.

 

            And then I realized that I wasn’t in the Mrs. Grindle’s office. I was near Toronto, Colorado. And I wasn’t with a nosey counselor. I was with Jackson. My face was unintentionally expressing my anger and I saw Jackson was surprised. “Sorry,” I murmured. “I was just remembering something. It’s nothing, don’t worry. Yes, they picked on me. Not when we were in class, and they needed answers, of course. But other times, yes. So I lit their pants on fire. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. I couldn’t gain much from doing that now.”

 

            Jackson nodded, slightly assured. Had he really thought I would light him on fire? He didn’t say anything else but I could tell he still wanted to talk. I continued to keep my eyes panning across the road’s flanks, but indulged in conversation as well. “What kind of weapons did you bring?”

 

            “Huh? I just have a sniper rifle and a pistol brought back from the army,” the soldier replied, following my gaze curiously. He must have noticed the lack of movement from my eyes. My eyes had stopped roving because I thought I had seen something moving in the bushes. It was a fast flicker, and I told myself that zombies couldn’t move that fast. But what if they could?

 

            It was almost slang, calling them zombies. Somewhere in San Francisco, a woman reported seeing a zombie in the middle of the night - that was the first sighting. No one believed the news report. A week later, a notice was put on the paper’s front page explaining that some kind of new virus called ‘Temphethine’ had started up. It was contagious, but the details were unknown. The report didn’t say where the information came from, or how it had started. It was just a warning.

 

            No other report did come, no more details. You would have to have been blind �" or on a road trip �" not to see the increasing number of zombies though. Just a month later and everyone was a believer. Something which so many pointless little video games and movies were based off of, something that which was thought irrationally impossible to be true, had come to modern life. I had seen few myself, and even those times it was either a still picture, a clip on the news, or the time someone had brought an actual zombie corpse to town to put on display so we all knew the obvious differences.

 

            The image of the first zombie I had personally seen would remain in my mind’s eye forever.

 

            The zombie’s skin was an unearthly pale - bordering on stark white. More than half of its decaying body - because the skin was definitely decaying, the smell was there too - was coated in the fluent lines of veins. Veins that shouldn’t have been there. Something changed, biologically, in the victim’s body when he was affected. There were more veins in that body than natural and they reached every part of the body.

 

            But that barely started to explain the effects of Temphethine. The infected had lost all of his hair, replaced by a disgusting, giant yellow scab that covered the scalp. The teeth and nails were yellowed similarly to a long-time smoker’s and the inside of said infected’s mouth was like asphalt. It was black and hardened, cracked and stony. The ears were gone, replaced by nothing more than holes on the side of the head.

 

            The neck was longer than I thought it had probably been before the man was infected and it was completely covered by the avidly apparent blue veins. The collar bone was highly pronounced and it shaped an acuter angle than normal, raising the shoulders a few inches. The infected’s arms were possibly twice as long as my own, the palms were oddly wide, and the fingers were elongated, now with three joints on each finger above the metacarpals.

 

            The top-most ribs seemed normally arranged, but they gradually widened out, causing the Infected’s midsection to awkwardly widen before suddenly thinning to a minimal size at the abdomen. The blue and white skin clung to the hips pronounced by the bones all too well and the legs were meaty with muscle. Like the neck, the feet were completely filled with those ever-blue veins.

 

            And it was this image I sought in the dark recesses that surrounded me for miles on end. It was this that I waited to kill me before I went to sleep at night and appeared every time my eyes closed. Mm, says the Brit inside my head, delicious. Fire up the oven, it’s time for dinner.

 

            “Jenna?” I was brought back to the present by the almost hesitant voice. I looked at Jackson, who had spoken, waiting for him to continue. “Something wrong?”

 

            “No,” I answered, shaking my head and returning my gaze to the woods. I knew what they looked like, but I didn’t know how fast they could move. “No, I was just thinking. What were you saying?”

 

Author's Note

And of course the only time this week I feel like writing is in the middle of the night.