by William Bebb
*****
“Here you go, Billy,” the old man said, handing the boy a plate of sliced luncheon meat.
Billy took the plate and sat cross legged beside the dog. Billy's butt still hurt, but he was very happy that Boris would be alright and gave him a strip of heavily processed salty meat.
The colonel went back to stand at the kitchen window beside Phyllis.
“That was the last of the food, wasn't it?” she asked, looking out at the early afternoon landscape made up of derelict trailers, smashed cars, a burning bus, wandering undead, and the smoking funeral pyre that had once been her home.
He sighed and held her hand as they looked outside. “It doesn't matter. We'll be out of here before you know it. I can feel it.” The old man didn't need to turn around to tell that Boris was enjoying his meal. He could hear the steady slapping of the dog's tail against the floor as he and Billy enjoyed what might be their last meal together.
“I hope you're right. Why haven't they come back over to the trailer? They just wander around here and there.”
“There doesn't appear to be many Screamers, the still living crazy folks, around anymore. Hopefully they all died during the shooting. I'd be much more worried if there were still a lot of them. As to the others, I don't believe the Deadheads are really thinking at all. It's just a guess, but I believe they're just operating on some basic level of instinct. They don't seem to remember we're even in here, but I bet if you walked outside and got their attention they'd be up and attacking again. Care to test my theory?”
“No, thank you,” she said, as they turned to watch the boy rubbing the dog's belly.
