“Not a chance,” I said, “but we can talk from here if you like.” We were about seventy feet apart.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “We got no rations to share.”

“Don’t need any,” I said, “but tell you what—how ’bout I go into those woods and come back with dinner? Then maybe we can we have a conversation that doesn’t involve yelling or gratuitious violence?”

They cut looks at the surrounding woods. The old lady nodded. “Roger here is a darn fine shot. You try anything and he will put you and your dog down.”

The guy with the bow stood rock steady and the arrow was aimed at my chest. I did not doubt what the old lady said. So, I walked backward a dozen paces, then turned my back to them and angled toward the woods. Baskerville lingered for a moment, maybe daring the archer to shoot. Have to admit I was sweating it a bit because getting an arrow in the back is a lot less fun than it sounds.

The area I’d come through was farmland and there were plenty of animals out there. I’d seen sheep grazing on wildflowers and clover about a mile to the east, and I went that way. These animals were born and bred on these farms and even though they were destined for somebody’s plate before the dead rose, they weren’t able to grasp the concept of freedom. Half the milk cows out here had already died because they’d been bred to be totally dependent on humans to feed and tend them. Sure, some of the bulls had taken down a fair number of zombies, but they’d fallen, too.

Not that sheep were smarter, but they didn’t need to be milked. They simply grazed, pooped, fucked, slept, and did the same day after day. They weren’t hard to find. I picked one that was about a hundred and fifty pounds and literally walked right up to it and killed the animal with my sword. It barely even noticed me. Made me wonder how they had not been eaten already by the dead, but maybe they—like Baskerville—could smell them and move away. Not sure; didn’t care.

I popped my knife, bled it to reduce the weight, and then hoisted it across my shoulders and humped it back. That wasn’t easy and I could feel every one of my years and every inch of scar tissue by the time I found the road. The small caravan had moved on, but I figured they would and picked a spot ahead of where they might be. Picked well, too, because I stepped out of the woods less than a quarter mile ahead of them on a straight patch of road.

They stopped and gaped at me. I grinned back, and Baskerville gave a snooty little whuff. No one shot me with an arrow.

— 11 —: DAHLIA AND THE PACK

— 11 —