I put a light dressing on his elbow, more to discourage flies than anything else. He sat with the arm held slightly out to the side as if trying to distance himself from the bite. Or disown the arm. I pretended not to notice and instead glanced around at the bodies.

“You guys kicked some ass,” I observed. “Looks like it was a running fight.”

“Long range patrol,” he explained. “When the command structure fell apart a bunch of us kind of went out on our own, you know? Looking for survivors, helping them get out of tight spots. We’ve been sending them south.”

“To Asheville?”

He brightened. “Yeah, you heard about that?”

“I’ve been doing pretty much the same thing.” I explained about Dez Fox and Billy Trout, and Abdul began nodding.

“Sure, they were all over the news. Trout was doing those ‘Live From the Apocalypse’ news reports from inside a school in Stebbins. And Officer Fox was kicking ass and taking names trying to protect a bunch of kids. So, they got out?”

“Most of them,” I said. He didn’t ask what happened to the others or how many didn’t make it. These days any bloody fool could write the script for those kinds of conversations.

Abdul nodded. “Glad the rest got out. Did they make it to Asheville?”

I shrugged. “God only knows. I haven’t been there myself. Keep meaning to, but . . . ”

He cut me a look. “But why not?”

We sat for a moment. The birds were singing in the trees now and sunlight slanted gently through the branches. It was as lovely as this kind of thing could be. It wasn’t that tragic, shocked stillness but rather a quieter blanket of subtle noises. Bees and flies, birds, the rustle of squirrels chasing each other through the leaves.

“My family was waiting for me in Robinwood,” I said. “I found ashes and bones, but . . . ”

“Ah,” he said, nodding.