She’s still not sure what to make of Mookie. First she thought, hell with this big palooka. King Kong’s gonna fall and he’s gonna fall hard along with the rest of his Organization. Staying with him was easy. He wasn’t smart enough to see her as a threat. He trusted her. Which was insane. And stupid. If he was anybody else, she’d think it was part of some counter-plan to keep an eye on her, to keep her close so he can find Nora.

But no, the big dumb thug just plain trusts her.

And that’s what gets her. Because here’s this guy, supposed to be an enemy, and – what? He’s just happy to have someone along for the ride. He’s not nice. Not exactly. But he doesn’t seem as bad as Nora led her to believe.

And he’s a fine lookin’ piece of meat. The bee’s knees. The cat’s paw. That doesn’t mean he’s a pretty man. He isn’t. He’s pit bull ugly. Got a face like a fist, a body like a bunch of tractor tires fitted around an oil drum.

But those hands. That jaw. He could crush her. Could eat her right up.

She shakes her head suddenly. No. No. Not going to do this. Not going to think this. She shakes the mental Etch-a-Sketch, clears her thoughts.

Right now, Burnsy’s hugging the front of Mookie’s (big and powerful and handsome in the way you might admire the side of a mountain) face, bringing the tire iron down between Mookie’s shoulder blades – and Mookie’s spinning like a drunken carousel, trying to grab hold of the blister-skinned corpse-walker.

Behind her, she sees they’ve drawn a crowd of dead folk. None of them hoping to intervene, by the look it. The hausfrau in the pink bathrobe seems to be really getting into it, a bloodthirsty grin on her zombie’s face.

Fine. Time for somebody to do something.

Skelly walks up, draws her knife.

Then she bashes Burnsy on the back of the head with the hilt.

Bam.

She’d never hit somebody that hard unless she was planning on killing them, but – hey, this one’s already stunt-jumped over the mortal coil.

Burnsy yelps and drops off onto his butt. To make sure he doesn’t come back at Mookie, she kneels and puts the big blade up against his throat. And oh what a big blade it is – inches of steel reach beyond each side of the dead man’s red, raw neck.

“You move I’ll pop your head off like a Black-eyed Susan.”

Burnsy sighs. Drops the tire iron. “Fine. Whatever.” He pauses. “I’m tired.”

Mookie rubs his face. Wipes blood from his lip. Stretches.

“I’m tired too,” he says.

“You boys ready to talk?”

“Long as he doesn’t punch me anymore,” Burnsy says. “Because, ow.”