Life After The Undead (Book 1) (27 page)

“Enjoy
the
view,”
a
voice
echoed
in
the
darkness,
“because
it
’ll
probably
be the
last
time
you
see
it.”

Pam
stood
at
the
back
door,
lighting
a
cigarette.
She
stepped
forward
and
offered
me
one,
but
I
shook
my
head.

“Yep,
by
this time
tomorrow,
that
funeral
pyre
should
be
burning
pretty
high.
The
smoke
will
probably
block
everything
out
for at
least
two
miles.”
She
took
a
drag.
“I
guess
tha
t’s
the
price
we
pay
for
civilization. Should
improve
the
smell,
though.
Now
instead
of
rotting
flesh,
we
’l
l
get
to
inhale
burning
flesh.” 
She
took
another
long
drag
off
her
cigarette
before flicking
the
butt
onto
the
grass. “You
might
want
to
get
some
sleep. You
have
a
long
day
ahead
of
you.”
She
turned
and
headed
into
the
house.

I stared
at
the
sky
for
a
while
longer,
then
returned
to
bed.
I
closed
my
eyes
and
dreamt
about
zombies.

CHAPTER
7

Pam
woke
me
up
before
dawn.
My
back
was
sore
and
my
eyes
burned.
It
took
every
ounce
of
strength
I
had
to
pull
myself
out
of
bed.
The sky
was
gray
with
the
promise
of
light,
the
air
cool.
We
climbed
into
one
of
the
guard
towers.
Workers
planted
metal
poles
into
the
postholes
and
poured
cement,
and
a
new
group
finished
the
pyre
hole.
Pam handed
me
a
Zigana
T.

“You
ever
shoot
anything before?”

“Sort of.
My
dad
took
me
to
the
range
once.”

Pam
scoffed.
“Your
gun
is
your
best
friend. You
’l
l
learn
how
to
use
other
weapons,
but
if
you
don’t
have
to
get
that
close,
don’t.
There
’s
more
of
a
chance
you
could
get
bit.
Now,
hold
it
like
this.”
  She
straightened
her
arms
out in
front
of
her.
“This is
your
sight.”
She
pointed
to
the
back
of
the
gun.
“You
want
to
line
this
knob
up
with
whatever
it
is
you
’r
e
going
to
shoot.”

I
extended
my
arms in
front
of
me
and
closed
one
eye.
I
lined
the
sight
up
with
a
body
on
the
ground.

“When
you
have
your
sights
lined
up,
you
want
to
gently
squeeze
the
trigger.”

I put
my
finger on
the
trigger
and
fired.
The
gun
jerked
upward
and
the
bullet
sailed
wide.
I
saw
a
puff
of
dirt
far
away
from where I’d
aimed.
I
lowered
the
weapon
and
sighed.

Pam
smiled.
“No
one
ever
gets
it on
their
first
try. Shooting
isn’t
inherent. You
have
to
practice.
Try
something
a
little
closer.”

“Shouldn
’t
I
be
practicing
on
targets
or
something?”

“Why?
You
think
you’re
going
to
be
firing
at
targets
out
there?”
She
jerked
her
head
toward
the
field.
“Here,
let’s
make
this
a
bit
more
realistic.”

We
headed
down
the
tower
steps.
Pam pulled
one
of
the
workers
away
from
digging
a
posthole
and
ordered
him
to
retrieve
a
body. Reluctantly,
the
man
obeyed,
and
he
set
the
corpse
up
on
the
fence. Pam
motioned
toward
the
body.
It
was
a
young
man,
probably
college
age,
who
wore
tattered
blue
jeans
and
a
green
t-shirt,
which
had
been
ripped
open
in
the
middle.
Blood
and
mud
caked his
blond
hair.
I
shivered.

“Go
ahead,
shoot
it.”

I
frowned.
“What
if
I
miss?”

“Then
the
bullet
sails
harmlessly
into
the
field.
I’m
sure
you
’l
l
miss.
Despite
what
the
movies
portray,
the
human
body
is actually
a
pretty
small
target.
Especially
the
human
head.
You
can
hit a
zombie
in
the
chest
and
slow
it
down,
but
you
won
’t
kill
it.
You
have
to
hit it in
the
brain.”
 
She
stepped
back.

I
lined
up
my
sights
and
squeezed
the
trigger. The
bullet
flew
over
the
corpse.
I
couldn
’t
see
where
it’d
landed.
Frustration
crept
into
my
chest.
“Isn
’t
there
a
trick
to
this?
Something
to make it
easier?”
Why
hadn’t
I
stayed
in
bed?

Pam
shook
her
head.
“Nope.”
 
She
set
some
boxes
of
ammunition on
the
ground. “You
keep
practicing
until
you
hit it.”
She
turned
and
headed
to
the
top
of
the
tower.

I
spent
the
entire
morning
trying
to hit
the
zomb
ie’s
head.
I
could
hit
it
in
the
torso
fine,
and
wing
it, but
a
dead-on
shot
was
impossible.
My
hands
were
sweaty
from
holding
the
gun,
my
thumb
throbbed
from reloading
bullets,
and
my
jaw
was
sore
from
clenching.
By
the
time
I
was
on
my
fifth
magazine
I
was
so
frustrated
I
dropped
to
the
ground
and
folded
my
legs
in front
of
me.
I set
the
gun
down
and
then
buried
my
face
in
my
hands.
I
heard
someone
approach
and
assumed
it
was
Pam.

“This is
impossible!”
  I
yelled
into
my
hands.
“Besides,
don’t
we
have
to
conserve
ammo?”

Pam
laughed.
“Are
you
kidding?
We’ve
raided
every
sporting
goods
store,
gun
dealer,
and
pawn
shop
from
here
to
New
York.
We’ve
got
ammo.
And
when
that
runs
out,
we
’v
e
got
supplies
to
reload
our
own.
Ammo is
not
an
issue.”

I
flopped
my
hands
onto
my
lap
and
sagged
my
shoulders.
“I’m
never
going
to
get
this.”