The Survivor Kind

Robert, honey, you know she—“

“She hasn’t told me to take it off!” A momentary silence followed Robert’s near-shout. “Besides,” he continued more calmly, “it’s great protection against zombies. They can’t bite through it.”

“Well,” I said, “I could see how that would be helpful.” What I had intended as a momentary pause stretched into a long, uncomfortable silence.

I was beginning to feel sorry for these two, to feel some kernel of regret for what I had to do. They were almost certainly misfits before the Outbreak. Even now, when the term ‘polite society’ had almost no meaning, I couldn’t imagine them meshing well with folks back at the mesa. But these days, in a land overrun by the living dead, there was really only one substantive distinction to be made: you were either the kind of person who could survive, or you were a zombie.

“This seems like kind of a special occasion,” said Robert, suddenly perky. “How about we have some ice cream?” Oddly, Laurie didn’t seem to like the suggestion. She furrowed her brow, and stroked Mike’s head.

“I don’t know, Robert. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Poor Tom is probably stuffed.”





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