Good morning, everyone!
How about we get Free Fiction Thursday back on track this week with a zombie story? I’ve been biting my nails as this season of The Walking Dead powers toward the inevitable all-out war between Rick and The Governor. Only two episodes left! Yikes. I have a feeling those next couple of episodes are going to be intense.
So in honor of The Walking Dead, this week’s free fiction is “Bait,” a story about what happens to a mismatched group of survivors when they try to do the right thing. Enjoy!
Copyright © 2013 Annie Reed
Sarah saw the little girl first.
“Stop the truck! Oh, George, please stop the truck!”
George didn’t want to stop. He was still too freaked by the run out of Reno. Half a tank of gas was all we managed to get at the last Arco station on 395 before the locals sniffed us out. Most of them don’t come out into the sunlight, but every gas station in Nevada has a helpful tin roof over the pumps to keep the tourists from burning their tender scalps crispy red in the high altitude desert sun.
Not that Nevada has tourists anymore.
Not that anyplace does.
Doesn’t matter that we’re not from here. We’re survivors, not tourists. Everyone else are locals, as George calls them.
George doesn’t like to use the Z word. Sarah and I don’t either. Makes it sound like we’re in the middle of some low-rent horror movie. We’re not. And calling them The Infected makes it sound like they’ve just got a bad case of the flu, no big deal. Trust me when I say, it’s a Very Big Deal. End of the world, Big Deal. I keep expecting to see an avenging angel sweep down out of the sky, Hollywood blockbuster style, and rip us to shreds for fucking up God’s grand plan.
Not that Sarah and George and I were responsible for this whole mess. We were never responsible for much of anything, which makes the whole last three people on earth thing kind of ironic, you know what I mean?
“George, stop the fucking truck!”
Sarah yanked on the wheel before George or I could stop her.
(read the rest of the story here)