The dirt road to Nahom was much more of the former than the latter. He hiked for at least a quarter of a mile, careful not to lose the track. This wasn’t easy. The road widened and contracted, was perforated by clumps of small trees, and in one spot not too far after he started, disappeared entirely. Elliot had to wander forward in a wide arc, always glancing back to not get lost, before he found it again. In fact, perhaps driven by the frustration he was already feeling from the destruction of the truck and the loss of their supplies, he quickly came to think that the sign was just a joke or that Nahom had once had 140 or so but was now long gone, like that colony at Roanoke Island.

He pressed on, though, because really he didn’t have anything else to do. He could either follow the road to wherever it did–or didn’t–lead, or he could go back to the road and keep on along it, probably getting further from Evajean with each step. This whole thing was supposed to have been an adventure, a way for him to get out of that dead town with someone alive and share the road with her and maybe, if they were very lucky, figure out where the Hole was, what it was, and bring a degree of closure to the madness of civilization’s apparent end. And that’s exactly how he’d felt until he came awake upside down in the truck, that other living person gone, and the adventure veering in a terrible direction before it’d had much of a chance to even begin.

“Fuck!” he shouted, overcome with despair that would later just embarrass him. Right now, however, the exasperation washed over him with perfect reasonableness. How else was he supposed to act? How would anyone act in this kind of insane situation?

Elliot leaned against a tree and set the gun down. He realized then that he’d forgot to bring a water bottle, had in fact forgot to bring anything beyond the useless weapon. This made him laugh sickly, knowing that, of course, he hadn’t brought water or food or any item that might keep him alive long enough to see this adventure though its next turn. He–

He heard something. Up ahead, though trees dense and low, something was walking around. Thoughts of Wal-mart flashed and Elliot grabbed up the gun again, holding it tight and ready to swing. He stepped softly toward the trees, trying not to make any noise and being mostly successful, but almost as soon as he began to move the sounds from the grove stopped. Elliot froze, a dozen feet from where he thought the noises had come from. Had it heard him? He didn’t think one of the crazies would have stopped if it had. Elliot had them pegged more as aggressive–or wholly uncaring likes the ones on the road.

He crept closer, lifting the gun higher, ready to bring it down fast if something sprang out of the trees. The woods were quiet and Elliot realized he couldn’t hear any mumbling, none of the strange speaking in tongues common to the crazies. He couldn’t be sure they all did that but the ones he and Evajean had run into certain did, so maybe…

“Hello?” he said, just above a whisper, his voice cracked but hopeful.

No response, but whatever was back there started moving again, running this time, and away from him deeper into the forest. “No, wait!” Elliot said, and broke off after it.

Once during this brief chase he thought he saw the other person: just a quick glimpse of cloth, maybe the hem of a skirt, and black shoes kicking up dirt and moss. These were small, child sized, and Elliot felt the hot guilt of running over that boy, no matter if he’d been one of them. Was he running through the woods after a kid?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he called to her, sure it was a her because little boys don’t wear skirts and don’t have shoes like that. “Stop running, please!” All these words had the staccato thumping that comes with running, and they were very likely unintelligible. He wished she’d give up this silly evasion. He just wanted to talk, to find out where he was and were Evajean was.

“Please, stop,” he called again. But she didn’t. He ran on and so did she, Elliot following more flashes of the dress–it was yellow and ankle length–and those black, Sunday school style shoes. Was she from Nahom, one of the hundred and forty or so?

It was while he was thinking this last that the babbling started. From his right, closer than he guessed the girl to be, he heard another set of footfalls, and the barely linguistic mumbling of one of the crazies. Oh, shit, he thought. Oh, no, not now. Please.

He stopped running and turned in that direction. A brief, terrible moment of calm held him, and then not the expected one but three of the crazies–of the zombies–emerged from through a line of raspberry bushes. They brushed absently at the branches, casually unconcerned with the deep scratches and welting lines of blood caused by the thorns. Elliot felt terribly silly with his locked gun held out in front of him.

“Stay back,” he said, but of course they paid no attention. The three–a woman in a bright red sun dress, and two men who wouldn’t have looked out of place arguing in front of a judge–just kept coming at him, talking louder now, like friends from a foreign country out for an evening hike. He continued to yell at them, commanding them to turn back, that he didn’t want to have to hurt them. And they continued to ignore him. Elliot started backing up, keeping the gun high, feeling out behind him with the heels of his feet so he wouldn’t trip over any low vegetation or fallen branches.

The crazies seemed to notice him for the first time. The woman pointed and all three stopped talking. And then they charged.