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Authors: David Bernstein
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last time they went to Central Park. Staring at it, his body suddenly felt heavy. He was so tired . H e had to sit.
Putting the small photo in his pocket, Jack went back to the bedroom, removed the spear from its place between his back and the pack, letting it drop to the floor. He then took off his backpack and sat on the bed. Still feeling weary, he laid down on Jess’ side, letting his face sink into her pillow. He inhaled, smelling her scent. He could taste her sweetness. Touch her soft skin.
“I miss you, baby,” he said, “so damn much.” Breathing was becoming harder with his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to stop smelling her, but turned himself over, needing the air. Lying still, he stared at the ceiling. He needed to get up and keep moving. Remaining where he was, in his old room, was pointless. Too painful. Jess was dead. He had gotten what he came for: the pictures, and a little closure.
But he was so tired. He didn’t want to go on. In the back of his mind, he heard his wife telling him to get up , that he needed to help others . Get himself and them out of the city.
Jack forced himself up. Looking around the room, his gaze stopped on the open closet doors. Guns. He had guns.
The weariness left him as if he’d been doused with ice-water. He got to his feet and raced over to the closet. He checked the top shelf for his handguns, finding that the cases they rested in were gone. His rifle and shotgun were missing too. Whoever had cleaned out the food, must have taken the weapons.
Damn.
Reaching up, Jack felt along the door’s frame, his fingers coming into contact with a small metal case that was attached by magnets to a metal strip. Sliding off the cover, he saw that his set of keys were still inside; the same set of keys that opened the lock boxes as well as the trigger guards to his weapons. Whoever did have his guns wouldn’t be using them, not without getting those locks off the triggers. Jack pocketed the keys, wanting to keep them in the event he came across his guns as he searched the building.
Pushing the clothes aside, Jack found that his Louisville Slugger baseball bat was still where he had left it. Picking it up, he felt the smooth wood finish, marred slightly from playing a few games of ball in the park. The baseball-hitting implement was about to get uglier, because it would no longer be used as a tool to hit baseballs, but to smash in the heads of the undead.
Jack had an idea and went back to the hall coat closet where he kept his toolbox. H e would hammer a few nails through the bat head . Damn it; his tools were gone too. Sudden rage swept over his body. He began pulling on the coats, snapping the plastic hangers, then throwing the garments to the floor. With the final jacket in his grip, he stopped. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. If he had been running around fighting for his life, he would have done the same, and taken whatever he could use. He only hoped that whoever had taken his stuff was still using it and that the person, or people, was still alive.
Before leaving, Jack grabbed his backpack, leaving the spear where it fell, and worked his way to the exit, eying everything for the last time. Standing in the doorway of his and Jess’ apartment , because it would always be theirs , he turned around. There wasn’t much to see except the narrow walls that led to the kitchen. He said a final good-bye, then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Again, the silence was overwhelming. He thought about what to do next: go door to door, or check on Zaun. He decided to check on his friend. Now that he had the bat, a decent weapon, he felt better about roaming around, although he still wanted a firearm.
As Jack moved down the hall, he stopped beside each open door; listened, then peered inside. Clear, he moved on. He did this four times before coming to Zaun’s closed apartment door. Raising his hand to knock, he stopped himself. Instead, he
Putting the small photo in his pocket, Jack went back to the bedroom, removed the spear from its place between his back and the pack, letting it drop to the floor. He then took off his backpack and sat on the bed. Still feeling weary, he laid down on Jess’ side, letting his face sink into her pillow. He inhaled, smelling her scent. He could taste her sweetness. Touch her soft skin.
“I miss you, baby,” he said, “so damn much.” Breathing was becoming harder with his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to stop smelling her, but turned himself over, needing the air. Lying still, he stared at the ceiling. He needed to get up and keep moving. Remaining where he was, in his old room, was pointless. Too painful. Jess was dead. He had gotten what he came for: the pictures, and a little closure.
But he was so tired. He didn’t want to go on. In the back of his mind, he heard his wife telling him to get up , that he needed to help others . Get himself and them out of the city.
Jack forced himself up. Looking around the room, his gaze stopped on the open closet doors. Guns. He had guns.
The weariness left him as if he’d been doused with ice-water. He got to his feet and raced over to the closet. He checked the top shelf for his handguns, finding that the cases they rested in were gone. His rifle and shotgun were missing too. Whoever had cleaned out the food, must have taken the weapons.
Damn.
Reaching up, Jack felt along the door’s frame, his fingers coming into contact with a small metal case that was attached by magnets to a metal strip. Sliding off the cover, he saw that his set of keys were still inside; the same set of keys that opened the lock boxes as well as the trigger guards to his weapons. Whoever did have his guns wouldn’t be using them, not without getting those locks off the triggers. Jack pocketed the keys, wanting to keep them in the event he came across his guns as he searched the building.
Pushing the clothes aside, Jack found that his Louisville Slugger baseball bat was still where he had left it. Picking it up, he felt the smooth wood finish, marred slightly from playing a few games of ball in the park. The baseball-hitting implement was about to get uglier, because it would no longer be used as a tool to hit baseballs, but to smash in the heads of the undead.
Jack had an idea and went back to the hall coat closet where he kept his toolbox. H e would hammer a few nails through the bat head . Damn it; his tools were gone too. Sudden rage swept over his body. He began pulling on the coats, snapping the plastic hangers, then throwing the garments to the floor. With the final jacket in his grip, he stopped. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. If he had been running around fighting for his life, he would have done the same, and taken whatever he could use. He only hoped that whoever had taken his stuff was still using it and that the person, or people, was still alive.
Before leaving, Jack grabbed his backpack, leaving the spear where it fell, and worked his way to the exit, eying everything for the last time. Standing in the doorway of his and Jess’ apartment , because it would always be theirs , he turned around. There wasn’t much to see except the narrow walls that led to the kitchen. He said a final good-bye, then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Again, the silence was overwhelming. He thought about what to do next: go door to door, or check on Zaun. He decided to check on his friend. Now that he had the bat, a decent weapon, he felt better about roaming around, although he still wanted a firearm.
As Jack moved down the hall, he stopped beside each open door; listened, then peered inside. Clear, he moved on. He did this four times before coming to Zaun’s closed apartment door. Raising his hand to knock, he stopped himself. Instead, he
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