Some of the rotters saw them pass, tried to follow, slapped at the vehicle as it passed—but they were too slow, too stupid, to matter. They bounded pasted a gutted Starbucks. An overgrown park. Boutique hotels and shuttered restaurants. And all around them, dead people: some still moving, others just corpses burned or gutted or gone from suicide. In cars. On street corners. Hanging half out of windows. All the while, Coburn clung to the roof-rack of the mini-van with one hand, shushing Creampuff and stroking the little dog’s head with the other. The animal panted. Heavy. Too heavy. Blood wetting Coburn’s arms. Soon the great Hyde Street hill evened out—please keep your arms and legs inside the ride, Coburn thought, calling to mind a fleeting memory of Coney Island that he did not expect and could not follow—and since Gil had the van in neutral, there wasn’t much he could do but steer it straight into a parked car to stop it. Not before mowing over a DEAD END sign. Which Coburn hoped was not somehow prescient.
