The anger that coursed through my body as I mutilated—and that’s the right word for what I had done—the Paul Marcum lookalike faded before I got back in the truck. My hands and legs shook as the effects wore off. I guessed that’s what a junkie feels like after a high, after his head has been totally messed up for a few hours or a day or whatever and reality starts to come back. I was cold, and my joints were stiff, and I shivered as if winter had arrived and brought with it the northern winds. I drove the mile to the exit ramp that led to Summerville and pulled off the interstate. At the dead light, I turned and crossed onto the overpass. There I stopped, got out of the truck, and walked to the edge of the overpass. My legs still shook a little, and I was tired and weak. I stared off toward Charleston. In the distance, I could see a few of the dead shambling about. How many? I couldn’t say, but there was no staying any length of time in Summerville. It could take them a couple hours to get there.
