There were bodies of the infected scattered everywhere. Car windows were smashed. The small old houses had belched their contents and dead occupants out onto the lawns. Under the boughs of the grand old oaks that had shaded the streets for decades, Murphy’s neighbors had fought the infected, and the guns they used to defend themselves drew more infected in. It was a difficult first lesson to survive. Dried blood, torn clothes, and gnawed bones marked the places where men, women, and their kids had learned that lesson too late. In spite of the body count, I saw no firearms among the dead. Someone had lived through the battle. The area had been scavenged. That was a hopeful sign. Murphy stopped the Humvee by the curb in front of a house that looked like all the rest. Through the thickening smoke, I could barely see the front door. Murphy turned to me with his mouth in a resolute crease. “Zed, you can stay here if you want.
What do You think about Slow Burn (Book 2): Infected?
