2 WE ARE THE HUNTERS Adam squatted down in the back alley, holding his hunting knife out in front of him like a talisman to ward off any unseen danger. The warm, gentle Santa Ana breeze made his sinuses feel like they were on fire. He ignored it—along with the foul stench reeking like burst sewer pipes that had taken over the street ever since the zombies had arrived—breathing through his mouth in low steady gulps as he assessed the situation. He swiveled his head back and forth one final time, making sure once again that no biters were bearing down on him from behind. You never really could be too careful, and he didn't plan on being accidently turned. He also didn't plan on being interrupted. He had work to do, ugly work, the kind you definitely didn't want to be disturbed while doing—not by anyone or anything that didn't deserve the type of vengeance he was about to dish out. Directly across from where he was crouched down he could see the metal door to the Del Taco bathroom, propped open casually by a cinder block with a loop of chain and a dangling key.
