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with which he brings down the hammer.
    His blows start to ring against the concrete as he gets through the bones and brain. It’s a loud, sharp sound and I wince, watching the corners with greater caution. This much noise is not good.
    Sure enough, two deaders—remarkably mobile despite their horrific conditions—feel their way around the corner of a bookstore at the end of the block. Neither appears to have sight because their noses lift as if to sniff us out and their heads cock toward the sound of the blows. One is almost completely naked, the ragged remains of a bra and panties doing little to cover the disgusting sight of her withered—and yet somehow gooey-looking—flesh.
    The other is in better condition and streaks of brown that must be dried blood cover it nearly from head to toe. A sleeveless business suit faded to an indiscriminate shade of gray covers his body, and it makes a perfect backdrop for the blood to show up against. Another hammer blow sounds out and both heads jerk in our direction with greater purpose.
    “We’ve got to go! Finish!” I whisper harshly and bring my own bow to bear. They’re walking so jerkily that I have zero confidence in my ability to sever the spine on either of them. As weak as they are on their own, it’s easy to get overrun and where there are two, there are more.
    One last, definitive blow makes the concrete sidewalk sing out a note, and then Charlie wipes his gore-covered hammer on the clothing of the now permanently dead man. I can’t keep holding his bike and my crossbow and expect to get a decent aim, or fire effectively. I’m at the point of letting it go and taking my shot when the bike steadies under my hand and Charlie hops back on.
    “Two more coming at the other end,” he says and jerks his head toward the tiny, fancy restaurant at the other end of the block. “Forget them! Let’s go.”
    He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I flip my crossbow around to my back and hit the pedals on my bike like there’s no tomorrow. A few more deaders make their way out of a small drugstore and I swerve on my bike to avoid them. I pass so close that I can smell them, the scent of metal, blood, and rot thick on their bodies.
    Charlie is to the left of me, so he slips past them without trouble, but he mutters, “Take a frigging bath, why don’t you,” to the group as we pass.
    That makes me grin. If he’s got his sense of humor, then all is well. Gloria and he were close. She was maternal, naturally so, and she seemed to know how much all of us needed some mothering. This was especially true as we watched Emily fade further and further, her pain increasing along with our helplessness. He took Gloria’s loss even harder than the rest of us. Now that the last of those guys is gone, maybe he can get over it and move on.
    We’ve disturbed some equilibrium in the city with our actions. Ripples of disturbance spread out from that center of noise and activity. As we ride, our bikes quiet but our gear rattling, deaders shuffle in confused circles, or touch and taste their way along the walls. Those who can no longer walk or crawl, crane their necks away from whatever metal they’ve attached themselves to, seeming to sniff at the air even with only the insufficient stubs of noses that remain to them.
    Perhaps it’s luck, but no more in-betweeners come our way. There aren’t that many humans around as far as I know, so that means there are fewer humans to fall into in-betweener status after that first death. And, with so little to replenish their systems, they transition into deader fairly rapidly once turned in-betweener. And they seem almost territorial, roaming an area wide enough for them but no more. I don’t believe in luck, though, so I watch every nook and cranny, every cross street and intersection, as sharply as is humanly possible.
    Charlie moves up to take point again, so we go back to our individual roles; me on watch and him watching the road. The miles fall