Little Things, pt. 3

His mind raced. The smell of the blood would draw the dead as quickly as the mosquitoes, and the dead were more tenacious by far. “Let’s move out, quick!” he whispered. “They’re not far, they’ll smell this and be on us.”

He cringed even as he said it; he didn’t know exactly what he’d cut himself on. Taking care of the wound was their second priority. Leaving it any longer than absolutely necessary was as certain a death sentence as being caught by the dead. If they didn’t track them down by it, he’d die of infection.

They moved as quick as they dared through the broken street, avoiding rusted, rotting lumps that could only rarely be identified as cars. They were spurred on by the eerie, inarticulate vocalizations that were all the dead could produce. The moon was still hidden away behind thick clouds.

“We need more light,” Oliver growled as he nearly gashed his own leg open on some sort of rod of metal jutting up from the ground.

“Can’t, too risky. They’re too close on us as it is.” He was grateful they were so slow. These were old dead, bodies dried out, slow moving husks.

“I know. Didn’t say I was gonna open it up, just said I wish we could.”

“If wishin’ did any good, the dead would all be gone.” They had to be almost there. They had to be. Nothing looked at all familiar though, and Jake found himself wishing for more light in spite of his own advice.