Nothing beats waking up to the static-filled calls of my radio. It means I have something to do.

  Not that I lack occupation. Every day I’m planting, foraging, cleaning, or building something. If Mrs. Ortiz hadn’t called, I probably would have patched the hole in Penelope’s coop and taken Marigold out for a trot.

  But the minute that heavy Latina voice crackles in and out, turning the last part of my name into a broken whisper, I know it’s going to be a good day. “Thea? Thea? Come in Thea, are you there?”

  It takes a few groggy slaps on my wobbly nightstand before my dark fingers curl around the worn edges of the CB. “Good morning to you too.”

  Just because I’m enthusiastic about work doesn’t mean I’m thrilled to be nagged before the sun has even come up. Besides, being a bit cranky tends to work in my favor during negotiations. Lucky for me, I ran out of coffee three weeks ago.

  “I’m sorry, Thea.” Mrs. Ortiz pauses and takes a breath. “We have a nest growing in our entry again.”

  “Excuse me?” I blink a few times, clearing my dream. It was a nice one; Charlotte and I ran through warm sand on a nameless beach, careless and free. I could feel the warm granules between all ten of my toes.

  “Sorry.” Mrs. Ortiz drags the apology into a plea.

  I groan. “You never patched the hole in your basement.”

  Nests don’t pop up overnight. To get more than twenty lurchers in one space, they have to stumble into a space they couldn’t reasonably escape. The noise draws more in, slowly but surely.

  I once had to clear a whole sewer for the nearest settlement. Forty lurchers, all because some bored kids stole the manhole cover for reasons and the lurchers couldn’t figure out how to climb back out. Bright side, most of them had broken their legs in the fall. It put us on a more level playing field.

  The Ortiz’s have a large building, their leak comes from a big egress window to their basement with a giant step inside. Lurchers can shamble in but they lack the coordination or problem-solving to climb back out. Unfortunately, that leaves the family without access to their food storage. Worse yet, the stairs lead directly to their hotel lobby.

  “Thea?” Mrs. Ortiz pleads again.

  I sigh and click the button to talk. “Double rate for the rush job.”

  “Done.”

  “And you recharge my boombox.”

  Mr. Ortiz yells in the background, “That’s extortion!”

  His wife shushes him before coming back to me. “We can afford the fresh food but our own batteries are already low.”

  “You’re forcing me to stop everything I’m doing, ride up to the city, and clear out your entryway, all because you didn’t take my advice.” I let that sink in. Sure, I’d only been sleeping but I value my dreams. Especially the ones where Charlotte and I aren’t arguing.

  “Yeah… but–”

  “And, unless your customers are looking for a new petting zoo, you’re losing business on top of everything else.”

  It’s a low card to play, but I know it will silence Mr. Ortiz’s complaints in the background. They turn their handheld off for a moment, probably bickering. Mr. Ortiz is probably suggesting a call to Andrew for a better rate. But they won’t; they won’t want to risk being trapped up there any longer than needed.

  Their son can’t handle the lack of routine.

  “Fine.” Mrs. Ortiz sounds like she’d aged ten years in mere seconds. “As long as you come today.”

  “I’ll be there within two hours.” I turn the radio off before they complain. Yeah, it’s petty to make them wait; I could just leave now. But they woke me up with this nonsense and I don’t want to get a headache on the job. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to skip feeding Penelope or Marigold.

  Marigold was none too pleased when I rode off without her, but I need to approach this job with silence. My best bet was to lure the most mobile lurchers out through the front. Then I’d clear out the crawlers.

  Granted, Marigold probably knows when my leg is killing me. She always seems to know, no matter how hard I fight the urge to limp. And cycling won’t help.

  If you ever visit the big cities, after you check the radio, I highly recommend scouting the outskirts for a map. In Austen, they’re plastered and faded, the edges worn. I’m not sure how long they were meant to last, maybe only a couple weeks.

  I guess people had high hopes after the settlements started, thought maybe we could reclaim the cities. But they’re just too big, too many nooks and crannies. And large civilizations make it too easy for one person to hide a bite.

  Still, the ruins are good for tourists or school trips. Old museums with tiny placards about their missing art. Community centers with all the fliers from Containment flapping against the wall on the empty air of their old promises. Such business lets the Ortiz family stay in Austen. They claim tourists pay well and the life offered good solitude for their son. I doubt it’s worth the danger.

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  The near monthly infestations in their lobby can’t be good for Rufus.

  Then again, the settlements are hardly accommodating to people like us. Charlotte and I don’t live in the middle of nowhere just because people can never pronounce my name.

  My muscles clench as I pedal along, the occasional click-click-click reminding me to oil the chain when I get home. The soft sound tries to echo off the desolate buildings and cracked asphalt, dying on the air as I coast around the rusted carcasses of long abandoned cars and campers. A couple of lurchers shamble along, staggering after me, only to give up once I disappear from view.

  The graffiti that litters my route is familiar, most of it faded and less legible every time I pass. I always double check for deterioration when I pass my own handiwork.

  Charlotte had helped me gather the climbing gear to make it up there, mixing the paint for me in a brilliant shade of green that warmed under the sun, contrasting brightly against the dirty concrete and even ever-growing moss with big letters, taking up a wall that faces outside town.

  GOT ZOMBIES?

  CALL ANTHEA

  33.21 AM

  Simple and to the point. Except for the part where folks assume I misspelled my own name. I can assure you, I did not.

  This make-shift billboard marks only five minutes left pedaling. My calf pretends to hurt more and more, bastard that it was. I pedal harder, just to show it who’s boss.

  My mom always used to tell me about the world she grew up in. Before the outbreak, when she was still little, everyone was attached to a screen. I believe it, my boots crunch over them all the time and they sit covered in dust behind nearly every busted shop window. She used to say this is how folks communicated, which seems like a weird way to have a conversation. It makes the massive amounts of paper confusing.

  Wads tumble along the streets. Single sheets flutter and flit on the breeze. By the time I pull up to Ortiz's building, an old flier is wrapped in the spokes of my front wheel. I delicately pull it free, letting it hang loose so I can examine the faded print. Guitar lessons for kids. A poorly executed drawing of the instrument in question next to a phone number, schedule, and rates.

  Something about it makes me smile and I fold the soggy page and push it gently into my back pocket before walking around the back of the structure to check the leak first.

  The Ortiz’s have a nice building, if you look past the chipping stucco, rusted iron fence, and the big ugly Z’s painted over several doors on both floors

  The security measures aren’t pretty but they do the trick. As much as you need to keep the dead out, they only want one thing, their motives are precise.

  As I go to the back alley, I can already hear the moans echoing inside. At least ten. And those are just the ones who still have their vocal cords. around back.. Even now, a pair of dirty carpenter pants scissor back and forth the window well as another chomper tries to crawl in.

  “Great…” I suppress a groan, pulling my backpack off one strap at a time as I go back to the front. It’s bright out, so not too many lurchers milling about. Gives me a minute to dig out my boombox. It takes a little jiggling to fish the bulky thing out, before I stand in front of the old lobby doors.

  A rotting body slams against the glass, the teeth scraping over the door in irritating little squeals. The eyes are big and red on the edges, the color even more prominent against the gray and brown skin. The hair is gnarled and greasy from the years, even the stubby bits around the armpits and groin.

  Where it’s missing a particular appendage…

  “Huh.” I cock my head to one side before looking it in the eyes. “Were you getting a blowy when you got bit, Buddy?”

  It keeps gnawing uselessly at the glass, slapping a dirty palm in hollow thumps. I’ll have to open the doors soon, or the nest will break the windows. The Ortizes can’t afford that.

  I tap the glass with my nail a couple times, smiling. “See you in a minute, Buddy.”

  I step to the middle of the road, placing the boombox on the ground before fishing in the front of my pack and pulling out a long chain and a key to the front door.

  At least Mr. Ortiz agreed to sharing the key after the second nest. Gives me a simple way to clear their lobby.

  I flip through my CDs as Buddy continues to paw at the glass, the skin squeaking in long, low squeals.

  Mom told me most people would only listen to one kind of music. I’m not sure how anyone could just pick one. My tiny pile of CDs always feels so limiting. The Cure. Nah, too melodic for the space. Gaelic Storm… Perfect. Their tones shift, so that would capture some of the older ones with rotting ear drums. And it wasn’t too banged up, so it wouldn’t have a lot of skips or scratches. Not that I’ll hear much.

  I pop the disc into the top and crank the volume, bobbing my head to The Bear and the Butcher Boy as I gather the chain. The thick chain loops over the handle I’ll unlock as Buddy stumbles towards closer. A few of the shadows lurch behind him.

  Once I have the chain secure, I unlock the doors and go back to the boombox before giving it a sharp tug. The door pops open and the dead shamble from the building

  There’s just enough time to cross the remaining street, grab my bag, and start climbing the nearest fire escape on an old apartment building. The rusty ladder groans and my arms tense as I pull myself up to the first platform.

  My ear protection muffles the racket of my new friends as I assemble my gun. Can’t use my sidearm, the Glock’s too loud. It would have drawn in more, wasting amo. The AR15 is sleek, assembling quickly, and even easier to aim, provided I have the time for it.

  The old silencer won’t eliminate the crack of each shot, but it’ll limit the pull. Keep the cost of business down. The first contestant is Buddy himself. Next to him a nude woman with a large chunk ripped from one breast and another from her abdomen. Maybe Buddy’s girly friend.

  “Till death do you part.” Crack. Crack.

  Two down. Nothing too crazy after that. There’s a teen in a colorful restaurant uniform with large grease stains and an ugly burn over one arm and half of his face. It takes two bullets, I didn’t take as much time as I should have when aiming.

  The rest are pretty basic, jeans and T-shirts. Large clumps of matted hair covered in all kinds of debris.

  And then a kid.

  Too young and hair too short to tell gender. Footie pajamas with bottoms worn to rags over raw and ripped feet.

  “Dammit,” I groan and readjust my sights after pushing a stray braid behind my ear. “I hate when it’s a kid.”

  They’re small and their steps are less certain. It takes forever to aim, three rounds, but at least the kid will be light when I build the fire. All-in-all, a pretty quick extermination.

  Not that Mr. Ortiz is going to offer a thank you for the speedy service.