When Garry was bitten, we had seen it all too many times already to get upset. There wasn’t any pathetic pleading. He just shook each of our hands, hugged the women, picked up a lawn chair, and climbed down. He didn’t go very far: the tennis courts have a high fence, and a solid gate.
The dead gathered around the court, of course. After about eight hours they lost interest; that’s how we knew Garry had died. He’s still out there, sitting in the lawn chair, hunched over and moaning. None of us have the heart to go finish him.
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