Violet lurched slowly down the street, moaning, playing the part perfectly. Luckily, it was cool: her stage makeup wouldn’t sweat away, the glue would hold and the prosthetic rubber wouldn’t pull away from her skin. She tried not to pass too close to the dead… the other dead. They might be able to smell the fresh blood, if she was close enough. One of them, eating the severed arm from a nearby corpse, had looked at her closely as she shambled past, as if to ask, ‘why are you passing up such a wonderful snack?’ She tried to act full.
It’d be a hundred yards across open ground, jump the fence, ten yards to the swing set, grab the baby. On the way back, holding it, he’d have to go through the gate, then back to the building. He could make it. On the other hand, then they would know he was in here.
The walking dead were everywhere, even here in the Village where private security had once been the bane of loiterers and skateboarders and the wrong element in general. Their not-quite-police cars would come creeping around every half hour just to make sure the property values stayed high and the undesirables stayed off the grass.
Now there was a partially eaten gardener laying across her azaleas, and that Janice Ney woman waved at her from behind her immaculate bay windows across the street. they were almost close enough to shout across to each other, but of course neither would risk it.
You have to look at it in context. We had run out of food two days before this. The rain was keeping us supplied with drinking water, but we couldn’t go without food for much longer. Most of us figured on going out, scouting for canned food in the supermarkets before we were too weak to make it.
Warren wouldn’t have it though. Said we’d get ourselves killed, and even if some of us made it back with supplies, we’d just be leading the undead hordes back to the safe house. Said he wouldn’t allow it.
So we ate Warren.