There was an Audi in the middle of the street, driver’s side door open. At some point birds had built a nest of trash and dry uncut grass on the dashboard. There were no eggs, only brown shell shards. Rhonda moved on.
There were no zombies anywhere to be seen. There had been, once: corpses lay where they had been brought down by resisting survivors; gnawed bones could be found scattered on the street where they had not.
It was all irrelevant to Rhonda. She needed food. She would search the houses, but they had probably been ransacked long ago.
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