We’d been creeping along all day, through drainage ditches and behind houses. We were heading north into the countryside, almost out of ammo, feeling like we might just survive if we didn’t make any mistakes.
Philly motioned for everyone to stop, and for silence. As if we needed to be told to be quiet. I crawled up and peered over his shoulder: the ditch ended, and we’d have to cross a road. There were a dozen or so zombies standing around a stain that had been a human being.
There was no way around. We’d have to go through them.