It was an old walker: leathery skin stretched over bones and tendons, skeletal and otherworldly. They had chained it to an old lamp post, and all the time she sat and watched it, it strained at its bond without relenting.
“Why keep it?”
“How scared were you when you saw your first?”
“Terrified. I tripped and fell. Horace had to save me, I would’ve gotten bit.”
“Mayor wants the young ones to know what zombies look like. What they smell like, sound like. So when it counts, they’re not tripping over their own—” He stopped. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”