There were three of them, hissing and moaning and scratching at the windows of one particular car out of a Monday morning traffic jam’s worth of cars. “Somebody in there.”
Ritchie pushed back his cap. “Yep.”
They picked the zombies off, then — slowly, carefully — approached the car.
“C’mon out.” There was no response, no movement. Ritchie motioned him to go around the other side. “C’mon out of the car, it’s safe now.”
A head appeared, a little boy, maybe five. He peered at them, then knocked on the car window.
Ritchie shook his head, “I ain’t takin’ no fuckin’ kid.”