He woke to the weight of her against his hip and chest, of her hand over his mouth. Before his brain could process the noises he was hearing, she whispered into his ear, “Don’t make a fucking sound.”
At dusk they’d climbed up atop an eighteen-wheeler to lay out their sleeping bag; now a herd of undead were shuffling past them down the moonlit highway, an undulating chorus of moans and hisses. They listened, frozen, hearts pounding, until the noises grew few and distant.
Eventually her hand left his mouth, brushed down his chest, came to rest on his crotch.