I had a request from a faithful Twitter fan for a piece of the new novel. Here’s the introductory bit. This is the one that gave me such consternation about the idea of “too much pace,” but not until later in the story.

Enjoy!

———

A quarter mile from Lamesa, Jack could tell that he was up for disappointment. Over the past two weeks, he had steeled himself as if he were headed for a concentration camp, expecting to see people starving, people dying in the streets because there just wasn’t enough edible material to go around. But there were no people, and that he wasn’t prepared for.

Coming down the slight rise on the northeast side of town, Jack could follow Main with his eyes all the way to the south end. There were five buildings. Two were bars, one of which could provide entertainment as well, for a price, usually crabs or the clap. One dealt used cars and was surrounded by a large lot, one boarding house, and one general store.

No movement caught Jack’s eye. No sound, hardly a breeze to catch his sweat and cool his skin. The town was dead. Jack dropped to his knees and prayed.

“Christ, that’s twice in two days,” Jack said to the empty road. Ten years ago that was common, but since Izzy and Char were killed it hadn’t happened outside of a handful of feeble attempts. Char would have been twelve now.

Jack pushed himself back up off his knees and walked in silence toward town, pushing away the thoughts of his daughter, ignoring the warm splash of blood as it splayed across the memory of his wife’s body lying dead still on the beige carpet. All that blood soaked into the edges of his consciousness, even as Jack stared blank at the clouds and tried to empty his head. Road dust floated around him, stale and sour.

In town, Jack went first to the bar, the one without the extra-curriculars. He wasn’t in the mood to ogle a dead whore, even if his next chance to off his rocks was weeks away.

Two glasses of whisky down, the pain descended from behind his eyes to somewhere in his chest. One more glass and it found solace in his stomach. That was fine, because from there he could convince himself that it was something different, less gruesome.

Jack walked to the grocery across the Main and refreshed his food stock.

“Tuna. Salmon. Tired of it. Where’s the goddamn jerky?” He tossed the unwanted cans on the floor while the bitterness floated through him. The vegetables were rotted. The dark Hershey’s bars should still be good though so he grabbed a few and threw them in his pack. He walked back and picked up the two tuna cans he had thrown down, and grabbed two more from the shelf. Six cans of beans, three corn.

A crash caught his attention. He whipped around and gave the store a quick scan before dropping to his knees. They popped and Jack groaned. The short knife was already in his hand, pulled so quickly that he hadn’t even realize he had done it.

He closed his eyes and split his lips apart, listening hard for more sounds. A rhythmic thumping began, and light footsteps. Three aisles over.

Jack crawled silently to the end of his aisle, knees angry the whole way, and eased himself into a crouch. He worked slowly across three aisles, checking the corners along the way. On the fourth aisle—off by one—Jack saw him. What is he doing alone? They’re never alone.

He could always tell a Walker. They always had a pungent odor and a smirk that was uncommonly gleeful. Without fail, they stink to hell. Without fail, they look like they could break into cackles at any little thing. A toppled tree, or a falling leaf.

This one was alone, though. Not they this time, but he. Whistling, now. Thump, thump, can after can tossed aside. A can of hominy rolled toward Jack, and he snatched it up. The Walker paused and grunted and started to turn toward the sound, or lack of, caused when the rolling can ceased to roll. Jack reprimanded himself and swore silently, sure the Walker had turned full around and looked toward the end of the aisle where Jack was crouched around by the end cap.

He was certain that if that bastard listened long enough, he’d hear his own version of cans tossed rhythmically aside.

When no more sound was evident, the Walker resumed sifting through sundries, picking out the things that would taste least like shit when cooked in the can.

Jack exhaled slowly and forced his body to relax. He sheathed the knife and pulled his pistol from the holster on his left hip. The dragoon was slow but always effective. One cube of powder should do in these quarters.

The Walker strolled to the end of the aisle on Jack’s left, and began walking up the aisle to his right. Jack sat silent, listening. The footsteps stopped. He heard a box open, heard a plastic bag rip. A grinding sound and a rain of small pebbles flashed across Jack’s mind as the Walker grabbed a handful of cereal and shoved it in his mouth, groaning with contentment.

Jack held his handkerchief against the firing pin of his pistol and slowly clicked it live.

The box hit the floor. Quick patters of running steps flew away from Jack and he leaped out from behind the endcap. He squeezed the trigger and the dragoon howled. The crash seemed to shake the building as the sound echoed against the metal rafters.

The ball struck at the base of the Walker’s neck, and he dropped to the ground, it’s hat flying from it’s head. Long brown locks flowed like water from a burst baloon.

“A girl?”

Jack was dumbstruck. He’d never seen a female Walker before. And he hadn’t heard laughter in many years, but he heard it now, behind him.

“You shouldn’t have done that, old man.”

The voice was like coarse sandpaper. Jack turned to face the speaker, his hand already moving to his short knife, but the attempt was feeble and stupid. Jack knew that he had crossed a line, and he thought of Izzy, of Char, and of how it had felt to see them dead. He wondered briefly who the girl was.

The second Walker was on Jack in half a heartbeat, a huge knife pressed against the old man’s throat, and the creature’s sick breath washed over him. He had never been this close to one in daylight, and was appalled. He couldn’t even think of the thing as human anymore. It’s skin was gray and over-thick, almost calloused. A sore oozed on one cheek, but the fluid was dark yellow, almost brown. Not pus, not an infection. There was not redness around the wound. It was like mucus, like the snot that drips after a long walk through a dust storm. Jack’s breath hitched in his throat.

“I’m gonna kill you, old man.” The Walker’s words loosened Jack’s throat and made him feel a little more stable. The throb in his stomach lessened.

“Just try it, ugly,” Jack said.

The creature chewed on his lip, furling his brow. He spat in Jack’s face.

“You insolent shit,” the creature said and broke Jack’s nose.

Jack crumpled on the tile floor of the grocery and tasted blood and snot. He spat back, toward the floor rather than at the Walker, and began to reach around his right side, that facing away from his attacker.

“What is your name, ugly? I hate to have to keep calling you ugly all the time.”

The Walker howled with rage.

“My name? My name? What in hell do you want with that. Wanna steal my soul with it? Wanna eat my flesh, pick your teeth with my bones?”

“No, ugly. I just want to know what to call you. In case I ever need to know.” Jack’s hand found the tang of the short knife, but the appearance of two more Walkers at the grocery store’s entrance caused him to let it go. The newcomers appeared out of breath.

“Murgan,” said one of them, “is everything O.K.?”

Jack chuckled. Murgan kicked him and turned to the others.

“Shut up,” Murgan said. “Idiots.”

“We heard an explosion,” said the other—another female, Jack noticed. “Thought maybe—“

“We found him.”

“What?”

“Don’t be so surprised, Angela,” Murgan said. “Dusk told us we would have the traitor soon. He’s hear. He—“

Murgan turned when he heard the click, and Jack launched himself up, taking the shot he had reloaded while Murgan’s back was turned. The ball bearing embedded itself in Murgan’s right arm. Jack’s left swung around with the knife and slashed at him, but the unnamed Walker bashed Jack on the back of the head and the world crisped away in a sparkle of blackness.