Sam's actually kind of awful at the whole "encouragement" gig. Maybe I should be grateful that it's my arm and not my leg, but right now, while I'm going out of my way through zombie territory to pick up supplies for people I don't know, gratitude isn't really what I'm feeling.
Has this kid been living under a rock? I'm shaking my head as I keep up a steady jog, my senses alert for any unexpected movement, but everything is still. Everyone knows you don't get close to a runner, not even if you're partners. Maybe especially if you're partners, because if you're out with someone and they get bit, you're the one who has to make sure they don't return.
Kid, your attempt at being cheerful is just sad. And no, you're apparently not right about a moderate pace being safe, given that you just mentioned Five – smart, fast, 'amazing' Five – who is no longer with us.
But I do appreciate the tips about where the packs are. Guess I'll have to thank him when I get there, rather than knocking him upside the head.
Or not. Is he sending me in here to keep me safe, or to pick up… hm. Everything else in this office looks kind of dull – 'medical beige,' I tend to think of it – but there's this thin silver file case with a sleek silicone-coated handle. It's locked, but I could probably pry it open and see what's inside if I had something I could wedge in there. But the crunch of footsteps on broken glass makes me think maybe that's not the best idea. So I just grab the briefcase and head for the door.
Except there's a zombie there. And she's just looking at me.
I think that's what I hate the most – when they act human. I mean, we tell ourselves that they're not. That they're not even alive, not really. They're not even animals.
But what if we're wrong?