The metal chime of a bicycle bell rings out as he races down the dirt road; a red Radio Flyer wagon hitched to the back filled with stolen goods (a half dozen glass bottles of filtered spring water with cork stoppers, food rations wrapped in cloth, and an array of toys and ammo). A small hoard of undead run behind him, growling and driven by their own insatiable hunger, but instead of heading for the safety of camp, he takes a sharp left and speeds down a small dirt path that forks off the main track. Within the next few feet, his bicycle tires hit a trip wire between two dead trees and, in the distance behind him, the deafening bang of an explosion rings out. When the smoke clears, he sees that the hoard that was trailing after him now lies in tiny pieces of mangled flesh and bone. A lofty success! He knew those blockbusters would be useful!
Of course, by the time he pedals back to the campsite, breathless and sweaty, he wipes the smugness from his features and does his best to look innocent while dismounting his bike (all evidence of aforementioned stolen goods now hidden beneath a thick white cotton sheet) and clutching an enameled steel toy truck in hand.
❝ Before you ask, I didn’t do it. ❞
