red hill - jamie mcguire

Chapter Eight
Nathan
I LOWERED MY CHIN TO PEEK from a slit in the boards Gary had left for Skeeter. The sun was a little
lower in the sky. Before too long, it would be dark. That thought scared me. We would need to sleep
some time, but they wouldn’t. Those things would be walking around, just on the other side of these
walls, waiting to pull our flesh from our bones with their teeth.
Skeeter grabbed my shoulder; the sudden movement made me jump two inches off my chair.
“Whoa! It’s just me, Nate. Calm down.”
I settled back into my seat, trying to play off my fear. Watching a movie about zombies is one thing.
Watching zombies outside your window was another. The movies didn’t talk about that. Well . . .
maybe they did, but they didn’t drive home how terrifying each moment truly was. I tried not to think
about tomorrow, or that we would still be fighting for our lives every day from now on. I glanced
back at Zoe, and choked back the sadness welling up in my throat. I didn’t want her to grow up in a
world like this.
A combination of fear, anger, and utter depression fully engulfed me.
Skeeter squeezed my shoulder. I sat still, letting his fingers sink into my tense muscle. “It’s going
to be okay.”
“Is it” I asked, looking back out the window. “Is Jill”
Skeeter sighed. “I don’t know. I’m hoping the movies got it all wrong, and a bite is just a bite.”
“What if it’s not”
“I don’t know. I don’t really wanna think about it.”
I nodded, catching a glimpse of an elderly man shuffling by the window. His neck was half eaten
away, and his dress shirt was saturated in blood. “We can’t stay here. We’re going to have to keep
moving. Get into the country.”
“Damn, brother, I thought I was in the country.”
“I mean away from any town.”
Skeeter took a moment to respond. “I know, but I can’t move Jill. And we can’t risk putting her in
a car with Zoe until we know if she’s going to get better.”
I closed my eyes tight, trying to squint away the visual. Another one of those things ambled by. She
was wearing a nametag and a long skirt. I couldn’t read the nametag even if it was closer. It was
covered in blood and what might be torn muscle lying over the top.
“Jesus Christ, that’s Birdie,” Skeeter said, disgusted. “She works at the bank.”
A dog was barking at her, keeping just enough distance that it wasn’t grabbed and eaten. Looking
out at what could be seen through the boards, I watched whoever lumbered by, studying them, trying