by A.R. Thomas
Libby, his wife, was the first, but she wasn’t the last. She’d been turned. He saw her after the attack, shuffling along with the rest of them. His other two companions had been luckier. They had died, and he made sure they wouldn’t come back. Actually they hadn’t died. No, he had killed them. That was more accurate. But hey, he needed their food and water. They couldn’t all make it across the desert. Survival of the fittest, right?
Damned broken leg. It would almost be funny if Libby wasn’t coming up the trail. Was being turned painful?