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bucket teeming with murky fecal matter, you take very great pains to make damn sure you don’t spill it on yourself, the floor of your living space, or anyone who might get in the way. This means that the going is slow and stressful. All the while you’re gagging and trying your best to breathe through your mouth but even then it’s like you can taste it. Shit particles. Pee vapor.
    Christ.
    I’m on my last leg of the shift when it happens. Ted has been keeping watch for me while I run my insane little relay, scooping the bucket into the toilet in the break room, carefully walking at top speed through the conference room, out the break-room door and into the store, then across the floor to the broken windows. I’ve been tossing most of the waste out the windows. Phil was kinda right—there’s just something weird about dumping crap on the floor of the store. So to make him and, I think, everyone else happy, I fling the contents of the bucket out the broken windows.
    It’s also a chance to get a look at the outside world, which is something you really can’t pass up. The rolling parade of smoke has cleared some and now you can see the building across the street. The windows are broken there too. It’s almost satisfying to see that overpriced, snob-factory of a boutique run-down and gutted. Almost. There are a few zombies wandering the streets but they all seem to be heading in one direction, west toward the university campus. There’s no sign of human life, no trace of other survivors, just overturned cars in heaps, the carnage of a sudden battle, scorch marks and tire treads painted down the streets … It looks exactly like a movie set.
    During the relay race Ted and I have begun sharpening a theory. We posit that there are two kinds of zombies: Groaners and Floaters. They’re both dangerous, for obvious reasons, but they’re actually quite different. Groaners are loud, they groan (duh) and moan and squeal as they come for you. They’re faster, more determined, more desperate. Floaters are arguably more dangerous because they’re quiet, weirdly quiet, and they can sneak up on you. But they’re slow and they don’t seem to react very fast. Ted and I think that Groaners are hungry, so they’ve gone a little wild. Floaters are running on a full tank so they don’t care as much about getting their bony claws on your face. During the Shit Shift we have encountered a few of both, but mainly Groaners. I have to say, I prefer Groaners—they let you know they’re coming, they announce their arrival.
    I’m feeling tired, so run-down I can hardly focus my eyes, but I’m going to finish this last trip to the windows if it’s the final fucking act of my life. Setting a good example, I’ve come to see, is key to leadership. If I empty the toilet first, then the others will do it without complaint, and if I do a thorough job then I’ll set a good standard.
    Like I said, this is when it happens: I raise the bucket, holding my breath as I wind up to toss the waste out the window. Then I hear this sound. It’s one I haven’t heard in a while, a sound that will make any human being with a pulse stand up and take breathless notice.
    Woof … Rerr … Woof, Roof!
    It’s a dog, a mutt, and it’s staring me down from the middle of the road. Maybe staring isn’t the right word—regarding, lovingly, sweetly, begging with its big chocolate eyes. It’s got dark, pointed ears and one is standing straight up, the other is flopped over. His nose is marbled pink and tan and he’s got a sturdy, if starved, body. There has to be German shepherd in there and maybe some pit bull. He’s mostly black and orange, with the biggest tongue I’ve ever seen hanging out the side of his mouth.
    “Come here, little man!” I call.
    “What are you doing?” Ted growls.
    “I’m calling to the dog, what does it look like?”
    “You can’t, Allie, what if he’s infected? And he’s probably hungry. He’ll eat all our