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bunch of tools screwed into the pommel. Part of it was serrated to use like a saw, and the rest was long and razor sharp. I tucked this into the back of my pants in lieu of a gun, and felt much more confident. There was nothing like a deadly weapon at your side to help calm nerves.
    More pops of gunfire, so I moved everything I needed to the front door. I took a few shotgun shells and loaded them under the weapon, then I pumped a round into the chamber and set it with barrel pointing up at the ceiling, leaning against the wall.
    I snatched up the Marlin, chambered a round, and set it next to the shotgun. I felt like I was more or less ready for war, but I would have felt better with my old handgun at my side. The .40 caliber was a powerful gun that would stop one of the zombies on a dime, turn his head inside out, leave him laid out and twice cold.
    I went into the tiny garage and looked around for some tools. I found a small pry bar and added it to my stash, along with a tool kit that was neatly organized.
    All of this planning was done on the fly. I had never really considered what it would be like to flee my home, knowing that I might never return. There was a deep gnawing in my gut that I knew was fear. Fear of going out there. Fear of leaving everything behind. Fear of never being able to come home again.
    I looked around my house at all the things I had accumulated over the years. Well, Allison and I. I glanced at the cheap paintings that adorned the wall; one in particular had a large schooner breaking through a spray of waves. It could have been a bright and gaudy picture like you would see at a library or museum, but the artist had chosen a subtle palette of colors that fit into just about any room. Another fixture to leave. Yet I found myself staring at it for some time before my mind kicked back into overdrive.
    I loaded the boxes in the car, and every time I went past Edwards, I tried not to look at his body. I tried to keep my mind on the task at hand, tried to ignore what my eyes would tell me if I gave them a chance. A dead friend. Killed by my own hand. I pushed my shame aside for the time being.
    I moved the shotgun to the front seat and put the rifle in the rear with my backpack. I returned to my house for another load of MREs, when I felt the eyes on me. I looked up toward Edwards’s house. His wife’s ghostly face, with its splash of blood, was staring at me through the front window, as she tried to walk through the glass over and over. She would walk forward, rebound, put her arms up for balance, and then do it again. She left splashes of blood all over the glass.
    Jesus, Cindy.
    I shuddered and grabbed the last few boxes and shoved them in the back of my little SUV. Then I went around the house, unplugged everything I could, and grabbed a charger for my cell phone and one for my laptop. I had chosen the smaller one, the netbook with its long-life battery, and added it to my treasure. It didn’t have a broadband connection built in, but it did have a large collection of porn. If nothing else, I guess I am a practical man.
    Devon was nowhere to be found. I imagined he and Lisa were back in their house relaxing, or making an attempt to. Hopefully they would keep their heads and think out the situation. If it were me staying, I would have started boarding up the house first, put something over the windows so none of those things could see in. Then reinforce the front and back sliding glass doors.
    With everything loaded, I returned to the house one last time and went into each room to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
    Then I secured each window and double-checked the sliding glass door. A cursory glance under the house assured me the stash of black bags would not show unless someone got right down in there. I wished I had some carpet to cover the spot with, although if someone discovered the carpet, they would probably be more apt to poke around in the space. Why was I even thinking I would come