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pivoted as she dropped the empty weapon and pulled her final gun, her pistol, from the back of her pants. Twelve more bullets. But only one corpse was left. She put a bullet in its head and tucked the gun away.
    Call was gaping when she turned back to him. The road was littered with dead corpses in a circle around them and the bike. “Holy shit,” he said, staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Wow. Is it wrong if I’m really turned on right now?”
    She flinched but his crass words brought her back to the present, back to earth. “Don’t say that.”
    He laughed, incredulous. “You’re like a goddamn whirlwind of destruction, but that offends you.” He laughed again. “Fair enough.”
    She sank to the ground in the middle of her guns and pulled some extra ammo from her pockets. “We should go,” Call said, “Reload somewhere safer.”
    “And if we run into more of them first?” she asked. “You always reload immediately.” She moved quickly and efficiently - she knew which bullets were in which pockets, knew exactly how to load each weapon in the quickest way possible. She was done and rising to her feet in a matter of moments, shotgun resting over her shoulder.
    “See?” she said, “No time at all.” He looked a little pale. “Are you okay?”
    “Here I was thinking I needed to make you feel safe,” he said, shoulders shaking with mirthless laughter. “But you’re the dangerous one. I’m the one that should be scared, not you.”
    She couldn’t help smirking. “I’m only dangerous at a distance, Call.”
    “Well then get yourself over here before I drive off shrieking like a little girl,” he said, tucking his own gun away. “Fuck.”

   
     
    They barely spoke that night - after all the adrenaline of her escape the night before, the neverending flight on the back of Call’s motorcycle, shooting the corpses on the road, she was drained beyond the use of words. He found them a safe place on the roof of a gas station shop. “Not one of our rest stops,” he explained, “But we’ll be secure enough. The dead can’t navigate stairs so good.” She was asleep with her head on her pack before he’d finished barricading the door just to be extra cautious.
    He shook her boot to wake her in the morning. “Got a lot of miles to cover,” he said as she sat up. His expression was darker; he avoided meeting her eyes.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Did something happen?”
    His shoulders slumped as he put some jars and dirty socks back in his bag. He cleared his throat. “Didn’t sleep so good.”
    Bad dreams. She helped him carry the bags back down the stairs to where he’d hidden the motorcycle in silence. Nightmares were familiar enough to her, too, and often it was better to just not talk at all, to just wait and let them fade. Her heart ached for him, though - she hated to see anyone sad or upset or in pain. I shouldn’t feel like this, I’ve known him for less than forty-eight hours. This could still turn out to be a bad situation for me. Still, with everything that had happened, she was starting to feel like she knew him. Silly, stupid girl!
    Soon they were on the road, putting more miles between her and the farm, between her and the survivors, whoever they may be. She yawned against his back; though she’d slept like a dead thing, she was still exhausted. Too much worry, too many emotions warring in her head. I wonder if people died from just being worn out. At least she could shoot - she imagined she’d feel that much worse if she was afraid for her life at every turn. Probably should be anyway.
    Call pulled the bike to a stop in the middle of nowhere in the mid-afternoon. The forests had given way to fields again, and there was no movement anywhere aside from the birds. “I’ll bet your still tired.”
    How’d he know? It felt like no amount of sleep would be enough. “I’m okay.”
    “Let’s park for a bit anyway. I’ll build a fire, cook up