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was within arm's reach.
    He kicked it in the face once, twice, and third time the heel caved in the zombie's cheek and split the jaw off.  It rose up on both knees as another fast-mover barreled out of the throng.  Joey fired at the kneeling zombie, sending its brains skyward in a pussy, chunk-filled stream. 
    He was on his feet when the second runner pounced on him, snapping ferociously with Joey's forearm wedged under its chin.  Joey shoved it back and fired, blowing its face off.  The shambling, staggering horde closed to within ten paces.
    BA-BANG! Click-click-click …
    "Shit!"  He worked the action, ejecting the dud round.  "Fuckin' reloads!" 
    He kicked a zombie back, blew its head into pieces, and emptied the rest of the magazine into the closest zombies.  He slid one of the last two clips in and hit the release.
    The quick slap of wet feet alerted him to a running flesh-eater; he looked left and saw a gaggle of zombies shimmying down the garage ramp from the second level.  The fast-mover was out in front, arms wind-milling and eyes rolled back.  It wore a suit; the tie hung limp, extending from a shredded throat.
    Joey searched around for an escape route.  Aside from going back, there was no way over the river and to his neighborhood--except for the footbridge!  He fired a shot, hit the sprinting zombie in the guts, and made for the narrow walkway extending across the river.
    There was a short rectangular dock, used for riverboat tours, and a stairway leading up to the narrow bridge.  The whole structure was rusty and in desperate need of repair, but it looked like a heavenly highway to Joey.
    He was halfway across when the zombie he shot in the stomach appeared behind him, moaning and vomiting blood.  Joey faced him, waited a split second, and fired: the shot hit between the eyes, blowing the back half of the creature's head into the river below.  The carcass skidded to a halt and tumbled over the side.
    He descended the far side stairs, tripping on the last step and sprawling to the pavement.  The Glock bounced away.  Joey pushed himself up; blood trickled from cuts and scrapes on his arms, and his elbows felt raw.  His right knee throbbed; red splotches shone through his pants.
    Zombies ambled out from a run-down apartment building thirty feet away. 
    He reached for his Glock but was bowled over by an one-armed zombie, veins and muscle fibers dangling from the stub.  Joey managed to turn and push the fiend's face away. 
    He wrestled to his feet, kicking and shoving the creature off.  He grabbed a hand-sized rock and pounded the zombie's skull into mush.  It collapsed, head spurting blood on Joey's pants and boots. 
    He tossed the rock, picked up his Glock, and dispatched the shambling zombies with four quick shots. 
    He stood for a moment, watching blood run down his pants, arms, and off the end of his fingertips. 
    Joey holstered the Glock, yanked a bottle of water from his cargo pocket and drained it in five gulps. 
    He hurled the bottle into the river and trudged home. 
     
     

CHAPTER 8
     
     
    Headless and spewing gore, the zombie carcass flopped over the curb and settled in the gutter.  Joey locked the last magazine into place and released the slide; he had four empty clips in a cargo pocket.
    A string of bodies, heads blasted off by 10mm rounds, littered Joey's path from the river to the apartment blocks.  He had been in no great hurry, sometimes jogging and sometimes dragging his feet.  Every inch of his body felt beaten and bruised… run over by a herd of zombies.
    He went past the station wagon and glimpsed the bodies of the first two undead he had seen--the big man's entrails still hanging out and fragments of the woman's skull clinging to the rear bumper.
    Shouldering the door, Joey burst into the bottom floor of the building, gun ready.  It was quiet; he strained for any noises.  Joey was too tired to avoid making noise: his feet pounded up the steps--nothing