Chapter 4: Claiming Their Nerds
The quiet was profound, a soft, breathing thing woven from the rhythm of four hearts slowing into sync. Ellie’s fingertips traced idle patterns on my sternum. Nancy’s curls were a dark spill across Ellie’s shoulder. Mary’s short hair tickled my chin, her breathing even.
Outside, the world was a muted painting. No birds. No distant engines. Just the vague, occasional groan of wind or something else, a sound we’d all learned not to examine too closely.
“I could stay here forever,” Ellie murmured, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
“Logistically impossible,” Mary mumbled into my collarbone. “Dehydration would set in within seventy-two hours.”
Nancy chuckled, a warm vibration against Ellie’s side. “My little realist.”
I was just starting to drift, the warmth of them a fortress around me, when the noise began.
It wasn’t the distant groaning. This was close. A dry, scraping rustle against the side of the house, followed by a soft, percussive thump. Then another.
We all went still.
“Tree branch?” Ellie whispered, but her hand had stopped its tracing, now a firm, flat pressure on my chest.
I shook my head slowly. The big oak was on the other side.
Thump. Scrape.
It was coming from the bay window behind the drawn silk curtains. The one overlooking the overgrown side yard.
Mary sat up first, her body rigid. I followed, the cool air biting my skin where sweat had dried. Ellie and Nancy untangled themselves, sheets pooling around their waists.
THUMP.
Harder this time. The curtain rod rattled.
“Get off the bed,” I said, my voice low and clean of any emotion. It was my project-manager voice. The one that moved steel and concrete.
We moved as one unit, sliding to the floor on the far side, putting the bulk of the mattress between us and the window. The polished wood was cold under my knees.
The scraping became a frantic, splintering scratch. Like a dog trying to dig under a door. But it wasn’t a dog.
The first fist came through the windowpane with a shocking, crystalline crash. Glass exploded inward, showering the duvet in a thousand glittering shards. The arm that followed was greyish-green, clad in the tattered remains of a plaid shirt sleeve. The skin was split in places, dark and dry like old leather. The fingers clawed at the empty air, grasping, blindly searching for purchase.
Ellie made a small, choked sound. Nancy pulled her closer.
The second fist shattered what remained of the lower pane. The thing began to haul itself upward, using the windowsill. Its head appeared—a man, or what was left of one. One eye was a milky cataract. The other was a dark, hungry hole. Its jaw hung slack, revealing yellowed teeth and blackened gums. A low, continuous growl vibrated from its chest, a sound of pure, mindless want.
It saw us. That single dark eye fixed on our movement. It redoubled its efforts, shoulders wedging into the frame, rotten wood groaning.
“Weapons,” I breathed. “Now. Everything.”
We erupted into motion, a controlled frenzy. Mary lunged for the heavy, wrought-iron reading lamp beside the armchair, yanking the cord from the wall. Nancy scrambled to Ellie’s drafting table, her hands closing around a heavy glass paperweight and, instinctively, a long, sharp palette knife.
Ellie didn’t go for a weapon. She grabbed the thick wool blanket from the foot of the bed.
The zombie had wriggled its torso through the window now. It was stuck at the hips, thrashing, arms windmilling as it tried to drag the rest of itself into our sanctuary. The sweet-rot stench of it filled the room, obliterating the scent of lavender and sex.
“The legs!” I yelled. “Stop it getting leverage!”
Mary didn’t hesitate. She hefted the lamp like a baseball bat and swung. The iron base connected with the thing’s shin with a sickening, wet crack. It howled, a raspy, airless shriek, but didn’t stop pulling.
Nancy darted in from the side, slashing downward with the palette knife. The blade sank into the muscle of its forearm with a dull thunk. Black, viscous fluid welled up. She recoiled, gagging.
It grabbed for her. Missed.
“Ellie, now!”
Ellie flung the heavy blanket over the thing’s head and torso, muffling it. She threw her full weight onto it, pinning its arms down. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
It bucked under her, terrifyingly strong. The blanket slipped.
I saw my weapon. The sturdy, tapered oak post from the foot of the bed. It was designed to unplug for moving. I wrapped my hands around it, planted my feet, and drove the blunt end like a ram into the center of the squirming blanket-mass.
There was a crunch. The thrashing intensified, then weakened. I hit it again. And again. A damp, final stillness settled.
We all froze, panting. The only sound was our ragged breath and the tinkle of falling glass.
Slowly, Ellie peeled back the blanket. The thing’s head was a ruin. It was finally, utterly still.
“Oh, god,” Nancy whispered, dropping the bloody palette knife. It clattered on the floor.
“Check the yard,” I said to Mary, my voice shaking now that the action was over. “See if it was alone.”
Mary moved to the shattered window, careful of the glass, and peered out into the twilight. She scanned for a full minute. “Clear. For now.”
The adrenaline drain was sudden and nauseating. I leaned on the bedpost, my legs weak. That’s when I saw the blood on Ellie’s thigh. A long, shallow slice, beading red.
“Ellie. You’re cut.”
She looked down, confused. “Glass, I think. When it came through.”
“Nancy,” I said, sharper than I intended. “The first aid kit. Bathroom. Now.”
Nancy fled. Mary started assessing the window breach, already muttering about plywood and nails.
I guided Ellie to sit on the clean edge of the mattress. The cut was clean, maybe two inches long, on the smooth skin of her outer thigh. It was bleeding steadily.
Nancy returned, kit in hand. She fumbled with the latch.
“Just give it to me.” I took it, pulling out antiseptic wipes and gauze. My hands were trembling.
Ellie winced as I dabbed at the cut. “It’s nothing, Amy. Really.”
“It’s an open wound in a world full of… that.” I gestured with my head toward the window. My voice cracked. “It’s not nothing.”
The sterile, medicinal smell of the wipe clashed with the rot in the air. I pressed a gauze pad to the cut, but a fresh trickle of blood escaped the edge.
Before I could reach for more gauze, Nancy was there. She gently moved my hand aside, bent her head, and ran her tongue along the length of the cut.
Ellie gasped. My protest died in my throat.
Nancy’s action wasn’t sensual. It was feral, practical, and deeply ancient. Her tongue cleaned the beaded blood away in one swift, firm stroke. She sat back, spat discreetly onto the floor, and then looked at the wound. It was clean, the bleeding already slowing.
“Saliva has enzymatic properties,” Mary said quietly from her post by the window. Her tone was analytical, but her eyes were wide. “Lysozyme. Mild antibacterial action. It’s not optimal, but…”
“It’s what we have,” Nancy finished, her voice soft. She took the gauze from my limp hand and taped it neatly over the wound. Her touch was tender, her fingers lingering on her mother’s skin.
I looked from Nancy’s fierce, care-filled face to Ellie’s stunned expression, to Mary standing guard at the broken window, the iron lamp still clutched in her hand. The fear was still a cold stone in my gut. The passion from before was a distant memory, violently overwritten.
But this, this desperate, ugly, loving care—this was the new pulse of the world. I placed my hand over Nancy’s where it rested on Ellie’s thigh. Our fingers intertwined, sticky with fear and purpose.
“Okay,” I said, the word hanging in the fouled air. “Now we barricade the door.”