Ex-Communication by Peter Clines (love story books to read .txt) 📕

want to risk the exes getting them? How long were they living here after the dead rose?

It crossed his mind that whoever it was could’ve been here even while the heroes were setting up the Mount. Someone just a hair too far away to hear the sounds of safety, or too scared to raise their voice and call for help. He wondered, not for the first time, how many other people he’d just missed saving during the outbreak.

The bedroom door was open and he walked out into the hall. The carpet muffled his boots. It was a small apartment. Bigger than the one he’d had before the Zombocalypse, less than a mile from here, but not by a huge amount. The far end of the hall looked like a bathroom, across from him was a kitchen. At the front of the house was a living room, or maybe another bedroom.

A stairwell down to a ground-floor door had been blocked with an upended table and a few chairs. They weren’t dusty. It was a recent barricade.

He heard something move, and the shadows in the living room shifted. A few strides carried him down the hall. He peeked into the room, then took a single step in.

Across the room from him, staring out the window, was a small woman. He guessed woman from her hips and general build. She had on two or three layers of ragged, mismatched clothes, and another layer that was pure dust and dirt. Some long locks of dark hair hung out from under a Red Sox cap she wore backward. A sequin-covered sneaker dangled from her waist and glittered in the afternoon light streaming in the window.

Sitting near her on a coffee table was an overstuffed duffel bag. It had just as much dirt on it as she did. The shoulder strap had been padded with an old towel and wrapped in duct tape. She’d spread a sleeping bag across the couch.

“Hey,” said St. George.

The woman shrieked and spun around. A pair of oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, the square ones elderly people wore over their regular glasses. She’d tried to hide her size and age with the layers of clothes. St. George bet she was twenty, absolute tops. Probably not even out of high school. If high school was still in session anywhere.

When she saw him standing there she fumbled at her belt and pulled out a revolver. It was huge in her hands. “Where did you come from?”

He tipped his head back down the hall. “Through the bedroom window.”

The girl took another deep breath and calmed herself. She leveled the pistol at his head. “We’re on the second floor,” she said. “I’ve been watching the street. Where did you come from?” Her lips curled down. “Have you been here all along? Were you watching me sleep?”

“I’m telling you, I came in through the window,” he said again. “You called for help, so I flew over to check it out.”

She took another deep breath. “I know how to use this,” she said, dipping her chin at the revolver. “It’s loaded and I’m a pretty good shot.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I used to be called the Mighty Dragon. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

“Get over yourself,” she said. “You’re way too skinny to be the Dragon.”

He smiled. “Afraid not.”

She used both thumbs to pull the hammer back on the pistol. It made a loud clack in the room. “Last chance.”

St. George took in a deep breath. He felt the tickle in the back of his throat, and let it sigh out. The flames trickled from his mouth and lapped up and around his head.

Her brows went up above her dark glasses and her mouth fell open. Her grip slipped on the pistol and it shifted in her hands. The weight settled on her trigger finger. The hammer slammed down.

There was a thunderclap of noise in the small room and the bullet punched St. George in the shoulder. He yelped. The girl shrieked and jumped back against the window. The deformed round clattered on the floor.

“Ohmigod!” she said. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He rubbed the top of his arm and patted the smoking hole in his jacket. “I’m fine. It just stings a little.”

“Boss,” shouted a voice in his ear. “You okay? We heard gunfire.”

“No problem,” he said. “Just a misunderstanding. Everyone’s fine.”

“It’s really you,” she said. Her arm went down and the pistol slipped from her fingers. It thudded on the carpet. “You’re the Mighty Dragon.”

“Told you.”

“Oh my God,” she said. Her body slumped with relief. “Oh my God. I just … you don’t know what it’s like out there.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” he said.

“I’ve barely seen anyone in ages, and the people I did see kept trying to make moves on me. One guy stole some of my food and another one was this creeper who wanted me to do him and some people just shot at me and I …” She paused to breathe, dipped her head, and something like a smile crept onto her face. “I haven’t been able to trust anyone for a while now.”

“You can trust us,” he said. “Inside the Wall’s clean and safe. We’ve got food, electricity, and …”

Her glasses slipped down her nose when she lowered her head. She met his eyes and rushed to push the oversized lenses back up. “Please,” she said, “just let me ex—”

St. George marched forward and snatched the glasses off her face, crushing them to splinters in his hand. She tried to turn her head and close her eyes, but he saw them again. There was no mistake. They were gray and chalky. The veins were dark against her pale irises.

“Don’t hurt me,” she said. She skittered back across the floor with one arm up, trying to hide her face. “Please! I’m not one of them.”

St. George marched after her, grabbed the dead girl’s shoulder, and tossed her across the room. She hit the wall and fell onto the couch. “Rodney, I