(Jeremiah)
“We should be seeing other travelers, or at least signs of them,” Samuel says, then abruptly stops when something hits the side of his face. “What the fuck?”
The mangled and rotting hand lies on the cracked asphalt; Samuel touches the slime on his cheek, wipes his fingers on his pants.
“How you like that, asshole? Stinks, don’t it?” Jack guffaws, his dirty face shining in the hot sun. His grin fades when Samuel and Verity drop their packs and fan out to either side of him. They don’t draw their knives, which is probably a good thing for this idiot.
“Just kidding, man,” Jack says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Can’t you take a joke?” His eyes dart to Jeremiah. “Hey, Jeremiah! Tell Samuel it’s just a joke, can’t you?”
Jeremiah hesitates, torn between his natural inclination to protect and his anger and dislike of Jack. Beside him Gabriel mutters, “I hope they kill him.”
Jack turns to run, but he’s waited too long. Samuel grabs his hair and flings him to the dirt, and Verity kicks him when he tries to scramble away, hard enough to knock him on his back, and Samuel sits on his chest.
“Let go, asshole,” Jack grunts, arching his back, his eyes wide as if he can’t believe what’s happening to him. “Get off—”
“Samuel,” Verity says, and holds out the rotting hand. A nasty smile curves Samuel’s mouth, and he shoves the hand into Jack’s open mouth, the muscles in his arm bunching with the force of it.
“How’s that taste, motherfucker?”
Jeremiah hears Jack’s muffled choking, and despite his earlier thoughts, wonders how far he will let this go on. Not that he blames Samuel. A man can only be pushed so far before he breaks. But what about loyalty to Jack? The man’s been with him since Zeke...A terrible urge to touch the skull washes over Jeremiah and he swallows thickly.
They are kicking Jack now, the thud of boots on his body punctuated by grunts of pain. The zombie hand lies near his head, fingers curled; his face is shiny with snot and dead flesh. He curls into a ball, shouts when Verity’s boot connects with the back of his thigh. Samuel kicks his shoulder and Jack screams, rousing Jeremiah from his reverie.
“That’s enough,” he barks, striding over and shoving Samuel away. The man stumbles, hand going to his knife hilt.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Samuel snarls, then stops when Jeremiah points his pistol in his face.
“No, you’re not. You and Verity are gonna back off right now.” He cuts his eyes at her. “Put your knives away or I’ll blow your goddamn heads off.”
Jack gags, then vomits stringy saliva into the grass. “Shoot them,” he mumbles, voice thick with mucus. He tries to sit up, winces in pain. His hate-filled eyes remain on Samuel as he wipes his mouth across his arm.
“This is bullshit. That worthless piece of shit—”
“Get away from him. Now.” For a moment he thinks he will have to shoot Samuel or even Verity, who has not taken her eyes off Jack.
Muttering a curse, Samuel spins on his heel and stalks off. Verity stops beside Jeremiah. “You’re making a mistake,” she says in a low voice.
“I know,” Jeremiah says, and lowers his pistol.
(Jack)
He supposes he ought to be grateful that Jeremiah stopped Samuel, but why the hell hadn’t he shot them both? Clearly they were a danger, right? Maybe it didn’t matter because they are only a danger to Jack, and who gives a shit about him? Not any of these assholes, that’s for sure.
Jack uncaps his water bottle and takes a small drink, rolling the tepid water around in his mouth before swallowing. He can still taste that foul hand, the way it coated his tongue, scraping along his teeth and left little bits of dead flesh in his mouth.
Jack turns his head and spits, wipes his hand across his mouth, thinking about an old movie, something about spitting on a grave, and that’s what he’ll do when Samuel’s dead, that fucker, hawk up a big one and let it go right in his stupid face. Cause that guy’s going to die, he just doesn’t know it yet.
He’s been limping behind them for the last few days, refusing Jeremiah’s half-hearted offers to slow down. Jack will be fine on his own, no worries! It hurts to breathe, and his left leg is bruised so badly he’s limping, but Jack will be fine, he always is, because he’s lucky.
Or something like that.
Some of the images from this story just stay in my head...zombie hand in mouth 🤢