“What am I, Lassie?” His voice teetered on the edge of hysteria. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere—how am I supposed to get any help?”
I kicked a man dressed in a rotting flannel shirt and camouflage pants; his lips had been mostly eaten away from his face by maggots. “Call Madame Devereaux! She’s in my contact list ... if she doesn’t answer, try my brother!”
“And your cell phone is where?”
“Glove box!” I punched a guy who had pus-filled holes where his eyes should have been.
“Is the truck locked?”
It was. I swore, kicking away a guy who had a spiked billy club strapped to the decaying stump of his right arm.
“Jeepers creepers, Pal, go find a car battery and lick it or something! Embiggen yourself and break in!” I thought back.
“Y’all stop foolin’ around and git ‘er down, already!
