34
We whiled away the time in what you’d call death-row conversation and eventually turned in. As usual my dreams were of Zoe. We were in the world post-Storm. She’d armed herself with a pump-action shotgun.
‘I’m going out. We’re eating fresh food this evening. I don’t know what yet. It depends what’s out there.’
Alarm bells rung in my head as they always did when Zoe ventured out on her own.
‘I’ll come with you.’
She laughed. It was like the tinkling of a delightful bell.
‘No, you won’t. You worry too much, Zack. I can take care of myself. I’ll see you in an hour, ok?’
‘Ok. But if you’re not back in an hour I’m sending out a search party.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
But it was. And the search party, consisting of me, and Bob when I’d dragooned him into it, had failed to find Zoe.
