It wasn't a car. It was Alice's wheelchair. But that thing riding it was certainly no child, and I don't mean Alice had turned into one of those things. No. Her body, or what's left of it, was dragging along behind the straining chair, leaving a trail of gore along the dry concrete. The zombie driving the thing was laughing.

Maybe laughing is too human a description. Hacking would be more accurate. His body dwarfed the contraption in leaking fat rolls, exposed through a shredded Quiznos uniform. At the end of the street, the screaming started again. Alice's mother bolted from the rear of her house, pistol in hand. Firing. Firing. Shots echoed into the cul de sac, and the wheelchair slowed to a stop. She got the bastard, and the attention of the others. I turned away as her screams turned into gargles.

They've almost got my office door open. The top corner is busted in and an arm has been slapping inside the wall. Feeling for something, probably me. I'm going to have to make my way to the roof soon. I won't be able to correspond after that.

It's starting to rain.

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