Last night was the last time I heard Levon's voice. It's been almost twenty-four hours now since he last spoke. Coherently, I mean.

I brush my hand through his hair. His forehead's drenched in sweat. His breathing is shallow. His leg is a nightmare.

Crack.

I peek over the counter. Through the window the darkness outside is almost complete – trees and cars are silhouettes of a softer shade of black against the black. Jesus, what a crappy sentence.

Moving on.

And the silence... the silence is eerie. Every cracking branch I think it's a zombie. Every cicada might be a pirate.

I sit back, leaning against the fridge. We found the Denny's by the highway, maybe a mile away from the warehouse. It was night when we arrived – we spent the better part of yesterday hiding behind a shack, waiting for the herd to disperse. At sundown, we left, and it took us close to three hours to find a place where we could rest properly.

Not that Denny's is a place where you can rest properly, that's not what I'm saying. I'm not insane.

But, you know, better than a shack. I think.

We spent the night, and all the medical knowledge I've accumulated over seventeen years of not being a doctor told me that Levon's leg might wake up better in the morning. It didn't. Now it's night again, and that thing's looking worse by the second.

And no, I'm not taking the metal out. Are you insane? I'll probably kill him. Plus, it's really gross, I don't wanna touch it.

But seriously, I gotta do something about it. That thing looks infected as f –

"Eve..."

Levon's eyes are open.

"Levon? Are you ok?" I shake him.

"Her name's Eve," Levon says. His eyes are on me, but he's not looking at me. "What?" he continues, his pupil going left and right behind his half-closed lids. "Yeah, she's my girlfriend. She's a zombie. But she's very cool, mom. I know you'll like her."

I keep brushing his hair. His eyes close again. I rest my back against the fridge and Levon goes quiet.

Somewhere in the distance outside this Denny's by the side of interstate nowhere, a dog barks.

"Rest, Levon. Rest."

Morning comes and I make a decision. It's a risky move, but I have to leave Levon for a while. To look for a car. We can't exactly stay here until his leg completely rots off.

I mean, we can, but fuck me, I have feelings.

Outside in the morning sun, I find an old Pickup truck with some gas still in it in, something like half a mile away. I head back to Denny's. Inside, Levon's wound is dark and veiny and disgusting, but at least he's awake. His forehead is boiling and his eyes are red, but he's awake, all right. I pull him up by the shoulders. "Come on, we gotta go."
"What?"

"I found a car. We gotta get that leg of yours looked at."

"Where are we going?"

I lean him against the wall and pull the pad. Found a car. Find place to fix leg.

"I don't think my health care payments are up to date."

Dragging him outside to the sun, I chuckle. Maybe just to cheer him up.

Believe me, I'm in no chuckling mood.

"Come on. We gotta finds drugs."

Antibiotics. That's what he needs. It's all I feel comfortable doing, anyway. Maybe his leg will still rot off, but then at least I'll feel like I tried.

Slowly and painfully, I manage to get Levon to hop-walk with me to the car.

"Come on, Levon. Inside the car."

"Whatever you grunt, zombie-girl."

I push Levon into the back seat and take the driver's.

All right, let's drive. Let's get this car going and find Levon some medicine. Come on, come on, come on!

Oh. Right. I'm a zombie.

"Hey, Levon,"

Ok, how the shit are we gonna do this?

From the backseat, Levon mumbles and grunts in pain. "Are you talking to me?"

I look around from the steering wheel to the pedals. "You're gonna have to give me a hand here."

"Stay with me, Levon. Levon. Levon!"

I keep forgetting he can't understand me.

"Grrrrrr!" I say, meaning the same thing as before, but louder.

In a startled movement, Levon raises his head back up, blinking the road to sight. The car steers back into the highway in a clumsy turn.

"That's it. Come on," I say, pressing the gas again. "Come on, Levon. With me. Grrrr. Grrrr."

"I'm fine," Levon mumbles, blinking repeatedly. "I'm all right."

No, I don't think what we're doing is a good idea. No, I don't see another option. So shut up.

"Levon! Open your eyes!"

He blinks awake again, pulling the car straight. I scribble fast, pushing the notepad in front of his eyes.

Tell me about you before this.

I have to keep him awake. Levon's eyes are opening and closing at a pretty alarming rate for someone who's in charge of driving a car.

Well, half-driving. I'm at the driver's seat in charge of the pedals – he's leaned against me, taking care of the steering wheel.

Yeah. Told you it was a bad idea. But my coordination is bad enough that I can barely write – can you imagine trying to drive?

I bump the pen on the pad, calling his attention.

"Before this? Well, I was at a warehouse, and a crazy zombie bitch told me to jump out of a window, so I –"

Before the outbreak, idiot, I write on the pad.

"Oh, the usual," Levon mumbles, zigzagging the car off then back to our lane as he tries to keep it together. "Captain of the football team... fraternity parties... that kind of stuff."

"Grrrrr!" I say, meaning "Hahaha."

Zombie fact number fifteen: Grunting is not sexy.

(Please note that this is not the same as zombie fact number nine. This time it's in italics. Thank you.)

We kind of get the hang of it, after a while. And the hours go by like this.

In time, the road grows dark and wide around us, with the moonlight shinning bright over wind farms and dusty plains of sand and cactuses (cacti?) all around. Snaking along the I-10 to our right, the old Amtrak railroad has been following us since noon, sprinkled here and there with abandoned wagons eerie like haunted house rides. The occasional human body greets us by the side of the road.

Past a pack of turned-over, burnt cars spread over a hundred feet stretch of highway, our flashlight shines against a green, rusty sign:

Coachella City Limit. Population 40,517

I wonder how many are left, I think releasing the pressure on the gas as we start driving into the outskirts of the city.

"Ugh..."

Levon's forehead is bathed in sweat, and his eyes are red and swollen. He's giving in.

"Just a while longer, Levon," I say. "Just a little while longer."

Just until we find a fucking place with drugs.

Levon's head falls down again, and this time it doesn't go back up. The car steers off the highway. I manage to hit the brakes just a second before we crash into an abandoned KFC.

"Levon? Levon?"

I shake him. Levon mumbles something, but his eyes don't open.

Great.

And to top it off, that hazy feeling from before -- it's back now, but stronger. I need to eat.

I don't know how much longer I can go without... something more substantial.

But I won't. I will not eat anything with a name.

Well... maybe a cat. Or an old dog.

Focus, Eve. Levon's dying.

"Levon, I'm gonna try to find you some antibiotics, ok? You wait here. I'll be right back."

He doesn't answer. I step out of the car.

Looking around at the deserted, dark street, I try to find someplace useful. A hospital would be perfect, but why would the universe suddenly start liking me?

I limp past fast food joints, old houses, banks, Seven Elevens –

CVS Pharmacy.

Bingo. It looks like the universe might have a soft spot for me after all.

Making way to the right side of the street, I scan the store's front entrance: its glass door are broken like a baseball player's backyard window that has been broken (please refer to the zombie fact about analogies for further information about this shitty comparison. Thank you).

Through the window cracks I can see the shelves are not all empty.

With a little luck, I can find something here.

All right, I think, stepping in through the door. Thanks, universe.

I look around. Ok, what do we got here?

"Are you a real zombie?"

The boy is not more than six years old, and he stares at me from between the Paper Goods and Cough Syrup aisles.

Careful, I take a step forward, putting my hands in front of my chest in a sign of peace.

Then I remember that putting my hands in front of my chest is also a sign of zombie.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" the kid screams, disappearing down the aisle. A second later he's back, dragging by the hand a bald dude with a shotgun.

The man cocks his gun.

"Ok, this is going to sound weird," I say, "but can I just grab a notepad before you shoot me?"

I throw myself behind the Mountain Dew display as he fires the first shot.