Thomas had a strong arm. With a whoosh, he hurled the plastic canister away, accurately landing it in the greenery at the corner of the parking lot, where it caught on a tree.
The man then took out another walkie-talkie and casually pressed a few buttons. A piercing burst of music came from the canister—the sort of noise a cheap speaker could make—playing "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."
On a night of torrential rain, the sound from that canister was like a ghost's wail.
The zombies in the parking lot immediately headed toward the sound, crowding densely beneath the tree and reaching for the canister. But they could not grab it. Unable to bend their knees, their movements looked utterly ridiculous.
Old Mike had no time to watch them. He charged toward the RV with the father and daughter. The long-forgotten sprint left him gasping, his lungs burning, and his vision narrowed to the small patch where his gaze was focused—the door.
Things went smoothly. Halfway there, a zombie crawling out from beneath another vehicle suddenly grabbed his ankle, giving him quite a fright. But Martha behind him raised her little boot and stomped the undead creature's neck, saving the old man.
When she grabbed the old man and ran with him, Old Mike realized that this girl possessed astonishing strength.
Her arms and legs looked slender, but even the burly Bikers who often caused trouble at the bar were not as strong as she was.
"Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just a young girl. Get in already." Martha pushed the old man from behind, urging him to step on the tire and climb inside. Yet her words seemed to deliberately emphasize how young she was.
Carrying the television they had removed from the bar, Thomas ran