Page 27 of Romancing in Rot

Not a battle cry.

Not a fierce warrior yell.

A full, undignified, absolutely humiliating yelp.

Leon snaps once.

Head.

Right.

Before I can think too hard about the fact that I just shattered a dead woman’s leg, I lift the crowbar and bring it down on her skull.

The first hit cracks bone.

The second caves it in.

Dark fluid splashes over the sidewalk and dots my boots. Something wet slides across the curb and drips into the gutter.

Marge goes still.

My hands shake around the crowbar. My mouth hangs open around a breath I can’t finish.

I did it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It is definitely not something I ever imagined adding to my list of personal accomplishments.

But I did it.

Leon steps beside me and looks down at the body, then at me. His eyes warm, but he doesn’t soften too much. Not while more are coming.

A groan breaks from the alley. Leon pulls the hatchet from his belt and presses it into my free hand.

The weight is heavier than I expect. The handle is worn smooth in places from use. The blade is nicked and dark along the edge, ugly and practical and very Leon.

He taps the crowbar, then the hatchet. Points to the closest infected. Then gestures in a simple rhythm.

Hook. Pull. Chop.

I lift the crowbar in my right hand and the hatchet in my left. It feels ridiculous. It feels wrong. It also feels a little good in a way I’m not prepared to unpack right now.

The infected grabs for me, and I hook the crowbar behind its wrist like Leon showed me. I yank sideways.

Too weak.

Its arm barely moves.

The thing keeps coming.

I panic and swing the hatchet too soon. The blade bites into its jaw instead of its skull, splitting the lower half loose in a spray of black blood and teeth. The infected makes a horrible clicking sound where its mouth used to be, gums snapping around nothing as it stumbles closer.

“Oh no. Nope. Hate that.”

I try to yank the hatchet free.

It sticks.

Leon’s arrow flashes past my shoulder and drops it before it can grab me.