Scoffing, Silas threw his hands up in an uncaring gesture. “Good thing there aren’t any barns around here, yeah? Besides, that’s what I got explosives and a tomahawk for.” He paused, then added, “And a cane. Don’t need a fuckin’ gun when I got better shit to work with.”
He fished a pack of cigarettes out of his t-shirt pocket, along with his lighter, and went about lighting it up. The climb up to the guard tower may have been more of a workout than normal, but it was a relief to be able to be up somewhere high and open. To feel a fresh breeze on his face, even if he did have to look at all the ugly undead fuckers wandering the street down below.
“Mm,” Silas said, taking the cigarette from between his lips and blowing the smoke out in Brandon’s direction. “Why do that when I can just blow ‘em the fuck up? No head, no nothin’. Even dumbasses like you with the aim of a three-year-old could do that.”
His friend brought attention to his leg, and Silas returned the shrug. “Better every day. Fucker that does the PT says I should be climbin’ more anyway. Building the muscles back up.”
Another puff on the cig and he flicked the ashes over the side of the railing. The motion brought his attention to pits that had been dug around the prison. Zombies (a few of them with colored paint splatters on various parts of their body) stumbled aimlessly in the narrow holes. Easy targets.
He nodded. “Yep. Only good thing ‘bout bein’ a gimp is it gave me plenty of spare time to work on makin’ explosives. As long as they don’t get wet, I got enough to last a good long time.”