Who: Neil Bernhart, DeShaun Blake What: DeShaun needs rescuing and minor repairs. Cue one badass Nebraskan to the rescue. Where: Jamaica, Queens When: Monday, January 18, 2010 Rating: R for language, no doubt Status: close enough for jazz!
Panicked. He'd panicked when Glorismel and the rest of the guys had busted down the door to their old squat. Just plain dumb. Wasn't as if Glor was even Glor anymore. One Infected was the same as any other. But he'd recognized the little Puerto Rican's face and panicked, run instead of fighting, one bad decision leading to another, and now here he was--holed up in this dump.
Place might have been a crack house before the Quarantine--graffiti on the walls, windows boarded up, whole place just about falling down around him. No supplies unless you counted a few dirty needles and that bundle of rags on the first floor landing. Which might be just some old rags, or it might be a dead hobo. Let's just say he was not touching that shit.
In his lucid moments, DeShaun could hear the horde moaning and shambling around outside, tracking down the blood-scent. Only reason he was still alive? Those boarded-up windows and the busted-down staircase were keeping them out.
Now was not one of his lucid moments. DeShaun sprawled in the frigid room, naked to the waist, heedless of the cold. It was Georgia in July, long weeks of vacation stretching before him, the start of third grade a lifetime away.