Julia sobs. She slumps in the Chair, covering her face. The tears drip through her fingers. Baxter goes up on his hindlegs, hooks his forepaws over the armrest, pushes his muzzle at her, licks her chin. Nuzzles and chuffs. She hugs him. The tears wet his fur.
“Oh, Baxter. Oh, Baxter, what are we going to do?”
Finally the sobbing stops. He trots to the table, fetches the tissue box, brings it to her. She wipes her cheeks, her eyes. She blows her nose.
“Good boy,” she says. “Crutches? Baxter, bring me my crutches?”
He does so, fetching them one at a time, carrying them by the leather pads fitted around their middles. Julia puts her arms through the cuffs, braces the rubber-tipped ends, and heaves herself upright. Baxter stays poised and alert at her side, watching her, as she maneuvers on her thin and twisted legs. She turns the door-lock and hooks the chain.
They go to the window. They look out.
Smoke billows and blows. Cars are on the sidewalks, on the lawns, upside-down in the streets. Bodies sprawl. People run. The dead moan and stumble. There is blood, so much blood, blood in smears and streaks, blood in widening puddles, blood in splatters.
A loyal helper dog during the zombie apocalypse … read “Good Boy,” in Zombiefied Reloaded, now available!