“Or it could be a train. A working train.”
Elena raised her binoculars. A woman in coveralls was welding a plate over a broken window. A man with a white beard was stacking wooden pallets on a flatbed car. Children—two, maybe three—were hauling buckets of water from a nearby stream. zombie retreats
Jacob grinned. It was a tired grin, but it was real. “Son, we’ve been running this loop for eight months. We’ve got a greenhouse on flatcar four, a chicken coop on flatcar six, and a still that makes a passable bourbon. We just go back and forth along sixty miles of track we cleared ourselves. When we reach one end, we reverse. We never stay in one place long enough for the hordes to find us.” “Or it could be a train
“Could still be a trap,” Marcus grumbled, but he was already smiling. A man with a white beard was stacking
By nightfall, they had found an old school bus, its windows shattered, its chassis tilted into a ditch. They crawled underneath it, pressing their backs against the cold, wet metal. The biters shuffled past, their faces slack, their fingers scraping the top of the bus like blind men reading braille.
“You think he’s right?” Marcus asked. “About the moving?”
“You folks got a name?” he asked.