Less Than Human by Tim Meyer Page B

needed to have her. He liked her because she was into the same shit he was, and she fucked like a porn star. That pretty much summed it up. She was plain. Run of the mill. A dime a dozen. There were tens of thousands like her. She was replaceable, the flavor of the month.
    So, back to the question: what was the point of carrying on?
    He sat there, head on the toilet, contemplating suicide and not for the first time in his life. He reached low points during the past few years when he thought being dead had its advantages. No bills, no job, no stress. But now, he realized, the world had died. None of that mattered. There were no more bills to pay, or jobs to report to. The only stress was trying to survive a nightmare where the dead became living once again, and hey—that wasn't bad, was it? No, in fact, Josh kind of enjoyed the past twenty-four hours in a sick, twisted way. It was like a video game, except... real.
    Josh smiled, feeling somewhat better. This was a new world, one where he had the chance to better himself. Prove to himself that he was worth something. He could be anyone he wanted now. He was no longer street scum who stole money from his mother's purse when she wasn't looking. Instead, he could do the right thing. He could help Ben find his little boy. He could be that hero. He could slay that dragon.
    The dead new world had given Josh Emberson a second chance.
    I can do it, he thought. One day at a time. I'll just take one day at a time.
    Feeling good for the first time in a long time, Josh stood up, popping a cigarette into his mouth. He lit up on the way to the exit, not wasting time on washing his hands.
    As soon as Josh opened the door, he was greeted by the dangerous end of a shotgun.
    “ Speak,” the man said, pressing the end of the barrel to his forehead.
     
    “U m... don't fucking shoot me...” was the only words that fell from his mouth.
    “ Put your hands up,” the man commanded.
    Josh raised one arm up.
    “Both of them.”
    “ My right arm is broken. Can't move it.”
    “ Is this really necessary, Steve?” someone asked from behind him. Josh glanced past Steve and saw a woman twice his age, leaning on the information center's desk. She rested her hands on the shoulders of a fifteen-year old girl, garbed in a scout's uniform. Josh assumed the woman behind her was her mother. Next to them was another woman, much older, but not quite old enough to enjoy special discounts at movie theaters and all-you-can-eat buffets. She scrunched her face like she had sucked a bowl full of lemons. Something about her irked Josh the minute his eyes found her. “He's obviously not one of... them . He doesn't look dangerous.”
    “ Can't be too sure,” Steve said. Beads of sweat seeped from his pores. The shotgun trembled in his clutches violently, his trigger finger twitching spastically. Josh feared the man's sense of control, his misunderstanding of what was going on around him. The man in the shit-brown uniform and yellow patches that stated  WILDLIFE PARK RANGER glared at Josh suspiciously. Perspiration ran from under the brim of his cream-colored campaign hat, down his cheeks. Mouth twitched, eyes narrowed. RANGER STEVE, as it read on his name tag, shook his head slowly. “We can't be sure of a single thing, Victoria.”
    “ Christ,” she muttered, holding her daughter closely.
    “ Christ will help us, Vicky,” the older woman informed her, placing her wrinkly hand on her shoulder. “We should pray.”
    Josh thought she was joking. He almost laughed. But as she closed her eyes and started humming a familiar hymn, he realized she was serious. She started reciting the words to “Our Father” under her breath, expecting the others to join in.
    No one did.
    “ There's someone else. Outside,” another young woman said from the far side of the recreation center, after the woman finished praying.
    “ Brittany!” Victoria yelled. “What did I tell you about standing close to the window? One of