The Last Safe Place: A Zombie Novella by Rob W. Hart Page A

someone had too much to drink,” Sophia says.
    “We don’t have much booze left on the island.”
    “They’re making mead in one of the spare buildings now. You didn’t know that?”
    “Waste of resources. I’ll take a look.”
    As I’m walking to the stairwell Sophia calls to me. “You ever miss it, Sarge?”
    “Miss what?”
    “Being a cop. Handling real crime shit.”
    I laugh. “I pulled the overnight in the East Village. Most of what we did was clean up after kids too drunk to see straight.”
    “So not much has changed?”
    “Nothing ever does.”
    *
    By the time I get there, of course, I can’t find the bastard.
    This part of Governors Island is mostly empty. A handful of administrative buildings we don’t have any use for, and the three ferries we keep moored to the island for Plan B, in case we ever need to get away.
    And go where? We could head south, around Staten Island and down the Jersey Shore. There are beaches down there where the horde might be thin, but we’d need a place to shelter everyone, and quick. Up north isn’t even an option. The winters would be too harsh. One heavy snowfall would be enough.
    This is to say, plan B isn’t well-formulated, but it’s something.
    I stop and listen. Quiet. If someone is stumbling around they should be making noise. Hopefully Sophia was seeing things.
    I’m right on the border of Upper Gov, the mix of brick and yellow-painted homes where the island’s upper class resides. Which means if someone is out for a drunken constitutional, it’s going to be some asshole who’ll treat me like I’m a glorified rent-a-cop, and not head of security for a community of more than three hundred apocalypse survivors.
    Titles still matter, even after the collapse of society.
    Another ten minutes and the sun will be up. That’s ten whole minutes where I can’t see much. I shrug the bat off my shoulder and carry it alongside me, looking for signs of movement. Just because I know everyone on this island doesn’t mean some of them don’t make me nervous.
    The air fills with the smell of festering meat in a wet cardboard box.
    That happens sometimes. The wind shifts and the smell of thousands of ambulatory rotting corpses descends like a fog. This is the part of the island where it’s the worst.
    The island’s proletariat are crowded into the apartment buildings on Lower Gov. They lack the amenities and comfort, but the smell is much less brutal, especially during the summer. Funny, the lengths the upper class will go to keep up appearances.
    The smell gets stronger, and I’m about to pull my shirt up over my nose to block it when I realize there’s no wind to carry the stench.
    Then I hear shuffling behind me.
    The image takes a moment to process: The rotter coming at me, falling forward over its own feet. The last one got cleared off the island within two days of us getting here. Since then I’ve only seen them mainland.
    This one looks different. The proportions of the body are off, the arms slightly too big for the frame and the legs heavy and unbending. Its skin like papier-mâché, grey and pallid, applied in a rush and left to dry in clumps.
    The training takes over. I take a batting stance, feet squared to my shoulders, knees bent, bat up and over my shoulder. Let it get close. I pop my hips and swing, aim for the head.
    Instead of the hollow THUNK that rings in my ears whenever it’s too quiet, the bat hits with a CLANG, like it struck stone. The thing comes off its feet an inch and arches back in the air, landing on the roadway.
    My heart is only racing a little. I consider my options. Doc needs to see this but I can’t carry it to the medical building. Gas is in low supply but this justifies pulling out a golf cart. I spin in a circle, to make sure it’s the only one. It has to be the only one.
    My concerns become much less important when the thing begins writhing on the ground at my feet, trying to right itself.
    The blow to the head should have