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“When I wake up yeah I know I’m gonna be
I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you
When I go out yeah I know I’m gonna be
I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you.”

                                The Proclaimers, I’m Gonna Be

                I’m not sure what’s worse; Nodding off, waking up after nodding off, or not knowing when I nodded off.

                Not much has changed, though. The sky’s still nondescript. The land’s still no descript. The air’s still hot. There’s still no sound. Slate and I are laying here in this little gulch of a dip in the land. Our packs lain between us, we lay across from each other.

                I turn back around in the direction of the eyes, but I don’t see anything. I’m tempted to go over there and see if I can find any tracks or something, but since I don’t know how far away the thing was, that seems like it’d be easier said than done.

                The highlight of the morning becomes bad protein bars and decent granola bars. Slate and I share breakfast in silence. I try to watch her out of the corner of my eye, unable to believe the transformation that she’s undergone. So sudden and so pronounced, it almost seems impossible. And at the same time, the thoughts from last night replay. There’s something in front of my mind that I can’t recall, that I know is important.

                “The way I see it,” I speak up, lifting Slate’s face with my words. “We’ve got two options. We either keep walking in hopes of finding some other town or place or something. Or we turn back and go back to the fortress.”

                “I don’t want to go back to the fortress.” Slate says. As she speaks, the wind picks up slightly, blowing fragments of dirt and sand towards us, while whispering in our ears. “I think that’s a bad idea.”

                “Well, we can’t survive out here.” I offer up simply. “We can’t hope to survive unless we get some help. And the only help we can hope to find is if we get to somewhere that help will come looking, or at least somewhere where we can get help’s attention.”

                “Sam, the fortress was destroyed.” She says. “There’s nothing back there except death.”

                “There might be radios or something.” I say. “Slate, we’ve got to get help.”

                The wind picks up. The hot breeze stays constant, but it seems to change direction, the howling getting more intense.

                “I know we’ve got to get help, Sam, but we can find somewhere else.” She explains. “Other towns or cities or something. Other places that would be safer or at least less . . .”

                “Less destroyed.” I say. She just kind of nods.

                I’m hesitant to speak. I don’t want to because I know she’s going to yell at me, or cry. I’m not sure which I’d prefer. “Slate,” I say, trying to soften the blow. “Do you know of any towns or places that we can fall back to? Do you know of anywhere else?” She does neither. She simply sits there. “I mean, I can only think of three places that I’ve been since I came here. One is Morcean’s city. The other two aren’t any better.”

                The moaning of the wind continues to get stronger.

                “I just don’t want to go back there, Sam.” She says, looking at me, her eyes half-hid behind her hair. “Please don’t make me go back.”

                Every instinct in me tells me to make back for the fortress. Every little shred says that defense and hope of rescue will mount exponentially from that place rather than out here, and probably from any other town. But sadly, as I watch Slate curl into a fetal ball over the mere thought of going back, I can’t bring myself to do it.

                “Alright.” I say, making her look up at me. “Alright. We don’t have to go back. We’ll, we’ll find somewhere else to . . .”

                And it’s at this point that the moaning of the wind gets to me. I look up, first at Slate, then at the bowl we’re in. “Do you hear that?” I ask.

                “Here what?” She says, confused.

                “It sounds like the wind, moaning.” I say.

                “It’s probably the wind moaning.” She responds back, still curled in on herself.

                I stand up. I stick my finger in my mouth and hold it up in the air. “What are you doing?” She asks.

                “I saw it once in a cartoon.” I say. “They do this to tell which direction the wind’s blowing.”

                “And can you?” Slate asks in disbelief.

                I look up at my finger and concentrate. “Actually,” I say, as surprised as she is disbelieving. “Yeah. It’s coming from that direction.” I say, pointing off to my right. And then the hairs stand up on my back.

                “But, the moaning’s coming from . . .” I say, turning around behind me.

                And then I see them.

                It’s a long dark line drawn across the horizon. I don’t know how many of them there are, but I know it’s more than I ever thought possible. And they’re all shambling and stumbling this way, towards us.

                Zombies.

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