The sound of a single gunshot woke me from my slumber. The room was dark and I was sweaty from sleeping pressed between two women I barely knew. My internal clock told me it was somewhere in the early hours just before dawn. Even if there had been daylight it couldn’t reach this windowless room deep inside the presidio. We were surrounded by adobe brick walls more than a foot thick. Back in the 1700s priests and soldiers used this room to store valuables like gold, flour and cloth. It was a strong room and safe, or so we hoped. I tried to roll over, to relax, but my body wouldn’t let me. One of the women next to me muttered in her sleep “Go back to bed Bobby. Big boy bed…” I couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but in that moment I hated her and everyone else who could just close their eyes and drift off.
Another pop broke the night. I was tempted to count the seconds between shots, like they teach you to do with lightening and thunder when you are a kid. If you do it right you can estimate how far away the storm is by doing that. I sighed and sat up. Trying to sleep again was just as useless as trying to count the seconds between gunshots. Those pops in the night were not thunder. Each one was Vasquez squeezing the trigger on his rifle and planting a bullet in the brain of another zombie. I didn’t need to guess when the storm would arrive. The storm was zombies and they were already here.