GTT: Bobby wants a pitchfork

Bobby had trailed in the wake of everyone else without speaking much. His head felt so full as if to burst. So did his feet, full of blood, and possibly blisters. Just sitting was as invigorating as the glass of water he got. He was thinking of their situation with a quiet, reserved sombre. Thrust into a zombie survival situation as if this was some sort of video game. If he hadn't seen it for himself, he wouldn't have believed it. Then again, the people who didn't were usually the first to get eaten. Dramatic irony. He thought of his parents. They were most likely zombies too, by now. But his family across the ocean was probably fine, he considered. Zombies have a notoriously hard time getting past the TSA, board a plane and fly it all the way across the Atlantic.

Still he was hesitant to call Waterford. Was there any news about this going international? It was hard to think that it wasn't, but then, it was also hard to imagine the army blocking all communication to and from New York City, but they did that lickety-split. It really seemed like they intended to keep a lid on this... somehow. Which meant America was totally unprepared for what was coming.

As if to answer this last thought, the noises began in the garage. Bobby, Devin and River were on their feet together, but Bobby elected to stay with River when Devin and Hannah raced out toward the garage. "We really need some weapons with reach," he said out loud, more to himself than to River. Or the dog. "This is a farm of sorts. They should have something like a scythe, right? Or a pitchfork! Even I could handle one of those. Just stick 'em with the pointy end." He looked at River's scared face and fell silent, scratching the dog absently behind its ears. "Think we can adopt this guy?" he asked River. "If we can, what'd you wanna name it?"

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