The next thing Matt knew, he tumbled down thestreet, his bike bouncing crazily over top of him to crash in a uselessheap.Rolling to a stop, bottles of drugs spilling from his pack onto thestreet, his helmet and leathers offered surprising protection. Yet ittook an unknown something to force Matt to his feet, his shotgun stillin hand, to turn towards the horde of undead. He felt a moment ofsatisfaction that the blonde was down, but the others passed her bywithout a glance. No time to run, instead he raised the shotgun andfired once more. Five more times, each remaining shell jolting a zombieback to sprawl on the dirty gray pavement.That should have been the end, if not for his friend's ignoring thesecond rule, 'Leave him, don't go back.' Suddenly they appeared besidehim, each firing into the nearby pack, their concerted fired actuallymaking the zombies pause."Get on. Get on," Ryan yelled.Running towards his friend's bike Matt jumped on the back, wrapped hisarms around Ryan and. “And how many people do you think she could kill, Rick, if she really wanted to. Like if she got them trapped in a cage or a basement?”“Roy, she’s a normal girl. She just had a rotten childhood.”“Sounds to me like her childhood’s over,” Roy said as he turned to leave. “But I choose to believe you, Rick.”“Thanks Roy.”“No need to thank me. That bar over there tells the story.”After Roy was gone I wandered over to my weight set. What story did it tell, I wondered? Then I saw what Roy was talking about. The weight bar that Becky Finklestein used to effortlessly curl three hundred pounds sat gleaming in the light, and pressed into the steel as if by a die were the impressions of eight tiny fingers and two tiny thumbs. I felt light-headed. How strong was she actually? What was her limit? Did she have a limit? And who would control her now that her mother was gone?A week later it was Saturday night again, and I was in my garage with Stewart Reed and Ken Blankenship, two guys from work. We.
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