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Zoe

Zoe’s got the graveyard watch, which means the rest of them should be sleeping. Malcolm comes to check on her anyway.

“Any movement?”

“Some to the northwest, around four,” she says. “Sentry guns didn’t have too much trouble.” She hands him the field glasses; through them, faint protrusions resolve into zombie limbs chewed by chaingun.

Malcolm peers at gray flesh, black blood. “You’ve been skipping rations, Zo.”

“I’m fine. The kid can use a little extra.”

“You need to eat. Keep your strength up. One day the guns may not hold.”

“I’ll eat,” Zoe says with grim relish, “when I’m dead.”

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