“Dad, what’s an AT?” The boy asked from behind his father.

 

“Not now, son.” The man said irritably, and pushed the boy further behind him.

 

I smiled and leaned around the tree a bit. “It’s an acronym. Stands for Appalachian Trail.”

 

“What do you want from us?” The woman demanded impatiently, still pointing her rifle at me. Her voice and posture held a note of confidence and authority that was familiar in a strange sort of way. I regarded her, brows knitted trying to figure out what she reminded me of. After a moment I had it—she talked like a cop. 

 

“I told you, I just want to talk. If you don’t mind lowering that weapon, I’ll step out and maybe we can have a normal conversation like civilized people. What do you say?”

 

The man and woman exchanged a look. Something imperceptible passed between them, and they seemed to relax a bit. The woman lowered her weapon, but kept it where she could bring it up quickly if need be. Smart lady. Maybe she really was a cop.

 

“Okay,” she said, “come on out, but keep your hands where I can see them.”

 

I did as she requested and walked down the hill into the clearing. I got to within a few yards of them and stopped, making sure to stay clear of Gabriel’s line of sight.

 

“Mind if I put my hands down now?” I asked.

 

“Not with that pistol on your hip.” The woman responded. “Take it out slowly and drop it.”

 

I shook my head and chuckled. “Listen folks, I’ve been following you for miles. If I wanted to try something, I could have done it fifty times by now. If you want to keeps your guns pointed at me that’s fine, but I never go unarmed. Too many infected around here for that.”

 

I slowly lowered my hands and reached one of them out.

 

“I’m Eric Riordan.”

 

No one moved for a moment. The man and woman exchanged another long glance.

 

“I’m Tom Glover. This is my wife Sarah, and the little fella behind me is my son Brian.”

 

The boy leaned out from behind his father and waved. “Hey.”

 

The first of the adults to step forward was the man of the family. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, which put him at about five-foot ten. He looked to be in his late thirties, with salt-and-pepper black hair and intelligent brown eyes. Much like me, he had not seen a barber or the business end of a razor in a very long time. He was lean and spare, with the kind of dense stringy muscle developed from a lifetime of hard work.