dead people and no zombies wandering around, and he'd be able to see anyone coming in plenty of time to head them off … with a little help from the machine gun mounted on the window ledge, of course, a seriously kick-ass weapon. He'd mowed down all the courtyard zombies without breaking a sweat. He had a handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he'd taken off one of the past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not quite as much.

So, hang here another hour or so, assuming it doesn 't start pouring again, then go find a way off this rock.

He thought he could handle a plane, he'd seen his … he'd been in cockpits often enough, but he thought a boat might be better not as far to fall if he screwed the pooch, so to speak. Steve leaned casually against the cement window ledge, looking out over the moonlit courtyard, wondering if he should try to find a kitchen before ditching out. The guards hadn't gotten around to serving lunch, being as how they were all dying, and it seemed they didn't stock the tower room with doughnuts or whatever, he'd already looked. He was starving.

Maybe I should head for Europe, get myself some international cuisine. I can go anywhere I want now, anywhere at all. There's nothing holding me back.

The thought was supposed to get him excited for all the possibilities, but it didn't, it made him feel anxious and kind of weird, so he went back to considering his escape. The main gate that led out of the prison was locked down, but he figured if he searched enough guards, he'd find one of the emblem keys. He'd already run across the warden, the late Paul Steiner, but all his keys were gone. So was most of his face, Steve thought, not particularly unhappy about it. Steiner had been a serious dick, strutting around like he was King Turd of Shit Mountain, always smiling when another prisoner got led off to the infirmary. And nobody ever came back from the infirmary –