I see him.
The road here is flat, and I spot him
from quite a distance.
Still human, or at least
not yet turned. There is no
discernable wound or injury, seemingly
no evidence of infection.
He sees me as well.
He is roughly eighty meters away;
by my calculations
we will cross paths in forty-five seconds.
I have that long to plan my words carefully.
Given the circumstances
a once-standard "hello" would be strange.
But I can't come off as harsh
or uncooperative; even if he will not be an ally
I don't need an enemy.
Especially a sentient one.
How far should my hand be from my gun?
Too close
could incite aggression on his part,
too far could get me killed.
I wonder if he will tell me
what lies in the direction he comes from,
and how I can get him to tell me.
My mind is piled deep with images,
heaps of bodies
strewn forgetfully, spilling
from their casings
in the city.
I wonder if he will tell me
if they soak the country
grey and red, as well.
It's hard to trust anyone,
I shouldn't, I know, I've seen
the regret
pooled around those who have.
But there is so much
that could be gained.
Close.
A few more steps now.
I'm biting my tongue
so hard I am bleeding,
I taste the metal of polished words
ready to burst from behind my lips
but as I pause in my tracks
ready to speak
he waves his hand once, midstride,
clears his throat
and without meeting my eye
continues past me
without a word.
He shuffles on down the road
like it was nothing at all.
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