In a flash the boy was gone, jumping through an open door in the hayloft to land in the driveway in front of the barn. Red shrugged and turned again towards the open door, bumping the long handle of the pitchfork into the wall as he turned. Frowning Red tried to reach the handle of the tool, but couldn't do it. Looking around for something to help pull it out of him he saw Reilly cowering by the side of the wall, looking at him.

"Lotta help you've been. What happened to barking? You bark at every god damned butterfly or grasshopper for two hundred miles, but when I need it you curl up and go all cowardly on me?" The dog crouched down more and whimpered, "Aw, shit. Sorry, I know this ain't been easy on you either. Just lay low. Good girl."

"You talking to the dog?" called a voice from outside.

"Well I ain't talking to you, no." Red yelled. He grasped the middle tine of the pitchfork and pushed it down even with his chest. 'Right through the solar plexus, pretty good shot.'

"What do you want?"

Red stopped to think for a moment.

"You hear me? I want to know what you want."

"Yeah, you got a right nice way of asking for it mister. You behind the barrel of a gun, ambushing me in the driveway. Then stabbing me a pitchfork."

"Times are…difficult. We didn't want any trouble and people like you cause lots of it."

"People like me?"

"Yeah, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Early made zombies; the oldest ones. You're pretty old. If I had to guess, from your accent you aren't from the area, which means you were one of the first."