Part One: Infernal

Chapter One Nothing could have prepared me for this moment, on my knees cradling Conner’s head in

my lap. I count the seconds, knowing any breath might be his last. The light is fading from him,

leaving behind mere whispers of the clear blue eyes I love so much. I used to tell him his eyes

reminded me of the sky at sunrise. That was another lifetime, before the virus came, when we

were afforded lazy Saturday mornings.

I brush a strand of brown hair from his eyes as I have done countless times, during happier

moments when his life wasn’t leaking out of a throat wound, around my desperate grasp. I try

not to let the grief show. I try not to think that at any moment he will be nothing but a husk of my

lover, gnashing his teeth and moaning at my throat with a hunger only my flesh will sate.

“Asher,” Conner’s raspy voice, so weak, and hopeless calls my attention from his blood

throbbing around my clasped fingers. I try to put on a cheerful face for him despite the blood in

his mouth, bubbling through his parted lips with his efforts to speak. He has always been able to

see through my façade. “You will make it,” he tells me, as if his mere saying it will manifest the

desired outcome. “You are my strong hero,” his voice dissolves into painful, wet coughs causing

more blood to flow.

It was supposed to be a happy time, our last summer before college. The year we got to

break away and forge a life of our own. But it had all changed in that defining moment. The

virus started in Georgia, a small town in the suburbs of Atlanta. At first people laughed when

they heard the story of the naked woman who attacked the mailman when he came to her drive.

Laughter quickly turned to fear, though, when the attacks continued in Washington, Alabama

and New York. When they found their way to Pennsylvania, we were in the grips of a zombie

infestation no one was prepared for.

And how could you prepare for it? Conner and I had watched countless zombie movies and

we weren’t prepared. Sure, you have your normal zombies that shamble around and can’t catch a

turtle in a wooden box. Those aren’t the scary ones, but the “speeders” who are much faster and

less clumsy, are worse. Speeders are more abundant than regular zombies, unfortunately, but at

least they are better than the infernals. I have only seen an infernal once on the road. They are

fierce hunters capable of tracking and trapping their prey. They can think, which is terrifying,

because if you have an “undead” out after your flesh, the last thing you want is a smart one.

I want to say something, but as often happen words fail me when I need them most. I lean

forward and kiss his lips one last time, remembering nights spent under the full moon, planning

our future. Never had we thought our future would end like this. I remember holidays, and how

Conner loved them as much as any child, laughing and kicking his feet when he found just the

gift he wanted under the Christmas tree.

My whiskers scratch against his face and I’m reminded how he hates facial hair, but I didn’t

want to shave this morning. If I knew this would have been my last day with him, I would have

done anything he wanted.

His lips taste of the fruit juice he had been drinking before the attack and blood. His last

shuddering breath passes into my mouth and some morbid part of me inhales, wondering if one

breath shared between two people can bind them together. Tears cloud my eyes and I can’t help

hoping his last breath will keep him with me.

What’s life worth now when all I want to do is die with him?

I don’t want to leave him, but I know I must. I should kill him now, before he becomes one

of them, one of the shambling hordes, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. It isn’t surviving his

undoubted transformation that bothers me. I have been bitten sixteen times, chewed on twice,

and even gotten zombie gore in my mouth and eyes and have never turned, never been infected.

Any of those things should have been enough to do it.

I know I can survive his attack, but the one thing I can’t survive is killing him, even if it

isn’t him any longer, even if it’s just something else controlling his body.

I dare one last kiss, no matter how gross I have always found last kisses at funerals to be.

The transformation can take up to seventy-two hours, but I have seen it happen in as little as

half an hour.

I can’t be here when he transforms, but I can stay just a moment longer.

I remember thinking the same thing when the light left my sister Sara’s eyes like a

whispering exhale. I had clutched her, screaming something at the ceiling I can’t remember now.

The rest of my family was already lying dead all around me at that point. I had stayed too long

with them, and all at once they began shivering, jittering on the floor as the virus overtook them.

Their feet beat in time on the wooden floors, my fathers booted feet making much louder

hammering sounds upstairs above my head.

All at once they stopped, and I looked at Sara bewildered. At some point her mouth had

started working. Her eyes opened and they were glassy, like they belonged to a creature mocking

my sister. That’s how I got my first seven bites.

It may be stupid for me to dare fate again, but I curl up beside Conner, laying my head on

his still chest and close my eyes. I already miss him so terribly, and my brain is trying to make

sense of it, trying to figure out how I function when it feels I’m missing half of my body. A part

of my past is dead on the floor, and I don’t know how to get it back. It’s like I’m waking from a

coma filled with dreams and plunging into a nightmare of desolation. I try to push all those

thoughts from my head and imagine that it is any weekend morning, and I’ve awakened before

him. I try to imagine birds singing outside, but with the battle that happened in the abandoned

house moments ago they have all been scared away, and I know that all manner of undead are

being drawn to the sound. Loud noises are like dinner bells for them.

It isn’t working. I can’t imagine Conner is still alive because I can smell death in the air, and

his chest isn’t rising and falling in peaceful slumber. There is no air filling his lungs anymore.

One thing we learned fast is the sound of an approaching zombie: their dead moans, their

shuffling gait, and sometimes the smell that goes along with them. You can always tell the smell

of the old ones: they smell like road kill baking in the hot sun. They only smell like that before

they rejoin the earth and their bodies can no longer function due to decay.

This one was arriving late to the party.

I know I can’t be turned, but I’m still terrified of them because they can still overwhelm me

and eat me alive, and come on, they are the walking freaking dead!

I backpedal away from the unhinged front door as the dead girl ambles through it. My back

is pressed against a door jamb and I use my legs to stand. My gun is on the floor beside Conner

and out of bullets; the other magazines are in the truck. We hadn’t expected an attack when we

came in here looking for food, but the zombies had found us. At all times I carry my gun, an

extra clip and my machete. The machete was the only thing left for me to use.

I reach for the blade on the ground, gripping the hilt in my blood-slick hand. I watch the

zombie girl, trying to figure out if she is intelligent, if she is an infernal. She appears not to be

because it takes her several moments shuffling around in the front room to stumble into the hall

and see me standing in the doorway to the living room. It takes her a moment longer before she

starts groaning in the throes of hunger. She comes for me, and I am aware of Conner shuddering

and flailing on the floor. Ten minutes is a new record.

The zombie girl might not be smart, but she is fast. With near human speed she is on me,

biting my neck despite the machete being buried in her midsection. I kick at her knee, which

doesn’t hurt her, but it does drop her to the floor in a sickening crunch of broken bone.

She pulls herself up using the back of the couch, tries to come at me again and falls. Her

fingernails scrape on the floor as she drags herself closer to me, groaning and gnashing her

rotting teeth together. With a precise blade stroke her head rolls away from her body, the teeth

still chattering ineffectually. I can never stand seeing that, but if you don’t destroy the brain

stem, the part that controls their survival instincts, they can still function. I stamp down on her

head and twist the heel of my boot to crush the stem. Thick, dark blood spurts from the opening

and her head falls still.

I turn back to Conner, because he has fallen still once more in the final grips of his

transformation. Even at that point their mouths work, as if they know they will be eating for all

eternity so they try to warm themselves up for it.

I know he will rise soon, even now the wound on his neck is drying up, crusting over like

meat left on the counter for too long. His skin is taking on a waxy, clammy look, and veins can

be seen along the surface of his skin, purple in death as if the last pulse of his heart pushed the

veins to the surface where they froze.

I can’t see him like this. I can’t stand to see the man I have lain with for three years shifting.

A braver person would kill him, but I’m not the hero he sees.

I enter the room with him to retrieve my gun, and as I near my heart hammers in my ears.

I’m dizzy with the rush of blood and fear that flood my body. He could rise at any moment.

Outside a crow caws and I hear the heavy wings of vultures coming to feed on the dead. The

last rays of the setting sun are spilling through the dining room window, bathing Conner’s corpse

in hues of orange and red, filtered only by a tossing tree.

I don’t take my eyes off him as I crouch for the gun. With the pistol in hand, I back away

from him and clean my machete on the zombie girl’s clothes. I flee the house. The sun is falling

just below the horizon as I jump in the black pickup. I squeal out of the driveway as Conner

comes to the doorway, watching me with a calculated gaze. If it weren’t for his pale skin and the

large bite mark on his throat I would never know he was dead. In time his eyes will become

murky with the glaze of death, and there won’t be any part of him left that I’ll recognize.

But in that short span of time I know he is an infernal, and he has my scent.

Chapter Two Maybe I should stop. Maybe I should pull over and let him take me, conscribe me to the

grave. I know I won’t rise. I know I won’t become a zombie, but at least I won’t have to go on

without him. It is three AM. Several times the same thought has made me pull over, but just as I

sense him, I start out again. I’m not sure if this sensing him is real or if it is my imagination, but I

get a buzz in my head, mirrored by a strange feeling in my stomach and I just know that he is

near. The sensation takes over and makes me put the truck in drive and press the accelerator

almost against my will, like I am a robot being controlled by this knowing he will catch me and

the certainty that when he does, I will die.

Despite all my bravado, something inside me won’t let me die, doesn’t want to let me die.

I drive fast and I drive for a long time because I don’t know how fast Conner can move. The

last infernal I faced wasn’t fun, and I don’t want him catching up to me.

We heard there was a quarantine in Binghamton, New York. It was rumored to be an old

military compound, large enough to house a small city and with working, green energy. It could

all be a lie, wishful thinking, but Conner and I were headed there when we were attacked; when

Conner died.

Just thinking of him makes me sick, and I have to fight the urge to vomit.

The problem is, everything reminds me of him. Whenever I catch a look at my reflection in

the mirror I’m reminded how he loved the emerald of my eyes and the blackness of my messy

hair. He’d always said the combination was what attracted him to me when he first laid eyes on

me at the gay pride parade.

His seat is empty, a testament that he will never sit there again. At times, if I’m not thinking

about it, I can catch a whiff of his scent still clinging to the upholstery and his balled up jacket on

the floor with his days’ worth of rations that will never be eaten. It’s all painful evidence that he

existed, that mere hours before, he occupied the truck’s cab with me.

Several times I have to fight pulling over and giving in to my emotions, but such a move

would be risky. For whatever reason, zombies are more active at night, as if whatever hellish

power gives them energy is strengthened at night. True, I haven’t seen any tonight, but that

doesn’t mean they aren’t there, lurking, just out of the range of my headlights.

As I think about them, it’s almost as if I can feel them out there, lurking in the unforgiving

woods to either side of the shadowed road. The feeling is like bugs crawling on my skin. I try to

figure out how far away they are, but the feeling is fleeting and trying to get a range on it’s like

trying to figure out where in the forest a baying wolf is when you are alone at night without a

flashlight. Fear drives the senses and monsters appear to be everywhere. I shake my head and

blink hard. It’s just my imagination. The lack of sleep is befuddling my mind into thinking I can

sense these beasts.

There’s no way around it, I’m tired and I’m human and that means I need sleep.

There are so many abandoned houses now that it doesn’t take long to find one in a clearing

to the right of the wooded lane. The truck skids to a halt past the driveway, and I have to put it in

reverse to pull in. The white vinyl siding was once pristine and new, but now it’s dirty with mud

and blood and things I don’t want to identify. The door has claw marks on it as if a horde has

passed by and tried to batter and scratch their way inside. Despite the light of the full moon

breaking through the racing clouds, the house is cast in a constant gloom from the overhanging

trees and the unruly grass and unkempt lawn. A chill races up my spine just looking at the house,

and every instinct tells me to leave, but I’m just too tired to obey my better judgment.

I survey the area before putting the truck in park. Nothing seems to be lurking, inside or out.

I think I see a curtain move upstairs, but after a few moments of studying the dirty yellow drapes

there’s no indication it was anything other than my overactive imagination.

I kill the engine and the oppressive silence closes in on me in a deafening rush. My ears ring

with the utter lack of noise and my heart starts racing. I gather a flashlight, a couple of guns, and

clips of bullets just in case. My machete is still strapped to my side in a makeshift sheath Conner

made for me.

I open the truck door and listen to see if I can hear any zombies, but only an audible void

greets me. I’m not really surprised. Zombies flock to more populated areas and tend not to visit

the rural areas unless shortage of food pushes them there.

There are no lamps or candles burning in the house, but that doesn’t mean anything because

lights draw attention, so most sane people don’t keep them on at night.

The doorknob is rough under my palm. I try to ignore the caked on gore as I turn the handle

and push the door open on squeaky hinges. The click of the flashlight is too loud in the silence.

The swath of light cutting across the floor is like a beacon in the darkness of the house. The

flashlight illuminates the ransacked room. For a moment I think I see a figure looming in the

corner, watching me from the shadowed depths, but there’s nothing there but a heap of blankets,

a dolls head and a broken chair. I close the door lightly and take a moment to listen again, but

there is only silence.

There are signs that something happened here before. I try not to look at the gore, the blood

and thicker things on the wall, but my mind is drawn to them. I wonder if the chunks of

whatever’s plastered to the floral wallpaper are from humans or zombies. Right now it doesn’t

matter because whatever it came from is dead.

What I expect to find, and don’t, are bodies. Either someone cleaned up all the bodies and

left the gore, or the zombies took the bodies with them. They don’t often do this because most of

them are too stupid to think to do that.

Unless they are infernals, then they might take the bodies for later.

There is no way of telling if someone is living here without looking and that is exactly what

I do.

Thankfully there’s no basement. I hated basements before the infestation, and I hate them

more now. As a child there was an old man in my basement who would stand in the corner and

watch me whenever I went down to get something from of the freezer. Cloaked in shadows, he

wouldn’t talk, just watch like he expected something of me. At first I thought he was an intruder,

but there was something dark about him, something menacing that no human can replicate. His

gaze was like bugs under my skin, and I felt just talking to him made him more hostile, angrier.

He would follow me back to the stairs, and watch me climb up them. I often ran up the last few

steps worried he would grab me around the ankles before I reached the safety of the hallway

above. As I got older I realized ghosts didn’t exist. Now that zombies are real, I’m not so sure the

old man was just a figment of my imagination. After the night I’ve had, I can’t imagine checking

a basement if need called for it.

The kitchen is tidy in contrast to the rest of the ground floor. The cupboards are bare and the

fridge is empty and warm from lack of electricity. The backdoor stands open to the overgrown

backyard where a swing set is starting to squeal in a breeze. I wonder if I should close the door

and risk making a noise, or leave it open and risk someone, or something, coming in undetected.

I opt for closing it slowly, which only produces a minimal amount of noise.

At this point I can’t imagine there are zombies in the house, because if there were, I

would’ve heard them by now, and possibly been fighting already. I don’t want to check upstairs,

but as I stand at the base of the carpeted stairs, shining my light into the darkness above, all I can

think of is the moving curtain. I know to be safe I must check up there, but the darkness seems to

drink in the light, and every instinct I possess screams not to go up there

I almost shriek when a rat skitters across my foot. Hand on my chest to calm my near failing

heart I make it from room to room and see nothing more than upended beds, broken windows,

dirty toys and one bloody handprint that turns into a smear of blood down the hall and then fades

to nothing at the head of the stairs.

I want to clean up, but I know the water isn’t running, and whatever soap there is has dried

and cracked over time, looking more like wood than anything worth using.

There’s dried blood in the sink which makes me wonder if someone had cleaned up after the

melee, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m no detective, and I’m not looking for people, just a safe

place to sleep.

Back downstairs I take up a post on the broken couch because it’s against the wall and I’m

able to keep an eye on the rest of the room until I fall asleep, which is easier to do than I

previously thought.

When I wake up hours later it is to the barrel of a shotgun in my face and the angry brown

eyes of a middle-aged woman glaring at me.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” she asks, but I doubt it’s her home. I

assume she is a squatter like me, like most people are now, when they tire of running.

“I swear I didn’t know anyone was here. I needed a place to sleep for a few hours.” I raise

my hands to show I’m unarmed like they do in the movies.

She steps back, but doesn’t lower the gun. It’s still trained on my face and I’m having

horrible ideas about where the chunks on the wall behind me came from. I think of begging her

not to shoot me, but then wonder why I care if it all ends here.

My entire family was wiped out in the first wave of zombies that hit Philadelphia. I had to

put all of them down even though I didn’t want to. Conner and I were frantic wondering if I was

going to change after their attack. After three days chained up in the stolen truck we decided I

was somehow safe and released me.

I’ve been fighting ever since, struggling for shelter and seeking safe harbor in abandoned or

infected refuge after refuge. We held out hope that this one in Binghamton would hold the key to

our safety, only to have Conner get infected miles before we reached it.

And there’s no telling I won’t find another wasted quarantine when I finally locate it. Was

this any kind of life to live? What was I fighting for? Why even bother going any further?

“Do it,” I tell her, memories creating fresh streaks of tears on my dirty cheeks. “I have lost

too much to even want to live any longer in this hellish world. Every day is like a waking

nightmare, and when you think you can’t go on, you only lose more. The worst of it is, I can’t be

changed, I can’t become one of them, and so I’m forced to endure. Why would I want to

continue on? Killing me would be the best thing anyone could do for me. So do it. Add my

brains to the wall.”

There’s silence for a time. Outside, crickets and birds greet the lightening skies. If it wasn’t

for all the horror I’d faced in the last weeks I could almost imagine this was exactly how the first

day of the world had bloomed, with the peaceful sounds of nature preceding it. Why is it when

we lose so much we finally know release? Am I losing it? Is my mind finally giving way to the

cracks that have been battered into it from all the death?

“My name’s Mary,” she says lowering the gun. She’s wearing a sweater that is too large for

her and jeans dirty enough to stand on their own. Her boots are knee-high and her brown hair

hangs in grungy strands to the middle of her back. Cleaned up she would have been rather pretty.

“Asher,” I tell her, my eyes rooted to the floor at my feet which in happier times had seen a

lot of traffic.

“It was the Trenton, New Jersey shelling when it happened. We had made it through the

worst of it and were heading out of town. I can remember parts of buildings falling down around

us as we ran. Things were in such chaos, zombies clogging the streets, neighbors and loved ones

rising of their own accord, attacking passersby. My daughter, Amelia held fast to my neck, trying

to screw her eyes shut, as if that would make the horror end. My oldest son, Taylor, was there

with me and he fought bravely.

“I knew what they were just as sure as I knew my own name. All the strange attacks had

been leading up to it, and we knew, Taylor and I, that it was only a matter of time before the

zombies came full force. We used to tell friends ‘you watch, one day it will happen.’ Those that

didn’t think we were joking thought we were crazy.” She peers out the picture window, and I

know she’s seeing another time. “No, I knew what they were, just as Taylor knew the bite on his

arm would fester with the infection. He was trying to get Amelia and I to safety before he threw

himself to the horde to hold them off our trail.

“I knew he was thinking it. I knew he was going to do it, and with all of my heart I didn’t

want to let him go, but worse than that was the idea of killing him. He found us a car with keys

still in it and pushed us behind the wheel as an alley clogged with the dead overflowed into the

streets right behind us.

“I can still remember it, sirens going off, dirt and mortar dust clogging the air as huge pieces

of buildings rained death around us. Taylor threw himself at them, but before he even made it, a

large piece of rooftop landed on him, adding his blood to the ruined street.

“It wasn’t until later that night Amelia began to sicken. I hadn’t noticed it then, but she had

been scratched, and as I studied her wound, I knew it was from a zombie. The way the virus

spreads through the body is like a rash, and it was quickly overcoming her little body.

“I had nothing on me to kill her with. I remember taking her little body when she slept, and

placing it in front of the car, her head lined up perfectly with the tire,” and she doesn’t finish. She

stares at her hands as if she’s still holding her daughter and silent tears stream down her face. I

sit dumbfounded on the couch. For a moment what I’ve gone through pales in comparison. I can

see the loneliness in the set of her shoulders, in the slump of her head.

“I have lost a lot too kid,” she says to me as she comes back to the present. Her words don’t

stop the pain, if anything it makes it worse. “It’s hard,” she tells me. “But the best way to honor

their memory is to keep living. Never forget that you are one of the last people alive who knew

them. What happens when everyone who knew them dies?”

“Then they are truly gone.”

We don’t speak for a while. She sits on the couch beside me and wraps a motherly arm

around my shoulders, pulling me tight. I can’t explain it, but I feel an instant connection, as if

I’ve known Mary before and she had been a good friend in that time. I feel at ease with her as if

she fully understands what I’m going through and she doesn’t judge me for my weakness.

“Where are you headed?”

“Binghamton, I here there is a refuge there.”

“Yeah, I would say another hundred miles or so north.”

More silence.

“The sun is coming up,” Mary says. She stands and grabs a bag from the back door. “Take

these with you. I didn’t expect you to live through the night. When I saw your truck out there I

took whatever I could find. I was going to take your truck too, but this is the safest place I’ve

found in weeks.”

“Will you come with me?” I ask, hoping she will.

“I’ve thought about it, but honestly I don’t know what condition you’ll find that quarantine

in. I know this place is safe for now, so you better run along.”

And that was goodbye.

Chapter Three I hear a ding and look down. In whatever state of turmoil I’m in, I’d forgot one thing.

Gas.

It’s a small town. A “one gas station town” as Conner and I called them. There’s no helping

it, I have to stop. There’s no telling when I can gas up again.

I see the signs before I pull in. The faded spray painted letters on the windows of the Gas

Mart pronounce “Binghamton Refuge fifty miles” and an arrow pointing in the direction I’m

heading. If there were any other signs before now, I didn’t see them.

I check to make sure my gun is holstered at my side and my machete is ready before

stepping out into the overcast afternoon. No sound greets me but that of the wind around the

station.

It takes a moment to find a pump that’s been left on. There must’ve been some kind of

convenient store memo because more often than not there’s at least one pump still pumping gas

at the small stations. Like the owners had known people would need it and left them on for any

survivors.

There’s another sign over the price display of the machine.

Binghamton Refuge fifty miles.

The name is to the point. I just hope it is still there and hasn’t been overrun like all the

others. But this sign looks fresh as if it was placed only days ago. The ink and tape haven’t even

succumbed to the elements yet.

I don’t get much gas, maybe five gallons. Many times on this journey I’ve cursed myself for

not stealing a more fuel efficient vehicle, but beggars can’t be choosers, and a large truck sure

makes it easier to cut through throngs of undead.

I think about going in for food because my supply is running low, but with the refuge being

so close . . . I hesitate longer than I should. The gas should hold out until I make it to the safe

zone, as should my food.

This time I don’t hear them coming. Two of the three that lumber out from beside the store

are speeders.

A blast of my gun hits the slow one precisely at the base of the brain, ending its slack-jawed

moan before it can even work up an appetite. As the two speeders come into range, I decapitate

one, but then the other is on me, biting my shoulder.

I scream and the zombie rears back for another bite, but he doesn’t get the chance. I bring up

my gun and shoot him in the head. There’s a lot of gore, and a little blood. The top of his head is

missing, but he is still moving. How this is possible I’ll never understand, but logic says if you

are missing half of your brain you’re done. Not in the case of zombies.

How much damage can he do with only a lower jaw? I don’t want to find out. I shoot again

and it takes out the base of his head, destroying the stem.

Assessing the damage to my shoulder I find I’m bleeding profusely. I can wrap that later.

For now I need to get away from this spot before . . .

Dinner bell.

Just my effing luck. More zombies are pouring out of the nearby woods and ransacked

homes toward me. I’m not sure what it is with me. Can they sense my blood? Do they come to

the sound of the gun? I’m not sure, but wherever I am, there are mobs of hungry, slavering

zombies.

There’re too many of them for me to ever hope to kill, but I can still take out a good portion.

I back toward the truck, but the passenger side door is locked. I always keep it locked. Maybe I

should rethink that.

Click.

Great. I fish in my pocket for the extra clip, but I don’t have much time.

Dead hands grab me from behind and swing me around. I lose my footing and they are after

me. I kick out, I thrash, I swing my machete.

I lose track of my gun.

I don’t know how many zombies there are, but there seem to be a lot, maybe twenty of them.

Not all of them are speeders, which is good, but at least two of them are trying to get to me on

the ground. Somehow I manage to stand, their fingers clawing at me and their mouths chomping

at my throat like wild dogs.

I kick out behind me and hear the crunch of bone, but I don’t look to see the carnage that

one kick caused.

I see my gun by the tire and I grab it, jamming the next clip in. There are zombies blocking

my way around the truck. I consider smashing the window and climbing in, but then the truck

wouldn’t be as safe as I would like.

My gun cuts a swath before me. Zombies drop like flies. I’m not saying I kill each and every

one of them, but I am not aiming to kill, just aiming to get the hell out of here and back to the

safety of the road. My nerves are shot, my emotions tortured and my aim isn’t so good. Some of

my shots miss, but that doesn’t mean the zombies aren’t knocked to the ground.

I run around the truck, shooting and kicking, dodging reaching arms and ducking out of the

way of open mouths.

Finally I make it to the driver’s side.

I can feel Conner drawing close. My head swims, and for a moment I have a sense of double

vision, one of ground rushing preternaturally fast under my feet, and the other of the open truck

door and the safety of the cab beyond.

God, Conner can move fast.

I’ve only seen vampires in movies move this fast. I should have ruined his brain when he

was dead instead of living some fairy tale dream, hoping he would come back to me and we

could remain happy, with me living and, what—him sloughing off bits of his body in the

passenger seat? I close my eyes against tears.

There’s no time for this. There is no time to feel. There’s only time to act because the

zombies are closing in behind me. I jump inside the truck, and slam the door a few times into

zombies to keep them at bay. The wasted time has only added more zombies from the other side

of the truck into the mix.

I start the engine and throw the truck into drive. I peel out of the gas station, their arms

reaching for me, their fingers clawing the paint from the side of the vehicle.

Before long I’m back on the road, door firmly closed and locked.

I check in the mirror behind me, but the zombies are converging on the opposite side of the

road, coalescing on a figure. I stop the truck and get out.

“Hey,” I yell to the stranger, hoping they have enough sense to move. But there’s something

strange about the newcomer. I can tell it’s a woman, but she is dressed in rags and scraps of

clothes that remind me of fallen leaves and her face is strangely white.

She turns to look at me and I see it isn’t her face that’s so white, but a mask I can only

imagine is porcelain. She cocks her head as if she hasn’t understood what I’m saying. Turning

back to the zombies, she holds out a hand, and they kneel before her. Again she turns to look at

me, and I back toward the truck, my mouth hanging open.

A strange quality hangs in the air, almost like the charged air before a storm. Shadows seem

to gather around the figure and a strange hush comes over the zombies.

“Eff this,” I whisper and leap back into the truck, jamming it into drive as the first drops of

rain fall from the sky.

The terror I feel coursing through my veins has made the gun a permanent fixture in my

hand.

End of sample

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