
The Hunger Chronicles

A collection of shorts

Tes Hilaire

The Hunger Chronicles: A collection of shorts

Copyright © 2013 by Tes Hilaire

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author, Tes Hilaire.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Excerpt of Life Bites copyright 2013 by Tes Hilaire

Books by Tes Hilaire

The Paladin Warrior Novels:

Deliver Me from Darkness

Deliver Me from Temptation

Deliver Me a Paladin for Christmas (A Paladin Warrior Short)

Prince of Shadows (Dec 2013)

Other Series:

Life Bites: Hunger Chronicles Book one (June 2013)

Fifteen Forever (Aug 2013)

To Brian and Darin Angelo, my first zombie fans

Imminent Contact

The gun popped out of its holster, the cold metal sliding like a lover's caress against my outer thigh. More reassuring than a lover, though. A gun never let you down. And unlike a man, was still there in the morning.

It was morning now. Pre-dawn, actually. I watched as the shadows dissipated, revealing the soot covered and crumbling face of what had once been bustling downtown San Francisco. Another night survived, another day to reclaim our world. We did it building by building, street by street, city by city.

Today the goal was three blocks. That would make the rest of the once glitzy Chinatown ours. Next week? The rotting remains of Fisherman's Wharf. From there, it was a hop, skip, and jump across the bay to Alcatraz where the lab was. If we could just get to the lab...

I raised my head, my gaze settling on the burgeoning sun that peeked over the roof of the Chinatown YMCA across the street. It was time.

I looked over my right shoulder. Nod. My left. Nod, Nod. Looking forward again, I lifted the communications bud pinned to the lapel of my jacket.

"Penski, you and Sanchez have that back alley secured yet? We're about to go in and give them a little wake up call."

"Already in place," came the tinny response through the bud.

With a jerk of my hand, my task force of four moved out across the empty street, the ghosts of thousands of chattering Asian children driving us forward. Entering through the half-framed shell of the construction, we stepped into the "new" lobby that would never see its first members. A quick sweep yielded what I'd expected. No one here. They preferred the dark.

Two fingers up, slash to the left. Jones and Meriwether broke off, taking the airy frame of an unfinished remodeling project as their area to sweep.

Richards moved beside me through the connecting hall to the old building, his baby blue eyes never still as he scanned the dark recesses, gun always at the ready as he vigilantly covered my ass.

We always partnered. Sometimes I thought it would be better if one of us transferred to a different team, or better, another division. The puppy-dog interest he had in me sometimes made things uncomfortable. Nothing had ever happened. Nothing ever would. I'd lost enough to know it was easier not to care.

Idiot probably wouldn't leave me even if I tried to force him to.

Probably a good thing. Not many other men would put up with my cold-bitch attitude. Besides, his skills complemented mine. He was the boisterous brawn and I was the silent finesse. That combination had saved not only us both, but the whole team on more than a few occasions, and made up for the constant stream of innuendoes and occasional wistful stare he sent my way.

We advanced through the dim hall, each step bringing us further into the darkness. I flipped on my flashlight, holding it steady against my gun. Richards clicked on his own. His was bigger, just like the semi-automatic rifle he carried. I personally liked the maneuverability of the hand gun in these tight corners, and it fit my slight frame.

We approached the first exercise room, flanking the door. It was a perfect place for a sleepover and we expected to find more than a few of them here.

Richards looked at me from across the three feet separating us and winked. No need for dramatics, I pushed down on the handle, the door creaking slightly as it drifted open. Silence.

With a tap from my gun the door opened the rest of the way. I stepped in, quickly followed by Richards. Light-beams bounced across the long stretch of open wood flooring, revealing a half dozen forms slumbering in small packs throughout the room. Huddled masses of eerily familiar limbs.

The Z-virus changed a person. Making them more animal than human. Feeding on flesh, hunting at night. During the day they slept, making it easy to sneak up on them. At least until the first shots were fired. Then you had to lay down crossfire and run. Luckily, there was another good thing about them. They were slow on the uptake and easily distracted.

Richards caught my gaze, a trim brow lifting in question. I nodded. Simultaneously our guns lifted and dispensed twelve rapid pops, two for each head, before any could fully waken to register what was going on. I'd made the mistake before of only shooting once. The bullet had barely grazed through the top of the skull, leaving enough brain intact for the thing to function. If not for Richards, I wouldn't be here now.

"Game on, time to kick some zombie ass," Richards said, crossing the room to the back door.

We had to move fast now. Our gunfire would have awoken the dead, let alone the z-infected humans who, funny ha-ha, had been dubbed zombies by the members of my team. We pushed through into the next hall, immediately entered another room where Richards laid down crossfire as I ensured the ones he tagged wouldn't get back up.

"Oh, yeah! Take that, assholes!"

Richards was a blood-thirsty bastard when he got going. Too many computer games in his youth.

"All right, pretty boy. Move out, we want to get ahead of them, draw them into the back alley."

Straight white teeth gleamed in the beam of my flashlight as I shifted past him back into the hall. He was really enjoying this. I, personally, felt nothing. Get the job done, get out. Don't think about the fact that the bodies you're shooting were once human.

We started toward the back of the building. I was a damn good shot and kept our path clear as we breezed through the hall. Richards laid enough fire on our six that the ones pouring out of the rooms behind us never got too close, but not so far as to lose interest and start feeding on the flesh of their fallen.

Fresh flesh was always better.

We hadn't made it halfway through the building when screaming and gunfire erupted from far behind us—back toward the new lobby. Which wasn't right, having confirmed that section clear, Jones and Meriwether should have already been out and in the alley with Penski and Sanchez, ready to cinch the net, as it were.

I ducked my head, yelling into the mike. "Jones, what's going on back there?"

His answer came between bursts of staccato gun fire. "Shit. There was no one there. Then they started pouring in from an opening from the next building over. They're like a fucking swarm of bees, hundreds of them."

"Get out of there! Go back through the front lobby."

"Can't, they're coming in from there, too."

I cursed under my breath, popped off two more shots, all the while listening to the firefight going on a hundred impossible feet from us. Then there was nothing. No screams, no gunfire.

"Jones? Meriwether?"

Nothing but static.

"Damn," I hissed under my breath, slapping in another magazine. "Damn it!"

Richards glanced over his shoulder, his face somber for once. No going back. Only choice was to go forward—and hope Jones' radio had just cut out.

The bud crackled. "Um, Commander? We got a situation out back here."

"What is it Penski?"

"This is one major FUBAR, Commander. The defecation just hit the oscillation out here. They're pouring out of every fucking building in the area."

"Yeah, it's raining crap in here, too." I scanned the hallway behind us. They were still far enough away, but Richards was going to have to reload sometime. Damn, now I knew why the last dozen blocks had been so easy. They'd all been holed up here, in Chinatown.

"You and Sanchez pull back, Penski. Looks like Richards and I are going to go up and out."

Richards nodded to indicate he'd heard me even as he continued to pop off rounds. I started back up the hall—had to be a stairwell here somewhere—gun poised and ready as Richards continued to hold them off our six. Odd that they weren't pouring out in front of us anymore. We hadn't gone more than a dozen steps before we found out why. The floor gave way beneath us. We plunged down into the dark, crashing with a smack into the basement.

I must have blacked out for a moment, because when I came to, it was to a pounding symphony of mismatched drums in my head.

FUBAR, indeed. I tried to sit up. Pain sliced through me, originating in my leg.

My flashlight lay beside my gun a few feet away, illuminating the jagged bit of wood that stuck out of my thigh. Technically, I knew I should leave it—blood loss and all—but it was a bit awkward to drag an eighteen inch hunk of floorboard when you were trying to run away, and we had to get the fuck out of here.

"Richards?" I asked as I grabbed hold of the wood and yanked.

Damn that hurt. I bit my lip—will not cry.

There was a moan from behind me, which turned abruptly into a scream.

I twisted around to find that we weren't the only ones who'd fallen through the floor. Richards was trying to push off a z-infected who'd latched onto his shoulder.

I yelled, grabbed my gun off the floor, and popped off two shots. The creature fell.

"Richards... God, Richards." I couldn't stop staring at the jagged wound. He'd been bitten.

He didn't answer. Simply pushed off the dead body and locked in another clip. Above us, more shuffling as the others tried to figure out how to get down to the tasty meal below.

"Go, Amy, get out of here. I'll keep them occupied."

I shook my head. "Richards."

His eyes narrowed dangerously, those too pretty lips contorting in a growl. "Go. Now. It's my last request. So GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

With a roar he was up, his gun sparking red backfire as he went to work on decimating the rest of the floor above us, and anything else that happened to be up there.

Last request. Damn. Not Richards. If only we'd already reached the labs. Maybe there I could have saved him. The vaccine was supposed to be administered before you'd been infected, but maybe...

Stop it, Amy. You can't survive on hopes, dreams, and maybes.

With a pain I didn't want to identify chasing me, I stumbled blindly through the dark, cursing each time I found one of the steel posts that held the floor above us up.

Had to be an exit somewhere.

And then I found it. A slim glimmer of light twenty feet or so away. I lurched forward, found a narrow set of cement stairs leading up to a walkout basement door. The door had seen better days and was half hanging off its hinges, allowing me to catch a glimpse of the alley beyond. No one moved. At least not in the slim patch of pavement I could see. Had Penski and Sanchez come through for me?

Either that or the infected are all off chasing them.

From deep in the dark depths of the cavernous basement, silence stretched ominously. Richards had stopped shooting.

Half dragging my left leg, I pulled myself up the stairs. My hand closed down over the metal knob and pushed. Nothing. Though off its hinge, the door wouldn't budge.

Jammed... it was stuck.

I threw my body against it. Behind me there was a shuffle, boots scrapping gritty cement. Swearing, I rammed myself into the door again. It shifted—an inch.

Grunt. Shuffle. Grunt.

With a howl of agony, I braced my arms against the narrow walls of the stairwell, lifted my legs, and smashed them into the top half of the door. Pain ripped up my injured leg from the impact, but the door fell outward, top half first, the bottom hinge still remaining stubbornly stuck.

I scrambled through the opening, made it partway out when a hand latched around my ankle.

I screamed. Kicked my foot. Connected with—oh, God—Richards' face. But not Richards. Not really.

He looked down at his hand that grasped the ankle of my boot. He seemed more confused than hungry...still in transition.

I lifted my gun, took aim.

My finger trembled on the trigger.

Shit. Fuck. Just shoot, Amy. It's not Richards. Richards is already dead.

He looked up at me. Blue irises widened, drowning out the black centers, his blond hair glistened in the bright morning light.

Unresponsive pupils were one of the definitive signs of the Z-virus. His had constricted.

Isn't gone yet.

I choked back a sob, unable to force the muscles in my hand to clench.

Richards pulled himself up my leg, opened his mouth as if to speak, but then looked down at the bloody hole in my pant leg, and...panted. Oh shit.

A gun blast resonated in the alley. Richards' head jerked back. The neat hole seeping dark, almost black, blood.

I watched in shock as he crumpled down on top of my legs, pinning me down.

Okay, not a big deal. Just keep his head toward the right side so that none of his blood gets in your wound as you slip free, and...

A low moaning echoed from the bottom of the stairs, the narrow cement chasm channeling the sound and amplifying it.

I pushed and shoved at Richards' bulky shoulders, had just managed to roll him off when the first head appeared in the stairwell. I didn't hesitate this time, popped off two shots.

And down.

Only there was more. Lots of moaning, more shuffling.

Ah, fuck. No way would I have enough bullets. And with my leg...

Then an arm was around me, dragging me up and pulling me along. My gait was graceless, my hand pressed tight against the gaping wound in my leg. My rescuer was half twisted around, gun raised as he lay a smattering of cover fire behind us. Tall, broad. His dark hair was too shaggy to be regulation, yet he wore a uniform like mine. His gun was better.

Which division are you from? 'Cause whichever it was, I wanted a transfer.

No time for introductions, just to run.

We reached the corner. He yanked me east, opposite to the direction I, and presumably Sanchez and Penski would have gone, but our path remained clear ahead of us and the rumbling moans and growls of our pursuers fell further and further behind.

I didn't think I could run—make that limp—much further when he took an abrupt left, pushing me into the yawning entrance of an old souvenir shop. Windows. No door. Not the safest place to hide, especially with the blood trail I was leaving behind.

"In here!" he ordered, then unceremoniously shoved me through an open doorway that led into a small back room. I tumbled inside the old storage room, landing with a plunk on the cement floor. Behind me, the heavy metal door slammed closed, a scrape and a loud clank announcing we were sealed in.

I took my time pushing myself up from my sprawled position. A small cot, a couple crates of canned goods, a series of shelves and hooks holding various guns and ammo... and a ham radio set up.

Must be his hidey hole.

I scooted around on my ass, keeping my left leg as straight as possible—it was throbbing like a bitch—curious to finally get a good look at my rescuer. He stood above me, hands planted on his hips as he scowled down at the bloody wound in my leg.

My heart skipped a beat.

Josh.

The last time I'd seen him had been just days before the outbreak had swooped down on the city. That was thirteen months and another lifetime ago. During that life, I had been a doe-eyed girl who would have squealed and jumped into his arms. I wasn't that girl anymore. Time. Life. A shit load of blood, guts, and immeasurable pain lay between me and her.

He crouched down, gingerly pulling back the torn material of my uniform. "Doesn't look like a bite. Remarkably clean, too."

I was too astonished to respond, just watched as he yanked a strip off my pant leg and tied it tight around the wound.

"Will have to do for now. I ran out of thread last week."

When I didn't say anything he raised his head. At first, nothing, then brown eyes widened, his mouth parting and tugging at a new scar that split the upper lip on the right side.

"Amy..." He reached for me, his hands opening as if he were about to grab on and pull me against him.

The imminent contact jarred me out of my shock.

"You left," I spat out the accusation before his hands could reach their goal.

His hands dropped, clenching into fists at his side. "I had my orders."

"Mom and Poppa, dead. Your brother, his wife, gone. The twins..." I couldn't say it. Gone. Dead. Bullets to the head.

A world of pain filled his face. "I know."

"Where were you?" I demanded, long suppressed anger coiling and punching the words into a scream.

"On a mission."

"Where on a mission?"

"It was my job. You know that." Unsaid was that where was moot.

"Your job was to abandon your family? Your job was to disappear when your family needed you most?"

"It. Was. My. Job."

He looked tired. Gray had seeped into his hair along his temples, craggy lines framed his eyes, and deep furrows marred his once smooth brow and bracketed his mouth. Not from laughing.

Well I hadn't been laughing either. Not for over a year. The z-virus had started somewhere in lower Central America and consumed like wildfire from there. Like spokes on a wheel, spreading out along the lines of greatest population, it hadn't taken long to cover the lower half of the Americas. When Josh had up and disappeared, only a quick note telling me he'd be back in a week or so, San Diego had just fallen. Everyone was scared. People were sticking close to home. No traveling. No large get-togethers. Home, work, grocery store as needed. Isolation from all but those you loved most.

God, I'd needed him then. And he hadn't been here.

"Your job." I nodded my head. I knew all about the job. "Soldiers. Brothers. Wheels up. Go save the world. Very honorable." My gaze settled on his, demanding contact. "But you weren't here to save them." Weren't here to save me.

There was a flicker of something, but his eyes remained open as he answered. "I know."

"Tell me," I demanded. "Tell me what was so fucking important that it was worth their lives?"

He cut his gaze away. For long minutes, his hands became the most interesting thing in the room as they folded, laced, unfolded between his bent knees, until finally, "Any other mission, I wouldn't have gone. A bullshit political assignment, a chump babysitting job, hell, even for Osama Bin Laden himself, I would have said no."

He looked up from his hands, his eyes intense as he held my gaze. "But I thought it was the mission. The one to turn the tide. We all did. Over five hundred containers of an ingestible vaccine. We were to infuse it in the water supply systems of all the towns between here and LA. Stop the advance of the virus up the coast. I thought I was saving California. I thought I could save them. All of you."

I shook my head. "But the virus that swept through San Francisco didn't come up the coast from L.A. It originated in—"

"Montara. Our first stop."

"I don't understand."

"The vaccine was based off the live virus. Preliminary trials were good. Desperation high. They thought they'd eliminated all but the least worrisome symptoms of the pandemic. They were wrong; they'd just... delayed them. It wasn't until we were mixing in the last container in Simi Valley that word of an outbreak came across the airwaves."

I sat up straighter, my hand landing on his forearm. "Wait, wait. The vaccine. It's not the same one rumored to be in the labs at Alcatraz, is it?"

He didn't answer. Didn't have to. The knowledge and misery were all there for me to see, plain as day in every feature of his face.

"Oh my God." Our last hope, our last chance... gone. The only thing that would save us now was more blood, sweat, and tears. Even then...

"No. There is no God." His words fell like a hatchet in the silent room.

I watched the clenching and unclenching of his jaw. He truly believed that. But that wasn't the man I'd known. While together, Josh had been the one to poke me in the ribs, dragging me from our sinful pre-marriage bed to church every Sunday. He'd also been the one who'd insisted on holding hands and offering up a prayer before we ate. Just as he'd worn a cross on the same chain as his dog tags. For God and country. Those were the words Josh had lived by. God was his strength and duty for his country the compass that set his path. I, his fiancé, a third place incentive far below first and second.

"What happened?" I asked. Even at the lowest of the low—the death of his parents, his brother David's loss of limb during combat—Josh had been strong. He'd believed.

"As soon as I heard about the possible outbreak, I went AWOL. I rushed back as fast as I could, but by then they were closing off all the roadways, locking down the cities." He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Over a fucking year. It took me nine months to get back into the city. By then your parents were dead, David, Kathy and the kids..."

He choked back a sob. His eyes settled on mine. Pain, such pain. My breast bone ached with it.

"I couldn't find you. I prayed. I searched. Thirteen long months of not knowing if you lived. Not knowing if you'd been infected. Not knowing that if even by some miracle you were okay, if you'd ever forgive me for going on that damn mission. Please, Amy, say you'll forgive me."

I looked away, unable to bare the naked desperation in his gaze. It tugged at something I'd thought long dead within me. Forgive him?

I glanced down at my scary Linda Hamilton arms, my flat Kate Moss chest. I'd once been soft and curvy. I'd once wiled away the afternoon with my soon to be sister-in-law and her twins in their backyard by the pool, thumbing through magazines with fairytale wedding pictures in them. I'd once...

My fingers trailed over my stomach, feeling the concave dip.

"Amy." Calloused fingers touched my chin, tipping my head up toward him. His touch scorched my skin. Like an ice cube suddenly exposed to high heat I felt cracks forming, radiating through my body, widening a fissure down below my breast.

I closed my eyes. Too much, too much, too much. I couldn't break. If I broke, there would be no fixing me this time. I needed to stay strong. Needed to get back out there. Back to my unit.

God, Richards. And I didn't even know what had happened to Sanchez and Penski. Please let them be okay, please let them be okay.

Sobs echoed in the room. I wanted to see who was crying, but Josh was holding me too tight. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I was drowning in his salty wet tee shirt.

Tears. Mine. They seemed as foreign to me as a smile or a laugh. I realized that, until now, I'd forgotten how to cry. It was like something in me had been shut off, and rusted closed.

But Josh had opened it. Simply with his touch.

All of a sudden I didn't want to keep things bottled up, didn't want my secrets to remain buried. My tears had washed away the covering on my deepest pain, exposing it, red and raw.

"Riley's dead."

Josh stiffened, the hands that had been stroking my back stilling into fists upon my spine.

"Who..." he cleared his throat. "Who is Riley?"

"Our baby," I whispered. I didn't know if it would have been a girl or boy. I hadn't been far enough along when the pandemic had spread through the city. I'd had to run, then fight, and when I miscarried my baby at three and a half months, I'd had to dig deep within to find my steel core, put the memories aside, and go on.

Josh remained stiff and unmoving against me. I peeked up. Light caught, casting rainbows on the pool of liquid collecting on the bottom lids of his eyes.

"God. Amy. My God." His voice was hoarse, like he was having to drag it out through a throat swollen shut with pain. "I'm so sorry."

That was all he said. All he needed to say. The ragged words covered enough. We cried. Josh, with all his strength, me, with all my steel. Until neither of us could weep anymore. Until my body was too tired to shake. And then we just sat there, clinging together in the silence.

Time passed. I might have been content to drift in that quasi world forever, but a thump sounded from outside our safe-room in the outer shop.

My blood trail. Of course some of them would follow. Tenacious bastards.

I glanced at the walls decorated with guns and magazines, the ham radio. We might or might not die trying to get out of here, but regardless, it was going to be one hell of a messy fight.

More thudding around, then a thump on the door, and another. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Shit.

In an intimate gesture that no longer seemed wrong, Josh kissed the top of my head, then said, "You must hate me."

Strange. I didn't, not anymore. For the first time in over a year I felt at peace. Not angry. Not numb. Just... fine. I was going to be okay—zombies be damned. But one look at Josh's crumpled features told me he was far from all right. Too many regrets, not the least of which probably included that he'd become distracted and hadn't gone out there to clean up the we-are-in-here arrow my blood had left behind.

I reached up, touching the side of his scraggly cheek. I could say I didn't blame him. I could say I forgave him, but I thought there was enough of my Josh left to know that wouldn't absolve him. Only he could to that.

"It's okay. You're here now. You have the rest of my life to make it up to me."

"Your life?" He lifted a cynical brow, as if affronted that I'd suggest I might die before him.

"Or your whole life," I conceded. Given the sizable racket outside the door, it wasn't going to be long for either of us.

He nodded thoughtfully. "I have a lot to make up for."

"You should get started, then." I gave him a smile. It almost hurt. The muscles were so unused.

His mouth curved into a tentative smile of his own. It looked funny on him, too, and I almost went three for three of re-firsts and laughed. But then he was leaning down, that mouth drawing closer. Almost there, his breath soft and warm on my lips. Then... contact.

Wow.

I don't know how long we kissed. Only that by the time he was done there was no ice left. Not even a sliver coating the most extreme part of my personage. It was the pure lack of air that forced us to part. The need to expand our chests, suck down the life giving nectar, drink in the whirlpool of emotions in each others' gaze.

When I could talk again, I said, "Good start."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My head jerked toward the door. I'd almost forgotten about our unwanted guests. The rhythmic pounding had become background, a counterpart to my own thudding heart.

He followed my gaze, then touched my chin, pulling my attention back, those brown eyes latching onto mine.

"I can do better," he said, sliding something cold and metallic into my hand. "Given enough time."

Thump.

I looked down at my reloaded gun, then back up to where he was strapping on enough firepower to support an army—or at least an army named Josh.

"Well, good thing you have our whole lives." I smiled and moved to flank the door.

End of the Rope

The rope drops to the floor with a solid thud, loud in the hollow silence of another morning that always comes too soon. Wish I had some music to help wake me up. Some Evanescence or Nine Inch Nails. But my iPod has long ago run out of juice. The laptop smashed during the attack. The charging base stripped of its wire for other purposes.

Besides, there is no electricity anyway.

I rub sleep from my eyes, flick on my flashlight. Though it is light outside, gentle rays filtering in through windows coated with grime, there are shadows within. There, in the corner of the great room where the eve of the loft hangs over. There, in the hall leading to the back door. Can't even see the kitchen. Just have to hope the alarms I set would've woken me if anything had gotten in.

I take off one of my shoes, working the thick toe through the railing. Swing, swing, toss. It thumps on the floor in the kitchen archway. I listen. Silence.

Satisfied, or at least as much as one can be in this world, I move over to where the stairs used to be and begin lowering myself down the knotted cotton rope. As soon as my head is beneath the lip of the loft, I stop, scanning the room, straining to hold the flashlight and rope as I shine it down the hall.

Back door appears to be closed still. The wide reflective tape strung across it, frame to frame. A zombie might close the door, but it won't bother to string back up the tape.

I descend the rest of the way, avoiding the sawed timber from the ladder at the bottom, and grab my shoe, tugging it back on. I have a lot to do today and if my internal clock is right, I've already slept in. My tummy rumbles, but I don't bother to head into the kitchen. Need to restock the shelves before I can eat. Instead I pick up my bow, the hated bow, and go out via the front door.

The cabin is toward the top of the ridge and most of the small game is downhill. Down the long overgrown drive. The thought of killing something, anything, makes me nauseous. Music taste aside, I'm not a violent person. I like butterflies and kittens. I like to sing show tunes as I scrapbook with my best friend. I like fluffy bunnies hopping through the forest and documentaries on the amazing dolphins that might just be as smart as we are.

I like pink.

I look down at my faded t-shirt, the frayed hem of my jeans, the well worn tennis shoes that are already soaked from the dewy crabgrass carpeting the lane. The t-shirt used to be pink. Now it's a tie-dye blend of bleached cotton, oxygenated blood stains, and a sad attempt at dyeing it red with a can of beets I'd found in the pantry during one of those first mind-numbing days. A week later, after the failed experiment, I was wishing I had the beets back. I suppose there is some irony there; the girl who had vehemently refused to ever touch the vile red tubers my mother canned would have done anything to have the sugared beets back. But I am way beyond finding life ironic.

God, Mom, I miss you so much. I blink, refusing to cry. Just as I refuse to look over at the two lone crosses, the two long lumps of raised ground as I pass by them. Life went on. They'd want me to push forward. Survive. No matter how hard, no matter how hopeless it seems at times.

I turn off what is left of the rutted drive and press into the cool shade of the woods, my eyes and ears open, my hands clenched on the hated bow. The bow hadn't saved us that night. We'd come here, to this isolated summer cabin when the first word of the outbreak had come. We would hole up here. There were no neighbors in a ten mile radius but one, and that cabin normally empty. My parents, too anxious to comfort me, waited for word. Some sort of news. Good or bad.

News never arrived. Instead came the normally absent neighbor. A man, carrying his vacant-eyed, drooling wife. "You have to help us, you have to help her!"

Didn't take long to figure out what was wrong. They'd come from a small town on the California coast. Both were infected with the slow strain, she was just further along than he. My father mercifully used a knife. First her throat. She doesn't die. While she's choking, immobile, he shoves the blade into her brain. Of course the husband went ballistic. Perhaps if he hadn't been infected, wasn't already losing control of his reasoning, he would have understood the necessity of the act. Then again, maybe not.

I still remember the feeling of helplessness. Up in the loft where my father had sent me, the bow I'd grabbed out of their closet in hand. And I can't pull it to save my life. I threw it down, but too late. The man was already dead. My father killed him. But not before he was bitten. Not before my mother was torn to shreds by the man's violent attack. My dad looks up at me. Looks at the knife in his hand. "You know what to do," he says, and then slits his own throat. His eyes are still open, his mouth gaping, when five minutes later I finally gain enough stomach to drive the blade into his eye socket.

Killer and orphan, in an instant.

I wonder if there is any forgiveness for that. Wonder if there is anyone left to forgive me.

A face. An easy smile.

That's right. I had a brother. Older. Still might have one. But for all intents and purposes I am without family. Alone. He was a Marine. Stationed in Yuma, and most likely sent to San Francisco when the State Side outbreak first occurred. Not many made it out again.

So scared. Afraid I'd never see that smile again. We'd been waiting to hear. Hoping, praying the news would be good. No news came. Just the man, and his wife.

Not fair. The world is not fair.

My stomach twists, knocking on my spine. No food. No family. But with anger to fuel me, I pick my way through the forest. It's beautiful this time of year, but I don't care. I am seventeen. It's May. I should be thinking about what dress I'm going to wear to my junior prom. How I want to combat my blazing red hair. If I should go with the nice kid—Robert, was it? Or Goth boy, What's-His-Face, who likes the same music as me. Instead I'm going out in the woods to check the snares I rigged. They're not great snares. Don't work half the time. But they are better than nothing.

Took me two weeks of Del Monte peaches and Campbell's chicken corn chowder before desperation set in. A week later I'd learned to rig one of the elaborate designs I'd found in the cabin's survival guide. It was a month yet, and a lot more protein later, to became strong enough to pull my father's bow. Another month of practice before I could hit a reasonably large target at a relatively short distance.

I'd never get food that way. Still it is a weapon.

I've never had to use the bow to save my life, hope I never have to, but the mere presence of it in my hand makes me feel better. As much as I hate the thing, with this bow, I feel I have a chance.

We just have to hold out. We, as in humankind, that is. Zombies can't make babies. Eventually they will die off. As long as the young schmucks like me can keep out of their reach. Which means staying isolated. Always aware. Always ready to fight, run, hide. Preferably in reverse order.

'Course, staying isolated is kind of anti-long-haul-strategy. If none of the survivors ever get together, there won't be many chances for baby making on our side either. Then we'll all die off. Zombies and humans. Leave the world to the other critters.

Might be a good thing. We've fucked the world up enough as it is.

Speaking of critters... I frown down at the empty snare I'd placed at the edge of this small clearing. Sprung, but no meal. Did I really expect any less? My stomach rumbles a yes.

Kneeling down, I begin to restring the wire, wondering all the while what I can use as bait. Out of canned cherries. No carrots either. My dried berries from last summer are gone and it will be a while yet before new ones can be found. Anything else I have is typically passed up for the fresh spring clover that's abundant at the moment.

I sit back on my haunches, staring at the empty twist of wire and string. My stomach growls again, determined to not let me forget what else is empty. I haven't eaten breakfast. Or dinner last night. Last real meal was two days ago. I'm so hungry. Virtually starving to death. If I were smart, I'd let go. Just lie down in this sunny little clearing and give up. I mean, what is the point? I am so lonely. Sometimes I wish I dared throw caution to the wind and go searching. I can make my way into someplace more populated. Maybe find another teenager, boy perhaps, who's survived and is hiding out, too. We'll run off together, find a secure place or maybe come back here. If it is a boy, and he's nice enough, then eventually, in a year or two (the thought of baby vomit grosses me out) we'll start our own little family.

Won't that be nice?

A hysterical little giggle escapes my mouth, escalating. Family. Yeah right. We all know what happens to those. Dead. Gone. Killed by orphan daughters.

I sober. It's not until the last echoes of my laughter fades that I realize something: The wood around me has gone eerily silent... and it happened before my crazy-induced outburst.

Oh this is not good.

I immediately go on alert. What changed? A sound? Something in the air?

I scan the forest, both for the danger and a means of escape. The bushes to my left are the perfect hiding spot... for something smaller than I. Nothing in front of me, nothing to the left, or right. I slowly rise, the back of my neck prickling at the thought of what might be behind me. In slow motion I turn, lifting and cocking my bow at the same time.

A figure, some twenty feet away and shadowed by the dark forest trees tilts its head, steps closer. The arrow slips through my finger. Shoot now, ask questions later. There is the sickening sound of impact and the figure doubles over with a stifled grunt.

I run. Great sobs wracking out of my chest, muffling the sounds of my frantic flight. I've either just injured a zombie or killed a potential friend.

Oh God, oh God. What have I done?

I swallow another sob, my last one. Fight or flight instincts have fully kicked in. No energy to waste on crying. Now I become aware of the noise I'm creating. Snapping twigs, heavy breathing, thud-thud-thud. A beacon to draw whatever might be behind me.

In the echo of my own thunderous footfalls I begin to hear another tempo. Slower, stumbling, but heavier. Zombie. Hungry enough to give chase. And I have no bow. I must have dropped it after letting the arrow loose.

My lungs are burning by now. I hadn't realized how far I'd come and I've had to circle around my pursuer to make it home. I need to get inside. Up into my loft. Pull up the rope.

One measly cotton rope. All that keeps me safe. Forget the bow. Forget being out here in the middle of nowhere. Neither of those things are going to be my salvation today. Just the rope.

I reach the cabin, bursting through the door without thought to who or what might have entered during my absence. Three giant strides, a leap over the coffee table, and my hands close on the smooth cotton.

"Megan!"

I stop, my white knuckles posed above the second knot, my thigh muscles bunched and ready to climb this last obstacle to safety.

"Megan."

That name. My name, I realize. And that voice...

I turn.

Standing in the sun-framed doorway, panting, one hand over a bloody wound sliced across his outer thigh, stands a man. A man with...

Red hair.

Zack? My hands loosen on the rope. Then tighten. Zack's body. But is it Zack?

His head tips up, tired green eyes, but a wide familiar smile. His free hand lifts. My discarded bow. I ignore it. Totally engaged by that smile.

"Wow, Megan. God forbid you ever had to hit the broad side of a barn. Who the hell taught you to shoot this thing anyway?"

"Zach!" I let go of the cotton rope, launching myself into my brother's waiting arms.

Two's Company

It was the eyes that did me in. Those big, brown saucers of unquenchable hope that shone at me from the crevice that the creature had wedged itself into. There were a lot of things I could call the pitiful thing cowering in its makeshift den, dinner or bait being the most obvious, but My Best Friend was the least likely name I'd give it.

Stupid. Stupid would do. Though whether I was dubbing the creature or myself that was beyond me. A goddamn dog. What in the hell was I going to do with a scrawny-ass, noise-making mutt?

The dog whined and inched towards me, one dark, muddy paw after the other. I was still struggling with how I might manage to discourage it from following me when the thing completed its journey and curled itself against my calf. Matted black fur caked with mud and burs, tail thumping wildly as it stared at me with adoring eyes.

And sold to the man with no backbone!

I swore and stood, surveying our surroundings. It looked like a damn bomb had gone off, obliterating zombie and survivor alike, except there was one aspect of that theory that was distinctly missing. The torn up bodies lay interspersed with the surrounding destruction were fresh. No evidence of decay beyond that which you'd expect 12-24 hours after such utter destruction. Nope, the centralized apocalypse that had occurred here in this isolated hamlet had nothing to do with the greater one surrounding it. There were no zombies here. Probably never had been and undoubtedly never would be.

Back in the beginning of the pandemic when the spread of the strain was running faster than people could load the family minivan, it might have been possible for an infected to end up here, but now that the entirety of civilization had been grounded back down to its Darwinistic roots? Nope. People didn't mingle anymore. And zombies didn't cross large bodies of water or goddamn deserts either. Yeah, maybe one or two might wander its way across the blazing rock and sand of the Mohave in search of a critter or two, but most would go for the guaranteed meal when their preferred food source ran out, i.e. each other.

If there were a zombie out this far in West-fucking Nowhereville, then it had been an isolated incident. Which meant that these people had died for one of two things: sheer stupidity or extreme paranoia, and since I didn't see a whole lot of confiscated military equipment lying around to indicate they'd accidently set off their own incendiary I was betting it wasn't their lack of IQ that had led to their demise. And I was also betting that I knew just who had done this.

"Goddamn stupid bastards."

The mutt tipped its head, giving me the faintest of inquisitive whines, its body quivering in anticipation. Guess it already knew its name.

I sighed. "All right, Stupid. You can tag along if you want." I pointed my finger at him. "But don't expect me to take care of you. And you better keep up."

Stupid wagged his tail, bum and all, and offered a sloppy kiss to my finger in answer. I grimaced, knowing deep in my gut that I was making a mistake. I should just put a bullet in its head and be done with it. It was the humane thing to do. Man's Best Friend didn't last long in a world where friends were as apt to eat you as save your ass. And even though I hadn't run across a zombie in close to a hundred miles, the chances of this mutt making it without someone looking out for him were slim to none. And I certainly didn't have the time or resources to do so.

I didn't allow my mind to wander to who its previous owner might have been to have brought it through the worst of the breakout. Most adults were too pragmatic to be swayed by saucer brown eyes during the best of times let alone the end-of-the-world crisis that we were in and there were some decidedly less-than-full-grown limbs in the rubble surrounding us.

Pointedly ignoring the carnage, I picked my way around a still smoking heap of twisted metal. Ford truck. Too mangled to determine the model. Yup, crazy-eyed Joe and his lackey's had definitely been here.

I'd been tracking them for months, following their random, zigzagging trail across the Southwestern US of A as Crazy Joe and his band of brainless brawn had gone about with their mission of ridding the world of zombies. I would consider it a worthy task if it wasn't for one thing: they were ridding the world of perfectly healthy people too. People like Private Cooper and his beautiful new wife Brook, with the bright blue eyes and the smile that just continued to come despite the gone-to-shit world we lived in. And it was my fucking fault too. I'd taken the bastards in. Let them join our little enclave on the assumption that five more strong backs with weapons knowhow would take some of the strain off our already strung-out hunting and sentry schedules. I should have known better. Even a newborn could have recognized the edge of crazy in Joe's lone eye. But I'd let necessity outweigh gut instinct and given the stupid bastard and his boys their guns. The same guns that had taken out my people, and left me bleeding out in the dirt as they'd confiscated our last vehicle and driven off into the sunset. It had been like a bad western gone wrong.

And now, from the looks of it, he'd scored a grenade launcher too.

Fucking wonderful.

I ran my hand across the puckered scar of the exit wound high on my chest, the ache of muscle and tissue that had never quite healed right a constant reminder of my own mission. Outgunned or not, I was going to find that bastard. And this time it was going to be him left lying in the dirt. Only I wasn't going to make the mistake of leaving him half-dead.

***

"Worthless! You're fucking worthless!" Crazy Joe snapped his leg, delivering another rib-cracking blow to the man on the ground.

Stupid growled, and I pulled him down further behind the large boulder we'd crammed ourselves behind. What a bit of blind luck. I'd taken a chance and cut across the foothills rather than try and follow the Humvee tracks on their more roundabout path. The gamble had paid off, either that or there was a good bit of divine intervention going on here that they'd stopped for a breath right here.

"You said it could make it back!" Crazy Joe screamed, delivering another kick to the gut.

The man groaned, clenching his stomach as he hissed between bloody teeth, "I says it might make it back!"

Out of gas? Better and better. This could be my chance. Only, there was no good way to get down off the steep face of this hill without being noticed...and shot.

I racked my brain for possibilities. What I needed was a distraction, or better yet a way to draw them up here. The abundant boulders and shrubbery along this face of the hill offered plenty of areas to hide. The problem would be in making them curious enough to scramble up the jagged terrain while not giving them a perfect target for those new RPG's of theirs. And low and behold if I hadn't recently acquired the perfect bait. I glanced down at the dog that'd settled down and now sat patiently beside me. Tie the mutt, get it to bark...true there was just as good a chance they'd shoot the dog on sight as leave it until after they'd found whoever it was who'd tied the mutt up, but it would serve the purpose of drawing them into the ambush and might even buy me a few extra moments.

And you won't even have to be the one to shoot the dog when it gets too sick and weak to keep up anymore.

As if he could hear my thoughts, Stupid whined, his pink tongue making an effort to close the distance between it and my face. My hand sank deep into the thick fur around its neck, trying to hold the dog at arms-length. In so doing my fingers closed around something that was not fur. Curious I parted the fur, revealing a worn collar made out of braided rags. One strip stuck out where the collar had been knotted off, the unevenly spaced capital letters in faded permanent marker dubbing the dumb mutt as "BUDDY." Definitely a kid's dog.

I swore. Profusely. I'd suspected as much, but somehow in the knowing something changed. It was as if even contemplating using this dog in a manner that was sure to get it killed, I was defiling the last wish of the boy who'd not only loved him enough to keep him alive through the worst of the apocalypse, but keep his innocence enough to also bestow him with such a dorky, predictable name. And dub me for the stupid, soon-to-be-dead fool I was, but I couldn't do it. Oh I'd still go down there and take on Joe and his men, but I wasn't going to do the smart thing and forfeit this dog's life to get the upper hand.

One boy's love trumped the possible cost of more lives, even my own.

"Idiot. Sentimental fool." I stood, shaking my head. Stupid immediately stood up too, its tail wagging and its head tipped at me questioningly. Okay, that was a bit of a problem. How was I going to get the dog to stay up here while I went down there? If this were any other situation walking out there with a dog at my side would be the smart thing to do—the dog's presence proving to anyone with half a brain that I was not a zombie—but the thing was, with Crazy Joe I knew that wouldn't matter. He'd shot the dog, string me up, and make me wish he'd finished the job five months ago when I'd somehow managed to not bleed-out on the ground.

"Guess I'm going to have to tie you up anyway." I pulled out a bit of frayed rope from my pack, working it through the dog's collar. It wasn't very thick, probably wouldn't take the dog more than an hour to chew through if he had to get himself free. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. I fully intended to be back before the dog got desperate enough to try, but if I couldn't...well, I didn't want to think about if I couldn't, but at least the dog would have a chance if the unthinkable happened. Not much of one, but it would be a chance.

I finished by tying the other end around the thick base of a nearby shrub. No water, but at least there was shade, now all I needed was something to occupy the dog while I was gone. I riffled through my pack, pulled out a couple of MRE's and ripped them open. Stupid's ears pricked forward, his butt immediately hitting the ground. I dumped the contents out in front of him on a relatively flat rock. Stupid stared down at it, his body tense and waiting. Someone had taught him manners.

"You're a good mutt, aren't you?" Stupid looked up at me and whined. "Okay, go ahead."

Stupid didn't wait for a second invitation. He lunged, chowing down the food in great big gulps. I frowned, realizing I had less time than I thought to get my butt down into that valley.

I didn't waste a moment of it, moving quickly from boulder to shrub, then on to the next boulder as I made my way down the steep slope. I was rather surprised when I was most of the way down and hadn't heard any noise from above—Stupid's manners obviously encompassed not barking while leashed. Guess my other plan wouldn't have worked anyway.

Things below me had quieted down too. The man Joe had been beating on had gone completely silent after one too many kicks, and the other three seemed unwilling to interrupt Joe as he paced and swore his anger off. I was tempted to wait and see what they'd do—whether they'd set up camp for the night or make a stab at crossing the desert on foot—but the knowledge that even the most well-mannered dog wouldn't stay quiet forever kept me moving forward. Besides, it was time to end this. I was sick to death of breathing the same oxygen as the sadistic bastard.

I inched forward, measuring speed against stealth. If I could just get a bit closer...and that's when Stupid barked, the sound echoing through the valley.

Four sets of eyes snapped to the side of the hill I was stealthily making my way down. "What the fuck was that? A dog?"

I sucked in a breath, my hand going to my knife, but not a one picked out my camouflaged body against the shrub and boulder ridden landscape. Stupid barked again, this time ending in a forlorn sounding howl.

"Go check it out," Joe ordered.

I ground my teeth and waited as the three mobile lackeys began picking their way through the boulders. It looked like Joe wasn't going to follow, his attention already turning to a map he'd pulled from the back of the Humvee and was spreading out on the hood. Too easy. Too perfect. I couldn't miss this chance though. Nor could I let those men reach Stupid.

I held my breath, waiting patiently for the first man to pass. The second man had split off and was too far for me to worry about at the moment but the third was trailing well behind his buddies. He moved past and I slipped out of hiding, rising behind him.

"This is stupid. It's just a damn dog," the man muttered, oblivious to my presence.

"Yeah, but how'd it get out here?" I whispered as I slid the blade across his throat. The man's hands instinctively flew to his throat, his mouth yawning open as wide as his neck as he uttered a soundless scream.

I tossed him aside; assured that the sounds of his feeble struggles would easily be swallowed by the noise his friends were making as they ungracefully scaled the steep face of the hill. A quick glance over my shoulder showed Joe still engrossed in his maps. Too far, but this one's friend...

I loosened the small axe I kept on my belt, testing its weight before throwing it with a good overhand throw. The blade struck with a thick thud and sank into flesh, but not quite deep enough to snuff the sound of pure agony that escaped from the man as he sank to his knees. The far man spun, his gun rising in a sweeping arc as he opened fire. I threw myself behind a nearby rock, but not before I saw the man I'd hit jerk spasmodically as he was caught in the crossfire. Talk about friendly fire.

Something sliced across my cheek; chips from the rock being blasted with bullets as the man tried to maneuver into better position. I glanced down into the valley. No Joe. Crap. This was not where I wanted to be: between a rock and two men with guns.

I scanned my options. Nothing but shrubs to the left, but to the right there was a virtual maze of boulders. If I could just get across the ten foot expanse between me and the minefield of boulders, I might yet have a chance.

Abruptly the gunfire stopped. Waiting? Or out of ammo?

Wait long enough and you'll find out.

I slid my pistol from its holster, comforted by the weight in my hand. I didn't have a ton of ammo but... I came up, gun firing. Three quick cover shots as I made the lunge across the open terrain. I'd almost made it when a crack of a rifle split the air. Something punched into my calf, knocking it out from under me. It wasn't until I hit the ground that the pain blossomed, telling me exactly how bad it was.

Shit. I clenched my leg, trying to stench the flow of blood. This was déjà vu all over again. Me. Bleeding out in the sand. And Joe free to keep on killing.

Starting with you, fool!

Gritting my teeth I forced myself to crawl for the rocks ahead of me. Just a couple feet...

Something hard and cool pressed against the back of my neck.

"Roll over so I can see your face, you yellow bellied fucker."

I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath as I obeyed and looked straight into the face of the man I hunted to kill and who would now kill me instead. Irony, that.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my good friend Sergeant Jesser." His lips peeled back into a rotten tooth grin. "Aren't you a sight for a sore eye," he said, then brought the gun down across my temple.

***

I woke with my hands tied, Crazy Joe leering over me, and the sound of a knife being sharpened somewhere nearby.

Not exactly the best way to start the morning...or afternoon as the case may be. Hard to tell for sure other than the sun was still blazing like a fire-ball at a relatively high position in the sky and I hadn't bled to death yet. Bonus, that.

I turned my head, taking stock of the rest of the situation. Joe doing his crazy-eye thing, his two live lackey's sitting like book ends with the two dead bodies piled up neatly between them, and not a dog in sight.

Good, maybe the mutt made it out of here.

The first psycho minion I figured for Joe's recent kicking bag. He had a decidedly pale cast to his skin that no amount of sweat could conceal. Rifle or not, I could take him. Especially since the hand clutching the rifle on his lap was swollen, as if he had a broken finger or two, and his other was pressed gingerly against his ribcage. The other asshole though...our eyes met, his mouth curling up into a smile as he fingered the blade of the knife he'd been sharpening. How lovely. And now I could look forward to being filleted by my own damn knife.

"I just can't believe it," Joe said, drawing my gaze back to him. "Sargent Jesse. I thought you'd be dead by now."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh no. This is hardly a disappointment. Why, I consider this a real gift, isn't that right boys?"

Gimpy grunted. Psycho Minion two smiled and twirled my knife around his hand before jamming it forcefully into the body by his feet. Point made.

I strained my wrists in their ropes, testing them for slack.

"So what brings you here to my doorstep, so to speak?" Joe asked, ignorant or uncaring of my struggles. Not that they were doing me much good. "And don't bother trying to convince me you want to join up. That's my con, not yours."

I stared Joe right in the eye, seeing again the smile he had on his face as he mowed down my men and women. "I'm here to kill you."

"Really?" He drawled and looked back and forth at his two remaining men, then nodded pointedly down at my tied hands. "And how's that going?"

"I'll let you know in a little while."

He laughed, throwing his head back towards the sky, his hand clutching at his belly as if I'd just said the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. Sad thing was, it was pretty damn funny in a morbidly ironic kind of way.

I almost missed it at first, so loud was Joe's laughter, but then the sound came again. A low rumbling growl. Crap, go back, Stupid. Only there the dog was, slinking along the edge of the low shrubs at the edge of the valley, a short length of gnawed off rope trailing between his legs. Crap, crap, and more crap.

"Why don't you shut up and fight me," I yelled, trying to cover the sound of Stupid's increasing growls. "No guns, no knives, just you and me, mano a mano. Or are you going to stay there, squawking like a stupid chicken?"

Joe stopped laughing. His face turned beat red, his features tightening as he pulled his lips tight to his mouth. Psycho and Gimpy stared just as intently upon us, their eagerness for violence, any violence, radiating out from their taught stances. More important though, Stupid had stopped in his tracks the moment I'd said stay. Rollover, Einstein. What a smart fucking dog.

"Fine," Joe snapped. "I'll even give you a handicap to make up for the bum leg. You have ten seconds head start. You can run. Or you can try and find something to even the odds."

My gaze snapped to the two bodies currently acting as holsters for my weapons. No way I could get away, but if I could get my knife or axe...

"I can grab anything? And your men won't stop me?" I clarified.

"Anything you can get in ten seconds. And my men won't touch you as long as I'm alive."

"And the hands?" I raised my bond wrists.

Joe just smiled. "Ten...nine..."

Grunting, I pushed myself onto my feet. My left leg tried to buckle but I grit down on my teeth, forcing the leg straight and doing a kind of hobble lurch across the sand. Psycho bared his teeth as I drew near, but didn't stop me as I half collapsed on the body with my knife and began to saw at my bonds with the edge of the blade.

I'd gotten only partway through the rope when Joe's countdown ended. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe make his move. Palming the knife I rolled to the side, trying to ignore the burn of my calf as I scrambled for footing...and fell over the second body.

Joe slowed, stopping at my feet. If he'd just gone for the kill, I would never have survived, but he didn't, unsnapping his own knife and drawing it from its sheath instead.

I cocked my brow, watching him shift the knife in his grip. "So much for my handicap."

Joe shrugged. "I gave you ten seconds."

"What say you give me five more?" I suggested as I frantically worked the bit of slack at my wrists, feeling the pull and pop of the weakened threads.

"Oh I think I've been generous enough," Joe said, slashing out with his knife at my face. I raised my left arm in defense. Our blades clashed. Alone it wouldn't have been enough but Joe had also overcompensated, leaning too far forward with his weight. Enough so that my booted foot in his knee sent him tumbling to the side. He rolled, and I rolled the other way, my free hand grabbing for the axe lodged in the bullet-ridden body as I did. Pure adrenaline had me on my feet and spinning around in time to meet Joe's next charge.

We danced. Okay, he barreled around like an angry boar and I managed to hobble out of his way. It wore me down, the adrenaline leaking out of me as first five, then ten, then twenty seconds passed. I needed to end this, and end this now. So the next time he charged, I didn't hobble out of his way.

I feinted with the knife for his face, causing him to shift his own blade up defensively, then went in on his blind side, swinging the axe with every last bit of energy I had. I think it was as much a surprise to me as to him when the axe sank deep, slicing through fat and skin and intestine alike. Joe roared, smashing his head into mine. Stars exploded in my vision as I reeled back.

Blinded, I raised my weapons, only nothing happened. And when the stars cleared it was to see Joe standing there panting, his hand clutched to his stomach, blood and something else I didn't want to name sliding through his fingers at an alarming rate. I'd done it, I'd killed him, even if he wasn't actually down yet.

My legs shook. Relief. Weakness. Disbelief. All of that factored in. To have waited so long, come so far, this seemed almost...anticlimactic.

"What are you waiting for, you bastards. Shoot him," he gasped, then keeled over onto his face.

Or maybe not.

I spun, knowing it was too late. No one could outrun a bullet, and only a blind man could miss me at this distance. Only it wasn't too late, because as I spun, watching the blur of two men lifting their weapons, another offensive player leapt into the equation.

Stupid smashed into Psycopath, shiny white teeth clamping down tight on the man's arm. The man screamed, his handgun falling. At the same time a shot rang out and something whizzed by my ear.

I tucked and rolled, using the momentum to put power behind my axe as I threw. Bone crunched as I watched it sink deep into his sternum. His mouth gaped open, doing the fish move before he toppled in an almost exact replica of Joe's earlier nosedive. Whatever glow of satisfaction I might have had was cut off when Stupid yelped. I spun in time to see his matted brown mass skid across the gravel and smack up against the Humvee's tire.

Fury slid through my system. I didn't even think. Instinct took over, my knife traveling blade over hilt as it flew in a straight path from my fingers into the organ most apt to bring a man low. Unfortunately it didn't hit in a way to result in immediate castration, but rather with the blunt side. Enough to do the trick though.

Psycho toppled, his hands clutching at his injured pride. I took my time crossing the expanse. Not that I could have moved much faster. Stupid also hadn't moved. Nor had he made so much as a sound, though it was possible this man was making so much of his own noise that I couldn't have heard him.

He's not dead. But he's hurt. Bastard hurt my dog.

I stopped before the man writhing on the ground, reached down, picking up the gun he'd dropped.

"Hey, asshole." He stopped groaning long enough to open his eyes, his pupils widening as he looked straight into the barrel of his own gun. "Nobody kicks my dog," I said, and pulled the trigger.

***

I must have passed out. How fucking embarrassing. I'd killed the bastards and ended up keeling over myself. But it was the only explanation as to why I didn't remember how I got from standing over Psycho's dead body to waking face down in the sand with a big pink tongue being dragged across my cheek.

"Ugh." I turned my head, dragging one leaden hand up to wipe at my face.

Stupid whimpered, butting the side of my elbow.

"Hey there, Bud." I laid my hand on the mutt's head. "You did good. You really did."

His tongue lolled out, his mouth curving back into a perfect doggy grin. I smiled back. The dog jumped up, whipping around in an excited circle and then stopped to bark at me. An unmistakable get-up-let's-go if I'd ever seen one.

"Yeah, about that." I tested my leg: numb, deadweight. "I'm not sure that's happening."

The dog whined, bowing low over his front legs as he inched across the expanse until he was close enough to tug at my belt.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

The dog growled this time, tugging insistently at my belt.

"Okay. Fine. Just..." I groaned, biting my lip as I maneuvered my legs under me and pushed up off the ground. Black dots swam in my vision, the world tilting under my feet. But then something pressed solidly against my bad leg, giving me balance and direction.

"You're a smart one, aren't you?"

The dog sat back on his haunches, his tongue lolling in happy answer.

"Okay then." I looked around, focusing on the first step: take care of the leg, then we'd see. Stumbling a few yards across the gravel road, I pried up the rifle from Gimpy's dead hands, testing it out as a makeshift crutch. It would do. More sure for the support I worked my way to the Humvee and began rifling through it for supplies. Food, water...and Eureka, a first-aid kit.

Ten minutes later, with my leg cleaned and bandaged, I took a deep breath, and turned my attention past the useless Humvee to where the sun was dipping further and further down on the horizon. I wasn't sure what I was going to do now that I'd fulfilled my mission, but I did know one thing: This road was going to take us there.

"Come on, Bud." I slapped my thigh, sinking my hand into his fur as he sidled up against me. "I think that's our sunset."

The Fittest

In front of the door stands a bull of a man, the type of Goliath that might have once sent me running home to my mommy. Only I no longer have a home, or a mom. What I do have is a desperate need to get into that building.

Sunrise is coming and the boarded-up dive is perfect for my needs. At least, it is the only structure in town that doesn't seem like it will collapse on me while I rest. When I'd stumbled off state route 190 in this direction it was because of the mines. I'd figured, wrongly, that I could find an empty shaft and ride out the deadly Death Valley sun. But just because I know the mines are supposed to be in the area, doesn't mean I can find them.

So here I am, having a stare down with Black Beard across the moon-drenched dirt Main Street of Darwin, California. Two years ago I suspect the ghosts of this town far outnumbered the heart-beating citizens. Now? Well, it is a tossup.

Hard to believe, but this ghost town is one of the largest zombie free zones I've come across in my last few months of traveling. Yet there is no denying the heavy traces of human foot traffic that are too purposeful to be mindless. I suppose it isn't all that surprising that this town should flourish in a time like this. When the virus spread, the smaller a town's population was, the better chance they had of shutting down their borders, digging in deep, and letting the danger blow over. And Darwin seems like the perfect example of how that methodology worked.

I scan the other buildings: the dilapidated Post Office, the crumbling convenience store, the rusted out gas pumps. They yawn back at me through missing doors and windows, indifferent to my need. Hard to believe these are the best of the best in this hell hole. Yet this town is aptly named. Survival of the fittest. Darwin is surviving by guns and grit alone. And judging by the twelve-gage Black Beard has slung over his shoulder, strangers aren't all that welcome.

Tough crap. They're just going to have to make an exception this time.

Driven by desperation, I square my shoulders and step forward. I'm across the street and less than five feet from the door when Black Beard shifts in front of me, the shotgun dropping from over his shoulder to a braced against his hip position, which, conveniently, puts the tipped up barrel at my head level. "Hold it right there."

I stop, wait as he pulls a small flashlight out of the pocket of his flannel shirt and shines the beam first into one eye, then the other. I pass the pupil dilation test because he grunts, his grip easing off the trigger.

"Too young. Go somewhere else, kid," he says, slinging the gun back over his shoulder.

I look up past the platter-size silver buckle, past the mountainous pectorals, past the braided black beard and scowling mouth, and line up my gaze with the take-a-hike glare of the bouncer.

"You're kidding me, right? Carding people went out of style last year."

The giant sighs, a spark of sympathy in his blue-green eyes. "Listen, kid. Nothing against you, but you go in there and there's going to be trouble."

My entire skin itches at being called a kid. Between my short stature, thin, angular frame, and pixie hairstyle I may look younger than my perpetual seventeen, but I'm not a kid. Haven't been a kid for one year, six months and counting.

I shift, planting my feet apart as I lay my hand on the knife strapped onto my thigh. I have bigger guns, so to speak, in the heavy sack I carry slung over my back, but I'm trying to make a point, not kill the party-pooping bouncer. "I have to stay out here and there's going to be trouble."

"Those are some balls you got there."

"Thank you."

His eyes narrow, the blue-green orbs flash-freezing so that icicles glare out of them. My hand tightens around the knife as I contemplate my retreat versus the lightening sky. I really, really need to get into that building. All of a sudden he laughs, shaking his head as he pushes open the door. "Go on. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

I hold back the sigh of relief and strut into the building as if I own the place. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light cast by a few randomly placed candles, but it looks like my grand entrance goes unnoticed. Fine by me.

I make my way to the counter at the back, scanning the other occupants of the bar. I decide that Darwin's booming population is due to an influx of a biker club. There are over a dozen men, and one lone woman, trussed up in jeans, boots, and leather and only a smattering of grizzly, flannel-type locals. Must have been out on the road when the virus hit and found the nearest haven to hole up in.

Slinging my sack onto the floor, I do a scramble slide onto the high stool, folding my arms on the grimy counter. I don't care. Five nights of travel, five days of hiding in small caves and begging shelter from other burrow dwelling creatures, I'm tired, hot, and hungry.

The barkeeper ends his conversation with a timber man covered in tattoos and idles down the bar toward me. He doesn't speak, just tosses down a stained and warped cardboard coaster and looks at me expectedly.

"Do you have any meat in your stores?" I know I am asking for a miracle. A simple glance at the room's occupants confirms there are men here who know how to use a gun. Men like this also like their meat and I don't doubt that they hunt the Mule deer and Bighorn that can be found in the area. But given this is summer, the wildlife populations will have either migrated up into the peaks and/or reduced their ranges to areas with ready water, which means that if there is any meat to be had in town now, it will have to be stored in an icebox. And since planning doesn't fit into the stereotypical makeup of the migratory biker dude, chances of them having an icebox are slim.

The barkeeper considers me, deep-set brown eyes darkening as he wipes his hands on his grungy pants. He smells—another bad thing about scarce water, washing and bathing are luxuries. "We do. But not much."

"Then slice me off a steak, and don't cook it longer than needed to thaw it out."

His gaze travels over me, tongue tucked into a cheek covered in a greasy mange of tangled beard. "You got a way to pay for it?"

Not the way he's thinking. I lug up my sack from the floor. It lands with a heavy rattle and bang on the counter.

"Bang or Battery?" I ask. There are a few things worth anything now days: food, beverage, energy products, and ammo. Obviously a place like this has their own supply of food and beverage.

He rocks back on his heels. "Depends on the bang. Batteries are always good."

I reach into the sack and yank out an eight pack of double A's.

He shrugs.

I pull out a four pack of D's.

That has him perking up a bit. He shifts from one foot to the other. He glances around, then leans in closer, taking a second look at my petite frame, though this time it's minus the leer.

I need to be careful. I haven't made a dent in my sack of goodies. Stands to reason what I haven't shown is probably even better. I know it is. I also know people have been killed for less.

Yeah, Buddy, good luck with that.

"Good enough?" I gesture at the two packs of alkaline cylinders.

His greedy eyes fall on my sack. A thick tongue darts out, wetting cracked lips. "You said you have bangs. Got a box or two of large shot for a twelve-gauge?"

"I might have a box. But only if my steak is mooing."

The bartender swipes up the D's and A's and spins around, heading into the back room where I assume the kitchen is. If he actually has to thaw the steak, this could take a while. I take the time to get a better look at the room. Packed. Seems the rules of post z-virus humanity stands true even here. Nobody wants to be alone at night when the zombies are said to roam. Safety in numbers. Even if the theory is wrong.

I suspect they are smart enough to know this. Zombies may be mindless, but they have an uncanny ability at sniffing out uninfected human flesh. If anything, you're better off to go it alone. But the truth is, no one wants to be alone. Hence why there are a few of these zombie free zones around where the survivors have cautiously conglomerated. This mentality also explains my less than stellar welcome. Once these free-zones are set up, strangers are not overly welcome. All it takes is one bad egg.

I don't think I'm the only stranger here. There is a man wandering around the bar, trying to siddle up to the locals with offers of bought drinks and small talk. He's met with wary looks and outright rejection. I watch him for a while, noting the way he moves—like a panther prowling, the cut of his hair—buzzed, the clothes he wears—fatigues topped with a sand colored shirt. Some sort of military. Marines? Whatever, he's obviously a recruiter of sorts.

Despite the general cold shoulder he's been given, when he moves over into a corner and sits down there are at least a half dozen men who get up and follow him. They settle in, their heads bent together as the marine begins speaking in earnest.

I tip my head, ears tuned to catch what I can. Mostly he's talking about the zombies, how they continue to gain ground, the danger they present, blah blah blah. I start to shift my attention away, but then he says something about an underground facility near LA that is the headquarters for the resistance movement.

Underground facility. I have been planning on finding something in one of the large cities' subway systems, but this might be better. Easier to sleep when you don't have to worry about waking to a zombie gnawing on you.

And there is also the human factor. The same one that causes these men to risk gathering together in the bar each night. No matter how much I've changed in the last year and a half, there is one thing that hasn't changed: I still crave human contact. Dumb, I know. Someone like me should run as far and as fast as possible away from a beating heart. Too tempting.

I finger the edge of my sack, my teeth tugging at the inside of my cheek as I consider. I'm about to get up and wander over to the gathering when a plate is plunked down in front of me. I look down at the offering: a two inch thick slab of meat that is barely seared with blood gushing out of its pores.

Perfect.

I grab up the steak knife, slicing off a chunk. One bite, two—I suck on the juices, flavor exploding in my mouth. Even knowing it won't do much for my real hunger, it takes the edge of my cravings.

"Bloody enough?"

It's my turn to shrug. "It'll do."

His lips thin out, a heavy brow pulling down over his eyes. "And the bangs?"

I stuff another juicy morsel into my mouth and ply open the sack. The ammo takes a bit more rummaging to figure out which box is which. I have to take out two or three before I find the right one.

The moment I offer the box of shot he snatches it up and moves away to the back of the bar. Engrossed once more with my bloody steak, I hardly notice when he yanks a sawed off from under the counter and loads it. I do, however, notice when the biker sitting two stools down turns to stare at me.

"What?" I demand around a mouthful of meat.

His eyes jerk from my face, down to my sack, then away. "Nothing."

Great. For the price of some good red meat, I've now attracted the attention of at least one dubious sort. No, make that two. The bartender is glaring at me again.

I sigh, setting down my knife and fork. Why couldn't I have found just one of the numerous mine shafts said to be around here?

Curious as to whether there is other danger abounding, and where it might come from, I turn my attention back to the other customers. Most of them seem oblivious to the exchange of meat and ammo, but I find two more who hurriedly cut their gazes away when I look at them.

As my dad would have said: Isn't this just swell?

"What? Will none of you fight?"

I swivel in the other direction. Marine's audience is starting to slip away. The last two stand up, shaking their heads.

"Cowards." The accusation is soft, barely a rumble in Marine's chest, but it's enough for the two closest deserters, and me with my sharp ears, to hear.

The burly biker in the back spins around, planting his knuckles on the wobbly pine table with a bone breaking bang. I can't see his face, but his voice is tight, threaded with a pungent mix of anger and fear. "Why should we fight? Ain't no zombies here." He straightens, rubbing his bruised knuckles. "Ride it out. Let 'em die on their own. That's what I say."

With that, he turns his back on Marine once more, tagging his buddy's heels as they head for the door and push out into the morning. Light streams in, and though not a beam touches me here in the back of the room, I still flinch.

Silence has settled on the room. Another customer sips his drink, his slurping lip-smack a cannon in the unsettled quiet. Marine is staring at his beer, his fist working an imaginary stress ball. I nibble my lip. Biker Dude might have a point. If the survivors can completely avoid contact with the zombies, then they have a chance at riding this out. Problem is I've seen a desperate zombie. Mindless they may be, but when hunger strikes? Well, I don't doubt they'd shuffle to the ends of the earth for a meal.

Survival. It drives us all. And for me that means being in a position to kick a lot of zombie ass.

Grabbing up my sack, I hop off the stool, brazenly making my way over to Marine's lonely table.

He raises his head, his brows drawing into a tight crease when he sees who's disturbed his pout session.

Jutting my hip out, I rest my free hand on the top of my grand-pop's old German Sheriff Knife. "I'll fight."

There is a moment of heavy consideration before he sighs and picks up his beer. "Go away, kid."

My fingers flutter across the metal spacers of the knife's hilt as I slide my hand around the grip. There's that "kid" again. I really hate being called a kid. For a moment my imagination replaces reality and I see myself hooking my foot around the leg of Marine's chair, flipping it over with him in it, and pinning him to the floor with my knife. And then? Then I'd bare my teeth and...

I shake my head, forcing my hand off the hilt. I really have to find a zombie swarm soon. My blood lust is taking over and I am starting to lose it.

With a tight rein on my instincts, I turn back toward the bar. Sitting in my vacated stool is a grizzly old timer. Bad enough he stole my seat, but he's also bolting down my meal.

"Hey, that's my steak!"

"Finders keepers," he mumbles around a mouthful of juicy meat.

I growl, stomping across the scratched and pitted flooring. Two strides and something latches onto my sack, the frayed strap digging into my shoulders. I yelp, grabbing for it as I spin around, but it's too late. The strap snaps and the second thief wins the pot.

I give him a lethal glare but all he does is laugh, hosting up my sack. "Look what else I found, boys." His lips curl up, revealing crooked and stained teeth as he drags his gaze over me. "Oh, and lookey here. I think we have a lost little lamb among us, too."

There is a collective shifting of bodies and chairs. Four men, and the lone other woman, up and leave, but that leaves over a dozen "wolves" who are all eyeing me speculatively. I glance at the bartender. He is pointedly avoiding my gaze. Ass. Even Marine, who is watching the show from under a deeply furrowed brow, seems willing to let me fend for myself. Fine.

I flip the snap off the hilt of my knife, the blade rasping against the leather sheath as I draw it out and brandish it dramatically at the thief before me. "Give it back, or lose the hand."

He drops my sack, spreads his arms wide. As if on cue, two other men push back their chairs and cross the room to flank him. "Come and get it."

So I do. I launch myself across the room, diving under the charge of one of the two latecomers. My shoulder barrels into his beer gut. He grunts as he doubles over onto my back. I see the thief smile, expecting me to go down, but instead I hoist the barrel chested biker up and over so he tumbles down with a heavy thud on the floor behind me where he lays, groaning.

The room stills, multiple sets of eyes blinking. I know what they're thinking: What the eff?

The bigger they are...

I straighten, leveling my knife once more at thief boy and his buddy. "Last chance. Give me back my property, and say you're sorry."

Thief's eyes narrow, anger flushing his face except around his mouth and nose where the skin is pinched tight. He roars, drawing his own wicked knife from his waist.

Stupid stupid. When am I going to learn not to be a drama queen? The problem with knives is they require a certain amount of skill—which I don't have, and the wielder to possess a certain amount of homicidal tendencies—which I do have, but not for backwater idiots.

He charges. I spin out of the way, sheathing my knife as I do. His buddy is right there behind him, and has already anticipated my move. He grabs me, a laugh on his face as he lifts me off the floor and tries to squeeze the breath out of me. Jokes on him. He's just raised me to his level. I tip my head back, snap it forward. There's a loud crack as his nose gives. He yowls, dropping me, and I drop him with a massive blow to the solar plexus.

"Lucas!" The bartender yells, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun ratcheting.

I spin around. The bartender has in his hands the sawed off I'd so wisely provided ammo for. The good news is that the thief is standing close enough to be in the line of fire, so maybe I won't have to pick buck shot out of me today.

I glance at my sack, then the two men I've felled. The first one has crawled away from the fray and is eyeing me warily from a dozen or so feet away. The second is silent and unmoving on the floor.

"We done?" I ask the thief.

He works his mouth, spits out a huge wad of slimy saliva onto the floor. "Bitch."

I sigh. "I'm taking that as a no."

He charges—really, did he not learn? I don't even have to step out of the way, simply snap my hand out, grabbing and twisting the wrist of the arm that is trying to skewer me on his knife. There's a loud pop as his bone snaps. The knife clatters onto the floor. Relentlessly, I bear down on the broken arm, forcing him to follow.

The moment his face touches the dirt laden planking, his will evaporates. I toss his arm away. He sobs, curling his body up around the mangled arm. I start to lean down, ready to impart a kindly word of advice, when a large hand closes over my bicep, spinning me around.

"Knew you were going to be trouble," the bouncer, Lucas I'm guessing, says, frowning down at me with disappointed eyes from their mountain perch in his head.

Somehow I don't think "they started it" is going to fly. So... I bare my fangs.

A thick black brow flies up, but otherwise he shows no shock—or fear. "Pretty. But you buy drinks here, not feed off the other customers."

He starts to drag me toward the door. I try to jerk my arm free, but his grip is as strong as an ox. Stronger. I could break an ox.

"I don't feed off humans," I say.

He stops dragging me, looks down. "Then who?"

"Zombies."

"Really?"

"Swear it on my undead heart."

The bouncer grins, releasing my arm.

"What are you doing?" the bartender demands, the sawed off shaking in his grip. "You have to kick her out!"

Lucas shakes his head. "She ain't hurting anyone." His gaze goes past me to the three men in various states of decreased health. "At least not anyone who didn't deserve it."

I watch dumfounded as he crosses to the bar and casually reaches out to grab the shotgun out of the barkeeper's hand. He ignores the man's indignant "hey!" and begins to whistle, heading back to his post just outside the door.

I glance over at the bar. My seat is empty again. In fact, half my steak is still there. But I don't especially like hanging out where I'm not wanted. So I take myself to one of the tables that had been vacated before the fight and plop myself down on one of the wobbly chairs. I'm stuck here all day now. This is effing great.

Heavy footfalls cross the room, stopping behind me. I tense, ready for whatever, except for the blur of motion before my sack plunks on the table.

"Still want to fight, kid?" Marine.

I shrug. I'm still mad at him over the fact that he'd been willing to let those men do whatever to me. Still... "You said this place is underground?"

"Yup." He pulls out the chair beside me, gingerly lowering himself onto the questionable support of the chair. "You fight, you get your own room, and we supply you with any sort of weapon you can dream of."

I smile, flashing my fangs—not that he could have missed them before, but I want to see his reaction. "I have my own set of weapons."

"So I see." He swallows, clearing his throat. "But there is one more perk."

"What's that?"

His lip twitches, as if holding back a smile or even a laugh. "All meals included. Though for you it will have to be on a catch your own basis, of course."

"Well. Since you're going to throw in the meal plan..." I smile my fangy smile, offering up a hand to close the deal. "How can I pass that up?"

Read on for a sneak peak at

Life Bites

Book 1 in the Hunger Chronicles

Cover design by Patricia Schmidt (Pickyme)

1.

"You've got to be kidding me."

I cross my arms across my barely-there breasts, watching, through half-lidded eyes, the confrontation on the other side of the room. Barrel-chested ex-con is having a shouting match with muscle-heavy marine. Convict has age and girth on his side. Marine has pride and authority. Not because he used to be a marine, but because he's clawed his way to leadership of this rag-tag militia.

"Look at her!" Convict gestures to me with an ink-stained arm. "Thing couldn't squash a bug. My team will spend more time protecting her than following my orders. And that's assuming I'm not too busy protecting her from them to give those orders! Do I need to remind you what the ratio of male to female is down here? I've been in prison, man. I can tell you right now this isn't going to work. You should put her down on C-level where she belongs."

I sigh. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what C-level must be: The women and children's ward. I'd known from the start my presence here wouldn't exactly be welcome. But I'd figured those objections would come later. Yet Convict has taken one look at me, my spiky pixie-cut, my freckled nose, my twiggy arms and legs, and gone into an epileptic fit of nuh-uh's and no-way's. And he doesn't even know what I am yet. And won't that be fun when he finds out.

I suppress the impish thought, concentrating on looking tough, mean, and indifferent. Tall order. Short stature aside, the truth is I do care. This is my out. I need the protection of this underground desert compound if I'm going to stay under the radar. I'd bucked the system too long, pissed off the Queen Bee, and after months of running and hiding from her wrath I'm definitely looking for a new place to hang my spurs.

Hang my spurs. I almost laugh aloud. It's something my dad would have said. One of those quaint sayings he picked up from his father and seemed determined to pass down. I used to roll my eyes at them, now I find myself using them more and more, as if by doing so I can somehow cling to a part of that life. The one I had before all this went down. The one I still dream about after another shitty day.

Don't think about it, Eva. Here and now. Past is the past. Take the tomorrows as they come.

Even though I know it breaks my don't-care-about-anything persona, I can't help but peek at the rest of the party in the room. There's only one other female, a muscle-bound Hispanic who might have been pretty if not for the jagged scar running from one temple across her smashed nose to her jaw line on the other side. She holds herself with authority and I suspect she might have been a cop or something before. I'm not intimidated by authority, but I find this woman scary. And given the dismissive glance she gave me when I walked in, she's not into any sort of chick bonding.

Besides her and Convict, the rest of the group look like frazzled out newbies who have more training in the gym or on X-box consoles than in real life. They come from all walks of life, brought together by a common enemy. Zombies. Death without death. I know all about both.

I turn my attention back to the debate that has lowered into hissed whispers and accusations. Convict has moved past the obvious complication my tits are going to cause and is now centering his argument around my lack thereof. In other words, he's not going to be a babysitter. I find it hard not to scoff at this. They don't realize it yet, but they need me as much as I need them. Theirs is a losing battle. Even if they do win this war, manage to eradicate the zombie threat, they'll find there is a new war ready and waiting to be waged. And I, believe it or not, am their herald and their salvation all rolled into one. If I can gain their trust.

I glance at the ticking clock on the far wall of the bunker, then back at the other team members who have settled into various positions of repose. If their resigned faces are any indication, they expect this argument to go on for a while. They must be far more patient than I. Standing here twiddling my thumbs is not what I've signed on for. I push off the wall and clear my throat, drawing the attention of every eye in the room.

"With all due respect, sir," I address Marine, knowing full well that to Convict it will be another insult on top of the one I'm about to deliver. "If your men are going to have such a hard time working with me, then maybe I should go in alone."

"Alone?" Convict scoffs, not even glancing at me as he shakes his head.

I cross the room, planting my feet well within his personal space in a demand he look at me. Works. Hard brown eyes glare at me from under heavy brows. That's nice. I've already been through far worse than what that look promises.

"I've been told you have men alive down there. Alive and uninfected. How much longer do you want to sit here and debate this? How much longer do you think those men have?"

***

So that's how I find myself on this metal lift now, Glock in hand, my grandfather's Sheriff Knife strapped to my thigh, and a wall of manly chests—yup, even the woman's chest is manly—barring my view of anything. Talk about claustrophobic. Good thing I'm not.

I crane my neck upward, studying the profiles of my companions. There are six of us total. Convict seems to have the authority but Scarface She-Ra is a close, albeit silent, second in command. Then there is Roy. Besides me, he's the youngest of the bunch. Former high school nerd, maybe college. He's tall, scrawny and with a face like a parrot. He's our tech guy, or so I've been told. With the way he's frowning down at the gizmo in his hands, I have to wonder at his skill level. There is also the latecomer, John, who met us at the lift with the guns. Beneath the camouflage face-paint he's just that, your typical John Doe. Not too tall, not too short. Not overly remarkable in anyway, well, other than the powerhouse of weapons he's carrying. I feel way underdressed for this occasion standing next to him. Last, besides myself, is Herbie. A bit short. A bit of a pot belly. And practically bald. He likes to snap gum and throw me winks over his shoulder every few seconds. Creepy.

I edge closer to Scarface and receive a sharp look followed by a roll of the eyes. That's fine. She can think I'm a wimp if she wants to. I don't need her approval. I'll get that soon enough.

We don't really know what we're going to find down here. Just that it's bad. According to Marine, the first alarm indicating a possible breach went off almost twenty hours ago, during the middle of the night. Expecting the danger to come from topside, he'd started issuing orders to rouse the troops. Almost immediately it became apparent that was a mistake. Dazed and confused, the soldiers from B-level sprang from their beds, carelessly running into the halls... and into the waiting arms of their zombie companions.

The theory is one of the men had been bitten by a zombie infected with a less prevalent strains. The S-strain as it's called. That particular twist of the virus can take up to thirty-six hours to completely manifest and the soldier either hadn't realized the wound he'd received was an actual bite—it happens in fights, injuries you don't know the source of when the adrenaline is pumping and the world is going to hell in a handbasket—or he was hoping against hope that he was somehow wrong, or somehow immune. Definitely some wishful thinking going on there. I haven't met a human yet who is immune.

Anyway, said soldier then goes back to his quarters, crashes, and wakes up a zombie. Maybe there had already been some blood to blood transfer between him and his comrades when they were tidying up after the mission. Maybe they all decided to zone out, sharing a bowl of popcorn over a movie. Or maybe, after his nap, he shuffles into the cafeteria for a late night snack and, what do you know, starts gnawing on his friends. If that was the case, then I guess it took a while for what that meant to sink in as Marine said there had been at least a dozen fully transformed zombies roaming the halls when the alarm had finally been pulled.

Regardless, as soon as Marine realized the danger was coming from below and not topside, a full- fledged lockdown had been called for. Soon enough to save the other sub-levels, but not in time for the rest of the hundred soldiers who live and train on level B to get to safety.

That's why we are headed down now. We have to get in, take out the infected, and see if anyone is holed up and waiting to be rescued.

I find myself tapping my foot impatiently. This is the slowest lift I've ever been on. And could the gray walls inching by be anymore drab?

Eventually, the lift stops, jerking to a halt before a set of heavy metal doors. Roy gets to work, plugging in his electronic doohickey to override the mandatory shut-down. The rest of us wait, guns raised and ready, eyes trained like watchdogs on the cut down the center of the metal.

"Got it," Roy calls triumphantly. The crack splits open three inches, stops, then haltingly jerks another six before sticking again. Roy pouts. "Kind of."

Convict grunts, his Harbinger tracing a frantic path up, down, back, forth, up again before his gaze locks at some point in the distance down the poorly lit hall.

Nobody home.

"This it?" I ask and receive an incredulous glare from Convict.

Okay, point for him. The flickering lights, the warbling alarm, the narrow hallway made even more eerie by its lack of occupants... not to mention the smell of blood. Yeah. This is it.

"Just wondering what we're waiting for." I try to cover, but not a single set of eyes seem convinced.

She-Ra takes pity on me though and leans in close, saying, "Brice likes to meditate before embarking on his ass-kicking routine. He's very in touch with his feminine side."

This receives a growl and a, "Shut up, Juanita," from Convict, but he nudges the tip of his rifle against the stuck doors to see if they will budge. Nope. With another growl, he glances over his shoulder at John, jerking his head forward.

I wing my brow up as John brushes by me, stepping up to the plate. What is he, stupid? Doesn't he know it's always the minority character or the forgettable one who gets offed first in the horror flicks? And last I knew we're living the biggest reality horror show of all time.

John must not have seen many horror movies. He squeezes through the slim opening, taking up position a half-dozen feet down the hall. Convict still seems reluctant to leave the relative safety of the lift. We wait. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Getting rather sick of this.

I start to push forward, but Juanita beats me to the punch, snapping out a chastising, "This isn't a party, Brice. Don't pay nothin' to be fashionably late here."

Convict glares at her, but stuffs himself through the opening and out into the flickering light of the hall, taking up post two feet back and opposite of John. All this time, John hasn't moved an inch. Completely on task, almost scary in the intensity of his focus. Gotta admire his dedication, even if it is going to get him killed.

Juanita and I slide through next and move out, shoulder to, um, well her torso. Sucks being short. I can't but hope this means we might have bonded though.

When we're all out in the hall, Roy sets to work with his doohickey again. Moments later, the metal doors clang closed. Trapped.

You can tell I'm not the only one feeling this way. Beads of sweat have sprung out across Herbie's brow and Roy's parrot nose is twitching like it's stuffed with gunpowder. Convict's eyes are wandering like a tourist in Rome, and John, if possible, has gone even more deathly still. Only Juanita seems unaffected. I know I am. But in a different way. I'm energized. It's been a bit since I last kicked zombie butt. Or fed. Damn I'm hungry.

"Okay. Let's move out."

Guess Convict has decided to stop sitting on his thumb. He starts forward, motioning with a quick jerk of his hand for John to flank him.

We follow. Juanita falls in behind them leaving me beside twitchy Roy and Herbie, who are obviously not cut out for this sort of mission. Herbie is sweating so bad that every few steps he stops, his gun drooping down as he wipes one or the other sweaty palm on his cargo pants. Sad thing is, I'm betting that unlike John, this schmuck will have the self-preservation instincts to get if the going gets tough.

We reach the end of the hall. Before us is another locked metal door. If the schematics we poured over before we took to the lift are right, in front of us will be the mess hall for this floor. From there will be three other doors: one in the back that leads to the storage and service areas and one on each side to the living quarters.

"Ready?" John asks, his eyes dark and stoic in his camouflage painted face.

"Let's rock and roll," Convict says.

John pulls a key card out of the back pocket of his cargo pants and swipes it through the reader. Now that we've gotten past the blast doors exiting the lift, the cards we've been given should open the rest of the doors down here.

The light flashes green. John quickly bends down on his knee giving both Convict and Juanita clear shots above him, which leaves me bobbing to see around them. The panel slides back. Yup. There be zombies.

Rapid gunfire erupts, covering the zombies' shuffling and moans. The two closest go down, then another, and another. The room is clear before I can even count them. John stands and moves into the room, the muzzle of his rifle dancing between the lumps of bodies on the floor. One must not be dead because he raises the barrel and pops off two shots into the head.

Maybe John Doe will last a bit longer in this movie than I thought.

"Secure," John says, but doesn't lower his gun. Convict and Juanita take a step inside, I squeeze in behind them, looking down at the nearest zombie. Definitely dead. Doesn't stop my stomach from growling, trying to claw its way up my esophagus into my throat.

Down girl. Plenty more where these came from. And I prefer to feed in private if possible.

Juanita seems particularly interested in identifying the corpses, peering into faces and even patting down the bodies to find identification on the two whose heads have been blown off. She finishes with the last one and looks up at Convict.

"He's not here."

Convict nods. "We have a lot of area to cover. We're going to have to split up."

An uneasy hush falls in the room. Guess no one is stupid enough to not realize this is a risky tactic, no matter how necessary. That is, necessary if we hope to find any survivors holed up down here, maybe in a heating duct, or a locked closet or something. In general zombies are pretty stupid, acting on instinct alone. But when their stomachs are controlling those instincts there isn't much that can stop them. We have to get in and get any survivors out and into quarantine. Quick.

"You're with me, kid," Juanita says, gesturing me over with her gun.

I curl my lip at being called a kid, but move up to flank the other side of the door she's standing by. Her card isn't working. Figures. That is going to make things definitively more difficult.

"Come on, Roy! You might have all day, but the survivors down here don't!" Juanita says, then presses some more random buttons. Wow, a woman as blood-thirsty as I. Gotta love that.

Herbie and Roy are still doing their little back-to-back dance, sweat drenched and shaking. I glance in time to see them exchange a meaningful look, which is followed by a quick nudge to Roy's doohickey. My eyes narrow. These boys are as tight as sticky Chinese rice, and I don't trust them anymore than I would a hawker in Chinatown either.

Convict is considering them intently, his brows drawn together and his top lip sucked in between his teeth. Could it be that he isn't completely incompetent? I'd say he knew these two better, but I am starting to think that at least Roy and maybe Herbie are not typically members of this team. Had to wonder who they'd replaced...and what happened to them.

Same thing that happens to everyone in this world, Eva. The big bite, or the big bang-bang. Unless... I look across the dented metal at Juanita. Her face is drawn tight, emphasizing compressed lips and a feverish determination in her eyes. She knows someone down here.

"Roy!" she snaps again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

"No." The voice is deadly low, and carries more weight than all the cement and dirt above us. Everyone stills, eyes training in on Convict. "Change of plans. I want Herb with Juanita and Roy with Eva. John will remain with me."

I eye my new partner warily. His nose is ticking again. Nope. I don't trust Roy any farther than I can throw him. Which, since I haven't fed in a while, isn't all that far.

John looks at me, then Roy as if concluding the same thing—at least about my abilities. "Sir, with all due respect—"

Convict cuts him off, addressing Roy with an outstretched hand. "And give me the decoder."

Roy scoffs. "As if you'd know how to—"

"Now."

Tense silence descends. I wait, the Jeopardy theme tickling the inside of my mouth. This would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

I sigh instead and swipe the decoder out of Roy's hand. He yelps a "hey" at the abrupt move, but doesn't shoot me so I figure I'm good.

Convict's eyebrows rise. He wiggles his fingers. I ignore that too and jab the decoder into John's chest instead. There's a flicker in the impassive depths of his eyes, but he closes a hand around it and nods, confirming, in my mind, that I picked the right person. Out of all of the peeps here, John's the only one level-headed enough to trust.

"What the...you little.... You think you can undermine my orders?" Convict makes a grab for me but I quickly scoot out of range. Just as quickly John is there, blocking his path.

"We doing this, or not?" he asks, offering the decoder to Convict.

I tuck my tongue behind my lips, unreasonably disappointed with John. Of course he would hand the decoder over. Convict may have been a bit of a jerk, but he was our quote, unquote leader and John obviously bowed down before authority. I'm thinking John must have been deep in training to be a "Sir, yes sir" grunt when the virus hit. Maybe I'm prejudice (having come from a family of scholarly sorts) but I've never understood brainless followers.

Sighing discontentedly I turn my attention back from my speculations. I don't know if Convict actually answered or if the entire incident has just been brushed under the rug. He and John are bending over the decoder which is now plugged into the door Juanita was trying to get through earlier. Roy seems content to stand and watch, a sneer on his lips. The sneer falls off as the door lock clicks off.

"All right, Herbie." Juanita pumps a round into her rifle. "Let's lock and load 'em."

They disappear into the dim hall beyond, Juanita confident at point and Herb quickly falling further and further behind. I send her a dash of silent luck.

John moves to the back of the room and starts on the door to the service and storage areas. I note he has the decoder back in his possession and reevaluate the brainless label (though I still stand by the yes man bit). A few low beeps and the door clicks.

"You're good," he announces and moves over to the last door.

I shift my gaze to Roy. The skin around his nose is pinched, making the beak more pronounced. He's also developed a twitch under his left eye as he looks longingly at the decoder in John's hands. Oh yeah. Roy had been so ready to aid and abet Herbie on the skip town and lock us in down here plan.

If there is one thing I hate, it's a back-stabbing coward.

I don't even bother to wait for my "partner" but raise my Glock and reach for the handle. The door swings open, revealing the kitchen beyond. Something has gone down in here. Plates are scattered over the floor, various food stuff strewn across counter and tile, and though I can't see it, somewhere a pot is still on its burner, as evidenced by the acrid smell of burnt vegetables filling the room.

I open my senses, blocking out the scent of scorched vegetable soup and tuning out Roy's rasping breathing. No smell of blood. No decay, though it would be early for that. And the only heartbeats in the room are mine, Roy's, and the fading pair of Convict's and John's as they move away into their own area to search. But there...

My feet pad silently as I move past a pair of tall kitchen carts, one standing, one not. The kitchen opens before me. Along the back wall are two doors. One looks like a vast walk-in freezer, the other I'm guessing is a wide door to the storage areas. There is nothing in the freezer. At least, nothing alive. But behind door number two: Pay day.

I glance over my shoulder at Roy. He's yet to step into the room. In fact, he's backed up slightly, his gun wavering between the three doors leading out of the mess hall.

I smile, tucking the Glock into my waistband as I cross the kitchen. One lone zombie and a chicken partner. What better opportunity will I have than this?

I don't even have to pull out my card to see if it works, the handle depresses under my touch—someone's going to have to talk to Marine about doing some maintenance on the systems down here. I push it open and stride into another hall lined with doors that lead to the various storage rooms, zeroing in on the source of the stuttering heartbeat.

It's noticed my presence, the heartbeat is not only getting stronger but I can hear the muffled shuffle of its boots across the aged linoleum. Taking a deep breath to settle my thudding pulse, I push open the second door on the right.

And there he is. Still dressed in his fatigues, he looks like any other soldier—buzz cut, chiseled features, sculpted muscles—but for the bloody chin... and the eyes. I hate their eyes. Some people say a zombie's eyes are blank, devoid of all human emotion. The unresponsive pupils, the way they stare at a victim without seeing. I disagree. What I see when I look into them is a fixed madness. As if the person within is merely trapped. I almost believe that if I could delve deep enough into their brain, I could actually find the secret compartment their real self has been stuffed away within.

I see that now on this man. The crazed look that says he's about to eat me... but somewhere deep inside he'll be screaming the whole time.

Me first.

I reach out, grab his arm. Next second I have it behind his back, twisting it in such a way that he either needs to fall to his knees or let me break it. Only problem is that zombies don't really seem to care about pain. The arm snaps out of joint, dangling uselessly in my grip. Sucks. As does the fact that the zombie is now able to twist back around. It rumbles an inhuman growl, its jaw spread wide as it lunges for me. I know I can get out of range, but my stomach has other ideas and I go for a flip move instead. It works. The zombie ends up on the floor before me, but not before his teeth graze the length of my arm.

"Ouch! Dang it." Ticked off that I let it have a nibble, I yank the zombie back up and bite into the rotting flesh of its neck, sucking down a long swallow—Halleluiah, my hollow stomach rejoices—right as someone begins to scream. Roy. Must have followed after all.

Crapola. This isn't good. Just what were you doing with that zombie, Eva?

I toss the zombie aside, reaching for my Glock to perform the double tap, when behind me explodes an eardrum crushing series of reports. Slicing agony slaps into my back, sending me to the floor.

Frig. A-hole is shooting at me.

I roll, pulling my legs under me and lifting into a braced crouch. Stabbing pain erupts along my temple, sending me to my butt. And now I'm going to have a massive headache.

My furious gaze hones in on the beak-nosed guy who is still screaming as he shakily attempts to reload his weapon. Of course I pulled the short straw and got the twitchy one, the one prone to muttering to himself and sweating bullets at any slight noise.

"Really, Roy. You can stop that now."

Booted feet thud in the hall, coming closer. Convict and John appear, skidding to a halt as they see my trickling head wound. Thankfully it's just a graze. Otherwise I'd be out cold. 'Course, if I were out cold they'd probably just leave me for dead and then I wouldn't have to deal with Roy's hysterics.

"Fuck. Oh fuck! I can't kill her!" Roy exclaims, his hands shaking as he attempts to jam in a new magazine.

Three sets of eyes now. Widen. Three guns. Lift.

"Go ahead, boys," I say, curling my lips back to expose my pointy little fangs. "Just remember I told you it was a waste of ammo. 'Cause you can't kill what's already dead."

About the Author

Daphne award-winning author Tes Hilaire started creating whole new worlds to escape Upstate New York's harsh winters before finally fleeing to sultry North Carolina. Her stories are edgy, exciting, and bring a hint of dark fantasy to all she writes. And no one ever has to shovel snow. For more visit TesHilaire.com.

If you remember nothing else, remember this...

The nightmare is here. There is no way out. Even death isn't an escape because it is death. And chances are it's already taken everyone you know.

...You're on your own.

Just because the face is familiar doesn't mean they won't kill you. Hiding won't help. And it's past time to run. They're already here. And hunger is the only thing they feel.
