Out of the shadows, a man comes barreling toward me at full sprint. He’s severely emaciated—almost skeletal. Purple veins bulge from his neck and forehead. Telltale signs of a man who fought off the disease but lost his mind in his battle to stay alive. A surge of adrenaline runs hot through my veins.
He’s closing too fast.
I’ll never get back to the bank in time. Squaring my shoulders, I face him, knowing standing my ground is my only chance for survival. I fight back every instinct telling me to run. His dead eyes stare at me, getting closer by the second.
Don’t fricking run.
As he lurches clumsily toward me, the reek of decay overwhelms me, and I nearly retch. But I hold my ground. Remembering the self-defense techniques my mom taught me, I grab his outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding his jagged nails. I pull him forward with everything I have, using his momentum against him. He’s so startled he loses balance and sprawls to the ground.
With him down, I race to the bank in a full sprint, but he gets up quickly and closes in fast. Just feet from the door, his footsteps are right behind me, the heat of his breath on the back of my neck.
The moment I’m through the bank entrance, I strike him hard with the door, knocking him in the head and pushing him backward. But this guy is relentless; he rushes forward again as I slam the door shut. His fingers get trapped in the doorjamb, and he lets out a howl that sounds more like a beast than a man.
He bangs his body against the outside of the door. I hold back the onslaught with all the strength I can muster, trying to get traction as my feet slip against the marble floor. He drives into the door again, pushing it inward the slightest bit. With that momentary slack, he wriggles his hand out farther, but I shove the door back hard. Now, only his fingertips poke through.
I reach up to the hinged beam to barricade the door, but it won’t quite slot into place. The fingers wedged in the door make the gap a hair too big.
Drawing from some inner strength, I slam my shoulder against the door hard enough to see spots. I do it again. The third time does the trick. The door slams shut, and the beam falls into place with a large thud. A terrible shriek comes from the other side. Blood trickles from the doorjamb where his fingers were stuck. The smell is horrendous, like something rotting.
I collapse to the floor, safe for the moment. I’m sweat-drenched and gasping for air.
That was too close.
I’ve never been caught that off guard. Never been out in the open like that. It’s been so long since I’ve encountered anyone sick that I’ve gotten complacent.
I quickly scan every inch of my exposed skin to check for any scrapes. As far as I can tell, I’m okay.
Risking a peek out of a porthole cut into the window, I slide the metal shutter aside and strain to see in front of the door. But the moment I look out, I get his attention, and he runs right over. I jump back just in time as he jams his fingers through. Luckily, the portholes are only a couple of inches wide.
I put my rifle up to his hand. But I can’t do it. A gunshot wound is a death sentence. These are people, after all—the few who were strong enough to survive that damn disease. Their humanity is gone, operating on pure instinct in a never-ending search for food and water. They’ll attack anything—human, animal, and even other sick ones. The weak die fast. That leaves the strongest, like the one outside at this very moment.Luckyfrickingme.
Maybe putting the poor soul out of his misery would be more merciful. But what if a person still exists behind all that rage? It shouldn’t be my call to decide if he lives or dies.
The shrieking continues as the man slams his body against the door repeatedly. With each blow, the beam shudders. But the wood is thick. It should hold.
Ithinkit will hold.
It had better hold.
Chapter Three
Paths Cross
AIDEN
I’m woken by the sound of chirping birds and the sun streaming through the trees. I push away the moss and leaves that served as my blanket. My nightmares of Marcus are a fading memory. Almost gone.
The slightest movement sends a flash of pain radiating from my ribs. My arms look thrashed, covered with angry red scratches and streaks of dried blood. Stretching my legs is a mixture of pleasure and pain, the muscles sore from last night’s escape. A quick massage loosens them up.
I drink a few gulps of water to wet my parched throat, but it does little for my thirst. With no idea when I’ll find more, I use it sparingly. The granola bar is stale as hell, as are most prepackaged foods these days. All are well past the expiration date. But it’s calories, so that’s all that matters.
Okay. Lost in the forest, with no map and no compass. No use trying to get back to the car. It’s trashed, and I’m sure my pursuers already picked it clean. The best way to get unlost is to go in a straight line. So, I keep the morning sun to my right, which keeps me headed north.
After a while of trudging through the forest, I bump into a river that blocks my path. It’s swift and full of spring runoff. Churning and bubbling rapids cascade over large rocks and fallen trees. I know better than to drink from it. Puking up precious calories because of a stomach bug is a bad idea.
There’s no hope of crossing the river. The strong current would knock me over in a second, so I follow it downstream instead. As I navigate boulders and branches, it’s slow going along the jagged bank.
Frustration builds as I plod along. My legs ache, and my ankles keep rolling on the uneven rocks. I’m about to give up and return to the forest when my persistence pays off. A bridge appears ahead, around a bend in the river.
