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How is he missing me at such close range?

I remember that second shot, that I’d wondered why he’d shot me in the calf. The shoulder made sense for a miss—the calf did not.

Because he isn’t trying to kill me.

He’s torturing me.

What did the bartender say our fates would be?

Agonizing and slow.

I was supposed to die when a car struck me, dead a second after I felt the impact. But Maggie failed to grant me that death, so my next one is to be terrible, and a single shot is not terrible.

The shooter raises the gun, smiles, showing all his teeth, and aims at my other shoulder.

I dive for the ground, and the shot goes wild. Then I push to my feet and run, zigging and zagging. He fires, and there’s a languidness to it, as if he has all the time in the world. Endless rounds to make sure I suffer.

The next two miss, but the third one skims my arm. I hiss and push past the explosion of pain, and I keep running, keep dodging.

For what?

That question screams in my ears.

What am I running for? He’s going to kill me.

And what’s the alternative? To stop and let him fire bullet after bullet, inflicting increasing agony while keeping me alive for as long as he can?

I am running because I won’t give him the satisfaction. And I won’t give the bartender the satisfaction. I’ll find a way to kill myself before I die like this.

A scream comes, and I remember hearing it earlier, when the shooter cornered me.

A man’s scream.

Henry’s scream.

The shooter fires again, the bullet catching only the baggy side of my sweatshirt.

“Ellie!” Henry bellows.

I’m running toward him, and there is a moment where I wonder whether I’m leading the shooter to Henry, and I swerve off course. I will not let anyone else die in my place. But that scream says a bullet is the least of Henry’s worries, and besides, the shooter is my nightmare, not his.

So if there is a chance—however slight—that I can help Henry before the shooter gets his final girl, then I will do that.

I veer again, and the timing is perfect, the bullet zipping harmlessly past. Then I bear down and run full out.

Henry bellows again, this time in rage and pain, and I burst from the trees to find myself on the road. All I see are the cars. I’ve somehow come out on the passenger side of them.

I run for the nearest one—Caleb and Noemi’s SUV—and I scramble up over the hood and I’m half crouched, half standing when I see Henry … and the zombies swarming over him.

THIRTY-FIVEHENRY

When the zombie latches on to Henry’s arm, he knows he’s dead. Dead and then undead, because that’s how it goes, and Ivy’s face flashes in his mind, her brown eyes rolling as yet another character on the TV show gets bitten and keeps struggling.

“Why keep fighting?” she says. “You know you’re a goner.”

Raine gives her sister a hard look. “Because you’d rather not be torn apart by zombies? I’d fight, and then if I knew I’d die, I’d have someone chop off my head. Fast.”

“Chop off your head fast?” Now Ivy is the one giving the look. “With what? The conveniently located guillotine?”