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“CNS shot,” Henry says. “If they shoot you from the back, at the base of the neck, you’ll die instantly. And it’s technically a head shot so you won’t come back as a zombie.”

Raine eyes him. “You think about these things a lot, Dad?”

“Hey,” Ivy says, “you’re the one expecting a random guillotine. At least Dad’s idea makes sense.”

People always say that you can’t fully understand a situation until you’ve been there. Apparently, that goes for being bitten by a zombie, too. You can armchair-quarterback it, like they had, but only now, as the teeth sink into Henry’s arm, does he acknowledge the truth.

You don’t fight to avoid being devoured alive.

You don’t fight so you can end your life—and afterlife—mercifully instead.

You fight because it’s the only thing you can do.

He throat-punches the zombie biting his arm, and it falls back, releasing its hold on him, and then he sees the miracle, the one that isn’t really a miracle at all, but simple logic. The zombie bit down on his sweatshirt sleeve, and its teeth—not being fangs—didn’t penetrate the fabric.

That’s all Henry needs to fight harder, to fight like he’s been given a second chance at life.

Second? Third? Fourth?

By this point, he’s lost count. All he knows is that the universe hasn’t killed him yet. That a reaper decided he deserved to live. That he’d escaped the horrors in the forest more than once. And now he’s escaped the fate that terrifies him the most—not just being killed by zombies but becoming one.

Great, so … you know you haven’t actually escaped yet, right, Dad?

He laughs at the voice, which sounds like Ivy’s. He’s already fighting, kicking and punching and scrabbling until he’s on his feet.

On his feet and surrounded by zombies.

They all stand there, tottering, as if no one wants to be first to charge. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blur of motion. A fast-moving zombie? No, it’s someone running up behind one of the zombies and swinging …

The crowbar.

It cracks into the side of the zombie’s head, and the creature falls, leaving its attacker standing there, crowbar raised.

“Ellie,” he says, and he grins so wide his lip—apparently injured in the melee—splits, blood streaming down his chin.

“Look out!” she shouts, just as a zombie takes advantage of him turning his back.

Henry spins with his fist already flying, which is actually kind of perfect when you stand a head taller than most people, because your natural through line is on target with their head. His fist hits the zombie square in the temple, and its skull gives way, which absolutely should not happen with bone, but apparently, being his nightmare, these zombies are governed by Hollywood rules.

The next zombie goes for Ellie, but she’s already swinging.

“Aim for the head!” he shouts, and she sputters a laugh.

“I know!”

He’d help, but she has that one under control, and another is leaping for her shoulder. He throws it to the ground and head-stomps it, which was always his favorite move on an old arcade game he and Jenn had played as kids. Seems it works with zombies, too, and he decides that’s easier than punching them in the head.

One zombie that Ellie hit is rising from the ground, so he stomps it. Then he grabs one lunging at her, throws it down, and does the same. Between them, they make short work of the zombies. For the last one, he resorts to punching again and hits it so hard his hand goes right into its skull, and he skims it on the bone as he pulls it out.

“I … don’t think that’s supposed to happen with a skull,” Ellie says.

“Hollywood rules.”

“What?”

He shakes his head and reaches to give her a hug. When he stops short, she falls into his embrace, and he hugs her tight, whispering, “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Then he sees the blood trickling down her head and the furrow in her scalp, and when he moves her back, he sees more blood—arm, shoulder, calf.

“You’re hurt,” he says, leading her to the car.