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  “And…” The word comes out low and stretched.

  “And if we can’t find Tom,” she finishes for me, “I’ll stay here with you and it will be just the two of us.”

  I know I’m smiling like an idiot, but I don’t care. Two years of being shunned. Two years of solitude. Two years of running from what I am and hating myself for it. And now… Now here is someone who accepts me. Likes me. Wants to stay. So yeah, I’m grinning like a fool, but whatever.

  It’s like I just got adopted.

  “Let’s go find Tom,” I say finally.

  She smiles back at me and I feel like I could tear down a building for her.

  Hell. I just might.

  ◊◊◊

  We all have a past. It’s the life we were trying to live beyond. The mistakes we made. The opportunities we let slip by while we focused on some daft detail that seemed so important at that moment we were willing to sacrifice all else for it. We all have a future we hope will come. One where we get to make up for our mistakes. One where we get to try again to be the person we aspire to become. That in the end – preferably being laid in a tomb and not shuffling around downtown Spokane – when people think of us they will remember the great things we had done and all that we had accomplished. They will stand out around our graves and praise the life we led, honoring us in death.

  When the outbreak first hit, it was all about survival. Don’t get killed. Find food.

  Then it was all about helping out. Kill the zombies. Help your neighbors.

  Then the world changed. People turned on people. The planet got angry. We stopped caring about each other and started considering everyone around us as either a competitor for Earth’s diminishing resources or a potential zombie.

  Then life got messy. You learned to trust no one. You learned to make your own way, and to hell with everyone else. Every man became a tribe unto himself. If another tribe threatened you, you killed it before it did you first. The only humanity that mattered was the humanity flowing through your own veins.

  Then a change.

  Something happens in your life that reminds you of who you were; who you want to be. A presence enters your life and suddenly it becomes important again to do great things and to be remembered. Life is not longer about merely existing until death, because now there’s Amy. Now there is someone else to whom you must give answer for what you do with your life. If she outlives me, what will she say about me? How will the world remember Kyle Moore?

  ◊◊◊

  We decide to head to Long Lake and see if her brother has made camp out there. Amy seems to think that she’s going to find him searching for their family, like he’s wandering around the lake waiting to bump into her.

  Part of me hopes she’s wrong.

  I tell Amy that I don’t want to spend the night on the lake. That I think we should be back at the house before dark. She shivers and agrees. It occurs to me that this is most likely the very place Amy watched her family be consumed by a horde. I scan the horizon quickly and wish I were perched above my ally, safe, waiting to snag another dead-head like Mr. Chubbs.

  We march for a few hours, taking breaks for a little water when we find some high ground. There’s sage, trees, birds, and water.

  And no sign of Tom.

  The day is wearing on, and I’m eager to get back to the ranch.

  “Amy?” I ask with as much sympathy in my voice as I can muster. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

  “I thought we would find him this time.” It not the quiver in the lip that kills me. It’s the resignation in her voice. Like he’s dead. Like she’s already begun to mourn him.

  We start back to the main road and the van, arm in arm.

  It’s nice. It’s sad, but it’s human, so it’s good.

  I spot it first. A lone shuffler. But I know better. They’re never truly alone.

  “Amy. We need to move, now.” I try to sound urgent, but not too forceful. Just enough of a pressing tone to keep us from being consumed.

  Her head snaps up and she searches the dry hills around the lake. She spots him, off to our left and along the lakeshore. Her knees buckle so bad I have to catch her and guide the quivering girl to the ground.

  “Noooooo!” she screams.

  And then I get it. Now I understand.

  Tom.

  The zombie keeps hobbling toward us, and I try to pull Amy to her feet, but she won’t budge. Knees in the sandy dirt, hands fallen limply on her thighs, Amy sobs openly and loudly at the figure making its way toward us.

  Then she starts to gasp, and it sounds like Amy is about to compose herself. Filled with hope, I tell her how sorry I am, but if we don’t get moving he will attack us.

  That’s when she turns to look at me. Her mouth has flat-lined. Her eyes are swollen red and leaking. The color is gone from her cheeks, and her intention is clear.

  “No,” I protest. “No. Don’t you dare.”

  “Good-bye, Kyle.” Her gaze falls to dead space in the distance. “You better leave. My brother is coming, and he has always been jealous of boys who hung around me.”

  “Amy…”

  “Ha! He might even kill you for it,” she says with a terrifying smile.

  “I need you,” I mutter.

  “Over here!” she yells to Tom. “I’m here, Tommy! I’m here! I knew I’d find you.” Amy’s last sentence trails off to a sad mumble, quavering with the sobs that are fighting their way up her throat again. “You should leave now, Kyle,” she says again.

  And I see no choice. I pick her up and start to drag her, but the little girl turns and grabs my ear, cutting her nails in deep until I let go. Once freed, Amy runs headlong to her brother. I scream, but it does no good. She falls into his waiting arms, and I watch, aghast, as Tommy eats his little sister on the bank of Long Lake.

  ◊◊◊

  My name is Kyle Moore. I live in a world that has become a wasteland. Humanity is all but extinct. Just like the desert flowers, you may get lucky and encounter that one soul who blossoms and gives you hope. But even the desert rose doesn’t bloom forever, and when it dies you will still be lost, wandering a wasteland full of creatures wanting to kill you.

  My name is Kyle Moore. I had a friend named Amy. She showed me that humanity still exists. She proved to me that I was still capable of charity and even love.

  My name is Kyle Moore, and someday I will die. Until that day, I will fill this world with so many great deeds that I will face death as a man seasoned with the salts of the earth.

  My name is Kyle Moore, and I am a zombie hunter.

  Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

  W. Shakespeare

  Coriolanus

  CHAPTER 3

  He Who Was Last

  It all came down in a flash. We were warned, but not truly ready. Hell, who was, really? The PSA said that infected humans were swarming cities and generating damage on an unimaginable scale. Listeners were ordered – not advised or strongly urged – to seek shelter and protect themselves, utilizing defensive measures that reached the highest extent of the law.

  Read: Law enforcement cannot protect you.

  Read: If you have a gun, be prepared to use it.

  Read: Welcome to the day in which you must take your life into your own hands.

  What did they think we would do with instructions like that? Did the broadcasters actually believe we would come together as a society and defeat this menace like some rebel alliance in a sci-fi flic?

  Have you ever watched your neighbor’s reaction to an emergency? I remember a few years back when a brush fire in the neighborhood got out of control and threatened a few homes. Some idiot decided to burn the remains of a small tree he had felled, without realizing that the mound of dead, dry wood was really just a pile of kindling the size of a minivan.

  Whoosh, baby.

  Soon his whole yard and a neighbor’s tree were on fire. And what do you think the good folks on my street did? Jack, that’s what. They c
alled for the fire department, then stood there with their camera phones and recorded the guy struggling to save his house. Perfectly able men and women talking about what a shame it would be if his house burned, and how they hoped he doesn’t set any other houses on fire, and not to worry since the fire truck will be here in no time. Meanwhile, you have one guy running around with a yard hose trying to douse a fire that is licking forty feet into the air. In a word, it looked like a puppy pissing on a bonfire: Pathetic and completely impotent. But no one was concerned, because our highly advanced public services network will come to the rescue. We don’t need to risk making our clothes smell like smoke. We have firemen for that.

  Don’t look at me, ‘cause I just stood there with the rest of them. I knew someone had called for a fire truck, and I wasn’t about to be the one to run in and start throwing water on this guy’s out-of-control yard project. Not because I couldn’t help. Frankly I didn’t care. Idiot’s off burning down his own house, what’s it to me? He’s always been a bit of a jerk, and it’s not like a need him. So I did what any 21st century teen would do. As his house began to catch, I posted a pic online with the caption, “Damn… Now my s’mores are gunna taste like this guy’s priceless memories.”

  That was just a yard fire, and no one did anything. Now take our dependence on emergency services, add our indifference to the suffering of others, and imagine that you were told the world was on fire. What would your neighbor’s do? What would you do? The radio says to arm and protect yourself. The commentators drone that cities are falling to hordes of diseased humans. That people are dying in the streets, not from bullets and bombs, but from infectious cannibals that could not be killed. What would your town do?

  Someone once said that if you want to know the true nature of a man, watch his reaction to discomfort. When the waiter gets your order wrong. When your car breaks down. When your family disappoints you. When the countryside becomes infested with mostly-dead humans, septic with a virus that transformed the local librarian into a flesh eating ravenous monster. Watch what men do now.

  Well, when the full extent of the outbreak became clear, I had a front row seat to the true nature of man. First, people seemed certain that the government would figure it out. Residents would talk about how they would help, then it was panic-driven looting for supplies. Some tried at first to buy their goods, but when the guy next to you tries to cart every little bottle of propane in the store, you can imagine that folks might get a little crazy. Frustrations lead to arguments. Arguments to fights. Fights to brawls. And then you’re only a step away from a riot. Soon, men and women were breaking into houses trying to find food and supplies. I watched a man run down a kid with an aluminum bat over food the boy had stolen. He beat the child until his bat was red to the grip over a few jars of peanut butter. Men who were willing to maim kids over food were also ready to kill for trespassing on their land. Houses became small, crude fortresses. Families became like platoons. Armed, they would patrol their properties no matter how small, working to keep everyone out, living or dead. The echo of gunshots became common background noise as homeowners would confront those who dared to approach their house. Police stopped responding to reports of such behavior. Instead, they encouraged it by telling everyone to do the same. “Bar your doors,” the said on the television, “and do not permit any unknown person to enter your home. The infected are not always easily identified. Stay indoors. You are risking your very lives if you are wandering the streets. Not only do you expose yourself to the virus, you may be taken accidently for someone infected. Be smart. Stay at home, and admit no one unless you are absolutely sure they are not a risk.”

  And then the shootings began.

  Homeless and transients were shot the most often. It’s cruel, but they wander the streets, dirty and walking too slowly, so what would you expect? And with many of them in need of medication to be socially appropriate, their erratic behavior only worked to heighten people’s paranoia. Time after time a vagrant would try a door or call for assistance, only to be shot down with a deer rifle. Some homeless got desperate and tried to break into homes that looked abandoned. The first and last thing they would see was the barrel of a shotgun. Other residents found the same level of hospitality when they looked to their neighbors for aid, though not so many of them died in the process. The reality of the situation became clear: There was no help to be found in the community. Welcome to a world where you are on your own.

  The exclamation point on that sentiment was the desertion of Fairchild Air Force Base. It was right after the television started using terms like “outbreak”, “quarantine,” and “virus” that the base was emptied. There was a big hustle in the morning that stretched into the late afternoon. Small planes were the first to leave, followed by the larger carriers in the night. By the next morning, the base was by all accounts completely forsaken. Dozens of small fires could be seen streaming smoke into the morning fog. We guessed if they were burning whatever they didn’t bring then there was no chance of them coming back.

  So much for the military.

  My parents decided that there was strength in numbers, and the only help we were going to find was with family. Most of our clan lived in and around Yakima, about 190 miles to the west. Communications were still working then and we had arranged to meet at my uncle’s house in the West Valley area of Yakima. His home had a large sturdy fence surrounding several acres. His shop was massive and he assured us that there was enough food in his basement shelter for the whole family to survive for months. We hurriedly packed that night and prepared to leave before morning came. We didn’t think about being subtle. We only focused on being fast.

  There was no chance that we would have seen the man across the street, spying us between the slats used to board up his windows.

  There was no way for us to know that an ambush was being planned.

  In a rush that bordered on panic, my parents with my younger brother and me, rushed box after box to our van and small trailer. Food. Weapons. Tools. Anything we thought we might need. My mother insisted on downloading our picture library onto flash drives. My father thought she was crazy, but didn’t stop working to tell her such. My brother and I packed everything our father handed us. We never thought to hide our efforts from anyone. All we would do is pack and leave, right?

  When we finally finished, I was the last to leave the house. Upon emerging, I found the van surrounded by four men in masks holding up my family at gunpoint.

  It was over before I knew what had happened.

  I’ll never be sure who fired the initial shot, but after the first crack went off, the driveway erupted in gunfire. In the melee, no one saw me crawl back in the house and flee out the back. I swung wide to get a view of the scene. The van was riddled, and the men were pushing bodies out of their seats and into the driveway. They picked the van clean, searched the house, and then burned the property. I watched from a nearby hill as the remains of my family were consumed by the flames that laid my home to waste.

  I had no food. No weapons. No shelter. And no family.

  I was alone.

  ◊◊◊

  “They’ll never reach here, Steven.”

  Amy wanted to believe her mother, but as she looked into her father’s eyes, she knew he had the same doubt.

  “Molly,” he sighed, “it’s not worth the risk.”

  They had been debating this topic for the past three days. It’s all her parents talked about, and with the reports of attacks now in Utah their conversations had become more heated.

  “The outbreak is spreading,” her father continued, “and they are failing to contain it.”

  “This is not a war zone, Steven,” Molly snapped.

  The Air Force veteran stood from his seat at the table, and began to walk from the room before stopping short. Something was eating him. Amy could see it. He turned to look his wife in the eye when he finally let it out. “Yes it is, Molly. You’re just too scared to see it.” His voice was collected
and even, without hostility, but there was an undercurrent of hostility that was undeniable. “Pack your bags. If it’s not in the trailer by breakfast, it gets left behind.” The retired captain closed his eyes and rubbed his thumb into his throbbing temple while his wife stewed, insulted and furious. “Entire families are dying in the wake of this out break, and I’ll be damned if my family is one of them. Kids?” Amy and her two brothers looked to their father in stunned silence over their dinner plates. “You’ll pack your own bags. One for clothes, and one for personal items. Only what you need. Only what you can carry on your own.” Molly’s huffing did little to dissuade the father. He continued unfazed, “If it won’t keep you alive, leave it.”

  “Daddy?” Amy asked, voice sounding small and weak.

  “Pumpkin?” the man replied.

  “Are we going to die?”

  As if to accuse the man of unfairly distressing their daughter, Molly gestures at Amy and wags an irritated expression at him. He chooses to ignore his wife’s actions and kneels before his middle child. He wraps his arms around her and draws her in close. He can feel the dampness of her fresh tears and a gentle shiver through his shirt as he embraces his little girl. “You’re fifteen,” he begins, “but I am going to have to start asking you to act beyond your years. You’ll need to be brave for your family; for me.” He draws back so he can look her in the eye, but at the sight of her quivering lip he pulls her in tightly once more. “Yes,” he whispers. “We will die.” The girl begins to sob openly into her father’s shoulder. “But,” he interjects, “but but but. If we work together, and all pitch-in, we are going to live a lot longer.” Amy squeezes the man as tightly as her shaking arms can manage. “I will see you through this. All of us,” he promises.

  First it was the younger brother who came over and wrapped his arms around his sister and father. Then the older brother. As if to abandon her stubbornness and as a way of apologizing, Molly wrapped her arms around her family and kissed her husband on the cheek.