Co-Exist: Rise of the Zombies: Co-Exist, #1

By Cyra King

Introducing an adrenaline-fueled, genre-bending masterpiece that will leave you breathless and questioning everything you thought you knew. The undead have awakened to tell their tale in CO-EXIST: RISE OF THE ZOMBIES.

 

When a devastating viral outbreak turns Nurse Megan Cole into a sentient zombie, she is forced to re-evaluate both her life goals and dietary habits.

 

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, a ruthless regime known as the Salt Lake Z Council governs the city with an iron fist. Megan finds solace in the arms of her boyfriend, Mike, until he is sent on a dangerous mission to infiltrate the army.

 

Enter Don Meier, the last remaining hope for humanity. As the nation's leading scientist, he is tantalizingly close to discovering an antidote. But when his groundbreaking experiment goes awry, the Council seizes the opportunity to exploit their twisted agenda under the guise of salvation.

 

Amidst the chaos, Megan finds herself aligned with a motley crew of conscientious Zegans. As they try to prevent the Council from obliterating their only chance at redemption, Don risks his wife and son's safety to unravel a military conspiracy.

 

It's a frantic race for both sides to rescue humanity before there's nobody left to save.

 

CO-EXIST: RISE OF THE ZOMBIES is a rollercoaster ride of emotions, blending heart-wrenching moments with pulse-pounding action and surprising plot twists. Brace yourself for a tale that will make you laugh, cry, and challenge your perceptions as you find yourself inexplicably rooting for the Zs.

 

Pick up your copy today and immerse yourself in a world where the line between monsters and heroes blurs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cyra King
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9786299712701

Book preview

Co-Exist

Rise of the Zombies

Cyra King

Copyright © 2022 Cyra King

Cover design by Cyra King

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Cyra King

[e-mail]

https://linktr.ee/cyraking

Digital ISBN 978-629-97127-0-1

Paperback ISBN 978-629-97127-1-8

Contents

Dedications

Content Warning

1. MEGAN

2. MEGAN

3. MEGAN

4. MEGAN

5. DON

ETHEL

DON

6. MEGAN

DON

ETHEL

DON

7. DON

MEGAN

8. MEGAN

DON

ETHEL

DON

9. DON

MEGAN

DON

10. MEGAN

ETHEL

DON

11. DON

MEGAN

12. DON

MEGAN

DON

ETHEL

DON

13. MEGAN

ETHEL

DON

14. DON

MEGAN

URSULA

MEGAN

15. DON

MEGAN

ETHEL

16. MEGAN

DON

LINDA

ETHEL

17. MEGAN

CALEB

18. MEGAN

LINDA

19. MEGAN

LINDA

20. MEGAN

DON

LINDA

21. MEGAN

CALEB

LINDA

MEGAN

22. DON

MEGAN

23. MEGAN

24. MEGAN

25. MIKE

DON

26. MEGAN

27. CINCO

Acknowledgments

About The Author

For Raven

image-placeholder

If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.

and

David Poynter

Thanks for being my Annie.

Content Warning

This book contains strong language and scenes of gore, violence, child death, animal death, and deaths.

Contents within it may be triggering or disturbing to sensitive souls.

Reader discretion is advised.

1

MEGAN

DAY 0 – JUNE 22, 8:04 p.m.

Sixteen hours into my shift and four patients are dead. Each report has a box for ‘Attending Nurse,’ and I type: Megan Cole. Jesus, is it me? Am I the jinx?

Time for my final rounds. Please, no more addition to today’s list. As soon as the rows of shriveled patients come into view, my guts churn. I pop another Tums into my mouth, wipe clammy palms on my scrubs, and don a face mask. The ICU glass doors slide open.

Regina Thornton, a 72-year-old woman with advanced pancreatic cancer, is awake, her sunken eyes fixed on me while I replace her IV fluids. I get her message, but the chart indicates her meds are already maxed.

I can’t, I say with far less conviction than her plea. I’m sorry. I’ll ask Dr. Patel to pay you a visit.

The folds of her chin quiver as her head lolls forward. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again.

An ugly truth I learned after three years of nursing is the need to appease the gods of order and process in a bureaucratic system. Worse, the opioid Nazi who won’t even prescribe pain-killers for the terminally ill isn’t answering his page. I leave a memo on the system and brief a colleague taking over the next shift.

The sound of my locker slamming shut echoes in the isolated hallway. I press the elevator button, my reflection on the brushed metal judging me.

She could be dead tomorrow. Or tonight. Is it so unethical to provide a dying woman some comfort? The one person who can help her is leaving to … to do what? Shower and soak her feet? Dinner and TV?

What’s the point of being a nurse if I can’t help those in need? Most of it comes down to red tape. A person is suffering because the doctor didn’t respond to his pager. Fuck it. I can handle a little more paperwork tonight.

Giving Regina a shot of morphine and noting it down take all of ten minutes. That’s all I can do for now—I’ll hound Patel to increase her dosage.

The elevator dings on the ground level. Jody waves me to the ER sign-in desk.

Yes, I did check, she snaps into the phone as she flips through a folder, and I assure you Mr. Schuester’s files aren’t here. Placing her palm over the mouthpiece, she whispers, One sec, Megan.

I nod, which turns into a roll to work out the knots in my neck and shoulders.

Nurses are screening patients in both triage rooms. A middle-aged man with a blanket draped around his shoulders groans like he’s vying for patient of the year.

Jody uncovers the mouthpiece, her eyes narrowing, nose flaring. Really, you think so? How about instead of telling me how to do my job, you take that stethoscope and shove it up your highly-qualified ass. She slams down the receiver and grins at me.

I cock an eyebrow at her. On a normal day, those words would’ve earned her an official warning.

Hey, M, can we, uh— The phone rings again. She sighs, picking it up, and chirps, Salt Lake Regional Medical … Her face twists into a scowl. "No, I want you to report it … No, listen. You don’t talk that way to me either. What you said is unprofessional. Rude. And … and—"

He hung up. She scoffs, placing the receiver back in its cradle. "Can you believe that? God, I hate doctors."

Ugh, don’t we all? My gaze sweeps over the messy files. Where’s the tech guy? It’s been a week.

I know, right? Isn’t there anybody left in IT? And guess what, we turned away thirty-eight patients today, most of them with fever and chills.

It’s getting worse. It was nineteen yesterday.

I heard St. Mark’s isn’t taking any more. This place will be a madhouse by the end of the week.

The doors glide open. A security guard is shouting at a thirty-something businessman pushing a pregnant woman in a wheelchair. Another couple and a trio of teens scurry past the guard. Maybe it’s already a madhouse.

Jody leans forward, lowering her voice. A friend in Washington says this new strain makes them aggressive.

What? If that’s the case, we need proper training and that new PPE.

They’ll come up with an emergency response plan. The N99s will arrive on Monday.

At least we’ve had our shots.

Yeah. She calls out to another nurse heading to a supply cart nearby. Pam, Dr. Laurie wants you in room 13.

Pam nods and strides away.

Jody turns to me. So, uhm, I promised my daughter I’d help her work on her costume for her first grade play, but they upped my shift this weekend. She’s going to be heartbroken.

That’s crazy. You’ve gotten less sleep than me. The raccoon eyes from her dueling roles of a single mom and nurse tell me I’m right. I’ll take the shift, I say, hoping I won’t regret it.

Wait. She grasps my forearm. You sure?

Every fiber in my scarecrow-like body says no. Mike can handle grocery-shopping and bingeing on Netflix by himself for one weekend. Besides, you need to be there for Katie. Kids grow up too fast.

Oh, thank you, M. She lets out a strangled laugh. I owe you one.

A wail draws our attention to a young boy standing between a vending machine and the restroom. Dressed in a striped polo shirt and brown chino pants, the kid looks no more than six.

I frown. Where are his parents?

The EMS radio squawks, Ambulance forty-five inbound. Sixty-three-year-old female, fever, seizure …

His dad checked in this morning with a puncture wound on his leg, Jody says. Now he’s in the ICU. His mom ducked into the restroom about ten minutes ago.

No sign of anyone in the restroom that smells of fruity air freshener. Excuse me, ma’am? Your son’s waiting—

A wobbly voice comes from the second stall. I kn-knoww.

You okay in there?

I’m fine. The toilet flushes.

Is there anything I can do for you?

No, I’ll be out in a mmm-minn-ute. Coughing and sneezing sounds travel to my ears.

This is not good. Has she caught the bug? I back out of the restroom.

The boy’s crying settles to a soft whimper as he slouches against a gurney.

Hey, kiddo. What’s your name?

He glances up. Shadows under puffy eyes on a pale face. Poor kid looks dead on his feet. Ethan.

Ethan, hi. I’m Megan. Your mom’s going to come out here any second now. You hungry?

He shakes his head.

You must be tired.

I wanna go home, he says, staring at his sneakers.

I squat to his level. "Tell you what, I’ll have my friend bring you a lollipop and something you like from her treasure chest."

Can I have a fire truck?

The spark in his eyes makes me determined to work my magic. I give his arm a squeeze. Wait right here.

I page Haley in the pediatric ward. Luckily, they do have a Lego truck in their toy box. I give the boy watching me a thumbs-up.

Go home, Jody says after I hang up. You’ve been here long enough.

What about the kid?

I’ll keep an eye on him until his mom comes back. Jody waves a hand. Now, shoo.

Two paramedics wheel a man in, IV lines connected to his forearms, tangled in EKG cables, his face battered and bruised. One of the EMS guys says to Jody, Twenty-three-year-old male involved in a bar fight, fever …

Time to get out of Dodge. I stick around in a corner until Haley appears with a small truck. Ethan’s face lights up. There you go, kid. I make a mental note to look up his dad and check on the family next shift.

The ten lines of plastic chairs in the waiting area are mostly filled with assault victims and frequent flyers. One of the regulars—skinny, bearded, mid-forties male with a wet patch around his crotch—calls out, Hey, Nurse M, what’s my status?

This dude usually comes in handcuffed and intoxicated. Four times last week. Beside him a police officer checks his watch, probably waiting for jail clearance.

You know the rules, Jonathan.

I’m burning up here. Show me some love, will ya? He flashes me a toothless grin.

I have to go catch some bad guys. Or rather, the bus.

Ooooh, can’t keep ya from saving the world now, can I? See ya around, Nurse M.

Outside, a line of young and elderly trickles its way to the front of the security perimeter, their faces worn from the stifling summer heat. Some of them argue with the besieged security defending the entrance. Looks like we’re headed toward the end of the world.

One of them shouts, Nurse, nurse, help get us in. Resignation and rage at war in their eyes.

I tune them out and quicken my pace.

Sirens blare in the distance. Crumpled along the sidewalks on the way to the bus stop are dozens of homeless. I’ve never seen so many in one place.

My bus lumbers slower than a three-toed sloth. Plus, there’s the daily clusterfuck on the highway. Too beat for social media and emails, I slump in my seat, arms crossed, eyes shut. Was I insane to choose nursing? Too late to impress Dad now. Not too late to switch though. I still have options. Cirque de Soleil reputedly wanted Talented Young Things with my body type. Yeah, right.

Oh, my God, she bit him. The elderly woman beside me presses her nose to the window. That cab driver bit a cop in the neck. Oh, God.

Bit a cop? Can’t be Mike. He should be off his shift by now. I squint past her shoulder. On the opposite side of the road, several cars have crashed. There’s a truck ablaze. First responders are already on the scene. Onlookers make it impossible to see anything else. Maybe I should check it out?

My butt is glued to the seat. I’m too drained to be of any real help.

When the bus finally leaves the scene, the woman grasps my arm. Her left eye is cloudy. Corneal damage? You a doctor?

I’m a nurse. I haven’t bothered to change out of my scrubs. Even my name tag is still clipped on.

Stay home. The hospital is a dangerous place. She scans around and leans in, her stale breath reminding me of something ancient. I-it’s started.

What started?

The Final Days.

Oh, yeah. That was on the news.

She releases my arm and clasps her hands together. For behold, the Lord will come in fire. And His chariots like the whirlwind, to render His anger …

Someone bit a cop? She’s either nuts or mistaken. Or can it be the new virus, that aggression thing Jody mentioned? Damn it, everything seems to be going wrong tonight.

It takes about an hour instead of the usual fifteen minutes for the bus to pull over at my stop. I move on auto-pilot, placing one foot ahead of the other until I arrive at my apartment on the third floor. The TV is blaring, so Mike has to be in.

I swing open the door. Honey, I’m home.

Clad in a T-shirt and sweatpants, he’s resting on the couch. He snaps his feet off the coffee table and reaches for the remote to reduce the volume.

Hey, babe. Is your service down? I’ve been calling to see if you needed a ride.

I back into the door, easing it shut, then lean against the frame. Shit, I think my battery died. Did you get my text?

Two hours ago. That bad, huh?

Crazy traffic. I slip out of my scrubs and pad over to the couch in my bra and panties. The digits on my Casio say 8:51 p.m. I forgot it’s my turn to make dinner tonight.

That’s okay. I ordered pizza. He hands over a can of Pringles. How was your double-shift?

Super thrilling, I say between snacking on sour cream and onion chips. I skipped lunch and didn’t get to pee for six hours.

You should talk to the union.

"Yeah? Everyone’s coming down with that new bug. The triage nurse caught it too, mid-shift, and Jody had to switch to handle the rush. She gave me her patients."

A picture of an African woman cradling an infant appears on TV.

Authorities in Cape Verde have confirmed eighty-seven new cases of an unidentified flu strain in Boa Vista. Officials say that ...

Mike picks up the remote, muttering, Had enough of that for one day.

The sports channel takes over with some basketball player in the middle of a rant.

Munching, I stare at the peeling paint on the ceiling. "How was your day?"

Swamped. Weird shit’s been going on around the city. All cruisers dispatched. There’s this 911 call about a family afraid of their own cat. They were holed up in their bedroom.

I look at him. For real?

It’d turned feral. We corralled the little bastard in the closet and handed it to animal control.

I tell him about the Crazy Bus Lady. About Ethan. Resting my head on his shoulder, I trace his pecs. You’ll make it go away, won’t you, Mike?

Sure, babe. You’ve got three wishes. He catches my hand and kisses it. Use them wisely.

Smiling, I slant toward him, breathe him in—a delightful combination of patchouli and vanilla musk. Tonight isn’t all bad.

Hey, I was thinking … A part of me wants to elaborate about losing four patients today. About Regina Thornton and the morphine. About feeling like a fraud sometimes.

Mmhmm? He sets the remote down, his other hand sliding to my inner thigh.

I mean to ask his opinion about quitting my job. Apparently, he has a different idea. The answer is obvious anyway. Mike is all about public service. What time did you call for pizza? I’m famished.

Before he can respond, a door slams outside. Metals clang, followed by a wet squish.

What is that?

He springs to his feet. Wait here, he says, striding to the front door. I’ll go check.

Hey, what if it’s a deranged lunatic? Or a serial killer?

As long as it’s not Charlie.

A weak chuckle is all I can afford. Charlie, a big, bald man, is our neighbor from upstairs. Once, I bumped into him on the staircase. He was wearing a gas mask straight out of a horror movie. Not a word uttered as he stared down at me. I remember clutching the pepper spray in my purse as I darted past him toward the third floor exit. Not that pepper spray could stop a gas mask-wielding psychopath.

The pizza should be here by now, Mike adds. Why don’t you check the app or call them?

I pick up the landline as he steps out the door and closes it. The automated customer service tells me how important my call is and that someone will be with me shortly.

Please listen carefully, as our menu options have changed …

One minute turns into seven. What’s taking them so long? What’s taking Mike so long?

Right on cue, the front door opens. Mike walks in, clutching his arm.

I hang up. What happened?

Just two cats fighting.

Gosh, what if it’s that same cat? Maybe he’s out for revenge.

Mike laughs and sits next to me.

Let me see it. The wound looks nasty. Red and swollen. Deep. Jesus, Mike. I think we need to get you to the ER. Cat bites and scratches are the worst.

Hey, it’s no big deal. Besides, why do I need to go to the ER when I’ve got you?

Right. I scoot to the bathroom.

Oh, I got us tickets for tomorrow night, Mike yells while I dig through the medicine cabinet.

Tomorrow night? Mike and I are both on call, so fingers crossed. What movie? I ask, returning with a first aid kit. No, wait. Surprise me. As long as it’s something good.

It’s a horror flick. Rotten Tomatoes gives it an eighty-seven.

His wound doesn’t look quite as bad on second inspection. I clean it and apply a dressing.

Thank you, Nurse, Mike says in a playful tone.

Well, if I hadn’t become a nurse, I wouldn’t have met Mike two years ago—the 26-year-old officer admitted with a gunshot wound to his stomach. Lying on the gurney in his blood-soaked shirt, he told us to attend to his partner first.

I watch his thumb circling my wrist and then meet his gaze. What else can I do for you, Officer?

How about some physical therapy? The twinkle in his baby blue eyes and that boyish grin never fail to ignite me.

I swing a leg over him, straddle his lap. Cupping his face in my palms, I purr, Hmm, looks like you might be having a Code Blue. I’ll have to perform CPR.

Roger that.

My fingers wrap around his nape as our mouths mesh. My eyes flutter closed. Bit by bit, the tension melts from my body. And just like that, everything else takes a backseat. About that wish …

Deft fingers unhook my bra. Resting his chin on my cleavage, he inhales deeply, then smiles up at me. Let’s go to bed. I’ll make all your wishes come true.

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A rumble jolts me awake. Rain is pelting against the bedroom window. I roll to my left, glance at the LED clock. 1:53 a.m. What happened to the pizza?

Beneath the comforter, strong hands clutch my hips.

Whatcha doing there, Officer?

Like a ravenous beast, Mike explores between my legs. Someone’s definitely insatiable tonight. The rough sweeps of his tongue coupled with growls deep in his throat drive me to the edge in a flash. A moan spills from my lips. I writhe at his mercy.

Careful now. I giggle when his teeth graze my skin. Might be tasty down there but I’m not for munching on.

A blinding burst of pain flares up my leg. I scream and dip my fingers down to check. They come back sticky. I fling aside the blanket, switch on the table lamp. A chunk of flesh is missing from my inner thigh. Blood oozes out, smearing everywhere.

What the fuck? I yell.

A flash of lightning outside the window illuminates Mike’s features. His eyes are milky white.

I scramble out of bed. Agony shoots through my leg like a million tiny needles stabbing my skin. M-Mike?

A hint of recognition surfaces only to vanish again. His ashen face twists into a snarl, revealing blood on his teeth.

I skid on something. My side hits the floor with a wet, resounding smack.

Blood. My blood.

I roll and crawl under the bed. Duck behind the spilled-over blanket.

Bare feet patter around from the other side of the bed.

No. No. Go away. Go away.

Tears cloud my vision. I clamp a trembling hand over my mouth.

The comforter flips aside. A face appears. A face I don’t recognize anymore.

Please, Mike. It’s me.

He lunges.

The last thing I hear is my own scream.

2

MEGAN

I’m drifting. Burning. Shadows dig their claws into me. Loud engines rev, churning out black smoke. Unrest. Decay. Each breath thrusts shards of glass into my lungs.

Eventually, the pain subsides. I lie on the floor, simmering in cold sweat and warm pee, until I manage to stagger to the bathroom.

My joints hurt. I reach for an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and—there’s a monster in the mirror. Whatever it is, it’s got my red, shoulder-length hair. The rest? Pallid complexion. Cracked lips. Milky eyes. Cataracts?

After downing the tablet with a glass of water, I wander to the living room and plop onto the couch. Everything is fuzzy. I came home, watched TV with Mike. We kissed. Had sex, maybe an orgasm or two. And then …

I trace my fingers over the jagged marks on my inner thigh, raw and swollen. Mike did this? No way.

Now where did I chuck my phone? How long was I out? My Casio says June 25, 11:13 a.m. That’s impossible. I know for a fact yesterday was June 22.

My phone is in my purse with the battery dead. I try to call 911 on the landline and get a busy signal. Damn it, what’s Mike’s number?

Where is he?

I wind on some bandages. My wounds are throbbing down to my very bones. I need antibiotics. What day is it? Sunday—I’m supposed to replace Jody, and I missed my shift, damn it. We’re short-handed, too. Still, I’ve been attacked. By my own boyfriend. I should go to the cops, make a report or something. Maybe I’ll see Mike there. Maybe I’ll kick his ass for pulling such a crazy stunt.

First, I need to eat.

Sitting in the fridge is a bottle of milk along with last week’s chicken dinner, roasted veggies, and a tub of snowed-over ice cream. One sip of the milk and I grimace. The food tastes worse. Have they always been this bland? My stomach heaves. I puke everything into the kitchen sink.

I tug on a T-shirt and jeans, shuffle downstairs into the street. Pebbles and bits of glass cut into my skin. Forgot my shoes, damn it. Whatever. Need food.

Save for some distant noises, the neighborhood is shrouded in silence, which is strange, given the time of day.

Parked on the curb is a patrol car with its front smashed. Breath catches in my throat. I scan the area. Am I hallucinating? Hundreds of vehicles are blocking the road, several overturned.

One of the sedans has a driver slumped over the wheel. I tap on the tinted glass. No response.

Flies zoom out the open door when I clamber into the passenger seat. I swat away the ones surrounding the poor man and sit him up to check his pulse. The top of his skull is missing. Blood drips onto my lap as I peer into the gaping hole.

There is none of the pink, pulpy mass left.

Wait, why am I looking? I need food, not the … succulent and delectable hemisphere.

Dozens of other cars with motionless drivers and passengers line the streets. Are they all dead? Unconscious? Something doesn’t make sense. Where are the first responders? I should help but …

I sniff my way around the block, picking up scents of gasoline, vomit, and excrement. Do I smell food? No. Blood.

As a nurse, I’ve seen it all. But this? This is on a whole other level. Corpses torn apart, their skulls cracked open and hollowed out. My scream comes out as a moan.

A slender black woman staggers by, her face smeared with blood. Her long dress flutters behind her in the stale breeze.

J-Jada? My throat is so dry I sound like Gollum.

My neighbor acknowledges me with a nod, her eyes the same milky color as mine—Mike’s too. Some kind of infection?

Jada points to a liquor store opposite the street. Eat.

A spark of energy flows through my limbs, urging me to shamble over and push open the door.

Inside, there are five people huddled around a bald, burly man. His torso has been ripped open from chest to belly, his entrails spilled out in a mushy mess. They’re munching on his heart, liver, kidneys. One of them is winding the intestines around her neck like a scarf. Nearby, three kids share an arm.

I squeeze between them, my hand reaching toward the crimson sludge.

No. That’s Charlie. Charlie—my upstairs neighbor.

I back out of the store and run—try to. My legs feel heavy, shackled to the ground. Goddamnit, what is going on?

My vision blurs as I stalk toward the city. Every breath sears my lungs. I can’t stop shivering. Food. I need food.

My brain registers a barrage of images and a cacophony that make little sense. Rows of houses burned down, some still smoldering. Faint shouts, alarms, sirens, and what sound like gunshots echo in the distance. A helicopter swoops by overhead. Soldiers plod past, jerking their heads and muttering to themselves.

My nose leads me to a store called Eat Fresh. Fruits and vegetables lie scattered around the store entrance. The apples look as unappetizing as rocks. I crave meat. Red meat.

Milling around the frozen food aisle are about a dozen people rummaging through the half-empty shelves. There’s something underneath … a single steak. A man on the other side of the island freezer sees it too. The faster I move, the faster he moves.

I launch myself toward my prize, sliding horizontally across the floor like a super slug. My hand reaches out just in time to grab it.

Someone else tries to snatch the pack.

Snarling, I hold on to it. My food. Mine.

I hop to a corner and rip open the plastic. The power’s out, so the meat is tender. I devour the thick slice, shred by shred, savoring its metallic tang.

This tastes better than anything I’ve eaten in ages.

I wipe my mouth with my arm. Taking the edge off my hunger helps clear my head.

Mike. I have to find him. Then we can figure this shit out together. He’ll know what to do.

Two cops meander into sight, one of them Mike’s partner. Messy hair matted with blood, haggard face covered in cuts, the poor guy must’ve gone through unimaginable hell during the past three days.

Greg?

He stares my way. No prizes for guessing the color of his eyes.

Have you seen Mike?

Mike? Who’s …? Oh, Mike! No. Not since Thursday. He sounds as if his mouth is full of gravel.

Wh-what happened?

He drags a hand down his face. A strangled sob leaks out of his mouth. Don’t know. Everyone’s dead or turned. The virus, the disease, the rage, whatever you call it, we’ve all got it.

A cold chill swirls in my gut. Are the police doing anything?

His white eyes swivel to the frozen meat section, and the shift in his expression is instant. I can’t help you, Margo. Just stay inside the house. And pray. Maybe help will come. He ambles away.

Who the hell’s Margo? Hate to tell him there’s no food left.

There are two likely places where I’ll find Mike. Since I need antibiotics, might as well start with the hospital.

Ambulances and cars are scattered like LEGO outside the white columned building. Bloody handprints on the sliding glass doors to the ER. In one corner, a monitor displays ‘No Signal.’ Instead of the usual sterile, antiseptic hospital scent, a metallic odor hangs in the air.

Only a few people are left in the ER. None of them pay attention to me, except the boy with a red truck. Ethan. As he approaches, he steps on a blob of melted Popsicle, leaving a trail of yellow across the floor. No, I’m not ready to deal with this.

I shuffle past the rows of plastic chairs toppled over and take the stairs to the ICU, hoping to bump into Mike or Jody.

Corpses scatter the hallway. My jaw aches from holding a maddening urge to sink my teeth into one of them. I swing open the door to the staff room and stumble inside.

A familiar, frail figure in a gown is ambling around.

M-Mrs. Thornton? How is she able to walk?

She whirls toward me. Instead of answering, she snarls. Or is she smiling? Her hand stretches out, and my gaze veers to the name tag on her blood-smeared palm: Patel Kumar, M.D.

I stagger backward and down the stairs toward the exit.

An itch in the back of my mind tells me there’s something else I need to do. What is it?

Find food.

No, Mike. Find Mike.

Outside, the sun is setting, a giant ball of orange against the blackened sky. A hollow sensation spreads over my body. My muscles are stiff. Heavy.

On my way to the police station, a mouthwatering scent underneath layers of stink wafts to my nose. The garbage bin. I veer into the alley, tripping over an empty bottle, and lift the metal lid. Two kids stare at me, their eyes wide, bodies shaking. The boy looks about five. The older girl has her arms wrapped around him.

Don’t be afraid, I growl. I won’t hurt you.

The boy bawls. I lunge forward to cover his mouth. My fingers curl around his shoulders instead. Clutching him tight, I drag him halfway out of the bin. Lean in for a sniff. My tongue glides across his cheek. Sweet. Salty. And so fresh.

No. Let him go, you freak. The girl hangs on to him, tears gushing down her cheeks. Back off. Let him go.

Tara, help me. Help.

I blink. My grip loosens.

The boy slips back into the bin, crying, clinging to the girl. Don’t let her get me, Tara. Don’t let her get m-meee.

I falter backward, staring at my hands. What am I doing? Oh, God. Their screams reverberate everywhere.

"Shhh, quiet," I croak.

Their cries increase tenfold.

A woman in a torn suit ambles into the alley. Click, click, go her heels. Her hair is askew, her makeup streaked. Behind her trails an elderly man with half his arm missing. Two youths show up. Three more follow them. Their white eyes fill my gut with cold dread. Wait a second. The kids may still be able to outrun us.

Get out of here. I’ll stall them. I lean over to grab the boy, to help him out of the bin. Come on.

They recoil and scream.

Tara, they’re coming.

Another batch of the afflicted emerge from the other end of the alley. Both groups are heading toward the trash bin.

Hey, stop. Arms stretched wide, I dig my bare feet into the ground with the sliver of strength left in me. I’m a nurse. Back the fuck off.

The business bitch flashes red stained teeth.

Scoot, says the elderly man.

Someone else shoves them both aside.

I know I’m screwed the moment the guy steps up. The biggest of the lot in a black hoodie and thrice my size, he seems different from the rest. I can’t decide which is more terrifying: the strange, vacant look in his eyes or his odor—rotten meat marinated in cheap deodorant. A steel rod protrudes from his chest. He hurls himself at me, his stomach bouncing like a bowling ball in a bag. I stumble aside, mostly because my knees are shaky. He makes a lumbering dash for the bin.

I grasp the woman’s suit with one hand and seize the old man’s arm with the other.

In the next breath, I’m on the ground.

Footsteps shuffle past.

I clutch at their legs, clinging to one of them. "Stop. No. God damn it. They’re only kids."

The boy bellows as they yank him from the bin. Taraaa, help. Help me. Hhheeelp …

Stop, no, Tara cries. Danny … Danny!

Someone drives his boot into my ribs.

Pain explodes across my torso. My fingers slacken and I slump sideways. They’re just k-kids.

They hold little Danny by his flailing arms. Hoodie Guy takes the first bite, ripping a chunk from the boy’s cheek. The rest sink their teeth into Danny’s torso. Dig his bowels out with their fingers.

The scent of blood permeates the air. I lick my lips.

Tara, cowering in the dumpster, can only holler and weep—until they grab her by her hair.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Cover my ears. But I can still hear them.

All at once, the screams stop.

Go on. They’re already dead. One bite is all you need. Just one.

No. I can’t. I can’t. What is wrong with me? I force myself to my feet, to lurch out of the alley. The aroma of blood is so overpowering every inch of me wants to turn back.

Keep walking. Move. Move!

At last, my knees give way. I collapse onto the pavement.

Oh, God. Oh, God. I tried. I swear I tried. The world’s gone insane. My fault Danny and Tara were found. I wanted to join in. To feast on a fucking kid, another human being. I don’t know how long I stay like this, feeling like a sack of shit.

At last, I push myself up and trudge onward. My feet take me back to my apartment building. A faint mewling drifts from the gutter. The sound tugs at the edge of my memory—something I can’t