Dylan pressed her hands to her lips to contain her screams, but the horror was too overwhelming. Not caring who or what heard her, she twisted around and slammed her fists against the door behind her. “Somebody help me! Please!”
Undiluted fear coursed through her veins like acid, and she kept yelling and banging until her throat grew raw. A snarl caused her to look back. The infected man prowled toward her on all fours, blood dripping from his chin.
Dylan twisted to the side, reaching for her gun. Her hand closed on the pistol grip, and she pulled it free from its holster. Breathing hard, she sought to still her trembling hands. Remember your training. You didn’t spend all those afternoons at the range for nothing.
The infected paused, and his thigh muscles bunched, ready to leap. She took careful aim. He was so close. Too close. It has to be the head. That’s what the CDC said in their last broadcast.
As she pulled the trigger, a silly thought occurred to her. Why was it always the damn head?
The bullet drilled a hole between the man’s eyes, and he collapsed with half of his skull missing. The next moment, Dylan fell backward as the door behind her opened without warning. A set of familiar blue eyes gazed down into hers, and she gasped with surprise. “Ben? Ben Randall?”
“Dylan? Is that you?” he asked.
She nodded, pathetically grateful to see her old manager. He’d always been good to her, and she prayed he still liked her enough to help her. “It’s me.”
He grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet. “Hurry. They’re coming!”
Dylan glanced at the inside of the supermarket and blanched. Every infected inside the space was running toward them, drawn by the gunshot. Her eyes fell on her cart, and her lips compressed. “I’m not leaving my stuff.”
Jamming the gun back into its holster, she grabbed the cart’s handles and yanked it toward her. It rolled inside, and she slammed the door shut with a yell of defiance. An avalanche of crap had followed the cart, however, and the door caught on a bottle of laundry detergent. “Oh, shit.”
Kicking at the bottle with her foot, Dylan tried to clear the way, but it was hooked on something and refused to budge. An infected woman reached the entrance and threw herself at it with a screech. Her hand thrust through the opening and reached for Dylan’s face. She ripped out a clump of hair, and tears filled Dylan’s eyes. More infected followed, howling like wolves.
Desperate to shut the door, Dylan grabbed the woman by the wrist and pushed. “Get out!”
The infected woman was as slippery as an eel, but Dylan refused to give up. Sharp pain lanced up her forearm as the woman attacked her exposed flesh, but she couldn’t let go.
At the same time, Ben yanked the blockage away from the door and yelled. “Close it now!”
Dylan slammed it shut and the lock clicked into place, sealing them inside the storage room. Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing. The infected beat on the door, but the steel was thick, and it only registered as dull thuds. They were safe. For the moment.
On wobbly legs, Dylan stumbled toward the nearest crate. She wiped the sweat and tears from her face. Everything smelled like bleach, and her clothes were soaked with the stuff. Her scalp burned where she was missing a hank of hair, and her limbs were stiff and bruised.
Despite this, Dylan managed a tremulous smile as she looked at her rescuer. “We made it. Now, we just have to get out of here.”
Ben stared at her with a grim expression, his spectacles slightly askew on his face. Somehow, that detail bothered her more than anything else. She’d never seen him with so much as a hair out of place. He was always painfully neat and tidy. “I’m sorry, Dylan, but you’re on your own.”
The fluorescent light above their heads flickered, casting Ben’s face into shadow for a second. She frowned, unable to comprehend his words. “What do you mean? Surely, it makes sense to stick together. At least until we get out of here.”
As he shook his head, he pointed at her arms resting on her knees. “That zombie bit you, Dylan. You’re not going anywhere.”
She stared at him for a breathless moment before dropping her gaze. Her eyes fixed on the tender flesh of her forearm, the skin smooth and unbroken except for a few scratches caused by long fingernails…and a half-moon crescent that leaked tiny droplets of blood. She sucked in a deep breath. When had that happened? She’d never even noticed it during the struggle.
It was a small wound. Not deep enough to warrant a single stitch, but it was more than enough to kill her. To send the virus tumbling through her bloodstream and into her brain. The world around her faded away as Dylan faced the undeniable truth. “I’m infected.”
Chapter 2 - Amy
Amy stared at the freshly dug grave at her feet. It was shallow. Barely three feet deep. The earth formed a mound at her side, and its rich scent lingered in her nostrils. It mingled with the smell of decay, a cloying sweetness that stuck to the roof of her mouth.
A single tear ran down her face. It was all she had left. She was all cried out after the events of the past few days.
They saw it on the news. The reports were hard to believe at first. Fantastical. Who in their right minds believed in a zombie apocalypse? Especially in Louisville, Kentucky, with its lush green countryside and friendly people. It was
