1

Glass crunches beneath my dirty, over-worn sneakers when I step through the shattered door of the abandoned grocery store.

The sounds reverberate in the hollow silence, and I freeze, gripping the knife at my side. My pulse hammers in my ears.

I scan the street behind me, the rows of abandoned cars, the skeletal remains of a once vibrant and thriving town.

Nothing moves.

The stillness is heavy, suffocating. It’s always like this now—ever since the dead rose. Now, silence means survival. Noise means death.

When the virus swept the earth, those infected became shells of their former selves, their bodies decaying as they move aimlessly through the world. They’ve become known as rotters.

Satisfied I’m alone, I slip inside.

The air inside the store is stale and smells faintly of rot; the typical odor of the apocalypse. Sunlight streams weakly through the grime-streaked windows, but the deeper I go, the darker it gets. Shadows stretch long and uneven across the tile floor, littered with trash, glass, and mystery substances. I tread lightly, weaving between overturned carts and broken displays.

The shelves are almost bare, having been picked clean long ago. Still, I comb each aisle, hoping to find something to eat tonight. A few dented cans remain, their labels faded and peeling. I reach for one and turn it over in my hands. Peas past the expiration date. Not the worst thing I’ve eaten lately. My stomach twists and growls, reminding me why I’m here.

Food is harder to find every day. The easy scavenging days are over, and the world’s stockpile of prepackaged meals won’t last forever. I caught and eat a rabbit once. My hunger was so intense that I overlooked the bloodied hands and the crack of bones. Unfortunately, that’s something I’m going to have to get used to if I want to survive on my own. This expired can of peas may very well be my last bit of luxury.

I drop the can into my bag, the growing weight a small comfort. Each new addition means another meal. As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and the raw ache of missing my family threatens to consume me every moment of every day. But I keep moving, because when I stop to think about what my life has turned into, that’s when everything hits me. The weight of the losses I carry is heavier than the dented cans in my bag.

The next aisle seems as barren as the last, but then I see her. A woman, her long blonde hair catching what little light filters in, stands on the bottom shelf, her mouth twisted in concentration while she stretches her arm up for something out of reach on the top. Her bag sits on the floor beside her, its contents peeking out. She looks ordinary—too ordinary. But it can’t be. I haven’t seen another living person in weeks. My breath catches. Hallucinations aren’t impossible. Hunger has played tricks on me before, and I haven’t eaten in a couple days.

I take a cautious step closer, and my boot nudges an empty can. It clatters to the floor.

The woman whirls around, dropping to the ground in one fluid motion. She’s fast—faster than I expected. Before I can react, she lunges and we collide, tumbling to the ground. Her wiry strength catches me off guard as we grapple, rolling around on the filthy floor. Her knife flashes, but I counter with my own. Blades press against throats, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

“Think you can sneak up on me, dreg?” The girl, roughly around the same age as me, spits out the question like it’s a curse. Her eyes, cold and calculating, drill into mine.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. My name isn’t dreg, it’s Emily. And I’m only looking for food like everyone else.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re not a dreg?”

“I don’t even know what a dreg is.”

Her grip eases, confusion flickering across her face. “You really don’t know?”

“Should I?” My knife doesn’t waver either, though my arm aches. “If it’s another word for rotters, no. I’m alive, just like you.”

She studies me, the tension between us razor-thin. Finally, she nods. “Okay. On the count of three, we lower our knives.”

I nod in agreement. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.” We both lower our knives and step back. I sheath mine, but she keeps her hand clenched tight around hers by her side. “No, but, seriously. What’s a dreg?”

“Dregs,” she says, her tone flat, “are the leftovers of the human soul. The dregs of humanity. People who take what they want and kill for fun. Worse than rotters.”

A chill works its way down my spine. “Worse than the dead? That’s hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want,” she replies, her voice hard. “They’re everywhere. I barely got away from them once, and I’d like to not have a repeat.”

“You thought I was one, though,” I say.

“I did. Until you sheathed your knife instead of trying to kill me.”

“Killing rotters is bad enough. I don’t have a reason to kill the living, too.”

She shoulders her bag. “Yeah, well, one of these days you will. Look, all I want is to take what I need and get going. Can we agree to do that?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Without another word, she turns and disappears down the aisle, leaving me alone once more.

I should feel relieved. This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered someone since the dead rose eighty-seven days ago, but with each day that passes, I come across fewer and fewer people. I’ve gotten quite used to being alone. It’s not my preference, but that’s life now.

Pushing aside the slight disappointment, I continue scavenging in the opposite direction, searching for more options to fill up the rest of my bag. It doesn’t take long before a muffled curse rings out.

Knife in hand again, I dart halfway across the store toward the noise.

The blonde woman is locked in a fight, her blade slicing through the air when two rotters lunge at her. One snarls, its decayed teeth snapping inches from her arm. Without thinking, I shove that rotter from behind, sending it staggering into a shelf. She buries her knife into the skull of the other, yanking it free with a grunt.

The rotter I shoved turns, its single cloudy eye fixed on me. It stumbles closer, its jaws slack, and the stench of decay hits me like a wall. I raise my knife right when the girl joins me, but the rotter falls toward us, pinning us to the shelves behind us. My knife clatters to the floor. We both hold our hands out to keep it from biting us. One of its eyes is hanging out of the socket. “Ugh, disgusting,” the girl says, choking on its rancid breath. “Help me push it back so I can get my knife.”

We both give a strong, hard shove and the rotter rolls away across the floor and straight into a stereo. It claws at the air and at the stereo until the faint hum of music grows into a pulsing beat.

We both freeze.

This isn’t good. Noise attracts rotters, and this is a lot. “We gotta go.”

“Shit,” she breathes. “More are coming.”

Shadows shift at the edge of my vision. She grabs her knife and takes off running, not bothering with this rotter anymore.

I bolt, too, but my foot catches on something, and I stumble. Pain flares through my ankle, and I fall hard, crying out in pain.

Using the shelves behind me, I pull myself up, sending the contents tumbling to the floor. Glass shatters, and metal pots and pans clang together. The commotion draws some rotters toward me. I take a step to get away, but darkness flashes across my vision along with the searing pain in my ankle, and I fall to the floor again.

The rotters close in, their moans rising above the music.

Well, at least one of us got away.

I grip my knife, tears blurring my sight. This is it. This isn’t how I imagined going out, but I guess this is how it’s going to be. I’ll fight until the very end.

A rotter reaches me, and I stab it through the head. It takes three tries to kill it. Which is crazy, considering they’re already dead and all.

I push the dead rotter off me, and brace myself for the next one, but a blade appears through its forehead and it falls to the floor. When I glance beyond it, I’m surprised to see the blonde woman standing in front of me, her long hair cascading down her back. She grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.

“Do you always cause this much trouble?” she snaps, slinging my arm over her shoulder to support my weight.

“You came back,” I whisper, my voice cracking. I choke back the tears. No one has ever come back for me before.

“Yeah, well…you know.” The shadows along the edges of the store move closer. “Let’s get out of here.”

We stagger into the sunlight, leaving the rotters and the noise behind. Hopefully, the stereo distracts them long enough for us to get away. The tension in my chest lessens.

“Thanks,” I say, though the simple word feels too small for what she’s done.

She glances at me, her expression unreadable. “Don’t mention it.” She looks down at my injured ankle. “You look like shit. Guess you’re staying with me tonight. I have a setup close by.”

“Lead the way.” And that’s how I follow a complete stranger to her home without even knowing her name.