When I’d first come back to the house just before sunrise I’d been exhausted. I glance at my watch — was that really only an hour ago?I’m still exhausted — or at least my body is. But everything keeps playing through my head.

I should have realized something was wrong, I keep thinking. I missed it. Had he been drinking when I came in? I'd just walked straight through the kitchen, intent on getting upstairs and getting to sleep. But he was always drinking anymore, so what was different about today?

What was he thinking? I wonder. If he wanted to kill himself there were easier ways to do it. Was that even what he was doing? But what else could it have been? Things have been tense since Tommy…

I glance at my watch again, noting the date this time— October 3, Tommy’s birthday. Of course.

I clench my eyes shut and rub a hand across my forehead, swerving away from that thought. I pull one of the pillows over my face. My tired mind insists it still smells like Tommy, but that’s impossible. He hasn’t slept in this bed for weeks.

I groan and roll over. The sheets tug at my clothes, which tug at the bandages on my leg. I pull the blankets to untwist them.

You don’t aim at something you’re not willing to shoot. It was one of the first lessons my uncle drilled into us as soon as we were old enough to hold a gun. But would he have actually squeezed the trigger? I’ve clamped down my own grief, staying busy to keep from facing it head on. But today, on Tommy’s birthday, I’m not sure I can blame him for the drinking. How do you cope with your son’s death in a world that’s gone to hell?

I massage my temples. I can feel the headache throbbing there, but I’m not sure now whether it’s from lack of sleep or holding back tears.

But my head is too full for sleep, and I can still see my uncle’s face when I close my eyes. Not the familiar scowl and clenched jaw I grew up with, though— just the destroyed neck, cloudy eyes, gnashing teeth.

If I’m not sleeping, I should be doing something useful. Maybe then I could at least ignore the guilt gnawing on my frayed nerves. I consider getting up, but then realize that would mean interacting with those strangers, and I just don’t have the energy.

I sigh. If I could have stopped him myself, would he still be alive? Or even before that, if things with Tommy…

If ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts… The half-remembered phrase comes out of nowhere. Something my grandmother used to say, I think.

Just sleep, I tell myself. I’ve been awake since yesterday afternoon, and as the minutes pass I can feel the exhaustion in my limbs like a physical weight. As soon as the street clears I need to leave, and I can’t do that if I’m too tired to function.

There’s no reason to stay here now. I picture the map of the town that I keep in my backpack. I’ve gone through most of the houses on this side of the river already anyway – they’re all pretty much empty. And I haven’t had much luck downtown either. We would’ve had to move soon anyway. Tommy was the only reason we stayed, but I can’t stay in this house alone, haunted by both of their memories.

I open my eyes to look around the room, but none of this stuff is personal. We just picked this house for its location. Places that got hit early on are the best — a lot got left behind in the first rush out of town, and a lot of the dead are too deteriorated to cause much trouble. A town that’s smaller, somewhat rural, but not too remote would be good. I make a mental list of everything to look for in a new place, hoping to bore myself to sleep.

Something thumps from down the hall. I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, but stop short of touching the floor. I hear muffled voices and wonder what they’re doing. And then I wonder if I should have been more careful about leaving them unsupervised with all my stuff. But then again, it’s not like they can leave.

I don’t know anything about those three, not really. It was easier than I would’ve thought to accept their help, though, when danger was closing in and I was unlikely to get away in time on my own. I would have left a trail of blood right to the door, and there’s no way I could have moved uncle Simon, though I guess that really didn’t help anyway. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, mentally backing away from that thought.

I look over at the fire escape ladder by the bed. It would be easy to leave. They wouldn’t notice, and there’s no way they would catch up. I could just disappear.

I roll the thought around in my head. I could survive on my own, couldn’t I? My uncle and I have barely spoken to each other in weeks, doing our best to stay out of each other’s way. These three are the first other people in at least a month to have crossed my path.

Something crashes to the floor just outside the door. I slide my feet onto the floor and pad quickly and silently to the door. I pull it open to see Anna standing in the hall. A large picture frame is on the floor, the glass shattered and lying all over the hallway. I look past her and see the other two in the doorway of the study. Drew is glaring this way. I look back at Anna and her face is a mix of guilt and horror. I open my mouth— not sure what I’ll even say— but a loud creak echoes up the stairs from the porch and my mouth snaps shut.

“The last one,” I say instead, hoping they understand. The younger guy nods once and quickly crosses the hall to the front bedroom. A moment later there’s a loud boom as the explosive detonates. I look at the glass on the floor and carefully edge closer. My boots are still sitting on the floor just inside the study.

“Here,” Drew says, coming down the hall. He steps halfway through the mess and holds out a hand to me, gesturing to his boot. Anna backs into the wall, shaking glass off her own shoes. I hesitate and eye the mess, but I’ve already had glass pulled out of my foot once today. I step on his boot and let him help me across the glass. As soon as I’m clear, I quickly take the last few steps to the stairs. There’s a resounding thump at the door.

I backtrack to the study and shove my feet into my boots. The cut on my right foot throbs painfully, but I ignore it as I perch on the arm of the couch to quickly slip the still-tied laces over the hooks on my boots. I see my gun and holster with my knife on the coffee table then and glance toward the door, but Drew has already walked past toward the stairs. I slip the holster over my shoulders and clip it in place, and then quickly slip the knife sheath back on my belt.

I pass Anna— standing with one hand on the doorframe— on my way back into the hall. I pause next to Drew at the top of the stairs. The creaking of the porch, the groaning of the boards over the door already, and the moaning and growls of the dead are growing louder. Why aren’t they moving away?

The other boy is standing to the side in the bedroom door with my rifle. They must have fixed the strap somehow, because his own rifle is now slung across his back. I swerve around him into the room and step to the nearest window. A good number of the dead are back on the porch already, and there’s another group moving back toward the house from the direction of the decoy car.

“There’s a red Mustang at the end of the street,” I say, looking back at the younger guy. He nods and quickly crosses to the other window. He slides it open and fires a shot down the street. The wailing alarm starts again, but as I watch not many are going for it. Why are they ignoring it? I wonder with a jolt of panic.

“Shoot it again when it goes off.” The boy nods and I see Anna coming in with her bag on her back. I watch out the window for a moment longer. Is it really not going to work? A few stagger in confused turns, not sure which direction to go, but too many are still heading for the porch. I turn from the window and skirt around Anna on my way out the door. From the top stairs I can hear one of the boards pop alarmingly.

I turn toward the study and bump into Drew. He steadies me without looking — his attention divided between the front room and the stairs. He has his backpack on too, and another hanging in his hand. I quickly sidestep and brush past him to enter the study. I look at the couch and regret emptying that bag. I quickly shove it all back in. Once that’s done, I toss it by the door and survey the rest of the room.

The car alarm goes off for a second, then starts up again after another muffled shot from the rifle.

I snatch up my backpack and head to the desk. There’s a second handgun in the drawer, which I slip into my bag as all three enter the room.

“It’s not drawing them away,” Anna says. She sounds kind of breathless and panicked. I glance up as I zip up the pocket of my backpack and see her clutching the straps of her bag. The younger guy appears behind her and she releases one strap to slip her hand into his. I look away and grab my jacket, slipping it on before slinging my backpack over one shoulder. Everything else is in totes and would be too hard to bring.

Drew enters the room and picks up my uncle’s shotgun from where it was leaning against the wall. Anna shoots me a look, but I ignore it.

“Can you shoot?” I ask her. I haven’t seen any weapons on her yet. She looks startled, but then nods. After a moment’s hesitation, I pull my bag back off and take the handgun out. “It’s full,” I say, holding it out to her. She takes it with a nod. A loud crack sounds from downstairs.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“We can get out through the kitchen if we hurry,” Drew says when I pause to pick up the duffle bag. He holds out his hand for it. I hesitate and he seems to realize what he’s doing, but it’s a heavy bag and will slow me down. I hand it over before he pulls his hand all the way back. He slings the strap over his shoulder, covering the strap of his own backpack and the shotgun.

“There’s a pickup out back,” I say. They look surprised, and I let myself feel smug for just a second. “And we can get to it from up here,” I continue, pointing down the hall to Tommy’s room.

The two guys exchange a look, but another loud crack from the front door has us all backing down the hallway. Another nail groans as it’s forced out of the doorframe, and then clanks against the floor. Screws next time, I think, crunching across the broken glass and pushing the bedroom door open. The others are right behind me as I cross to the window and pull it up. Matt sees the fire escape ladder and I move to the side as he quickly hefts it over the window sill and Drew shuts the bedroom door. The rungs clank against the big Ford something-or-other that we found at the nearby used car lot.

I look out the window and scan what I can see of the alley. It’s surprisingly clear. When I move to descend, though, Drew catches my shoulder. I flinch back a step.

“I’ll go,” he says. He drops the duffle bag and glances through the window. After his own scan, he ducks under the top window and scoops up the duffle bag before climbing down. I watch as he descends, making it look a little too easy.

When he reaches the bottom, he steadies the ladder with one foot and looks down the alley before gesturing for the next person to come down. I look back at the other two, and the guy prods Anna toward the window. She tucks the handgun into her hoodie pocket and climbs out. I look toward the door and listen to the creaking and groaning of the barricade downstairs.

“Hey,” the boy says, drawing my attention. He nods toward the window, keeping his eyes on the door and the rifle ready. Anna is already down, so I swing a leg over the window sill. The butterfly bandages near my knee pull tight. I carefully maneuver through and get a good purchase on the metal rungs. I squeeze each rung tightly with my sweaty hands.

Anna steadies me with a hand on my arm when I reach the bottom. I wipe my palms on my jeans and take a deep breath. Matt climbs out the window next, pulling it as far closed as it will go. As he descends, I slip around to the back of the truck. I twist the handle of the truck cab window and let the hydraulics lift it. Once we’re all at the rear bumper, Drew tosses in the duffel bag. They hesitate then, exchanging looks.

“There’s not a lot of room up front,” I say, realizing they might be waiting for an explicit invitation. Drew nods at the other two and all three of them shrug out of their backpacks and add them to the already loaded bed. After a moment, Drew sets the shotgun in the bed too. Matt still has both rifles, and I keep my backpack out too.

“Keys?” Drew asks. He barely spares me a glance as he continues to watch the alley, shifting his attention from one end to the other constantly.

“They’re in it,” I answer quickly. We split up, Drew and I to the driver's side and the other two toward the passenger side. Drew reaches for the door and pulls it open, holding it there. I know he wants me to get in first, that he’s claiming the drivers position. I briefly consider arguing— it’s technically my truck now— but leaving quickly is more important, so I shrug off my backpack and climb in.

There’s only the front seat. We hadn’t thought we’d need anything more with only three people, so I end up squished between Drew and Anna with my bag on my lap. Drew slams the door shut and I reach up for the visor. The lone key, still with the dealer key tag on it, drops into Drew’s lap. He quickly picks it up and shoves it into the ignition.

As soon as the engine starts he shifts into gear and presses down on the gas. The truck lurches down the dirt alley, passing the backs of the other three houses on the block and then bumping onto the street. I brace my hand against the dash as he makes a hard left turn, then prop my left foot on the dash instead and unzip my bag to pull out my well-worn atlas.

“Take a right here,” I instruct as I find my place on the map. I see Drew’s left hand twitch for the turn signal, but he stops himself from actually using it. He turns the wheel sharply, going faster than strictly necessary. It feels like a carnival ride— we all slide left and my head slams into Drew’s shoulder as Anna’s elbow hits my ribs.

“Left on Belleview,” I say through gritted teeth. As he banks left onto Belleview, barely touching the brakes, I regret a little that I let him be the driver. I push my foot hard against the dashboard to keep from sliding into Anna.

“Where are we headed?” Drew asks, glancing in the rearview mirror. He checks the other mirrors and the street, then eases off the gas a bit. I drop my bag to the floor under my leg and flip the atlas to the state map, trying to remember the next town we were going to hit. “We can probably get to Jasper by sundown,” I decide, though a quick glance at the speedometer tells me we might make it further than I think. I flip the atlas back to the map of this town and find our position again. “After we make a stop,” I add. Drew glances past me at the other boy, but neither say anything.

I find the closer of the blue circles marked at the edges of town and then glance out the windshield. “A right up here.”

Drew nods and takes the next right. I flex my leg again, and I hear the dashboard creak in protest. I clamp down on an annoyed remark and continue directing us out of the residential area.

“So,” Anna says after a few more turns, “What are we picking up?” I rub a finger across the blue circle on the map.

“Supplies,” I answer. She looks over her shoulder at the totes in the truck bed, and I shake my head.

“That’s mostly camping gear,” I explain. “Blankets, pillows, tarps...” I trail off with a shrug. Her brows raise, but she doesn’t say anything more. We approach a graffiti-covered underpass and I tell Drew to stop under it. He glances at me but then slowly brings the truck to a stop. I set the atlas on the dashboard. Drew puts the truck in park and turns the engine off.

I unsnap the strap that holds my gun in its holster. Drew’s hand is still on the key as he scans the area and checks each mirror slowly. Finally, he nods to the other boy, who carefully passes one of the rifles— mine, I realize— over to Drew. They both open their doors and I follow Drew out while Anna stays put in the truck.

Just under the bridge are three battered cars — one sandwiched between two others — on the left side of the road. I pull my gun out, holding it in the two-handed grip my uncle drilled into us. I swallow down a lump in my throat and scan for any movement as I approach the cars. I can hear the footsteps behind me. I slow slightly to let them get closer, suddenly nervous about being so far out in front. They could easily return to the truck and leave me here, I realize. I stop for a moment and glance back, but both of them are right there.

Once I reach the closest car, I slip my left hand from under the gun and reach for the rear fender. Tucked up under the wheel well is a magnetic hide-a-key box. I pluck it out, slide it open, and drop it into my jacket pocket after removing the key.

The key unlocks the trunk of the middle car. Inside it are two 5-gallon gas cans and a heavy plastic tote. I pull out one of the gas cans as the other two come up behind me. Drew tests the weight of the tote, which I know is filled with water bottles and canned foods. After scanning the area again, he swings the rifle strap over his shoulder and hefts the tote out of the trunk. The other boy switched the other rifle to one hand and reaches for the second gas can. I quietly close the trunk before we head back, leaving the key in it.

Lugging the gas can one-handed, we make our way quickly to the back of the truck. It bumps against my left leg with each step, and the cuts on my right leg and foot ache by the time I reach the tailgate.

I have to set the gas down to open the cap, and I tuck my gun back into its holster before climbing up into the bed. The younger boy passes me the gas cans one at a time and I wedge them between a tote and the side of the bed. I rearrange a few things to clear a space near the tailgate for the tote. He lifts the heavy tote onto the tailgate while Drew scans the area around us. I move my foot well out of the way and he lowers it into the truck bed.

“Who are you?” he asks suddenly. He studies the contents of the truck bed before fixing his scrutinizing gaze on me. I glance out at the road, avoiding his gaze and wondering the same about them.

“Sara,” I finally say, going for the most obvious answer. His slightly confused look tells me that wasn’t what he was asking for, but I ignore it and move to climb back out of the bed. He backs up, and both boys turn toward me as my feet land on the pavement.

“And you’re Drew, Anna, and…” I trail off, leaving him to fill in.

“Matt,” he supplies. I nod as Drew reaches over me to pull the cab closed and twist the handle to lock it shut. “That’s not really what I meant, though,” he adds.

“What?” I ask, but my eyes are on the road behind us. Something stumbles out of an alley a few blocks away. I point toward it and both of them look.

“We done here?” Drew asks. I nod, and all three of us move back toward the front of the truck. Matt quickly does an introduction with Anna once we’re all back in our same cramped seats.

“And I meant,” he says afterwards, “how did you do all this?” He waves a hand, indicating the truck bed. I take a moment to think about all the time it took to get set up in this town as I tuck my backpack behind my leg on the floor. Matt leans forward slightly to look past Anna at me when I don’t answer, and Drew starts the engine. I point him to the on ramp for the highway on the other side of the underpass.

“The house, this truck, the supplies,” Matt continues. I shrug and look through the back window, not wanting to think of Tommy and I carefully gathering and placing everything under my uncle’s direction. I grab the atlas from the dash. “And that,” Matt adds as Drew turns left onto the ramp when I point. I find our position on the map, then glance at the rest of it, not quite sure what he’s getting at. I can feel his and Anna’s eyes still on me though.

“What are all those symbols?” Anna clarifies. Drew speeds up as he merges onto the four-lane highway, and I pass the book to her. She and Matt study the current page.

“I crossed off the buildings we cleared and places we left things,” I explain, watching as they continue to study it for a moment longer. Anna then flips through the other pages, pausing on the other page with several x’s and two more blue circles. My eyes instantly shift to the dark reddish brown stain that’s soaked into the corner of the back pages. Matt notices it too and runs his thumb over it.

“But the other stuff,” Anna says. I shift my gaze from the atlas to her. “The weapons, all those supplies at the house, and this,” she says, indicating the truck again. I shrug again as Matt returns to the other map and passes the atlas back to me. Drew inches the speedometer past 70 and I prop my left foot on the dash again.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I say at last. I prop the map on my leg and cross my arms tightly over my stomach. A knot of guilt settles in as I think of my uncle and all his survival lessons. We resented them at the time, all those trips to the dumpy little hunting cabin, no power, no heat, and only the smelly, rickety old bunks dominating the space. Tramping through the woods for days on end, shooting until our arms shook, skinning and gutting things I could barely stand to eat afterwards— it wasn’t my idea of a good time. But he taught us everything. Maybe the gruff, surly care was all he knew, and now I regret ever complaining about it.

“Who was he?” Anna asks after several miles have passed in tense silence. I shift in my seat, knowing exactly what she’s asking. I brush against Drew’s arm and notice that his hands are clenched around the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white.

“My uncle,” I finally mumble. I smooth my hands across the atlas and focus in on our route, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat.