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KATE
My arms pump, my legs churn, and my breath wheezes in and out of my lungs. Sweat flies from my temples like raindrops.
Ben labors beside me. The white chef coat he wears is an odd juxtaposition to his military fatigue pants and orange shoes.
We race through the streets of Arcata. A single word burns in my brain: Creekside.
I have to get back to Creekside. We have to warn Carter and the others. We have to keep them safe.
We have to protect the home we’ve worked so hard to build. No fucking way am I giving any of it up without a fight.
I mentally trace the off-ramps that lead to campus. The high ground location is natural defense, but it won’t be enough to deter the massive horde. The swarm is too big, too wide. Some of them will naturally find their way to the off-ramps, to the roads that lead right to Humboldt University.
Cars. Maybe we can use cars to build a barrier.
I dismiss the idea. Cars won’t be enough. We’re going to have to think of something else. We—
“Kate!” Ben’s frantic whisper claws at me. His hand latches onto my arm, dragging me to a stop.
The force of the stop is so abrupt I wheel backward. I swing my gaze around in a frantic arc, looking for danger.
A chorus of growls sends a chill across my shoulder blades. Coming straight for us is a pack of zombies two-dozen strong. If there’s an alpha there, we’re fucked.
“Which way?” Ben hisses.
“Cut through downtown.”
With our northbound route blocked, I lead us northwest. My chest constricts from the hard running and near-crippling fear.
Keening fills the air. It seems to come from everywhere at once. From the freeway. From the city streets.
From right in front of us.
We skid to a halt as we near the Arcata Plaza. The fire I set six months ago burned half of it to the ground. Milling around in the charred remains is another thick clump of zombies.
They’ve been here ever since the fire. The crackling flames and the noise of the collapsing buildings drew them. With nothing else to occupy them, they’ve remained here.
Now, for the first time in months, they have something to stir them up. Near the center of the plaza is the same alpha we saw yesterday. The faded red baseball cap makes him easy to spot. A mass gathers in a tight knot around the alpha as it growls and clicks.
The calls of the swarm on the freeway shiver through the air, a faint yet distinct buzz. The alpha zom, seeming to hear the call of its brethren, lets up a long keen.
The zombies in the plaza react. En masse, with the alpha zom in their center, they begin a migration toward 101. They reach out with their arms, fumbling their blind way forward. Moaning gathers in a collective sound and grates at my gut.
Gooseflesh prickles down my arms. Everything is changing. Less than a month ago, we didn’t have to worry about alpha zoms. A good pair of running shoes and a decent amount of stealth was enough to get by.
In a flash of clarity, I realize that won’t be enough anymore.
We can’t let the alpha zom leave this plaza. Its presence is too powerful. We don’t need another alpha among the horde on 101. We don’t need this group added to the hundreds already marching on us.
I turn to Ben. “We have to shoot the alpha. He can’t leave the plaza.”
Under normal circumstances, this comment from me would probably elicit a hearty I told you so, or at the very least, an About fucking time.
There isn’t time for any of that. Ben gives me a single tight-lipped nod, his grip tightening on his rifle.
“Cover me,” he says.
I drop into a crouch, maintaining surveillance of our street corner as Ben climbs onto a burned-out Hummer. The interior is charred black, but the exterior is still strong enough to hold his weight.
“Get ready to haul ass as soon as I fire.” He raises his rifle to his shoulder and sights along the barrel.
My mouth is dry. The gunshot will bring every zombie in the plaza streaming in our direction. My eyes dart along the ruined storefronts and back down the way we came, searching for our safest retreat.
The rifle cracks two times. The red hat disappears. The zombies boil, a chorus of keens ripping through the air. They turn, lurching in our direction.
Ben leaps to the ground, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. His mouth is set in a grim line as he takes in the pack of zombies closing in on us.
Before the apocalypse, I considered myself a daredevil when I floored it through a yellow light. I’d dart through an intersection and scan my rearview mirror for any sign of a cop car. It drove Kyle, my late husband, crazy, and got me a lecture or an annoyed eye roll every single time.
What I attempt now makes my old-world, yellow-light-running ways look pathetic.
Doubling back will take too much time. Everything is riding on us making it to Creekside ahead of the swarm on 101.
The gap between the pack of zombies on the burned-out storefronts is only twenty feet wide and closing fast as they near us.
I squeeze Ben’s hand in silent signal.
“Motherfucker,” he growls, but he doesn’t back down.
I tear straight down the narrow opening, danger be damned. Beside me, Ben never falters. He puts himself between me and the oncoming horde as we charge forward.
The gap narrows. Our feet are soft against the asphalt, but we are far from silent. Our clothing rustles. Our feet tap. Our running packs whisper against our backs.
The zombies hear us. I see it in the way every head turns in our direction.
Arms reach for us. Keening rises up among the pack. They pick up the pace, lumbering toward us. I grit my teeth and pour on a burst of speed.
This is for Carter. For Jenna. For Johnny. For Lila. For Eric. For Caleb. For Ash. For Jesus.
My kids. My family.
Ben smacks straight into the first of the undead who reaches us. He shoves the zombie so hard the thing is pitched ten feet across the ground. It careens into several of its fellows, knocking them all to the street.
Two more reach us, the others gaining speed behind them.
There isn’t time to fight. If we stop, we’ll get swarmed.
I follow Ben’s lead and body slam straight into the nearest one, knocking it to the ground. I leap over it just as Ben shoves another one away. We rip free of the gathering crowd and keep running.
By now, the entire pack is aware of our presence. We have to outrun them. It’s our only chance. With the alpha out of the picture, we have a chance at losing them.
We sprint out of the plaza, the pack keening behind us as they follow. More keening goes up from nearby streets, making me sick with fear and anxiety. There’s so many of them it’s impossible to tell if there’s an alpha among them.
I’m grateful for the many hours spent running up and down the bleacher steps. I’m grateful for the god-awful, two-hour sets of wind sprint I made everyone do. I’m glad for every drop of sweat I dropped on the track in the past six months. It’s the only thing keeping us alive right now.
As we charge into an intersection, another milling pack of zombies stumbles in our direction. We hurtle past them.
One snags my sleeve as I race by. I yelp, spinning around to yank myself free.
Ben is there a flash, stabbing his knife through the monster’s head. He rips me loose, pushing me away.
“Go!” he snaps.
Two zombies stumble into him, latching onto him with clawed hands.
No fucking way is this man going to die on my watch. I grab a weapon in each hand and leap into the fray.
One knife slams through the cheek of a young teenage girl. My zom bat finds the temple of the second zombie, a man in a tracksuit. Ben kicks a third zombie as it reaches us, his foot connecting with enough force to crumple its nose and face.
Our attack leaves three bodies on the ground. We jump back as another four undead reach us. They trip on the bodies and go down.
It’s the opening we need. Ben and I break free and keep running.
North and east. North and east. We zigzag through the streets, detouring when we must, but always pushing farther north and east, back to Creekside.
It feels like hours, but in truth, it can’t be more than twenty minutes.
As last we reach the overpass that connects Humboldt University to the rest of Arcata.
“About fucking time,” Ben wheezes. The side and back of his chef’s coat are stained with blood. His close-cropped hair gleams with sweat. His face and neck bead with perspiration.
“Thank God,” I gasp.
As we race onto the overpass, my stomach drops as I get a clear look at Highway 101 beneath us.
The wide earthen trench that houses the four-lane freeway is crammed with new zombies. The bodies we dropped over the side while clearing the campus, combined with the maze of abandoned cars and zombies already living there, has turned the road below us into a labyrinth.
The passage of the motorcycles and cars from Eureka has slowed to a near crawl due to the obstacles in the road. I see kids and families in the vehicles. My heart aches at the sight. They’re going to be obliterated, pulverized between the horde behind them and the wreckage in front of them.
The zoms bear down inexorably, gaining on the poor people. The swath following them spreads east and west on either side of the freeway, the monsters stomping over and through whatever is in their path.
To my horror, several of the cars and motorcycles break away from the freeway. They veer east, taking the off-ramp that leads straight to Humboldt University. They roar past us and onto campus, punching the accelerators.
Two of the maelstroms remain focused on the vehicles struggling to make their way north on the freeway. But the third maelstrom shifts its trajectory. The zoms around the easternmost alpha surge toward the off-ramp. There are hundreds upon hundreds of them.
They’re headed straight for campus.
And that’s not the worst of it. When I first saw the horde advancing from Eureka, I’d seen three distinct groups led by alphas. But now I see other small whorls of zombies, signifying smaller groups within the three main forces. Like platoons in a company
I freeze, mouth hanging open in horror as I take it all in. It’s even worse than I imagined. The campus is going to drown in zombies.
“Explosives,” Ben growls. “We need some goddamn C-4 and rocket launchers right fucking now.”
We turn and keep running.