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  “Weeeeee,” she squealed.

  She chucked the glass across the room, watching, in mild horror tinged with drunken amusement, as it shattered against her framed U2 poster from the band’s 1992-93 Zoo TV Tour.

  Startled, the cat leapt from her side with a judgmental hiss and scampered into the bedroom. Shards of gin-slicked glass ran down the singer’s bug-eye sunglasses like slugs.

  “Sorry, babies,” she said, apologizing to both Bonos.

  She started to cry. What had she become? She’d once been a professional writer, penning a trio of bestselling romance novels in the ’90s. But her creative streak had long since shriveled up, as had the royalty checks from her defunct publisher. Nowadays, she spent her days working as a data-entry clerk for an insurance company—mindless work for a mindless life.

  Her blurry gaze found a framed photograph, resting on the end table. A kind child on the beach had snapped the image last year. Her eyes focused: California, herself and Joe resting in the sand by coastline of the big blue Pacific. The endlessness of the ocean and rekindled romance in her heart, made her consider limitless possibilities on that hopeful day. She’d vowed that she would start writing again, and Joe, tenderly embracing her, had promised it was only a matter of time before he left Eve for her.

  Looking back, the memory seemed much older than a year. And pledges made on that day rang hollow.

  Two weeks ago had been her sister’s wedding. The ceremony was beautiful: the altar bathed in flickering candlelight, shadows dancing across the faces of the bride and groom. Decked out in a stunning blue dress, standing as maid of honor, she’d wept through the duration of the ritual. Her sister, Lisa, had shot her a loving look that seemed to say, “Someday this will be you.” In that moment, she hated Lisa—five years younger, and happy. And someday, despite kind intentions, didn’t feel like it would ever arrive.

  “I love you, Joe,” she cried, clutching the photograph to her chest. “More than anything in the world, I love you.”

  Then, mercifully, she drifted off to dream, as she always did, of Joe.

  * * * *

  What the hell do I need with cages? Shane Jenkins asked himself.

  But there they were: three big-ass cages and he just had to have them. That’s what Mother wanted. And what Mother wanted, he wanted.

  A Wal-Mart employee, a smirk on his acne-ridden face, sidled up behind Shane. Mother eyed the interloper suspiciously; hell, she eyed everyone that way. But the kid looked all right—maybe a few quarts short of a full pan, but not a threat, even by Mother’s cagey standards.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the kid asked. According to the red-white-and-blue nametag on his vest, he was Casey.

  “Yeah, Casey, you can start by telling me what the fuck these big cages are used for?”

  Mother cringed. “Language, Shane,” she chided.

  “Animals,” Casey answered without hesitation. “Big dogs and such.”

  Looking at Mother, Shane said, “But we ain’t got no dogs. Why, heck, you could fit people in cages big as these.”

  Smile widening, Mother nodded. The voice in the depths of his mind assured him she was right. He didn’t understand—rarely did—but she was always right.

  “Sir?” Casey asked in a bemused voice.

  “Sold,” Shane blurted. Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, he added, “Now, Casey, you think you can help me load these things into my truck?”

  * * * *

  “I can’t seem to find my pink panties anywhere.” Eve moaned.

  This is just like her. Joe Plainview heaved a sigh. The dumb bitch labeled and inventoried everything, as if all of her possessions were King Solomon’s Treasure; the kind of woman who stuck a nametag inside every book she owned, including her three Cassandra Parrish novels.

  Joe often found himself marveling at the spines of Cass’s three volumes on Eve’s cluttered bookshelves—not that he’d ever taken the time to read them, or any book for that matter. Life was a game to him. The game was a contact sport. And the name of one of his secret lovers repeated three times upon the mantle of his wife’s material adoration was a trophy.

  But the championship trophy, the thing he’d spent years restoring to better-than-original perfection, was the 1971 Pontiac Firebird in the garage. He loved the car more than anything or anyone in the world and would never dream of putting his name on her. She had her own name: Cherry.

  A lot of his trucker friends listened to audio books to pass the lonely nights on the road, but not Joe. He thought about Cherry—her glossy orange coat, the black racing stripes on her hood, the angry roar and alternately loving purr of her infallible 455—while he listened to Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard; he never got tired of the good stuff those boys had laid down. When stopped for a break, he never felt like reading, although Eve and Cass routinely sent him away with books they promised he’d like. Hell no. He liked to fuck.

  Certain his wife’s precious panties were mixed up in Cass’s laundry, he fixed his face with concern. “Ah, sweetie, I wouldn’t worry about it. Were they the fancy kind from Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Well, no—”

  “Then let’s not worry too much, okay? I’ll pick you up a few packs from the road.”

  “It’s not that, it’s... Well it’s strange that something would just disappear—”

  “Things vanish all the time, hon. I once left Michigan with eight pallets of Rice Krispies, and when I got them to Saint Louis, you know what happened? There were only seven of them on the truck; mystery was never solved. Thank God they weren’t pallets of cigarettes and booze, or we’d be on the government tit right now.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. He’d left the eighth pallet in the Kellogg’s warehouse in Battle Creek and taken a serious reprimand for it, too. But the story fit nicely. He could really sling the bullshit when he needed to, which was almost always.

  Eve smiled, smacking him playfully on the chest. “Oh, Joe, you and your stories from the road... You’ll have to write a book about all your adventures one of these days.”

  Why? So you have another damn book to personalize with your infernal name like you fucking wrote it?

  He smiled, taking her into his arms. “I believe I might just do that, sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear.

  Her fragile body wilted in his strong embrace. Lifting her lithe form, he took her to bed, Cherry’s engine roaring through his mind.

  Chapter Two

  If September came in like a lion, it left like a bomb.

  Day and night, all over the world, snow and ice spat from gray, angry skies. Even Los Angeles, a city that hadn’t seen snow since 1962, reported more than thirty inches by the middle of October.

  Cities shut down.

  In many places, power cut out.

  Roads were impassable.

  Airports closed indefinitely.

  Every country declared a state of emergency. But not a single government was able to respond to the scope of the disaster.

  The next Ice Age, the pundits declared.

  The End of Days, proclaimed the blindly devout.

  Politicians on the right argued with the left about climate change, mockingly insistent on calling it global warming—as in, you call this global warming?

  And politicians on the left, not wanting to break with routine, retreated without a fight.

  But most people didn’t care about the politics of weather. They were hungry, cold, and isolated. They wanted—needed—help. Those with electricity settled for the prosaic hum of television coverage. Those without power found religion.

  Thanks to branding from around the clock cable news, the disaster became The October Blast; a name that, to many, sounded more gala-event-hosted-by-Dick-Clark than global calamity. But the name stuck, complete with 3-D graphics and ominous music.

  And with The Blast came a bug.

  The Center for Disease Control, having neither the resources nor the required range of motion to track the source of the virus, could not isolate
or classify the strain. So the infection became—again, thanks to cable news—The Blast Flu. The new flu was reported to be mild: only fatal to the aged or already unhealthy. The CDC advised the sick to stay as warm as possible, get plenty of rest, and drink plenty of fluids.

  But, despite assurances, people—healthy people—began to die like flies...

  …and then they started to rise again...

  * * * *

  October 30

  Eyes glued to the computer screen, Amanda Herbert watched the brutal footage again.

  From a carved-out path in Times Square, a reporter commented about the tall ridges of snow, towering above him. The camera panned up to show iconic billboards and buildings above the glacial trench, flakes twirling earthward.

  Suddenly, the image became erratic. Crunching snow followed by a shrill, off-camera scream that crackled in Amanda’s overworked speakers.

  The image spun, destabilized. A sharp thwack as the camera met the ground.

  However many times she’d watched the clip, Amanda’s breathing quickened, her heart a sour snowball in her throat. In the other room, she could hear labored moans, perversely in synch with the video. Travis had a fever of one hundred and two, and with no way to get him to a hospital, she was terrified. Situation hopeless; so what else could she do but watch?

  A skyward Dutch angle framed the scene: what appeared to be a homeless man—filthy coat, icicles of hair pointing down from a red stocking cap—had clambered astride the cameraman. The homeless man, covered in snow, fought to maintain purchase on his quarry’s bowed back. The cameraman flailed and wailed. And the reporter shrieked, pressed up against an icy wall.

  The cameraman and his assailant collapsed to the ground, the image bobbing then stabilizing: two faces, vagrant and victim, in frame, only the attacker...wasn’t a man—eyes milky white, maw lined with serrated teeth, skin ashen gray...

  A zombie!

  The zombie bit deep into the man’s neck and then yanked a bloody strand of flesh upward, exposing muscle and nerve endings. Blood spatter clouded the left side of the image as the gasping man was dragged out of frame.

  The reporter frantically puffed white clouds, eyes closed. An arm cracked through the icy wall behind him, pulling him backward. Off balance, he slumped to the ground, screaming.

  From outside the shot came sounds of the cameraman’s fate: gnashing teeth, cracking bones, moist rending of flesh...

  Breaking further through the tall ridge of snow and ice, the jutting arm became a short, dark woman in a lavender coat. The reporter, on the ground, raised his hands in front of his face. “No!” he pleaded.

  The female zombie leapt upon him...

  Amanda’s Bohemian Rhapsody ring-tone cut through the tension, making her jump out of her seat. She stopped the video, snatched the phone from the desk, and took a deep breath, glancing at the display screen.

  Incoming call... Geoff.

  She hesitated, pressed TALK, sat down, and put the phone to her ear. Silence, then: “Yes?” she muttered.

  “Amanda?”

  “Hi.”

  This wasn’t the first time Geoff had called since she’d moved, but it was the first time she’d answered. She text messaged him occasionally to tell him how well things were going. But hearing the strained quality of her voice, veiling misery would be next to impossible.

  “Are you all right?”

  His voice dripped with worry. He often slipped into a parental tone, as if the ten years between them were considerably more. But now—teetering on the precarious edge between independent bitch and damsel in distress, a budding part of her welcomed his worry.

  “Amanda…you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m...here.”

  “You all right?”

  “Um...I’m alive...still.”

  “Well, that’s good, I—”

  “Look, Geoff—” A shadow grew across the carpet. She swiveled on her seat to see Travis, leaning in the doorway. Sweat beaded on his pale flesh like condensation on glass.

  “I was just concerned about you,” Geoff said. “You haven’t been returning my calls.”

  Travis’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. Geoff, he mouthed.

  “This isn’t a good time to talk,” she muttered.

  “Well, when is a—”

  Ending the call, she met Travis’s frosty glare with what she hoped were guiltless eyes. “Sweetheart, you look terrible.”

  “I feel terrible.” He moaned. “Who’s Geoff?”

  “He’s an old friend from work.”

  “Do you always hang up on friends?”

  “Like I said, he’s an old friend. I didn’t feel much like talking to him.”

  “Then why’d you answer the goddamn phone?”

  “I thought it might be...about my parents.”

  “Funny, I didn’t hear you ask about them.”

  There was a threatening edge to his voice, almost predatory. Instinctively, she searched the room for a means of protection, fixed on the Louisville Slugger leaning against the inside wall of the room’s cluttered closet, and prayed she wouldn’t need it.

  “You don’t touch me anymore, Amanda. Do you know how that...hurts me?” Travis was crying now, fury dancing in his eyes.

  “You’re infected, sweetheart. I ...I ...do you want me to get sick, too?”

  On trembling legs, he began his approach.

  Don’t let him touch you, the voice of self-preservation cried from the primordial depths of her brain. And even before the thought was finished, she’d dashed across the room. She snatched the Louisville Slugger from the closet, and then, spinning to face Travis, cocked it back, choking up on the handle like her father had taught her as a child. “Stay away from me,” she shouted.

  “You fucking cunt.”

  “Just back up and...go back to bed. I don’t want to hurt you, but—”

  “You wanted me to get sick. You made me get sick.” Anger had a new mate in his eyes: insanity. Lips quivering, he cracked a grim smile. “You did this to me.”

  He took a step toward her, and she responded with a step back. “Go to sleep, Travis. I want you… No! I need you to get well.”

  “But you know that won’t happen.”

  He lunged at her.

  Sidestepping his clumsy attack, she swung the bat at his head. A dull crack. Wood connected with his temple. Head jerking askew, something snapping, he collapsed to the floor with a choked gasp, his body splayed like the chalk outline in a cheap murder mystery.

  She didn’t need to check his pulse. The stillness of his form told her he was dead.

  * * * *

  The power had been out in Springfield for more than a week, and Joe and Cass knew nothing about the reanimated corpses.

  Shivering from fever and the growing chill of the room, Joe stared out the window of Cass’s bedroom with vacant eyes. In the parking lot, obscured under a growing mountain of white, sat his cab-over Pete. The freight box had already been delivered three weeks ago to a destination a few blocks from Cass’s place. At that time, he could have made it home—should have gone home—although the drive would have been treacherous, as it had been on his way into town. But Cass had convinced him to stay. And now the highway that led to West Plains was closed. So were all other routes out.

  Huddled under a duvet and a pile of gaudy afghan blankets, she stirred. “What did you say, Joe?” she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  She was a fool to keep sleeping with him. He was sick; had spent most of the night vomiting. But her love for him seemed to know no boundaries. He guessed he should be grateful; none of his other women were nearly as devoted as Cass, and, for the most part, he liked her. He even told her routinely that he loved her, although he wasn’t sure it was exactly true. Still, he knew the words were important for her to hear, moreover they kept her around. After all, she was good where it counted, between the sheets, and he didn’t want to lose his favorite fuck-buddy.

>   His mind drifting, he wondered how Eve was holding up. Not that he particularly cared. He’d tried to call her a couple times, to no avail. He imagined her at Wal-Mart or Target if the storm had finally abated there, spending more of his money on things to label with her name. Eve refused to carry a cellphone, having become convinced they caused cancer after watching a 60 Minutes report years ago. So getting in touch with her was not always easy, even under the best of circumstances.

  Cass was slowly rising. “Is it still snowing?”

  A grim expression on his face, he nodded.

  “When all of this clears up, we should go back to California,” she said. “I had so much fun there last year. I even enjoyed the drive out, getting to see how you work.”

  He pulled his black Smith & Wesson 1911 from the nightstand and, sitting on the edge of the bed, studied it. The gun normally rested in a hidden compartment beneath the driver’s seat of his eighteen-wheeler, so he rarely had the opportunity to marvel at its sublime form—the vertical slashes across the slide that ran parallel to the handle, the perfectly designed grip with thumb guard. He loved the gun, but it was no replacement for Cherry; a sudden flash of the garage collapsed in on her sent a chill up his back. “Do you really think this will clear up?” he intoned.

  A gentle hand on his shoulder, she said, “It has to, Joe. It just has to.”

  He sensed optimism in her voice, and it scared him. How could anyone be happy in the face of death? Cut off from the rest of the world. No TV. No radio, either, since Cass didn’t stock batteries in the apartment. And there was no way to charge his phone, which had to be left off most of the time to preserve what juice remained in it. The few things they could eat—dried and canned goods—were running out fast. He didn’t think it would take long before the building’s pipes froze completely and water stopped running from the faucets.

  “You finally cornered me,” he said, shaking his head.

  She laughed nervously. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you—”