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  “Thank you,” she had said.

  The music swelled in the background.

  “He didn’t look like your type,” Joe had responded in a calm, confident voice.

  She met his gaze and was immediately entranced: his hair long but well groomed, smile wide and welcoming, eyes kind and understanding. She collapsed into his arms without thought, fell in love without hesitation.

  Now he was dead.

  The song ended, and then started to repeat...

  And Joe’s eyes shot open.

  * * * *

  Shane was covered in blood, huddled inside one of his cages in the cellar. His body trembled, the family scrapbook splayed open at his feet. His fingertips left crimson streaks across Ginny’s smiling visage.

  He opened his mouth, jammed the barrel of the revolver into it, and cocked the gun. The taste of bloody metal made him wince and gag, his finger tightening on the trigger. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to do this. After he’d been fired from the police department, Ginny had found him in a similar state, ready to end it all.

  “What the fuck?” she’d muttered.

  He could tell she was scared. More scared than he was. “I’m nothing,” he’d said. “I’m a worthless sack of shit.”

  “No. You made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “I knew...what I was...doing. I wanted us to have nice things. I wanted you to...to respect me, love me.”

  She was silent.

  “Can’t even say you love me, can ya?”

  “Shane, I...I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a couple of days now.”

  “You’re leaving me, ain’t ya? Been seeing it in your eyes for months now. You ain’t gonna stop—”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  That had made him want to stay alive then.

  And it made him want to stay alive now.

  He dropped the gun to the floor of the cage. “Mother never liked ya much, Ginny,” he whispered, looking down at her face. “But you went and saved me. And if ya hadn’t done it like ya did, I wouldn’t be here now.” He snatched her picture from the book and stuffed it in his mouth. Chewing the glossy paper was unpleasant, but, eventually, the photograph was soft, broken into manageable pieces.

  He swallowed.

  Electrical currents coursed through his muscles, making him stronger. His body steadied and his senses heightened. He smelled the truth at last; it was rancid, rotten, stale...dead. It wasn’t what God had ordained for him. Not for His Special Warrior. Not for His precious world.

  He crawled out of the cage, stood, and flexed his limbs. His lips curved upward as he studied the three side-by-side cages. A warped plan began to form in his mind. He wouldn’t simply wipe out the scourge; he would make the sinners suffer.

  “You was always right Mama,” he said. “Maybe you wasn’t right ‘bout Ginny. But you was always so smart when it come to me.”

  He picked up the family album, flipped through it until he found a picture of Mother. He carefully pulled her image from the page, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

  He had Ginny to thank for his life.

  And Mother to thank for his purpose.

  He was changing.

  * * * *

  The orange prescription vial was empty.

  Amanda could feel her heartbeat.

  Wrapped in a comforter and huddled on a recliner, she tried to stop the room from spinning. Closing her eyes would only make the world feel more out of control, and she couldn’t close them, not even had she wanted to. Eyes intent on the hallway, she was waiting for Travis. Beneath the comforter, she clutched a cold, iron fire-poker. The fireplace, a thing which brought serenity in better times, blazed and crackled with a haunting, foreboding quality.

  Amanda had always been a loner. Even in high school, she’d possessed a dark, brooding quality that repelled others. She craved acceptance, but hadn’t known how to achieve it. Painting her face with dark makeup, wearing black, even though she had no aspirations of being Goth, had seemed a way to gain attention. And it had, but not in a good way. The Catholic school she attended was preppy and elitist, and Amanda quickly went from being ignored to becoming the target of ridicule. In defiance, she grew more transgressive with her attire. Her parents begrudgingly agreed to nose and eyebrow piercings; the school subsequently banned them. She’d pleaded with her parents to let her attend public school, but they refused, insisting she see a psychiatrist.

  Alone in her bedroom at night, listening to depressing music, rolling razor blades in her palms, she was certain she was not meant for the world she’d been born into. Perhaps her parents were right, she’d thought. Despite the pain of being, she didn’t want to die.

  Dr. Walsh, the psychiatrist, was not a nice person. According to him, everything was Amanda’s fault. When she started the medication, it wasn’t because of the doctor’s prescription; it was because it placated Mom and Dad. When her mood actually started to lift, she was stunned.

  Three weeks after popping her first pink pill, she met a guy named Mark Farthing. He attended public school and seemed nice. Too nice. He was, she told herself, way too good for her. He played football, and his parents had money; he even had his own car. The new light in her eyes, she’d rationalized, attracted him to her. Convinced she’d finally found acceptance, she fell quickly into bed with him.

  Sweet sixteen: his groping hands reaching into places only she’d known; hungry desire in his eyes; the warmth of his frantic kisses, passion she never dreamed of.

  The aftermath: the light leaving his eyes, unreturned calls, isolation.

  Certain the medication had defectively enhanced her state of mind, she’d flushed the remainder of the pink tablets from the orange prescription vial down the toilet.

  The days that followed were excruciating past reason.

  One night, she drew a hot bath, laid two fresh razors on the edge of the tub, and climbed in.

  The next thing she remembered was waking up in the hospital. Somehow her mind had blocked out the cutting moments. Small mercy; she’d always possessed the ability to suppress the most gruesome events of her life.

  Now, expecting Travis to emerge from the hallway any second, she didn’t know how she was supposed to cope with the situation... Amanda had matured very little in the last eight years: until a few weeks ago she’d still lived with her parents. She had less than ten dollars in her checking account—not that money had value anymore. Even though her youth had been painful, she fought against adulthood with fierce intensity; if she conformed to the ways of the world entirely, she reasoned, she would become part of the same organism that had failed her. Now she’d tried too hard to force the terms of her life, and in doing so, had failed herself.

  There was a sudden crack overhead, then the sound of rushing water. She stood, looked out the window—the fire-poker still tight in her grip—and saw water dripping from the eaves of the old house. There was a bright clearing in the gray sky; through the widening gap, rays of light found earth. She pressed her hand against the dirty window pane, and hope seized her.

  The glass was warm.

  * * * *

  With unnatural suddenness, temperatures started to climb.

  But power and the phone service did not return. Those with access to battery-powered televisions, radios, and laptops couldn’t locate signals. Roads were slushy rivers of melting snow and ice.

  The Blast was over...

  And so, it seemed, was the world it had blasted.

  Road crews didn’t spring into action to clear streets and highways. Utility crews didn’t climb poles to restore services. Elected officials didn’t give inspiring speeches about perseverance and rebuilding.

  Survivors crept out of their homes into the alien warmth of a new world...

  And they were greeted by the dead.

  * * * *

  The front door was open.

  “Hello?” Geoff called out.

  No response.

  He crept into the h
ome where Amanda had lived. Nothing fancy: living room and kitchen downstairs, bedrooms upstairs; just like his house. But the house was in chaos—chairs and books were strewn about the floor, furniture toppled, and shelves emptied. There were torn couch cushions and bloody handprints on deeply scratched walls. A nauseating, butcher shop odor permeated the air.

  On the mantelpiece was a family photograph in a crystal frame. Amanda’s mother and father were smiling. Amanda—twelve or thirteen in the photo—was the picture of misery—her mouth turned down, her eyes filled with despair. Geoff understood now why Amanda rarely talked about her childhood. He’d always considered her independent, self-assured, and always tried—tried too hard—to act the part he thought she wanted him to play. But now, he realized, she was injured. To think of all the time he’d spent with her, assuming he really knew her. In an instant, a cheap family portrait shattered all his illusions. If he’d fought for her sooner, she might be with him now. And he wouldn’t have to be here.

  He parted drapes that hung in front of a sliding glass door, and then gasped at the scene in the backyard. Amanda’s parents were crouched over a corpse—man or woman, he couldn’t tell. Her father gnawed on an arm while Mrs. Herbert greedily pulled organs and entrails from the body’s gaping torso, her mouth a malevolent rictus. Her jagged teeth sank into what looked like a liver; swallowing without chewing, she tore off another chunk, her dark lips coated in viscera.

  Geoff retched, staggered by a wave of dizziness. His mind screamed, “Run!” Yet, frozen by fear or steadied by purpose—he didn’t know which—he continued to watch.

  Mr. and Mrs. Herbert were both awash in blood. Their flesh, dark and beginning to separate, were more decomposed than the zombies he’d seen on TV. The lower half of Mr. Herbert’s jaw was exposed bone, and Amanda’s mother had only one eye.

  Suddenly, milky eye narrowing, she howled so loud it sounded like she was in the room with Geoff. Dropping a strand of intestines, she stood—and looked straight at him.

  Geoff rushed out the front door toward his vehicle. Wet footfalls followed him and then there was the clatter of a metal gate swinging against a post. He scrambled into his SUV. He couldn’t breathe. He scanned his door panel for the all-lock button, but his mind was frayed and he couldn’t make sense of the controls...

  A loud crunch-thump and then the sound of crumpling metal—

  He gasped. Mrs. Herbert was on the hood, her drooling mouth hanging open, her gums and tongue the color of well-done steak. She clawed frantically at the windshield, her nails leaving trails of blood across the glass. There was the sound of pounding to his right. He turned his head—swimmy, disconnected—and saw Mr. Herbert, beating against the window with open palms.

  Geoff started the car, shifted into reverse, and floored the accelerator.

  The passenger window shattered, and Mrs. Herbert simultaneously slid from the hood, a startled look on her rotten face. The SUV dipped into the river-like road with a splash, and Geoff shifted into drive. Gas sloshing, containers teetering, he slammed his foot into the accelerator again. Arcs of water flew high on both sides of the vehicle. He glanced right: Mr. Herbert’s arm was wrapped around the door frame, his blackened fingers digging into the armrest.

  Instinctively, Geoff steered slightly right, grazing a parked car. A dull thump, the crack and chime of the sideview mirror shattering, and then the brief shriek of metal on metal. Past the parked car, he glanced at the rearview mirror.

  Mr. Herbert was face down in muck.

  Geoff jammed his foot into the brake, bracing himself against the jerk. He did a quick inventory of the gas containers, all upright, and then watched as Amanda’s father rose. Good, I don’t have to tell Amanda I’ve killed one of her parents.

  With a quick left on 27th Street and then a right onto Nebraska-Highway 2, Geoff sped toward the girl he loved, the sun a sliver on the cloudless western horizon of the National Scenic Byway.

  * * * *

  Amanda was jolted awake by the sound of her own cries. She grabbed the fire-poker from her lap and then crept cautiously into the hallway, hating herself for having fallen asleep.

  Glancing into the computer room, she saw Travis splayed across the floor. Approaching him slowly, she noticed something new, a large, blood-coated hole in his forehead. She lifted the fire-poker, its tip covered in blood, as were her sweatshirt and jeans.

  The room began to spin, and the dream she’d been having came back to her. She’d struck Travis’s head with the implement, but...that had only been a dream. Hadn’t it?

  Shadows danced across the room. She could have sworn there was someone—or something?—behind her and felt a poke sensation in the small of her back. She spun around, stabbing the air with the fire-poker.

  Nothing there.

  It’s only my mind playing tricks.

  She looked out the window. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and she was dripping with sweat. Did she have a fever? No. It was hot now. The streets looked like rivers, the yards like swamps.

  Suddenly, someone stepped in front of the window outside. It was Mark Farthing—but how?—exactly the way she remembered him: varsity letter jacket, winning smile, shaggy brown hair.

  “Aregghaaar,” Mark said.

  This was a dream. It must be.

  “Eeerigghuh,” he said.

  She felt something touch her face and brushed it away. Her face was sticky—with blood. There was a stinging pain on her cheek, and she knew the blood was hers. She realized she no longer held the fire-poker, and that her clothes were no longer bloody. How? She looked back at the window. Mark was gone. Travis was gone, too. How?

  She caught a whiff of something rancid—the scent of death and decay—and the smell seemed to be closing in, getting stronger. She felt a touch on her shoulder. She screamed…

  …and her eyes shot open.

  This time it was real. She was lying on the floor, and kneeling above her was Travis—his eyes pallid and his skin ashen gray. From the front window in the living room, the moon cast an unearthly pall upon his face.

  “Arrigggghah,” he wailed.

  She rolled away from him, her eyes frantically searching for the fire-poker in the relative darkness. The sticky, warm pain still gnawed at her cheek.

  “Fuck you, Travis,” she muttered. And then in an angry tone she said, “You scratched me.”

  Travis backed away, holding his hands out in front of him.

  Her gaze landed on the fire-poker by the recliner. She scurried to it, snatched it with her right hand, gripped it tight, and rose on unsteady legs. “You fucking scratched me,” she shouted.

  Standing a foot away from him, her eyes narrowed.

  “Arreggharr?”

  She held the fire-poker up like a javelin, and with a sense of déjà vu rammed it into his head with all her might. He fell backward onto the floor, the make-shift spear protruding obscenely from his skull. His limbs flailed as he groaned and wailed.

  Planting one foot into his throat, she grabbed the handle of the fire-poker with both hands. Leaning into the poker, she forced it down with her weight. There was a dull crack as the implement cleared Travis’s skull, and then it dropped effortlessly through his brain.

  Tears rushed down her cheeks. “You fucking...scratched me.”

  But Travis couldn’t hear. He was gone.

  * * * *

  Bleeding out on the couch, Cassandra watched Joe eat Bono. The sight made her cringe, but if it kept him from devouring her before she died, she was fine with that. She wanted to be whole when she came back, so she could be with him again—forever.

  When he’d awakened in her arms, his face had moved languidly toward hers. She’d hoped he was going to kiss her but hadn’t been at all surprised when he bit into her neck, wrenching away a large chunk of flesh with his teeth.

  She’d screamed, intense pain burning a trail from her neck to her back. Managing to break free, she’d scrambled into the bedroom where Bono was sleeping on the bed.
/>   Offering the cat to him wasn’t easy; he’d been her only companion on many lonely, sleepless nights. As Joe had taken the cat from her hands, anger and fear erupted in Bono’s eyes. He hissed and flailed with admirable determination.

  No use worrying about that now, the cat was dead, the deed was done.

  Blood poured from her neck in a steady flow, and she could feel life ebbing away. Pain also faded; there was mercy in that. It was only a matter of time now.

  She closed her eyes and thought of Joe.

  Smiling, she died.

  * * * *

  Just short of Kansas City on I-29, Geoff’s radio, set to scan, fell upon a weak signal. He turned the volume up, caught some words among the static.

  …edge of Platte City, our encampment...nineteen people...hear this, please join us...heading out...St. Louis in the morning...we... outnumber the dead...repeat, we currently outnumber...area has been hit hard. But in St. Louis...FEMA relief teams...electricity and clean water... safe zone...

  Geoff’s speakers filled with static. He briefly considered exiting the highway and turning around to rejoin the broadcast, but he thought better of it.

  He had a plan: he would take Amanda to St. Louis.

  Wind howled through the broken window, and it was good—it imbued him with an alertness he needed. He’d not seen other vehicles on the road. But, at the speed he was traveling, caution was prudent. He’d driven over a few bodies, animal and human, and steered around others he’d seen in time to do so. He’d encountered flood plains too deep to navigate and had to find alternate routes back to the highway with a Rand McNally road atlas; the GPS no longer functioned. Fog was so thick in places that he was only able to see a few yards in front of the high beams.

  Merging onto 435-East at a speed of one hundred miles per hour, his mind wandered back to the first time he’d met Amanda. She was a new employee at Bradbury, and it was the last day of training, the day when new employees met their supervisor for the first time.