Glitter Rose (Where Roses Rot #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

PARIS

Four hundred and six days since I’ve spoken to another living person, but the streets below still offer their daily theater.

Most performances star the stumbling dead. Predictable, repetitive, and boring as fuck. But today brings an encore from my favorite recurring character.

Dangerous Hot Guy.

He is back for his monthly appearance in my little apocalypse play, coming around the corner with a backpack slung over broad shoulders.

I press myself closer to the window, adjusting the focus of my binoculars, zeroing in on his hands as he checks what looks like a hunting knife. “This is what, the third time we’ve seen him? Fourth?”

Telly doesn’t answer. Rude.

“Fine, I’ll check the calendar.” I don’t move from my spot.

From here, I have clear sight lines to the neighborhood’s main approach road and to Hot Guy.

His hair is short on the sides in a military undercut with a bit of length on top to show the chocolate brown color catching the late afternoon sun when he turns to scan his surroundings, giving me a clearer view of his face.

Strong jawline, several days of stubble, and eyes constantly moving.

My fingertips tingle against the binoculars. What would that stubble feel like under my touch? Rough, probably. Everything about him screams rough.

He’s leaner than the last time I spotted him, but still solid muscle under that tactical gear.

A zombie, mid-forties male in what was once called business casual, lurches from between two abandoned luxury cars, drawn by the promise of food.

Hot Guy waits, knife held low against his thigh. Relaxed. Not even a hint of fear.

“Oh, he’s good. Look at that stance, Telly.” I glance at the telescope set up beside me. “Bet you twenty bucks he goes for the eye.”

Hot Guy lets the zombie get within arm’s reach before lunging forward. His knife drives up through the creature’s jaw and into its brain. Clean. Efficient. Nothing wasted.

“Shit. You win.”

Blood sprays across the asphalt as he withdraws his blade, letting the corpse collapse. He wipes the knife on the zombie’s shirt before sheathing it and continuing his cautious progress down the street.

“What’s your story, stranger?” I whisper, fogging the window. “Lone wolf? Part of a group? Just passing through?”

My heart beats faster. Would it be so terrible to make contact? To speak to another human being who isn’t my reflection in the mirror? I step back from the window, suddenly aware of how exposed I am despite being twelve stories up.

My penthouse fortress, perched atop Hillcrest’s most exclusive address, remains invisible to survivors and zombies alike. Just how I like it.

“Fuck that.” I bite my lower lip. “You know what happens when you trust people, Paris. And you have Telly. Yes, I don’t need some random stranger bringing trouble to my doorstep.”

And yet…

I hurry to the southern windows for a better angle, nearly knocking over a stack of medical journals I’ve been studying. “He’s probably a murderer.” I adjust my binoculars. “Or worse, boring conversation.”

The man pauses in the middle of the street, scanning rooftops. I duck instinctively. Does he know someone’s watching?

I count to thirty before daring to peek. He’s moving, heading west…

Away from my building.

I sigh. He’s not looking for me. “Why should he, right Telly?” I lower the binoculars, letting them hang around my neck. “One less thing to worry about.”

People like him—capable, dangerous, alive—they have communities. Groups. Places to belong. They don’t need spoiled rich girls whose only survival skills are fencing lessons and an encyclopedic knowledge of designer labels.

Not even my own brother came looking for me. So why should a stranger?

“He’s probably got a whole army somewhere. A wife. Kids. People who depend on him.”

The afternoon sun slants through the windows, reminding me of my schedule. Garden time. I place the binoculars in their designated spot on the windowsill and head toward the sliding glass doors leading to my balcony sanctuary before grabbing my pruning shears from their hook.

The greenhouse I’ve cobbled together from scavenged materials isn’t pretty, but it’s functional. Inside, warm, humid air rich with the smell of soil surrounds me. My strawberry plants need attention, their runners threatening to take over the cucumber bed.

“What do you think about romance, Berta?” I ask the largest fig plant as I trim dead leaves. “Overrated, right?”

Berta’s leaves rustle in agreement. Or maybe it’s the breeze from the solar-powered window in the ceiling I rigged up.

A romance like in those books doesn’t exist.

I check each container, making sure all my plants are well.

“Besides,” I continue, “what kind of weirdo wanders around alone in zombie territory?” I snip a runner with more force than necessary. “Someone with a death wish, that’s who. I don’t need him.”

The tomatoes are dry. I fill my watering can from the rainwater collection system, every time smiling and oddly proud of my engineering accomplishment.

Maybe not so spoiled after all.

The sun warms my shoulders as I work, almost making it possible to forget that the world below is filled with walking corpses. Almost. From this height, the city looks peaceful, abandoned rather than infested.

I finish with the vegetables and move to Freddie, fingers gentle as I check for ripening strawberries. Finding one perfect red berry, I pop it into my mouth. The burst of sweetness makes me close my eyes. Small pleasures are all that’s left. I move on to the basil.

“Looks like pesto tonight.” I pinch off a leaf, crushing it between my fingers and inhaling the sharp, sweet scent. “What do you think? Ready to fulfill your destiny?”

I glance toward the street where Hot Guy disappeared, half-expecting to see him emerge, but the road remains empty, except for the fresh corpse he left behind.

“Maybe next time.”

I gather all the basil leaves into my harvest basket before moving back inside as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon.

The sliding door clicks shut behind me, and I lock it, though I’m not sure why I bother anymore.

No one’s coming. No one ever comes.

Slowly darkness creeps across the penthouse like spilled ink, and I move from window to window, drawing heavy curtains against the night. Not that the zombies can see this high up, but the living could spot the flicker of light.

The city below disappears behind expensive fabric, leaving me in familiar shadows pierced only by the match I strike. The flame catches, and I light a single thick vanilla-scented candle, cupping my hand around it protectively before setting it into its glass.

“Dinner for one.” I carry the candle and the harvest basket toward the kitchen. “What do we have on the menu today?”

I set out my ingredients on the marble countertop. Tonight’s menu: pasta with sun-dried tomatoes from my stockpile and fresh basil from the garden. “The apocalypse is no excuse for poor taste.”

I fill a pot with filtered rainwater and set it on my portable camping stove. The blue flame hisses to life, the only sound besides my breathing in the cavernous kitchen.

“You know what I miss?” I ask the candlelight as I chop basil. “Delivery. Imagine. ‘Sorry your driver was eaten, would you like store credit?’”

The glass jar of sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil makes a satisfying pop as I twist it open. I inhale deeply, savoring the rich scent. Preserved food from the Before times is like opening a time capsule.

“Should’ve bought more pasta.” I examine my dwindling supply. “Next scavenging run, carbs are priority one. Put it on the list, Candle.”

The water begins to bubble, steam rising in ghostly tendrils that dance in the candlelight. I sprinkle salt from a crystal shaker into the pot, then add the pasta.

My stomach growls.

A metallic screech tears through the night, followed by a tremendous crash that shakes the entire building. I freeze, wooden spoon suspended mid-stir, ears straining.

That wasn’t my belly.

That came from outside. Close. Too close.

I kill the camp stove flame with one quick motion, plunging the kitchen into darkness save for the single candle.

Silence.

Vehicle Accident? Thunder? Anything but those relentless and creepy Wolf-zombies!

My pet name for the most terrifying mutation of the virus. Regular zombies are predictable, slow, stupid, and easy to avoid if you’re careful. But the Wolves? They hunt in packs at night, because why wouldn’t they? They communicate, and they’re fast as hell.

I walk over the Persian rugs to grab Bino, my binoculars from the windowsill, and lift them to my eyes, scanning the street below.

The first time I saw a Wolf-Zombie was three months after everything fell apart.

I was on a supply run to the pharmacy four blocks over when I heard it—not the usual mindless moaning, but something closer to coordinated yipping.

Then I saw them: five former humans moving together, heads tilted at identical angles, communicating through a series of clicks and growls. Sometimes they walk on all fours.

And unlike regular zombies with their cloudy eyes and random movements, Wolves have a terrible clarity in their gaze, which is super creepy. I decided in that moment to never go out in the dark.

Nothing moves in my field of vision. No shambling zombies drawn by the noise. No sign of what caused it.

No Wolf-zombies. Those would have howled by now.

“Telly. Talk to me.” I check nearby buildings, rooftops, fire escapes—

Fire escape!

My fire escape.

“Shit.”

The one I deliberately sabotaged months ago, loosening screws so it couldn’t be used to access my penthouse but would still serve as my emergency exit if needed.

I dash to the sliding doors that lead to the balcony. The frigid night air cuts across my face as I step outside, turning the anxiety slithering through my veins into full-body goosebumps. My ears strain for any sounds like groans of the undead, voices, anything.

Nothing.

I edge toward the corner of the balcony.

The metal staircase zigzags down the side of the building.

Twelve stories is a long way down, but the moon provides enough illumination to reveal the crumpled form on the pavement.

Beside it, the last fire escape ladder lies twisted and mangled, torn completely free from its anchor at the first level.

Looks like someone tested my handiwork. And it worked! Take that, apocalypse.

I use my binoculars to scan the debris. “No fucking way.”

Hot Guy lies sprawled on the concrete. Blood pools beneath his head, black in the moonlight.

I grip the balcony railing, leaning forward for a better look. It’s definitely him. “Who tries to climb a random fire escape in the apocalypse? That’s just poor survival instinct. Is he…”

Guilt bubbles up, acid and insistent.

Was he looking for safety, maybe? Or supplies. Or other survivors.

Looking for me?

His arm twitches, then his head turns slightly. A pained groan drifts up to my hiding spot, carried on the evening breeze. He’s conscious, at least partially.

Conscious and suffering.

I-I should go inside. Lock the door. Pretend I never saw him. By morning, he’ll either be dead from his injuries or zombie food. Not my problem. Not my responsibility.

I lean farther over the edge, squinting to see better. He’s trying to sit up, failing miserably. Even in the darkness, I recognize the same dirty jacket, the same broad shoulders I’d watched through my binoculars. The knife he’d used on the zombie lies beyond his outstretched fingers.

“Not my problem.” I back away from the railing, fingers twisted in the hem of my top. “Not my responsibility. He shouldn’t have been climbing that fire escape.”

But if I hadn’t…

With that crash… Zombies won’t be far.

And he’s not like me.

“He’d do the same to me. He’d watch me die rather than risk his safety. That’s how people survive now. Fuck.” I grind my palms against my eyes, seeing stars. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I rush inside, blowing out the candle before grabbing my katana from its stand.

The familiar weight in my hand steadies me as I strap it across my back.

Next comes the emergency backpack I keep by the door with medical supplies, water, and a flashlight.

Essentials for quick escapes that I’m now repurposing for a stupid rescue mission.

“You’ve lost your mind, Paris.” I shoulder the pack, grab my keys, and head for the stairwell. “Completely lost it.”

Twelve flights down in the dark. Then I’ll have to drag a bleeding stranger back up before the zombies eat him.

For the first time in forever, my heart beats with something other than fear or boredom. Anticipation, maybe. Or purpose.

“I’m absolutely going to fucking regret this. Telly, wish me luck.”