Chapter 1
ONE
START WITH A BANG!
LYLA
“I just want to officially state, once again, that this is the dumbest idea ever. Your survival odds are as tiny as a snail’s. And did I mention you’re crazy? . . . Over.”
I smirk, bringing the walkie-talkie to my lips. “And didn’t I tell you I don’t care? Over.”
“Yes, but I wish you’d care more about staying alive.
I need someone to talk to. Who else will listen to my endless rants about sparkles, rainbows, and kittens?
The fuckin’ brainless, cannibalistic, balls-to-the-wall nuts walking dead?
Over.” Jo’s voice crackles through the static, each word dripping with disbelief.
I pull back the yellowed curtains of the second-floor apartment where I’m hiding, peering down at the boarded-up market across the street.
I would bet my entire food stock Jo is pacing between the empty aisles, her dark curls bouncing on her wiry frame as she gestures to an imaginary audience.
I hold my hand up as if she can see me and start to count.
Pointer finger. “Joanie, first, keep your voice down.” Middle finger.
“Second, I know you’re fourteen and the world’s gone to hell, but don’t say ‘fuck.’ ” Ring finger.
“Third, you hate all things cute, so no one will ever listen to you ramble about that crap.” Pinky.
“Fourth, you know why I have to do this.” Thumb.
“And fifth, I told you not to get attached to people. They’ll likely end up shot, eaten, torn apart, turned—or did I mention eaten? If I die, I die. You’ll move on. Over.”
The curtain slips from my fingers, the fabric falling back into place with a whisper-soft swish. The air inside the room feels heavy, thick with the scent of mildew and old wood. Sweat slicks my palms, and I shift my grip on the radio, its worn plastic casing digging into my skin.
“Yeah, but do you know how hard it is to find someone who doesn’t snore? It’s one of your best features.” She huffs into the mic.
A small, breathless chuckle escapes me, sharp and sudden against the tension coiling tight in my chest. It’s absurd, laughing now.
What I’m about to do could easily get me killed—will probably get me killed.
But in a world where the dead walk and humanity has rotted from the inside out, my plan barely registers on the insanity scale.
Jo’s sarcasm works its usual magic, cutting through the anxiety and easing my racing thoughts. When everything around us has been stripped down to survival—hunger, thirst, death—her no-bullshit attitude has been my anchor.
In a handful of months—through starvation, sprints from the undead, and fights against people worse than monsters—Joanie has become family. The little sister I never had.
I scoff, imagining the hell she would’ve raised if she’d ever met my dad. God, he would’ve hated her mouth.
But he would’ve respected her heart.
“Look, boss. I know you’ve got business to handle and that this d-bag deserves what’s coming to him. Just be careful and try to make it back in one piece.” She hesitates before whispering, “I—I don’t want to be alone. Over.”
Jesus, Joanie, way to throw on the guilt trip. I wish this weren’t her reality. I wish she hadn’t lost her parents to the virus. I wish I didn’t have to ask so much of her.
No one should face the death of their parents at such a young age, especially not in such a horrific way. I wish I could have pulled the trigger myself for her just so she didn’t have to walk around with the weight of being the one to end their lives.
I glance at my watch. It’s half past noon, and the tension in my chest tightens as I look down main street, scanning for any sign of danger. I click the walkie on. “Love ya too, kiddo. We’re almost there. You know what to do, right? Over.”
“Lyla. Please. We went over it a hundred times. Ye of little faith—”
We both hear it—the rumble of the transport bus’s engine approaching. Jo rushes at a lower volume, “I won’t let you down. See you on the other side, boss bitch. Over.”
If I survive this, I swear I’m going to wash that girl’s mouth out with soap.
I place the walkie on the windowsill for Jo to retrieve once I’m gone.
The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the sun filtering through the curtains.
Dust particles dance in the air above the worn furniture and the makeshift barricades we’ve set up over the past few weeks.
This place has been our sanctuary, but now it’s time to move on.
BANG!
The transport bus screeches to a halt right outside my window.
The sound is deafening, echoing through the empty streets, guaranteed to bring a horde.
My heart pounds in my chest as I peer through the blinds.
The bus is old and battered, its once-bright paint now faded and chipped.
The windows are cracked, and shadows move inside.
The blinds slip from my fingers, settling without a whisper. I pivot, the worn doorknob warm against my palm as I twist and push the door open, leaving it ajar for Jo.
My footsteps glide over the scuffed floor, each one light, swift, practiced. The hallway feels endless, the air thick with that stale, abandoned scent. The side entrance looms ahead. My shoulder brushes the door as I slip through, the alley swallowing me whole.
The world outside hits hard—stench first. Decay, foul and rancid, curls in my nose and sticks to the back of my throat. My knees bend instinctively, dropping me into a crouch, muscles coiled tight. My boots skim over the pavement as I creep toward the alley’s edge, every nerve buzzing.
The street beyond is a canvas of ruin—crumpled cars, shattered glass, and the grotesque carnage of the world’s collapse. Limbs, torn and forgotten, rot where they fell. Trash flutters across the cracked pavement, whispering the stories of a life long lost.
The weight of my drop-point knife is a promise against my thigh. My fingers find it, sliding it free with a soft hiss of steel.
The bus door creaks open, and I tighten my grip on the knife.
Here we go.
Three men slink onto the street, each one armed to the teeth.
Their greasy hair clings to their foreheads, and their clothes are a patchwork of sweat and grime.
One sports a brown, scraggly beard with bits of food tangled in it, or at least I hope it’s food.
Another is rail thin with a rat’s tail, while the third flashes yellowed teeth whenever he sneers, throwing his shotgun around like he’s a big shot.
They move to the front of the bus, surveying the damage with narrowed eyes.
Seizing the moment, I creep behind the bus, my heart pounding as I keep my eyes locked on them.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” The one with the shotgun spits, kicking at the dirt in frustration. His words carry an edge of impatience, like this isn’t the first shit luck they’ve run into today.
The other two don’t respond, just exchange a look before ducking back onto the bus.
A moment later, a tire rolls down the steps with a hollow thunk-thunk.
They don’t waste time. One crouches low, already working to pry off the damaged rubber, while the other hauls the spare into position.
Their movements are practiced, efficient—quicker than I expected from men who look like they spend more time looting corpses than fixing vehicles.
Shotgun Guy paces, gun slung over his shoulder, his gaze flicking up and down the empty street. His fingers twitch at the strap, restless. On edge. “This is bullshit,” he mutters, low and sharp. “We shoulda been there an hour ago.”
Rat Tail, the one tightening the lug nuts, grunts. “Maybe if someone hadn’t driven straight into that mess of debris, we woulda been.”
“The hell was I supposed to do? Float over it?” Shotgun Guy snaps back, jerking his chin toward the road, where the shredded remains of their old tire lie in a heap. “Some asshole laid that trap on purpose.”
The second man, the quietest of the three, wipes a grease-streaked hand on his pants and stands, cracking his neck. “Less talk, more fixing. Ain’t like we got time to bitch.”
I shift, grabbing ahold of the handle and hoisting myself up just enough to peer through the back window of the bus.
Six passengers. Four women, one man, and—shit—a little girl. No older than ten. Scattered across separate seats, backs stiff, eyes locked forward, as if looking anywhere else might draw attention.
One guard inside. A potbellied bastard with greasy white hair hanging in limp strands down his back, like some junkie Santa Claus gone to hell. He moves slowly, pacing the aisle, his heavy boots thudding against the floor in an unhurried rhythm. Not searching for threats. Not watching the road.
Watching her.
My grip tightens around my knife, blood roaring in my ears. Oh, I’m going to enjoy killing him.
I slide back down to the ground and face down the street. I check my watch, feeling my pulse tick in sync with the second hand. Timing is everything.
Three. Two. One.
The second the minute turns over, the front window of the bank down the block detonates.
Glass erupts in a shimmering spray, catching the firelight as flames burst outward, devouring the air with a hungry roar.
Heat ripples through the street as fire claws its way up the second story, licking at the bricks like a living, breathing beast.
Showtime.
I shift, tracking the men’s movements through the dusty glass front of the shop to my left.
“Fucking hell!” Shotgun Guy bellows, voice sharp with panic. He whirls, shotgun snapping up, his wild eyes darting across the empty street, searching for an enemy that isn’t there.
Moans and screeches start to make their way down the street.
Perfect.
The two fixing the tire stop, gaping at the flames down the block, their hands hovering uselessly over the wheel. Shotgun Guy smacks them both upside the head. “Pick up the pace, boys.” He strides toward the open bus door and hollers, “Hey, Charlie!”