She felt her breathing slow down again. The stone under her was warm, the sun was shining through the pines around her, and little golden dust particles were dancing through the rays. The air smelled of resin and peace. It was quiet. She was alone. And safe.

Ok, time now to inspect your wounds.

She almost giggled.

Seriously, "time to inspect the wounds, Sargent!" ?

It had to be the shock. She just killed or outrun a f*ing Zombie, and here she was, playing at being a soldier like a little kid. There was no way it could really be that funny.
She laughed anyway.

Ok, come on now, behave! You're seventeen, for God's sake!

She could almost hear Andrea's exasperated voice.

As funny as that was, her arm was hurting, though. She really should take a look at that. She'd probably managed to hurt herself with the shovel which she had used as an improvised weapon. Andrea would break down laughing when she told her. Amy, not even able to use a damned shovel without injuring herself…

She started laughing again. It just was too ridiculous.

But. But it hurt. It actually hurt quite badly, now that she thought about it. Probably the shock wearing off.

Gosh, I hope I don't get blood poisoning, or something like that. Could you get blood poisoning from a dirty shovel?

She really, really should get going. It should be a routine safety measure, to check if you are ok, after getting in a fight, and running through the whole wood.
So why couldn't she bring herself to look at her arm?

She steeled herself, and looked down.

… no…

Oh God.

No
No-no-no-no-
NO-NO-

No

No

Please. Please No.

Please.

Her sleeve, along with a good part of her skin, and whatever tissue was underneath, had been ripped off. Bitten off.
There was blood streaming from it, and blood, and dirt, and – and dead, decayed tissue, smeared all over her arm. A yellow, stinking liquid seeped from some bigger bits of Zombietissue, caught in the remnants of her sleeve. And there, right in the middle of her wound –

there was –

Oh God, please no….

there was a fragment of a lower jaw, the white bone shimmering through grey bits of flesh, its teeth buried deep inside her.

Amy wanted to scream. Scream, and scream, and scream, until she woke up. But the only sound that left her mouth was a hoarse whimper.

She stared at her arm, unable to understand. No. Surely she had not just been bitten? Surely this war a dream, an illusion, anything, and not real? But she could feel her arm hurting, hurting so much.

NoNoNoOhshit!It'snotrealitcan'tbe.

Please. Please. No.

She could feel it burning, could feel something spreading through her, making its way through her tissue, singeing, biting, stinging, eating her away.

No. NO. NO.

Everything seemed to dissolve into a strange red mist, and suddenly she couldn't breathe anymore.

Please. Please. PleasePleasePlease. This can't be happening.

I want to wake up. Please. Just let me wake up.

But she couldn't understand. She just couldn't. She was shaking, she was crying, she was helplessly gasping for air, she was hurting more than she would have thought possible, and she could not understand.

Her arm felt all wrong, like it wasn't even part of her anymore. She didn't want it to be part of her. If it was, she would die.
Hence, it couldn't be.

It just couldn't.

That was the sort of stuff that happened in bad dreams. Not in reality.

Stop panicking. There is no time for that.

Think.

She was alone. That was good. Because nobody knew, not yet.

Nobody can find out.

She could still survive this.
Maybe if she cut of her hand and make it look like an accident, maybe they would believe her. They would give her medicine, and treat her, and they would never know. They would let her live.
And maybe, only just maybe, it wasn't too late yet. Maybe the virus, or whatever it was, had not spread yet. Maybe, if she acted quickly.

It wasn't much, but…

That was when she noticed the cold thing pressing against her forehead.

She forced herself to look up.

There was someone standing in front of her.

…

No.

There was someone standing in front of her and holding a gun against her head.

No.

There, only an arm's length away, was Andrea, and she was sobbing, and aiming a gun at her.

"I'm so sorry", she sobbed, "Please, Amy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

She had always thought she'd go out bravely, if it really came to it. She had always thought – hoped – that she'd just accept it, accept that it was necessary. That killing her was the only logical, the only right thing to do. But now, now all she felt was fear, licking at her with ice cold flames, eating her, consuming her, till there was nothing left but a horrible void, empty and dark.

Till there was nothing left but blind panic.

I don't want to die. Please. PleasePleasePlease.

Her mouth tasted like blood. Andrea was still talking. And still pressing the gun against her head.

I don't want to die. Please. PleasePleasePlease. Let me live. PLEASE.

"I'm so sorry, Amy, I'm so, so…"
"Let me live!"
"Amy, I…"
"Please, don't kill me, please, Andrea, please, don't do it!"
"Amy, I have to!"
"No, you don't! We can cut off my arm, go back, get me some medicine, and nobody will know! Please, it's so easy, just drop that dammed gun!"
"Please, Amy, I... you… I love you, I do, but… You've been bitten, you'll die anyway, and if I don't kill you, you'll die and then come back to kill us!"
"But you don't know that, you can't know, Maybe I'm different. Maybe I'm special. Maybe I'm strong enough to resist, I could survive, I could live, just give me a chance! Please, please, Andrea, you're my sister, please, you can't kill me, that's not right, please, please, please, I'm begging you, PLEASE!"

On the peaceful clearing, surrounded by pine trees, there are two girls. One is shouting and crying. The other one seems frozen in place.

There is a whisper, a sob.

"I'm sorry, Amy."

She pulls the trigger.

A muffled bang, a short, bone-crunching pain, then nothing.