You won't believe me when I tell you this, but I've managed to survive this harsh world, even though I'm deaf.

It doesn't hurt that my brother's with me, or that he's an ex-Marine. He fights, he runs, he kicks, he punches; he does it all! He taught me how to use my 9 mm when we were just kids. I think I'm a decent shot. Give me a shotgun, and I'm a hell of a good one.

Before we had to leave the crumbling ruin of what had once been our home, Marc even taught me how to wield a combat knife. It's not very big, and I swing it kind of clumsily; but, I can stick the pointy end where it needs to be. Besides, I like having a weapon that doesn't have to be reloaded. Ammo is a precious commodity nowadays.

Marc touches my shoulder. That's how he starts a conversation.

We've been studying the field before us for several minutes now from the shade of the tree line. The grass before us sways with each gust of wind. The stalks are taller than me, and their green hue is slowing give way to brown. Summer is almost over. I try not to think about what happens after.

I think we have to risk it, he signs to me. Marc learned to sign long ago, and I understand him perfectly. What do you think?

Wading through the field is risky. Who knows what – or who – is hiding in there. One Dead bite to the ankle, and you're a goner. But going around the field means going hours out of our way. And dusk is coming.

My answer is simple: I trust you.

I do trust him. He's gotten us this far, and we're not dead yet.

Now lest you begin to think I'm totally helpless, I still have my other senses, and four out of five ain't bad. I've learned to experience the world in ways most people don't even bother with. I bet I see better and farther than you do. I can smell the Dead in the wind, and even feel the ground rumble with a coming herd well before my brother can. Besides, the Dead aren't exactly known for their stealth; so as long as I keep my eyes open, I usually see them coming. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Marc nods, and without any further ado, he marches into the field. The grass comes just below his neck, and he begins cutting it away with his machete. I take a quick peak around to see if anything's sneaking up on us, but we're in the clear. I pull out my knife and descend into the grass, careful to stay no more than a few feet behind him, stepping only where he steps.

As we walk, I steal many glances around us. I sniff the air, but smell only musty foliage. I probably look pretty paranoid, but I don't look nearly as bad as I used to. Now it was all part of the routine. At least, as routine as you can get with your heart ready to thump right out of your chest.

I remember my dad telling me when I was little girl that you could hear someone's heartbeat. Later that year, we all went on a 'haunted trail' together for Halloween, and my heart thumped so painfully that I was certain everyone around me could hear it. I wrapped my hands tightly around myself to trap the sound, but it still pounded beneath my ribs. Then my father looked down at me, and took my hand, shaking his head gently. He explained to me that you had to put your ear to someone's chest to hear their heartbeat, and that I shouldn't be worried. I smiled when he told me that, because that was how I felt a heartbeat – with my face against someone's chest.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this now, or even why I'm telling you. I just see his hands in my mind, telling me not to worry, over and over again.

We're halfway through the field now, and my brother stops suddenly. From his stance, I can tell he's heard something. I sniff the air again, and the scent, though faint at first, hits me like a boulder; it was a smell that was entirely unmistakable: rotten flesh.

I see the grass beginning to part to my left, and a Dead face peering out from within it like a skull. Even though I've seen that face a thousand times, each time still feels like the first. I move before fear has a chance to cripple me, plunging my knife right through his eye just as his hands clamp down on my shoulders. I push him off of me in disgust. Something's pulling at my boot; I look down, and without any further thought, stomp on the Dead man's head. It bursts like a rotten melon, but smells far worse.

Marc's already taken care of three of the Dead, and he's looking at me now. Go, he signs, without expression.

I rush past him toward the tree line at the other end. I see the Dead in my periphery and feel their fingertips clawing at my jacket. I ignore them and push forward toward the closest tree. Too short. Then dart right. Thin branches. Move to the next one. No branches. Great, just great.

Finally, I spot a suitable tree about 25 yards ahead, and sprint toward it with a burst of adrenaline. Upon reaching it, I began to climb frantically. That's something else I'm good at: climbing. Hiding in a tree might not be the noblest of actions, but – contrary to every movie, TV show, and video game you've ever seen – bravery is more likely to get you killed than not. Marc and I had learned that lesson early on, back before I was willing to just go.

Up and up I climb. The Dead converge at the base of the tree, looking for a way to grab me, their hands reaching upward. All around the mulberry bush the monkey chased the weasel, I muse erratically to myself. I see my father sign the lyrics for me.

Don't worry, he adds.