The sun is setting and from inside the sturdy, blue barn we've been bunking in, it looks the sky is hiding behind an old, mildewed shower curtain streaked with blood. Or maybe it's just me. The girls are already asleep so I can't ask their opinions not that I would suggest such a thing to them, of course. I woke them early this morning to prepare.

We're leaving the barn tomorrow, hopefully before the sun comes up again. If we leave just before the sky starts to lighten, the shadowy darkness might be enough to throw off the geeks in the field below. I can see only three of them right now but last night and the night before, that number more than tripled. We see more of them at night but there isn't any apparent reason for the increase in their numbers. Maybe they just congregate at night. They definitely aren't aware of our presence. That was a concern for me at first. If they could track our location by any means we'd be in much more trouble than we already are. Initially, it seemed like they relished the dark, but now I know that they aren't capable of such preferences. At any rate, this area is becoming far too populous for my liking, which is what really initiated our upcoming move.

The old but well-built barn has been home for only a few days and I already don't want to leave its' familiar protection. I'm sure it's human nature to seek out a dependable dwelling. We started in the house, just south of here down a narrow, country road, but it was impossible to reinforce. Almost the entire east wall of the first floor was made of wide, picture windows. We tried to stay low and quiet but I could see far too many of the dead milling around. I knew it was only a matter of days before we ran out of luck and were spotted. The barn was barely visible behind a huge group of old trees. I thought it would be a safer alternative and for the past few days, it has been. The road is still too close, though. Not just the narrow, unpaved road but the main highway that runs parallel to it. During the day, I can see the unending congestion from the hayloft. Dead cars, dead trucks, and, of course, dead people litter the interstate. They move in herds or individually, all trudging south, and they're always there. We'll never be safe here, barely a football field away from their main track. So we move on again.

The perils of this location may have been a major oversight on my part, but it wasn't a total letdown. We were able to stock up on some necessary supplies and as an added bonus, I found a rifle for Charlotte and a small hatchet for Kate. Not exactly ideal but what kind of weapon can you expect a three year old to properly wield? Plus it looks kind of adorable hooked into her tiny, pink belt. And I think it makes her feel safer. The blade is dull enough but I still fashioned a kind of makeshift sheath out of cardboard and duct tape. I don't want her to accidentally cut herself and I pray she'll never need to actually use it. I still can't believe our world has become something so nefarious that a child, barely more than a toddler, must carry a weapon to feel secure.

Below me, the field is empty except for one dark form struggling through the high grass. It's slow and mindless; there is no pattern to its' path. It walks one direction, then turns and shambles several feet before shifting again. Occasionally, it pauses and looks around. I'm certain it doesn't sense us, through smell or hearing or any supernatural perceptions. I don't know why it stops and I have no idea where the rest have gone. Maybe they joined the others passing by on the road. They move similarly but they clearly aren't walking together or as a group. They walk slowly until I can barely hear their feet shuffling over the dusty rocks that make up the road. By the time they hook around the bend half a mile south, I can't hear them at all.

Charlotte sneezes once, quietly, against the rolled up sweatshirt she and Kate are using as a pillow. It's the hay. We've all been sneezing and sniffling since we moved our things to the loft. Another reason to pack up and head out.

I can't see the shadow in the field anymore but I'm not surprised when something slams into the barn door below us. It isn't loud enough to wake the girls at first but soon I hear the doors tremble and the chain I have looped through the handles starts to rattle. In this situation, I'm psychologically lost.

In her sleep, Kate whimpers. She rolls across the old, stained mattress and curls up into a little ball. Before long, she's sobbing. The doors start shaking fiercely as the creature fights to get in. I know the padlock will hold and aside from the doors above in the hayloft, there's no other way into the barn. I'm not afraid of it getting inside. My concern is for how to get us out. We can't stay here forever. And what if the commotion alerts others?

When I wake her, Charlotte's wide, scared eyes make her look far younger than eleven. I didn't want to disturb her, but I can't leave the loft without warning her. I may not come back, after all.

"Get your sister. Keep her close, I have to go down." I whisper as quietly as I can, pointing at the ladder. Charlotte just nods and slides across the mattress.

"C'mere, Katie-bug" she says as she pulls the toddler close. She looks like the world's youngest mother with her baby sister in her arms. I'm thankful that Kate quiets almost instantly but I don't have time to savor the relief. The thing at the door won't stop until either it's destroyed or we are.

I slowly ease myself down the ladder, wincing as the wood creaks under my weight. The shambler scratches at the door like a dog. I can hear it growling and snarling. I don't want to get any closer but I have no choice. In my mind, I pray irrationally for it to go away, for something to distract it, for it to just disappear. In reality, I'm scanning the dirt floor for a silent weapon. I have a gun in a fake leather holster on my hip and I know how to use it but I haven't had much practice. Most people don't realize that precise aiming is far more difficult than the media has led us to believe. To the unfamiliar, even a very close target can be tough to hit. I'm a mediocre shot at close range but that doesn't always help me when the point of a gun is to avoid close range situations. I've never had to shoot a person, living or dead, and my ammunition stockpile is absolutely depressing. The gun won't do for this chore, anyway. I need stealth more than force. I need to kill this thing without drawing attention. And looking at the heavy doors, I need to sort out a way to do it without going outside or letting it in. I can't risk it finding the girls if I fail but my chances of failing are exponentially higher if I'm outside the barn where more could easily ambush me.

My eyes settle on a dusty cabinet in the corner. Inside, I can just barely make out the outline of what looks like a broom or shovel. A closer look reveals a similar but much more useful tool; it's a pitchfork. The tines are rusty but look sharp enough for what I need although perhaps a bit too wide.

After forcing myself closer to the shuddering doors, one painfully intense inch at a time, I test my theory and find it to be accurate. The business end of my new weapon won't fit through the narrow slit between the chained doors. Another quick inspection of the structure gives me a different idea, one that is far more welcoming as it maintains a safer distance between me and our visitor.

Five minutes later, I'm back in the loft. The creep is thumping on the door with his fists and moaning mournfully. The hatch is propped open by a moldy board and I can see him now, no more than six feet below me.

The zombie is what I would call 'almost-fresh'. His pale pallor has taken on a blotchy, greenish tinge; his clothing is bloody in places and would definitely do well with a good bleaching but could still be salvaged. He could have been a casual businessman, maybe a contractor or office manager, in his khaki colored twill pants and button-up shirt that I think must have started out as white or maybe light blue. It's even still tucked in, mostly. The only obvious trauma I see is a blackened bite mark on his left forearm. It stands out against the ghostly, moonlit skin like a... well, like a festering wound on otherwise unmarked flesh. This is the worst kind of zombie - fresh enough to look alive from a distance and fast with no debilitating decomposition or damage to his extremities. It is gravely dangerous, emotionally and physically. Dispatching these creatures sometimes seems more like murder than liberation.

The girls are both awake and watching me with intrepid awe. By the time I finish explaining my plan, Charlotte is looking at me as if I've lost my mind, a question I'm actually starting to ponder as well.

"I know it sounds strange but it'll work, I promise!" I tell them with a confidence I most certainly don't feel.

"Are you crazy? You're gonna get killed!" Charlotte says. Her incredulous whispers are almost comical.

"Yeah, probably but we gotta like...get creative here. Grab my feet and let's get this over with, okay?" I force a smile to emphasize the sarcasm in my voice but she knows I'm scared.

Once I'm certain that she'll do as I ask regardless of my state of sanity, I twist my torso out over the ledge. My abdominal muscles tense as I fight to hold myself horizontal above the open air. I reach back and wiggle my fingers; seconds later the pitchfork is thrust into my hand. I'm thankful that I can't breathe in this extremely awkward position because after glancing back at the girls, an overwhelming urge to laugh hysterically hits me dead on.

Charlotte has her arms looped around my legs. My ankles are wedged into the crooks of her elbows, held tight enough to hurt us both. She's leaning back with all of her weight in a very appreciated effort to avoid my toppling out of the hatch onto the thing below. Kate has struggled to drag the pitchfork to my open hand. Her cherubic face is bright red and scrunched up with strained concentration. The pitchfork is easily three feet longer than her and probably half her weight. She's tough, though. Her little fingers hold the handle up until I can get a firm grip.

Before I lose control of my impending laughter, or my nerve, I swing the pitchfork over the ledge, point it straight down and hold it steady in both fists.

"Hold on tight," I mumble under my breath and Charlotte's elbows tighten around my legs. Despite my whisper, the creep hears me at the last second and jerks its head upward. I look into its dead, gray eyes for just a split second before the rusty pitchfork punctures one of them. It lets out one last throaty gurgle before I plunge the pitchfork once more, this time directly into the crown of the things head. It drops to the ground with a satisfying thud.

With many gasps and much struggling, the girls maneuver me back into the barn. I pull them both against me. We huddle there together until Charlotte starts to tremble. She buries her face against my shoulder.

"It's alright, Char. We're fine, we all did great." I go on and on, trying to come up with the right words to provide her with comfort. When she finally looks up, I see that her eyes are wet with tears but not from fear or sadness. She's laughing silently, her entire body shuddering from the effort of keeping it in. I can't help but join her. I know it's the adrenaline hitting but before long, all three of us are shaking.

"You should have seen yourself, Molly. Your face-" Charlotte says. Her own face is tomato red.

Kate snorts into her hands, laughing along with us even though she doesn't really understand what's so funny but honestly, neither do I and we're all set off again. We're laughing and shushing each other like maniacs. Charlotte rolls across the mattress and onto the floor. We laugh until I feel like I might throw up and Kate is wheezing, collapsed in my lap.

When we've all caught our breath, I usher the girls back onto our bed. The sky has darkened but moonlight filters in through the open hatch. The breeze is cool and I'm reminded of one more concern - what to do and where to go throughout the winter. I file it away in the back of my mind with a million other worries.

"Alright, guys. Sleep time." I don't expect any argument and there is none. We're all exhausted. "We're still on for leaving tomorrow, k?"

"Okay." Charlotte says. She's already half asleep.

Kate snuggles against me. She's still smiling even though her eyes are closed and her breathing is steady. It comforts me to see her smile. She's too young to witness these horrors.

Outside, on the ground below the open window, I hear shambling footsteps passing by the barn. They've come to investigate the death-moan of their now fallen comrade, no doubt. Since they never saw, or heard us, I'm not concerned. Now that we're quiet and the snappy dresser below has been taken care of, I'm sure they'll keep moving, as long as no one sneezes. Within minutes, they've faded away, shuffling through the grass in search of whatever it is they're drawn to.

The girls are both out in minutes and I should be, too. This happens every night. The panic hits when the sun goes down. Charlotte is eleven, Kate is three. They're children and I'm responsible for them. During the day, when the girls are awake and the sun is shining, I can almost pretend everything is normal. When warm, sunny hours go by without any interaction with the dead, I can fool myself into believing we're just on a very long, very exhausting camping trip or hiking expedition. But every night, when darkness falls and the warmth fades away, the reality of our desperate situation beats down on me and I don't know how to deal with it. It's a long time before I fall asleep and when I do, I dream of Claire.