I sat huddled and alone, my dad's old rifle clutched to my chest, shivering. My sweatshirt, originally bright red verging on pink, had been stained a much darker red by the blood splattered across its front, none of it mine. This shouldn't – couldn't – be happening. It was like some sort of bad dream, a sick joke played on me by the universe because of all those bad horror movies I'd watched. A creak sounded in the corridor outside my room, and I launched to my feet, rifle snapping up to firing position in trembling hands. /Dammit, get a grip, girl,/ I chided myself. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the bolt back on the rifle, feeling it latch into place. My door, barricaded with my desk and a chair that I had managed to haul over and jamb into place, throbbed as someone – no, some/thing/ -- slammed into it. The lights flickered, and I slowly backed away from the door, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself. The door shook again, and an inhuman gurgling growl sounded from the other side of it, slightly muffled by the thick wood.

Then, suddenly, the thunderous report of a large-caliber weapon boomed out, and the growl was cut off short, leaving only silence. "Hello?" I said, lowering the rifle a little and doing my best to keep a quaver out of my voice. The doorknob rattled, and a deep, gruff voice growled "Damn it, let me in before I break this door."

Lurching forward as if snapped out of a trance, I quickly moved the chair aside, then dragged the desk out of the way with a grunt of effort. No sooner had I removed the obstructions than the door banged open to reveal a figure that almost filled it. Standing a good head taller than me, he sported a white sleeveless shirt and black leather vest hung over his powerful frame, tattoos scrawled across almost every inch of bulging muscle. His head was clean-shaven save for a thin layer of light brown fuzz, and his thick jaw bore a scraggly goatee. His lips were curled up in a feral smile, and a big-bore pump-action shotgun was held casually in his gloved hands. "Hey, doll," he said, shouldering the shotgun and grinning as if this sort of thing happened to him every day. "Who… who are you?" I said, taking a step away from the imposing figure. "Introductions can come later, girlie," he growled, and nodded his head towards the hallway. "Now, 'less you're plannin' on spendin' the rest of the night here, we'd better get goin'." I nodded, too scared by both the situation and this huge newcomer to object to his names for me. "Good," he said curtly, turning and starting to walk off. Rushing to follow him and glancing around at what remained of my college dorm, I swallowed hard. It was going to be a long night.

"Home sweet home," the big man growled sarcastically as he shouldered his way through the door into the 'safe room.' Following him, I remembered seeing something on the news about them a few days before, sanctuaries put up by the government so that survivors – like us – would have a place to go that wasn't filled with bloodthirsty zombies. Waiting until after I'd passed him, my newfound companion slammed the door and shoved the bar into place, then turned and looked at me with a lopsided grin. "Now, girlie, is time for introductions," he said, and plopped down nonchalantly in a nearby folding chair, extracting a knife as long as my forearm from his boot and cleaning it on a spare shirt that he'd snatched from a dead body not two minutes ago. Looking up from his task, he growled "You got a name?" Clearing my throat, I managed "Zoey." He nodded, then gave me a wry smile and said "Zoey it is. I bet you were getting' tired of me callin' ya girlie all the time, huh?" Extending a muscle-bound arm, he said "Name's Francis. Pleasure to meetcha, Zoey."

Dubiously taking the hand, I winced at Francis's iron grip as we shook. Extracting my hand, I glanced over and took notice of the armaments strewn about the room. "Yours?" I said, motioning to the pile of guns and ammo. Francis gave a grim chuckle, and said "Nope. These," he tapped the shotgun at his feet with the blade of his knife, indicating both of them, "are the only weapons I need. Take yer pick, if you like." Standing up and walking over, I examined one gun after another. Not being much of a weapons expert, I couldn't tell much about them from their looks, so I took a sub-machine gun and stuffed several clips for it into my pockets, discarding the old rifle with a muttered "Sorry, dad."

That was when it hit me: whatever shit had gotten hold of Pennsylvania had most likely spread to Ohio too, which was where my family lived. Images of my mom, my dad, and my little brother Johnny crept into my head, and I stubbornly bit back tears as it sunk in that they were probably all dead or worse. Only one out of God-knows-how-many were naturally immune to this damn virus, and the odds of two immunes in the same family were miniscule at best. Despite my best efforts, the tears came anyway, unbidden and unwelcome. I heard the rhythmic grinding of Francis sharpening his knife behind me suddenly stop, and I felt his gaze boring into my back. "You okay, darlin'?" he said, but with his gravelly voice it came out more like a growl, which sort of defeated the purpose of the question. Nodding wordlessly, I stripped out of my sweater and lay on the cold concrete floor, balling the garment up and stuffing it beneath my head like a pillow. Behind me I heard Francis let out an indifferent grunt, then the rhythmic grinding started up again, lulling me to sleep.

I jerked awake to the sound of a gunshot, booming out like a thunderbolt in the confined space. Whipping around, I saw Francis casually pointing his shotgun at the door and took in the grisly corpse missing a head and a good bit of its torso sliding down the door, one of its hands stuck through the bars of the window. "These goddamn vampires are persistent," Francis growled, racking the slide on his shotgun. Not bothering to correct his misclassification, I lay back down on my makeshift pillow, closing my eyes and doing my best to get to sleep again. I could hear Francis humming softly to himself, the noise occasionally punctuated by the soft clicking of bullets being slid into and out of his shotgun. I couldn't describe it, but I felt safe with this big biker watching over me. Smiling as I listened to the tune of his off-key humming, I faded away into sleep again.

Two and a Half Weeks Later

Opening up the fridge, I let out a little yelp of joy as my eyes were greeted by rows upon rows of stacked food. It didn't matter what was in those boxes – noodles, chicken, I was past caring – the sight of unspoiled, relatively clean food, no matter the type, was a rare treat in the apocalypse, and I relished it. "What'cha got, darlin'?" came the familiar gravelly rumble from behind me, and I turned, a box of food in each hand, grinning like a loon. Francis's eyes lit up as he saw my prize, and he abandoned the cupboard he was rifling through, vaulting over the kitchen counter to land beside me, shotgun holstered on his back.

"Do I smell burgers?" Accompanying this question, a clean-shaven black-skinned face poked in through one of the room's doors, followed by Louis's slim body, sub-machine gun held at the ready. His eyes scanned the room, finally coming to rest on Francis lounging cat-like on the counter, tearing into an honest-to-god cheeseburger like a zombie tearing into human flesh. "Jesus!" Louis cried, eyes widening, as he ran over to share in our bounty. "Tell me about these things, girl!" "Who's talking about burgers?" came a slightly annoyed yell from a distant room. "Come on in, join the party!" Francis boomed back, between ravenous bites. A few moments later, Bill walked into the room, the old Nam veteran's stride marred by his characteristic limp. His gaze found me, Francis and Louis eating like we were half-starved – which, in fact, we were – and the old soldier shook his head. "You know, back in Nam we'd go days at a without eating." Francis rolled his eyes, and passed me the ketchup he'd raided from a cabinet.

Well-fed at last, our little ragtag band set out again a half-hour later, backpacks stuffed to bursting with frozen ravioli, chicken nuggets, broccoli and everything else we could scavenge. Francis took point – as always – and Bill grudgingly acted as rearguard, scanning behind us with his M16 assault rifle. Walking along, I was suddenly and jarringly halted by a muscle-bound, tattoo-covered arm across my chest. "Everyone stop," Francis said in a growling whisper, and Louis and Bill obligingly came to a halt. "What is it now, Francis?" Bill said, and Francis wordlessly jerked his head to the road ahead of us, where a pale-skinned woman – or rather, what used to be a woman – sat crouched, rocking back and forth as she wept into her long, bloodstained claws. "Shit," Bill whispered, and Francis nodded. "Lights off," he hissed, as if any of us needed to be reminded of the procedure. We'd all done this a hundred times, but no one complained, merely flipping the flashlights taped to the barrels of our guns off. Scanning the area, Bill muttered "Ah, hell. No way to go around, and we can't go back." A feral grin splitting his features, Francis growled "I'll handle this. Zoey, cover my ass." Nodding, I crouched down on the rain-slick pavement to steady my aim, scanning the area with a pistol in each hand. Louis shook his head and sighed to himself as Francis prowled toward the Witch, moving surprisingly quietly for a man of his bulk. Raising her blood-red eyes, the Witch gave a surprised hiss as Francis drew near it, and the big man leveled his shotgun, the cold steel of the barrel brushing the Witch's forehead. "Screw you," Francis growled, and pulled the trigger.

With a booming report, the Witch collapsed backwards, her head exploding in a fountain of blood and brain matter as the buckshot tore it apart. Pausing to spit contemptuously on the corpse, Francis turned and waved to us, grinning. As he was facing us, he didn't see the hunter farther along the road.

"Francis!" I yelled, starting forward at a run, but the hunter was faster. Pushing off with its powerful hind legs, the animalistic Infected hurled itself at the biker, who turned just in time to see the thing collide with him in a flurry of claws and fangs. Yelling a curse as he was bowled over, Francis struggled with all his Herculean might to free himself, but his efforts were in vain. The hunter, mutated for this exact purpose, had Francis pinned with its legs straddling his torso, and it was all the biker could do to keep its razor claws from shredding him. Breaking into a sprint, I slammed into the hunter in a full shoulder-tackle, knocking it off its prey and making my shoulder throb from the impact. The hunter fixed me with its stare, and its bloodstained jaws parted in an animal snarl as it curled its legs beneath it, preparing to pounce again. I raised my pistols to end the foul creature's life, but Francis was faster. The sound of his shogun's slide racking was all the warning the hunter had before it was torn apart by a hail of buckshot at point-blank range. The corpse fell backwards, still twitching, and I turned to see Francis laying on the ground, shotgun leveled, a clearly forced smile on his face. "Thanks, Zoey," he managed to get out through gritted teeth, and I knelt to inspect the damage. The hunter had ripped a good bit of flesh from his chest and gut – which were both bleeding profusely – but the lethal talons had fortunately missed any vital organs. "Come on," I said, forcing down the near-panic I felt every time Francis had one of his all-too-frequent brushes with death and offering my hand to the wounded biker. "I'll get you back up and moving in no time." Grunting with exertion and pain as he took the hand and hauled himself to his feet, Francis retrieved his shotgun and said "I owe ya," then turned and gave the hunter's corpse a savage kick, adding "I hate hunters."