Prologue

No one knew where the infection started.

Nobody knew when, or how, or why.

The first reported case was in the Northeastern United States. The man came into the small country clinic outside Fairfield complaining of symptoms not unlike rabies. He came out of the hospital a raving madman, screaming in pain and rage.

And then he attacked.

The man was shot dead--they had had no other choice--and the four people he bit were given a rabies shot and sent on their way. Three days later, one bite had led to four infected, and the four infected polluted dozens of others. The sheriff didn't know what to do.

Years later, once some semblance of society had returned, Sheriff Jacob T. Peppersmith would be blamed for the outbreak. After all, if he had called CEDA when the mob had first showed up in his town, acting strange and attacking civilians, the pundits insisted that CEDA would have stopped the spread.

But the sheriff didn't call CEDA. He called his deputies, and between the panicked townspeople and the mobs of infected, Peppersmith didn't have a chance.

The plague swept the countryside. Zoey Harris didn't know about the infection as she set out in a cab from her dorm at York College of Pennsylvania. She was too busy fiddling with her iPod to notice the CEDA stickers on the walls that warned her about approaching unidentified individuals who seemed feral. She cracked her laptop open on the train and watched Evil Dead with her headphones on, oblivious to the conductors in their breath masks.

Rain slashed at the windows as the train eased into the station in Fairfield. Zoey glanced out the window at the platform; she instantly spotted her father. He was ramrod straight, standing in a thick woolen peacoat to withstand the November chill, and holding an umbrella to protect from the slushy rain. She glanced to either side, wondering where her mother was. Perhaps she had stopped for a cigarette.

Zoey gathered her things and, brushing her dark hair under the hood of her gray hooded sweatshirt. As she stepped into the rain, her father stepped forward to hold the umbrella over her. He groped for her bag and said, "I hope your trip was nice."

The college student knew better than to hope for a loving greeting. When he had sent her off for her first semester of college just three months earlier, he had shaken her hand and sent her on her way. Zoey smiled to herself at this and slung her backpack over her shoulder. "It's fine, dad. I can carry it. Where's mom?"

"Your mother isn't feeling well," said Mr. Harris. "I told her not to go out in this rain, but she needed more thyme. Or was it nutmeg? Whatever damn spice she needed."

"Oh." Zoey followed him towards the station. "I hope she feels better."

"I'm sure it's just a chill," said Mr. Harris.

"I hope so," Zoey said quietly, as if to herself.

Zoey knew Regina Harris too well to buy it. Zoey was being punished for her poor performance in her first semester of school. After a tirade of angry e-mails, phone messages, and letters (letters! Honest to God, ink-and-paper, letterhead letters!) it would be just her mother's style to make Zoey believe she was heartbroken and ill because of her actions. Zoey allowed herself a half-giggle as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Her father's black town car was waiting.

As they sat in the back of the car and made their way towards the apartment block, Mr. Harris asked, "What has your college been doing to protect against the plague?"

Zoey looked at him curiously, then laughed. "Mouse traps."

"What?" Harris raised an eyebrow and shook his head sternly. "Good Lord, Zoey, it's a surprise that you even survive." He reached into the pocket of the driver's side door and pulled that day's newspaper out. He opened it and laid it across her lap.

Zoey's eyes widened at the headline: MYSTERIOUS INFECTION STRIKES FAIRFIELD. Underneath the headline was a gruesome image of two human figures, heavily disfigured, stalking across a sidewalk. A third figure was on its knees, half of its head missing with blood spurting from the wound. "Jesus Christ, dad."

"Language, young lady."

"What the hell is that?" she said, thinking this was some kind of joke. "Jeez, dad, I get it. Too many zombie movies. God, could you try to be a little less subtle next time?" Zoey stifled a chuckle and folded the paper; she intended to knick the paper and stick it on her bedroom wall back at college with the rest of her horror film paraphernalia.

She looked up as her father stepped on the gas. They crossed an intersection, and Zoey saw in her rearview a mirror a group of protestors hoisting signs. One of them read: "REPENT! THE END IS NEAR!" Zoey's smile died on her lips and she looked at her father. "Is…is this real?" she asked, holding up the paper.

"Of course it is. Good Lord, why would I joke about something like that?"

Zoey ripped open the paper again and began to read the story under the banner headline aloud, skimming through. "…rabies-like infection…causes aggression, loss of mental faculties, violence…infection stages develop quickly…six to eight hours?"

"There've been some reports of attacks in Newberg, too. Even Riverside is starting to put up measures to quarantine the city."

Zoey looked out the window again; aside from the fact that there were very few people out on the sidewalks, and few cars, the city of Fairfield seemed normal. "Dad, what is Fairfield doing?" she asked.

"Nothing yet. The mayor and the city council are urging calm. Even that trained test dummy in the White House isn't doing anything. But your mother and I have installed a deadbolt so…everything will be fine." He smiled. "Your mother wants you to come back home. It's just not safe now, and besides, you don't seem to be very cut out for university just now."

"Dad, it's Thanksgiving, can we talk about this after I've had pie?"

"Zoey…"

The college girl made a dissatisfied grunt and glared at her father. "No, dad. We'll talk about this later."

Meanwhile…

The rain drummed on the window of the trailer, rattling the frame lightly. The noise didn't bother Francis Dixon. On the other hand, the massive hangover that rocked his skull and set fireworks off in front of his eyes every time he opened his eyes was quite bothersome. He wondered what he had done last night, aside from his usual bar trip.

The question was answered when her heard shuffling around in the bathroom. Francis opened his eyes, wincing in pain at the dull, diffused light of the morning hit him. He sat up and looked across his cramped bedroom; a pair of frilly pink panties lay discarded on the floor, a matching bra over the lampshade, a pair of leather heeled boots by the door.

Francis smirked to himself. Ahhh, yes. The headache was well worth it now.

There was another shuffle in the bathroom. Francis stood and pulled on a pair of clean boxers. He went to the door and knocked lightly. "Y'okay in there, uh, hon?" he asked, rolling his eyes. How could he have forgotten her name already? In his defense, it was possible that she had never told him.

There was a moan from the other side of the door. "Don't tell me you're going again without me," Francis called, reaching for the doorknob. He pushed it open, peering inside. He caught a flash of bloody vomit on the mirror and grunted. "My God, are you okay?"

A hand gripped the door and yanked it open. Francis immediately let go and stepped back as the woman who had shared his bed last night came staggering out. Her eyes, cloudy and white, stared at him; he wondered if she could see him. She sniffed the air and sighed, turning towards him.

"Arraagh!" she grunted and lurched at Francis.

"Jesus," shouted Francis, holding up a hand. "Look, I didn't make you come here. You came of your own--"

The woman grabbed Francis' arm and went to bite him. He pulled his hand back and shoved the woman back, his hands trembling. He'd never so much as swatted a woman who hadn't explicitly asked for it, and then it was only erotic spankings.

She roared and launched herself towards him, her hand coming up and aiming a punch at his chest. He dodged to the left and shoved her again as she went stumbling past. She collided with the wall near the door, spraying blood across the light switch and door. Francis went to her, grabbed her by the hair and forced her onto the ground, grabbing a nearby belt to bind her hands and feet. She thrashed and bit wildly, but couldn't find purchase.

Francis went to the bedside table and picked up the phone. He dialed 911 reluctantly; he hated cops. He received a pre-recorded message about circuits being busy. With a sigh, Francis glanced at the woman he had tied up with her own belt. "Sorry," he said as he sat on the bed and pulled his own black jeans towards himself. He threw on a wife-beater and the vest he had worn the night before and carefully walked past her into the living room of his trailer.

He called the police again and again found that they were busy. Cursing, he hung up and opened the door. The sight of the trailer immediately next door burning in the rain greeted him. "Holy shit," he growled and ducked outside. He hoped his neighbors weren't still inside; he wasn't in the mood for any hero bullshit.

"Barb! Jeff!" he shouted, running over to peer into the window.

"Over here," said Francis' neighbor, Jeff. "Sorry, we heard the struggling in your trailer and thought you'd turned."

Francis coughed. "Turned what?" he demanded.

"Into one o' them vampires," said Barb, cowering in her terry robe and bunny slippers. "You know. That infection."

Francis glanced back towards his trailer. "I didn't…but I think someone did. Is that why your trailer is on fire? Is that the only way to…?"

"Oh no. A pack of 'em got in while Barb was trying to light the stove," said Jeff with a grin. "I shot at 'em, and it caused a spark, and the whole kitchen went up. Thank God Barbie here didn't get all burnt up."

"You're pulling my leg," said Francis, looking back to the trailer. "Did you call the cops?"

"Tried," said Barb. "No answer. I guess they're off. Thanksgiving, you know."

Francis rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Hell. Vampires running around and the cops are nowhere to be found. I hate cops. Where are you two going to go?"

"Motel 6 up the road to Fairfield," said Jeff. "It sure don't feel safe out here in the park anymore, even if the trailer wasn't on fire."

"I'm going to see if I can find a cop to come and take care of this girl. She might be infected."

Barb's eyes fell. "Oh Francis. You know there's no cure."

Francis cleared his throat. "Well…gotta try anyway, don't I? I'm gonna take my bike and get the hell out of here. Good luck, you two." Francis went back to his trailer, trying to ignore the muffled roars of the woman in his bedroom as he grabbed his wallet. He stuck his handgun in the back of his jeans and hurried out to his bike. Barb, Jeff, and their ancient station wagon were gone.

Francis threw one leg over his bike, fired it up, and roared out of the trailer park, pretending that the lurching figures he saw every so often were joggers.

The next day…

"What is that noise?" Zoey demanded to no one in particular, burying her face deeper into the pillow, as if she could sink directly into the comfortable, downy surface and therefore be immune to the wretched banging that had woke her up. But it didn't stop. Zoey looked at the clock; it was blank. She looked at her watch; it was just after ten.

Finally she sat up in bed and strapped her watch on her wrist. The banging sounded like it was coming from down the hall and was reminiscent of the banging that Zoey's mother had used to rouse her from her sleep to get her to school on time years ago.

Zoey sighed. Maybe Regina needed her to peel potatoes or something. The young woman went to the door and opened it. The apartment was dark. She fumbled for the light switch, but the light didn't come on. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge as she heard a moan accompanying the banging down the hall.

"Mother?" she asked quietly. "Dad?"

Perhaps it was the darkness; perhaps Zoey just didn't want to see, but she could make nothing out in the hallway. She stepped into her room, picked up her iPod from her charging station, and flicked it on. The light illuminated her dresser and the wall. She held it in front of her and reached for the door, then made her way down the hallway.

As the double-doors that led into her parents' master suite came into view. Zoey had to recoil in fear. There was a ragged hole in the door, and a flailing arm was reaching through it. She thought she recognized her mother's dressing robe, but …

Zoey recognized the dark spots on her mother's robe as blood and reached out for the wall to steady herself. "Oh my God," she moaned. "Mom, are you all right?" She shone her iPod light source towards the door and reached for the handle. A growling roar from inside made her reconsider.

"Dad! Mom! Somebody!" she shouted, trying to peer into the hole, but it was no use: the only thing she could see was torn cloth and mangled flesh. The banging on the door must've been her mother's head banging on it.

Hyperventilating, Zoey staggered towards her room. She sat on the edge of her bed and put her head between her knees, gasping for breath. "Oh God." She closed her eyes, then as the banging resumed in earnest, she reached for the basket containing clean laundry. She pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a white hooded sweatshirt before she began to pace her bedroom floor.

"Okay. Okay. Maybe she's sleepwalking. But what's with all the blood? Maybe she's got a fever? Maybe she's sick and she threw up and that's why there's all the blood. Dad said she was sick. She's probably just sick."

Even as she spoke, Zoey knew that this was a fallacious train of thought. Nobody went crazy and banged their head against a door when they were sick! Zoey heard a crack in the distance and a shiver of fear raced down her spine. It sounded like the door was breaking down.

Zoey stepped back into the hall and glanced towards the door. There was a hideous slash down the center of the door, and the banging was as loud as ever. "Jeez," she whimpered, scrambling back towards the living room of her parents' posh townhouse.

She was halfway through the open living area near the fireplace when she heard the crash. The squeal and moan froze Zoey's blood in her vains. She turned in time to see what had once been her mother staggering into the living room, clutching a severed arm in one hand.

The bloody arm dropped as the creature saw Zoey. It began to amble towards her. Zoey's eyes moved from the bloody arm on the berber carpet, to the blood dripping from the creature's jaw, and to the grasping hands reaching towards Zoey herself.

"Sorry, mother," she whispered as her eyes cut to the fireplace. She snatched the poker tool from the stand, raised it over her head…