Chapter 1

It began on a Wednesday. That's all I remember.

My Mom and Dad stood outside and in the backyard, cheery grins on their faces. The winter had ended abruptly, allowing the neighbors to flock outside in wonder of the beautiful weather. The sky shined a bright blue, big puffy clouds adding to the beauty. The sun shined radiantly and graced their faces. I looked out of the window towards them, a small smile on my face.

I propped my face up with my palm, my elbow on the kitchen counter. Mom laughed and the sound carried even through the heavy duty glass. My Dad looked at her with bright blue eyes, his hand on the small of her back. They looked like the perfect couple, and my heart ached to see them. Somewhere, in the farthest corner of my mind, I desired something like that.

I was notorious in my high school for my dislike for boys. Some even thought of me as lesbian, but I just shook him off. Once I graduated, I realized that not all boys were bad, and that I had to grow up from that. I needed to cooperate with them in order to live my life, and be professional.

Mom placed a hand on Dad's upper arm and kissed him. I scrunched up my face and made a gagging noise. I looked away swiftly from the public display of affection. I turned and pulled the refrigerator and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. Pouring some water into the cup, I looked outside again.

Mom turned on the radio, and Dad grabbed her hand. They waltzed across the lawn, grinning at each other like there was no one else in the world. I was content with watching them, occasionally sipping my water.

And then it happened.

They broke apart so suddenly I thought they were going to fall flat on the ground. Dad narrowed his eyes to the radio and turned up the dial. My Mom's eyes were wide; scared; afraid.

A rock sat in my stomach and bile rose in my stomach, the fear grabbing me, taking hold of me. I ran to the glass door and shoved it open. By then, Mom was clutching Dad for dear life, her expression distraught, her frail body shaking visibly. Dad held her, his eyes wide just like hers.

I burst into the backyard, and I heard it. The message blared from the radio, and I could hear it from other houses, whether it was from phones, televisions, and radios just like ours. "THIS IS A NATIONAL EMERGENCY. REPEAT, A NATIONAL EMERGENCY. ALL CIVILIANS ARE STRONGLY URGED TO REMAIN INDOORS. LOCK ALL DOORS. STAY IN SECLUDED AREAS. RUN. THIS IS A NATIONAL EMERGENCY. ALL CIVILIANS—"

"What—what's going on?" I asked my Dad, my own limbs trembling. Knees trembling, I took slow steps towards them. "What do we do? What's going on?"

"We're—we're going to die," Mom cried, tears running down her face, every sob wracking her back and forth. Dad wrapped himself around her, his large hand covering the side of her head. "I—Zeus—I'm scared." Her words were heartbreaking, the woes of a woman who knew her life would be taken right from her.

"Daddy," I said, desperate. I only ever called him that when I was desperate. "What is going on?!"

Right then, police sirens and brakes screeching and gunshots assaulted my eardrums. People screamed and yelled and I could see smoke off in the distance. Dad looked at me, eyes wild with terror. "There's something wrong. A bacterium that eats away at the brain. It—it messes with your blood, tears at your skin, and you attack everything in your path. You become a…a zombie."

Zombie.

I had always thought of it as a dumb word, a word that made me laugh when anyone talked about them in horror movies. They always looked dumb, and very obviously they had on make-up. I wanted to shake my head, laugh, and tell them it made no sense. But it did.

The illness; it had begun in Brazil, and we doubled our protection on the borders, closed all flights and closed harbors. But these "undead," or as I will call them, "Rotters," were far more aggressive than we anticipated and they crossed the Mexican border with ease. Texas was affected first, then New Mexico, and so on. We lived in New York; we had built even taller walls, assured by the government it would hold, gathered our supplies, and waited out the outbreak. But…they had gotten through. It had been four months. We continued life as normal. We thought it would hold.

Life was so normal, so so normal until this.

New York was prepared, but only barely. We locked the doors and ran to the basement. It was dark, but Dad turned on the light hastily, bathing the room in a faint light. I grabbed my bow and quiver off of my shelf and slung the bow across my back. I was so thankful that I was strong and could pull about fifty-five pounds, enough to hurt someone fatally. But just to make sure I strapped a pistol and a knife to my belt. Mom stood deathly still, and Dad encouraged her to pick up a weapon. "Leto," he said, his voice trembling, "Please…"

Mom grabbed a handgun and brought it to her head.

My heart stopped as I screamed and cried for her to put it down. Dad jumped for her, but it was too late. "If I'm going to die," she whispered softly, "I want to die as myself, I want to die with no intent to hurt anyone."

And then, the most horrible, terrible, loud noise banged. I screamed, a shrill, piercing noise that joined with the pained wails of others. Mom looked the same, except there was a large hole on her head, surrounded by blood. I collapsed down next to her, my breathing still shallow. I didn't want to breathe, I wanted be with her, so I stopped. But then instinct takes over and you're forced to take a breath. I am still breathing. Mom, I am still breathing.

Dad stared at her in disbelief. Chaos still went on outside.

"Just one moment," I begged, "One moment of silence for my mother."

The world did not oblige, and the sounds only intensified. Dad kneeled beside his wife, the same one who he had held so tight earlier that day, and cried. His tears were silent, and came down his face in singular streaks, but I knew that he was holding himself back. A high pitched scream sounded from the house beside ours, and I knew it was only a matter of time. "Dad," I said sternly, trying not to show any weakness, tried desperately to hide the fact that I was a teenage girl who saw her own mother kill herself, "We have to get ready and run. They will catch us."

I nocked an arrow on my bow and I heard them pounding on the door. My heart beat rapidly, and I grabbed my Dad by the arm and ran to the back door in order to escape the Rotters. Run, my mind thought, run run run run.

We rushed to the back door and I swung it open, praying that it would be clear. And then I saw my first Rotter.

It was a woman, she was newly turned, her skin pale, moans and groans of pain escaped from her throat. Hair was falling out, hair that was once full and a beautiful color of black. I remembered her. Her name was Silena Beauregard, and she went to my high school. She was the popular girl, beautiful and perfect in every way. She was kind too. But there she stood, her once gorgeous topaz eyes a misty grey. I could see her every vein, and it was disgusting. She moaned and groaned and once she saw me, staring in incredulity, she pounced.

A yell, a flash of silver, and my throwing needle sprouted from her chest. Dad placed a hand on my shoulder as tears threatened to fall. I shook it away, I didn't have the luxury of crying. I turned around as I sprinted with Dad, the houses were on fire, hordes of the Rotters moaned and groaned. And what was worse was that they looked like humans; but their flesh was falling off and their hair left behind a sickening trail. They bled out, and I wondered how in the hell they were still able to move.

We jumped into a car, luckily it wasn't locked, and I sped away. The Rotters took attention to us, the car was loud, and started to make their way to us. "Come on," I muttered to myself, and ignoring the speed limit, I went down to the intersection; but it was far from abandoned. Cars were everywhere, some on the sidewalk, and honking like crazy. "F***," I cursed, and backed out. I hit a Rotter along the way, and went back towards the throng of the monsters. They jumped onto the car, looking at me with those misty grey eyes and thoughtlessly attacked the car. I slammed on the gas pedal and surged forward, we were so fast that we meandered on the road uncontrollably.

Dad opened the window and shot at them, the sound so loud and shot so powerful I could feel it reverberating through me, like it was punching me. Rotters fell left and right, but they were coming too fast. I took a daring move—no, a stupid move—and curved into a backyard and through the white picket fence. There was this grassy hill: a really steep slope, I ran up and down it every day for my daily exercise, and gunned up it. "There," I said aloud to Dad, "It'll take them a while to get up that."

It didn't.

I really don't get how a bacterium that literally eats away at your brain somehow gives you freaking super speed. I looked behind me and saw them racing after us, cursing under my breath, we swerved to the right. "Dad," I said with my teeth clenched, feeling my domineering nature coming out, "Shoot them. I'll try to get them off of our trail."

And it was horrible that I had to say such a thing. These people all had a future ahead of them, they had children, or were children to probably dead parents, and what was worse was that they had turned on all of those that they had loved. I felt sad that they could not have a proper burial, and unlike my mother, they would not die as themselves.

My mother.

I tried not to think of her as I tightened my hold on the steering wheel and I blinked tears out of my eyes. I attempted to keep my eyes on the road, but tears kept blurring my vision, and Dad's shooting continued to attack my ears painfully.

And this was happening so fast. So fast, too fast, and all I wanted was just my life. I realized then that I would never hate anything as much as I hated that illness.

This would be a never ending chase, I realized, and we'll run out of gas sometime if not soon. I wracked through my mind about where we could go, somewhere secluded. And then it hit me.

I remembered that it was a training camp, a training camp for survivors, and the kids there were like mini soldiers. They knew what to do in times of crisis like this. I smiled when I remembered the people that I made friends with, and I pushed on the gas pedal, hard. We needed to get to Long Island, and fast. All I could do was hope that they were still holding their own.

"Dad," I said before speeding unbelievably fast, "We are going to my old camp."