His thoughts lasted until the early morning.

Ellis tossed and fumbled, unable to find a position to get comfortable. The living room was cold and abstract; a reality of loveliness upstairs beckoning him. He ground his teeth, fighting against the need to go upstairs – the need to taste those lips again.

She was his drug, crudely put. He had tasted her, but instead of sating his temptation, the want for more was increasingly growing worse. He was addicted to her now and the strength of the addiction, in how sudden and incredible it was, scared him.

However, it did not surprise him. He supposed that was partially the reason why he was feeling worse about it. A growing closeness in that way to Zoey was something he had dreamt of, but was always unsure as to whether or not it could ever exist. Now it was here – and it was eating him inside; the wanting driving him to a deeper state of self-frustration.

And it was so, so much worse than he thought it would be. He knew he wasn't being helpful to himself in the current state of mind he was. Thoughts would sneak in, thoughts driven by Ellis's hormones. He kept forcing them out; every time he did so making him feel culpable. He imagined her as she was, in sleep; the sheets nestled around her body. Her curves heaving gently as she slumbered, lips slightly parted as the gentle whistle of her breath passed between them. In his mind, Ellis drew closer and closer to her; so much so that he could feel that soft breath on his fingers. He could taste her, the scent of her making him grit his teeth and clench his fists until his knuckles went white.

He was insatiable now; the barrier having been crossed. The leash had broken for him in that respect and the feelings inside him were growing, germinating into something deeper that caused thoughts that shamed him to ever dare speak aloud.

He was in love.

He wasn't sure for how long he'd been certain. In a manner of speaking, it was purely admitting it to himself that had taken so long. It amazed him now how easily he'd proclaimed it when he first saw her compared to how he felt now. At first, he'd thought it was just a reaction to Polly's death. Although they had not been together in a long time, Ellis's need for comfort in another when he'd found Zoey had completely blown him away. He had needed it so desperately that it became part of the reason for his instant infatuation; his inescapable obsession. It was also completely the wrong reason to feel that way, which wasn't fair to either him or her.

Things had changed however when he had found her. His feelings, as he explored them, had matured. He had gone through a period of guilt and he wrestled with his emotions, it being so soon that he should shun Polly for another. It was for that reason, as he had thought of Zoey and his true feelings towards her, why it had taken him time to allow himself those feelings.

This realization by no means ended his problems, however; rather, it created an entirely new one which in all likelihood was worse. Like, to Ellis was much different than love. Zoey knew that he liked her, sure. Ellis also knew that Zoey felt the same for him in that respect. But it was a feeling that said affection rather than commitment. Caring, but not devotion.

Ellis knew so much more about her now, than he did when he first met her. He knew how she defended herself emotionally. If he ever got the guts to tell her of his feelings, he also had no clue of the cost to their relationship as it was. It could make or break everything – and put a hell of a lot more on her mind which she really didn't need.

Retrieving his fifth glass of water after the third time splashing his face, he figured that he wasn't going to be sleeping much. The sandy hair on his forehead was matted, with moisture and cold sweat. He gulped the glass down and sat at the kitchen table, shirtless and lightly goosepimpled. It was going to be a long night – something which he did not doubt. The clock across from him read a ludicrous time in the morning and he rolled his eyes, slapping his face a couple of times, not too gently.

Snap out of it.

Instead of just sitting there, Ellis resolved to do something more useful to take his mind off things. Although as near-impossible as it was to feel otherwise, it wasn't just Zoey which he needed to focus on, right now. He needed to focus on tomorrow's journey. The route. The supplies they needed. The earlier they set out, the better – then, if all went well, they could be picked up in the late afternoon by Coach and the others. Privately Ellis, as was becoming regular lately, had his doubts. However, they weren't doubts he was going to speak of, not to Zoey and certainly not to Nathalie.

Do this for them. Make everything count.

Ellis retrieved the roadmap of Georgia from the bookshelf in the study and spread it across the table; a marker pen between his teeth. He had a habit of chewing pens which he'd gotten through bored hours of stock-counting at Sully's.

Twenty spare mufflers, twelve cans of engine grease, fifteen spare tyres...

Ellis's sharp eyes examined the multiple highways out of Savannah. There were several ways to reach Bloomingdale – but he hadn't come through that way before. He was also well aware that many of the routes out of the city had been closed off, especially any roads heading northward due to the origins of the infection. Their best chance would be on the quieter southbound roads – taking the way out of the city that Ellis had driven Zoey in all those nights ago – by sticking to the swampy country lanes. The pen squeaked softly as Ellis drew; a red pathway appearing on the map. He exhaled when he finished. It took them far out from town in a semicircle, which had its downfalls and benefits. There would be fewer infected in the countryside – but there would also be fewer supplies if they needed them, should there be an emergency.

Unable to stop himself, Ellis started rechecking through the supplies they had gathered. He already knew what was there; having checked through everything with Zoey earlier, but did so anyway as it took up time.

There should be enough. There has to be.

After the third time of pawing through tinned hot dogs, he fidgeted with the tab on the top of one of them, turning the cool cylinder over in his hands. Outside, in the distance, he heard a howl – from either an animal or an infected, breaking through the rustle of leaves from the outside trees in the wind. The quiet had filled him with unease. Over the last few days, it had changed how he felt, yet again. There were the hunters, but other than that, nothing had disturbed them. The stillness wasn't serving to frighten him though, as it had done in the encampment. Rather, it served to strengthen his reserve to jump back into the 'water' – because, this time, there was a hell of a lot more to lose. There was more than just himself to protect. There was Nathalie and Zoey.

If I lost her –

He forced the idea out of his mind and continued as he was, staring and thinking until the sky began to lighten.

The truck, fully gassed and loaded, seemed comically out of place in the country lane where it was. It bounded almost merrily down it; a dirt track covered in potholes and bumps, flecked with the odd abandoned car. Puddles glistened on the surface; blaring orange with the reflection of the dawn sun. Next to Ellis sat the AK, which jostled next to him in time with the movement of the truck. He held a hand, steadying it. He heard a clinking behind him as the molotovs he and Zoey had made rolled over in the blanket they'd been padded in for travel.

Zoey sat in the back with Nathalie, the little girl between her legs. Zoey was playing with her hair, which seemed to calm her. Her eyes were closed; her head resting against Zoey's chest. The only clothing (in a non mangled or disgusting state) they had found for her in the store (completely teeming with infected) they had stopped by on the way had not been to her taste and she had wrinkled her nose quite understandably at what she was now wearing; a Barbie-pink set of dungarees under a denim bomber jacket. They seemed childish even for her; hugging too tightly to her slight frame, the curves of puberty beginning to show their face under the dyed, girlish corduroy. They were a marginal improvement on the dwarfing nightgown, however. When Zoey had stayed with her during the night, she had managed to twist completely out of it. It had lain on the floor until Nathalie had thrown it back on, embarrassed in the morning when Zoey had woken her.

Ellis thought of the object in his pocket, which he had taken as he left. He could feel its light pressure on his thigh as it moved about, jostling with the other useless junk he had in there – bottlecaps, worthless change and his pocket knife.

His great-grandmother's claddagh ring.

In truth, he didn't know why he'd taken it. Upon searching his mother's room for things to bring with them, he could have taken more photographs, his old bear Blue from when he was a baby, or even his mother's reading glasses. Instead, he settled on two things. The other, a single photograph of him, his mother, Polly and Keith toasting him on his twenty-first birthday, was folded up in his back pocket.

It was a reminder of how things had once been. A reminder of how simple things should be. It rekindled his hope that one day, that although things would never, ever be the same... they, together, could maybe –

(Find peace)

– Ellis didn't know.

While he had been writing a note to Coach and the others, should they come early or if something should happen, specifying where they were and giving directions (although he was relatively sure Coach would have some idea, being local, where it was), Ellis had set the claddagh down, to look at it. His great-grandmother was of full Irish descent, as was the ring. His mother rarely took it off, which was why Ellis had been so surprised to find it in her jewel box. It had been shoved there as if she had been rushing and he had to prise it free from several earrings. It blinked up at him from the table as he wrote; the heart-shaped emerald in the centre glistening green.

His mother would often tell its story to him as a child. How you wore the ring spoke of your relationship with the giver and there were four different ways, two on each hand. His mother's Nanny (as she called her) had been given it as an engagement ring. Her husband had searched for several days after he returned from the war; apparently running through several towns on the west coast of Ireland to find the right one. Her parents had been of a more upper class upbringing and had looked down on her for being in love with a mere soldier, so they had fought her every step of the way. However, it had not made her change her love for him, so when he had proposed to her the moment he returned home in the meadow outside the town, she had slid the ring on her finger to show him her response to his question. They eloped that very night and had seven children over the course of a long and happy marriage.

He wanted to give it to Zoey one day. Not yet, or soon; but one day, should they be alive and happy together. Even though such a request was a long time from being asked, he felt his guts twisting in apprehension anyway just at the idea of it.

The truck rounded the final corner. Ahead of them, the church loomed. It was older than Ellis had expected; the roof slate and the walls stone. A wire fence was wrapped around it; twelve feet high with a barbed top.

The gate was open.

Ellis found that eerie. The place didn't look abandoned or destroyed; rather, it looked in good condition. It was hard to tell in the daytime, but he swore he could see a light coming from between the boards of one of the lower windows. Which could only mean one thing.

They had seen and were expecting them.

"We're here now, gals," he said to the rear view mirror.

He slung the AK over his back as he got out of the car. He listened out for infected, but heard nothing. The area had been kept clear by whoever ran this place, something Ellis was currently thankful for.

It was when he opened the back doors of the truck that Nathalie started to scream.

A few seconds after that, something struck him.

As the world slipped away and as Zoey too began screaming, all Ellis could think to himself was one single thing.

I've failed.

They lured them in, over the course of a few weeks.

Innocent people, desperate for help, came from all over South Georgia. There were huge numbers at first, running for the shelter. Over time that lessened, until there were only one or two lost souls who wandered in; hopeless, starving, lost... but importantly, unknowing.

They took them in, too. They fed them and prepared them and then –

The young mother and her daughter were the last to enter their domain; a week ago.

Both of them, as most of the survivors were who they came across, were very weak; from injury, starvation and dehydration. The mother was worse than her daughter. The little girl was skinny, sure, but she had blood in her face – walking strongly forward with determined energy. The mother was a waif; once beautiful, her blonde hair cascading straw-like around the frame of her face. Her jutting cheekbones and pale complexion spoke volumes of sacrificed meals, given to the little one so that she would live.

They were greeted with the same smile the others were treated. The same hands extended; pulling at their tattered clothes; taking them from their mangled vehicle and inviting them in to the warmth. Promises were made – the same ones. Promises of meals. Promises of protection and safety.

But worst of all, the promise of peace.

The mother and child understood something was wrong earlier than they had predicted.

On the second day that they were there; after a dinner of the processed food that had become common fare for every survivor (but yet becoming ever sparser) the two of them had taken an early night due to their exhaustion from running constantly. There had been mattresses laid out in the converted chapel, used by refugees. Alas, of course, no others had come. The two of them shared one mattress; side by side as a mother would protect her cub.

A screeching sound from below woke the little girl; brown eyes snapping open in the dim. The church was black; so dark in fact, she couldn't see her hands when she held them out in front of her face. Instant panic set in and she grasped the covers, pulling them around her. The snores of the others and creaking mattress springs had quietened as the night had gone on. There were fewer of them; fewer than there had been earlier.

Why?

The same sound again. It chilled her to the bone, so much she felt ill. The sounds weren't the same as the sounds the sick ones made. It was different. It wasn't just pain. It was genuine, complete and unwavering fear.

"Mama," she whispered, shaking her mother. She stirred, mumbling confusedly. The little girl felt her mother sit up beside her as she focused on where she was.

Another faint shriek caused the little girl to grip hold tightly on her arm. Now her mother was fully awake.

And just as scared as her daughter.

As their eyes adjusted, they could make out a faint white beam coming from underneath one of the doors. The screeching had stopped; but it made neither one of them feel better, nor deny to themselves the possible reasons for that silence.

"Stay here, baby," whispered the mother into her daughter's ear. "Pretend you're asleep. Don't stir darling, whatever you do."

The mother crouched on her hands and knees. Edging her way towards the door swiftly as she could, she scuffled desperately; the sounds of the few remaining men doing well to cover her scuffling. The little girl huddled up in her blanket; chewing at the wool. It squeaked between her teeth, making her think of rats and then look to the shadows for anything lurking nearby.

The room became momentarily lighter; as her mother opened the door, slowly but not quite as silently as either of them had hoped. She froze and the little girl flinched; but nothing stirred. Briefly, the little girl glanced around the shadowy place. It seemed different in the daytime – almost beautiful. It was an older church; not like the one they attended at home, full of stunning Catholic paintings of saints and an elaborate stained glass window (long since smashed into ruby-sapphire shards), but handsome all the same. It was all wood and wool, burnished silver and stone; materials reminiscent of when the first settlers came to the south (her last topic in school) in need of a place to praise the Lord. It seemed haunting now, though. The windows were boarded and the end doors sealed, but the little girl still shivered at a draught she swore she could feel.

The door closed behind her mother and there was quiet again.

Five minutes went by.

Then another.

And another.

As scared as the little girl was, she could feel it happening. Her eyelids were drooping. She was exhausted, so exhausted. It had gone on so long, the running; non –stop in horrible despair. Sleeping in basements, attics, warehouse offices; places hard to find and hard to get to, but places her mother insisted on. They were safer, she said. More out of the way. They were easier to lock and barricade, more out of the way and much easier to stay quiet in.

The little girl didn't dare tell her that they would also be harder to escape.

Her consciousness slipped away as her body gave in; her sleep dreamless and complete.

She awoke to the sounds of her mother's screams. The chapel was now light. As her eyes adjusted from the previous gloom, the picture came in focus.

The picture of what they were doing to her mother.

Their eyes locked and the little girl froze in terror.

"RUN NATHALIE! RUN!"

Knowing she could not help, she ran. Hands grabbed at her and she shrieked, pulling at her clothes. Her top tore away as they closed in around her. She bit down on a finger and heard the yell of a man who drew away, tasting hot blood on her lips.

She charged through the doors, her heart pumping harder than it ever had. Shots were fired at her. She kept her head low as they whistled around her, like deadly bees. They were slow, wicked men. Slower than her, which she was thankful for. She jumped and held on to the fence, climbing it like the rigging at sea scouts where she joined in with the boys.

(I promise to be loyal and strong and respect my fellow scouts)

A hand grabbed at her foot; her trainer coming loose. She pulled herself off the barbed wire with a scream of pain. It cut her arms to ribbons and shredded her shorts as she fell to the other side; ignoring the pain and still running. She made it to their car, battered and barely working; another shot pinging off the hood.

She was tall for her age, but even so, her foot only just reached the gas. Having barely turned the ignition, she floored the accelerator, screaming as she did so, the lack of gear change straining the engine. It chugged and whined as she zigzagged down the road, barely keeping out of the ditches.

About two thirds of the way back to her home in Savannah, the engine cut out. The car swerved and Nathalie shrieked as she went with it. It crashed into a maple tree in the front yard of someone's house. Outside, she could hear grunts; eyes leering at her in the dark. She curled in the back seat, sobbing and shaking, a meat cleaver clutched to her chest.

And remained there for two days.