Fort McAdams was supposed to be a sanctuary for the state of Alaska. The sanctuary, in fact. It was the only place Jerome, Rachel, and Emma Dufour had known since 'the outbreak' was just mandatory evacuations and weird rumors in their rural neighborhood. There had never been any reason for Jerome to do anything but listen to the radio broadcasts and texts urging people to distance themselves from the sick, to head to the Fort.

And now it was gone. Just like that, Jerome and his family were thrust into the terrifying shell of a place they had once called home. All he remembered from the past three hours were flashes of terrible things he knew would stay with him forever.

Jerome hadn't known what to do so he'd just kept driving. As long as they were going faster than the walker, they were safe, or at least it felt that way. They had no other plan. Fort McAdams was supposed to be their last stop until things went back to normal. But now the needle in the gas gauge was edging towards E, so Jerome had no choice but to pull into an abandoned gas station on the outskirts of Fairbanks.

Nobody had said a word for at least an hour, and this still silence continued as the family of three eyed the surroundings outside their windows. Two bodies wrapped in bloodstained sheets were propped up against the building. The gas station itself looked like every other building they had passed. Grimy, abandoned cars, withering weeds that had become overgrown during the last leg of summer, long-forgotten litter dotting the parking lot, busted windows.

Jerome frowned as he looked at his wife. "Looks like there's no power here, so the pumps won't work. We'll have to figure something else out." He blew out a disappointed breath. "I'm gonna go look around inside and see what's left to eat."

"Okay, honey. Be careful. I think we'll get out and stretch our legs." Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face their daughter in the back. "You stay right by my side."

The ten-year-old only nodded, causing her parents to share a look of concern. "How are you holding up, my chérie?" Jerome asked. He'd moved to the United States from France at thirteen and spent many years in the Chicago suburbs before moving to Alaska, yet his accent never faded. Most of the time, he forgot he had one, but the little French phrases and pet names from his childhood had always stuck with him.

"Fine," Emma answered. "I guess I'm a little hungry."

"I'm sure I'll find something," he said, flashing her a smile before hopping out of the Humvee.

Alaska was on the edge of autumn and as such, the heavily wooded area surrounding them was a mixture of golds, reds, and oranges. Somehow nature seemed more beautiful than ever, and Jerome couldn't help but admire the scenery as he walked towards the gas station. However, as he neared the doors, dread crept over him. None of them had eaten in close to a day. The Fort cut them back to two meals a day, and then whatever had happened was before breakfast. He doubted there was even a candy bar left untouched.

Something rustled inside the darkened building. Jerome halted, already knowing what was coming. The putrid stench of body odor and decor hit him first. He stuffed his nose into the crook of his arm and hurried backwards as two biters stumbled into sight, trudging eagerly over the shattered glass. A white froth dribbled down their chins as chilling groans and rasps slipped from their blue lips.

"Get in the Hummer," Jerome called.

Rachel flew around to the passenger side of the vehicle with Emma close behind. The walker neared him with increasing speed, their arms swinging wildly. Jerome wracked his brain for a way to deal with them, slowly backing away. He'd made it this far without killing, a fact that had earned a lot of disbelief at the Fort, but he knew it was time to stop running.

All he had was the Ka-Bar knife he'd managed to sneak into the Fort and escape with, but he didn't think it was smart to get that close. The guards at Fort McAdams had usually used guns, anyway.

The faster of the two infected made a terrible croaking sound, wild eyes locked onto Jerome, then it lunged towards him. Jerome leapt out of the way just in time. The other one closed in, gasping eagerly and reaching towards him with filthy, gnarled hands.

"Papa!" Emma shrieked, garnering the attention of the one that had lunged. Instead of going after Jerome again, it roared and bounded over to the Humvee to pound at the window.

Jerome's heart surged into his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run over there and tear it away from his family, but he knew he had to be smarter than that. He rushed to one of the abandoned cars and circled it, searching for an unlocked door. Much to his relief, the passenger side opened first try. He pulled the glove box open and rifled through the maps and parking tickets. When it became clear there was no gun hiding in there, he climbed in far enough to search under the seats.

All he found there were fast food wrappers and more parking tickets. He quickly backed out of the car and away from the rapidly approaching lone infected, to the trunk. He popped it open with his knife and nearly melted in relief when he saw a crowbar inside.

Trembling hands wrapped around the makeshift weapon, Jerome braced himself for a fight. Despite the adrenaline and terror coursing through him, he froze as soon as the infected staggered into striking distance. Those bloodshot, blank eyes staring at him used to belong to a person. Someone's daughter, or spouse, or sister.

"I'm sorry," Jerome whispered, then swung the crowbar with all his might. He smacked its skull with enough force to send the crowbar flying out of his hands and clanging across the cement, yet it only seemed to anger the infected. It snarled furiously and followed Jerome's every move as he dashed over and retrieved the crowbar. This time, he gripped it a little farther down the shaft when he swung. The impact stung his hands but did much more damage to his assailant. The walker's head cracked where he'd struck it. Blood splattered onto Jerome and everything around him as he swung again, and again, and again – until it finally fell to the ground, barely recognizable as human.

Across the lot, Rachel repeatedly thrust the driver's side door of the Hummer outward, smashing the creature against the gas pump. It was unphased and fought towards her every time she retracted the door, clawing wildly at the window. "Get away from them!" Jerome bellowed, even though he knew it would do no good. He darted over and used all the strength he had to drive the forked end of the crowbar into the back of its skull. The wet moaning sounds stopped abruptly. The infected faltered, then dropped to the ground.

Rachel left the door hanging open as she fell against the seat, wheezing and sweeping stray hairs off her sweaty, pallid face. Emma was on the floor of the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around her knees, wide eyes flicking back and forth between her parents.

The crowbar slipped from Jerome's suddenly limp hands and clattered to the ground. His stomach turned at the blood covering his torso, way too dark to be from a living person, yet he'd just beat it out of something that resembled a human. "Jesus Christ," he panted. Despite his efforts to compose himself, his eyes burned with tears, and his throat was growing tighter by the second. Rachel clambored from the vehicle and wrapped both arms around his middle, burying her face against his neck.

Whatever had allowed him to hold himself together broke, and he had no control of the sobs that escaped him. He clung to Rachel, feeling that her presence was the only thing keeping him from slipping away. Emma joined them after a while, pressing against her parents and wrapping an arm tightly around each. They hadn't had time for reality to sink in, or even to grieve what was now their past. Hundreds of thoughts soared through Jerome's frazzled mind, rendering him unable to focus on anything more than a few seconds.

Everyone they'd ever known was probably dead. There was nowhere left to run to. Where were they going to go? What were they going to do about food, shelter, supplies, survival in the long term? Did safety even exist? Was anybody working on a cure? What the hell were they going to do?

Jerome wasn't sure how long they stood there, but after he'd managed to calm down enough to exhale without weeping, he knew they had to get going.

After finding and devouring whatever snacks they found in the gas station, the Dufour family sat inside the Humvee. None of them looked forward to getting back on the road, least of all Jerome. Decision making was not his forte, especially when their lives may depend on it. They'd spent the last few hours just trying to find food and fuel, but now it was time to think ahead.

"So…" he began, turning a dark, questioning eye to his wife. "Where do you think we should go?"

Surprised by his question, Rachel blinked. "I thought it was clear we're going to my sister's."

"Who said that?" Jerome asked. "The only plan we've ever had is the Fort, we never talked about what would happen after."

She didn't reply, just settled back against her seat and sighed.

"To tell you the truth, I don't think we could make it three hundred miles," Jerome said, regretting the bluntness of his words as soon as they slipped out. He hadn't meant to be so pessimistic in front of Emma, but Rachel's sister lived in Anchorage, and that was a whole lot of unknown territory to travel with next to no supplies.

"What other choice do we have?" Rachel demanded. She briskly tucked a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, not moving her piercing glare for a second.

Jerome shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had a feeling he knew how Rachel would feel about the one and only idea he had. "Well, I was thinking about the rig," he began, and as expected, Rachel's face contorted in horror. "It's secluded, there's shelter and supplies…" he trailed off, knowing he didn't have to tell her the rest. She'd been to the oil field plenty. Jerome had worked there for the past three years, spending ample time working his tail off in the wilderness.

"The rig?" Rachel repeated, her mouth agape. "That's your big idea?"

"I think it's perfect," he replied, growing a little defensive. "You know there's not going to be anyone else there, it isn't on a map. As long as we have a vehicle and can stock up on food, it could last us until this all blows over."

Around a mouthful of Bugles, Emma suggested, "Maybe everything is okay at the Fort now. We could go back."

Oh, the naivety of children. Jerome was somewhat relieved by Emma's proposition. At least he knew that the chaos hadn't traumatized her too much. "I don't think so," he answered, then, leaning closer to Rachel, lowered his voice so only she could hear. "If I thought we could make it to your sister I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I think the rig is all we've got."

"Maybe you're right." Not sounding at all satisfied, Rachel shrugged.

"Don't you know I'm always right?" Jerome's attempt to lighten the mood didn't do the job, and Rachel just rolled her eyes.

"Let's get going," she said. "We can try to pick up a few more things and make it there before dark if we're lucky."

Jerome started the engine and rolled out, gravel and dust trailing behind him. After driving for another half an hour, they were officially in the city of Fairbanks. Buildings straight out of the gold rush era sat on either side of the abandoned streets. A few undead stood along the sidewalks here and there, hunched over with their arms dangling before them. Jerome continued until they were out of sight, refusing to stop and risk dealing with them unless there was something actually worth stopping for.

Aside from the scenery, one nice thing about the apocalypse was being the only one on the road. Jerome made it to the shopping plaza in record time. Before, it would've taken another thirty minutes. He pulled up next to the privacy fence of the neighboring building, just far enough from the parking lot to see without being seen. Jerome counted one, two, three, four, five, six, seven infected before he lost track.

"Damn," he sighed. Fairbanks Plaza was the one place he knew in the city like the back of his hand. Without maps or GPS, he had no idea where to go next and driving in circles didn't seem like a wise choice. Though he'd lived in the area for much of his adult life, he liked to stick to the rural areas. Unfortunately, he doubted there would be anything out there.

"The shops look untouched," Rachel said. She pointed towards the far end of the plaza, where several shops sure to house survival gear stood in shockingly good condition. "If we can find a way around those goons, we might've hit the jackpot."

"How many of them thought the same thing?" Something about them mesmerized Jerome. Unaware of his presence, they stumbled back and forth aimlessly. What went on in their heads when they weren't locked onto prey? Did they think? Was their humanity trapped inside there, like someone in a coma?

"I think it's worth a shot," Rachel insisted. "We can't afford to keep running. Just got to get this over with and get to the rig." Her lips quirked when she mentioned the rig, like the word left a foul taste in her mouth.

Unconvinced, Jerome tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. On one hand, there was enough to loot in that mall to keep them stocked for a month. On the other, he wasn't sure it was worth risking their lives to get it.

"It should be easy enough to sneak around them," Rachel continued, her tone something like when Emma was little and had to be bribed to eat her dinner. "Besides, that crowbar seemed like a pretty good weapon."

Jerome groaned and slapped a hand to his head. Sure, the crowbar was a good weapon, but it was laying in a gas station parking lot twenty miles back.

"You forgot the crowbar," Rachel deduced, huffing irritably.

Emma said, "What about your knife, papa?"

Jerome cringed. A ten-year-old should never have to assist her parents in figuring out how to defend themselves so they could loot a store. Nevertheless, she had given him an idea. "Get the duct tape, Emma."

Jerome reached into the side of his boot and retrieved the knife. Its black blade glistened in the sunlight, blood from that morning dried brown. He gently opened the door and slid out.

Rachel gaped at him, her mouth hanging open. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Shhh!" He hissed. To his relief, none of the infected were even looking in their direction. He crept a few feet down the sidewalk to a tree and braced the knife against a branch just thick enough to serve as a spear. He sawed it from the tree in only a few seconds, then chopped the leafy end off before returning to his vehicle.

Jerome took the duct tape from Emma's outstretched hand. Holding the stick between his knees, he lined up the knife at the end of it and wrapped duct tape around and around until he was certain it would hold. "Hopefully this will work."

Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt and found Emma's eyes in the rearview mirror. "You know the drill."

"Stay right by your side, I know," Emma sighed.

Jerome tapped his fingers nervously against the stick. "Noise seems to get them going. We need to move fast and quiet."

Rachel pointed somewhere a few feet beyond the Humvee, where a cement retaining wall bordered either end of the parking lot. "If we crouch along that wall, I bet we can sneak right past them and go in through the back."

"That'll work," Jerome agreed. They filed out of the car stepping as lightly as they could manage, tensely easing the doors closed before gathering on the sidewalk. Jerome took the lead, with Rachel and Emma right behind him. They crouched down and scurried over to the barrier. Jerome peeked over the top and saw the infected were still unaware, then continued.

As they approached the end of the wall and the backlot of the building came into view, Jerome stopped. A single infected stood a few feet from the door, wearing a torn and tattered security guard uniform. A gun sat snugly in a holster on its hip.

"You stay here while I take care of him," Jerome whispered. Rachel nodded and pulled Emma closer.

Jerome hurried forward and made it just past the corner of the building before the infected noticed him. Its teeth gnashed together as it desperately started towards Jerome. He thrust his makeshift spear right between the biter's eyes, only for the knife and duct tape to fold and fall to the ground. "Shit!" Jerome exclaimed, scrambling away from the biter's grabbing hands.

"They heard you," Rachel said, her voice taut with barely contained panic. "They're coming!"

The moans and snarls grew louder as the mob of walkers drew closer. Jerome skirted around the security guard's clawing hands and retrieved his knife. He pushed the stick against the walker's chest until it was backed against the wall of the building. Barely evading the snapping teeth, Jerome sprang forward and drove his knife into its skull.

Just as the body hit the ground, five more came around the corner.

"Come on!" Jerome called to his family. He snatched the revolver from the security guard's holster and hurried to the door. When Rachel and Emma joined him, they rushed inside together. Around them was nothing but shelves and cardboard boxes. They'd stumbled into the storage room of a clothing shop, by the looks of it. The only source of light came from the hopper windows at either end of the small room.

Before they even had time to catch their breath, the infected were slamming against the door. Rachel jumped into action and barricaded it with one of the shelves. The shelf rocked back and forth as the door creaked against the pressure. "They just don't stop," she said. "That shelf isn't going to hold for long, we need to go."

Jerome nodded, giving the gun in his hands a nervous once over. He'd only ever used a gun once in his life, and that was on a hunting excursion when he was fourteen years old. He found the button that opened the chamber and was relieved to see four bullets. "Stay behind me," he said.

He walked to a set of double doors and tried to peek through the windows. Beyond them was almost nothing but darkness, a few spots of sunlight striping the abyss. Jerome slowly pushed one of the doors open and was thankful to hear silence. They continued through the shop, not stopping to scavenge since there was nothing but clothes and accessories around.

As they passed the register and approached the main entrance, Rachel walked over to a map of the mall near the door. She found the 'you are here' dot and tapped a store two squares down. "Bass Pro Shops. I bet there will be some stuff we can use there."

"Definitely." Jerome cracked the door open just enough to see out the parking lot. To his relief, not a single infected was in sight. He motioned for Rachel and Emma to follow and led the way outside, keeping his back against the building as they hurried down the sidewalk. They passed another clothing store before reaching their goal in the form of a large, cabin-like building labelled Outdoor World. Jerome stepped up to one of the front windows and peered inside. Though it was dark, he didn't see any movement inside, so he tentatively led the way in.

At first, they just wandered past boats and clothing, then Jerome saw it: the hunting and firearms section. Dozens of guns inside glass cases, shelves upon shelves of ammunition, racks of rifles, and hunting knives hanging from hooks. All of it untouched. Jerome and Rachel shared a look of disbelief before they rushed forward. Rachel moved to a display of outdoor backpacks and tossed one to Jerome before grabbing one for herself. "This is amazing," she said, smiling broadly.

"Let's take only what we need," Jerome said. "I feel guilty enough we can't pay for anything."

"Jerome," Rachel said, her tone near scolding. "Screw that. No one's going to come in here and arrest us, I promise."

"I know that, but shouldn't we leave something for other people?"

"We can't take it all anyway, there's too much." Rachel perused the aisle, stopping at a section of ammunition. "We should take everything we can carry."

"Papa look what I found." Emma appeared at the end of a gun display holding two heavy duty flashlights. She pushed the buttons and they both turned on, bright LED beams slicing through the darkness.

Jerome couldn't help but smile. He held the bag open. "Nice find, my chérie! Toss 'em in."

Rachel had moved to a long glass gun case, staring longingly at the firearms within. "Do you think it'll make too much noise if I bust it?"

"As far as we are into the store, I don't think so," Jerome said. Rachel took a rifle from a nearby rack and only slammed the butt against the case twice before the glass shattered. Jerome came and helped her clear the rest of the glass. Together, they popped the trigger-guards off their selected pistols and sent Emma to find the corresponding ammo.

Once both of their bags were weighed down with their loot and Jerome had snagged a couple rifles, he led the way to the next section. "There has to be food somewhere in this place," he commented, peRachelg around for anything besides clothing and fishing equipment. They wandered down a few more aisles before coming across a food display. It was mostly snacks and junk food but Jerome filled Emma's backpack anyway.

"Not a bad haul," Jerome said. As he, Rachel, and Emma neared the front of the store, the mood was considerably lighter than when they'd entered. Just as Jerome was about to push the door open, he froze at the sound of distant gunfire. His brows furrowed deeply. "Do you think – " his sentence was cut short by an explosion unlike anything Jerome had ever experienced. The blast boomed against his chest and sent all three of them flying to the ground. Glass rained down as every window in the building blew inward.

Jerome forced his stinging, watering eyes open. Rachel and Emma were lying a few feet away, slowly getting to their feet. Rachel's eyes locked with his. Her lips moved, but Jerome couldn't make out any words over the shrill ringing in his ears. He stood and willed his legs not to buckle, trying to figure what the hell had just happened.

Rachel shoved her hand in his face and snapped her fingers. When they eyes locked, she pointed outside, and the ringing subsided just as she screamed, "Run!" A dozen or more biters surged through the dust and debris. Still dazed, Jerome fumbled to get the revolver from his waistband. His hand shook when he tried to line up the leading biter in his sights. He fired twice, both rounds missing the mark.

"Just go, we can outrun them!" Rachel yelled. Glass crunched under their feet as the family ran out through the open frames that used to be doors. The formerly pristine plaza resembled a warzone. The windows of every neighboring shop laid shattered on the ground, biters stumbling out from the holes. Splinters of wood and other building materials fell around them. As Jerome managed to shoot a nearing biter in the chest, he peered through the haze to find the source of squealing tires. A short school bus sped across the street and into the parking lot, swerving around biters and debris. Jerome stepped in front of Emma as the bus slid to a halt mere feet from them.

The doors popped open. A young man sat in the driver's seat. "Get in!" he hollered. The biters were too close for them to run, and Jerome had no time to consider anything else. He dragged Emma along with him onto the bus. The stranger pressed a button and snapped the doors shut as soon as Rachel was inside. Biters pounded against the door and began to climb onto the hood.

"Hang on," the man said. He shifted gears and stomped the pedal. Jerome fell to the floor with his wife and daughter as the bus lurched forward. Several of the biters were plowed down, sickening crunches replacing their groans.

Just as Jerome managed to get himself to his knees, a woman stomped forward from the back of the bus. She shoved the muzzle of a pistol against his temple. "Move again, and I'll blow your brains out," she spat from between clenched teeth. Jerome didn't dare move a muscle. This woman was not messing around. That much was clear from the way she looked at him, fury and distrust shining in her eyes. Her black, unkempt hair fell around her face and gave her the appearance of some wild woman.

"Carmen, stop it," the driver groaned.

Rachel gingerly raised her hands in surrender. "We don't want to - "

"Bitch, did I ask for your opinion?" Carmen jammed the gun against his head.

"Leave my dad alone!" Emma said, right before bursting into tears. She pressed close to her mother's side.

"God dammit," the driver sighed. He stopped the bus right in the middle of the road and stomped over to their captor, hand outstretched expectantly. "Come on, I warned you. Give it."

Carmen made no move to hand the gun over. "I told you not to help them," she barked, spraying Jerome with spittle.

"And I told you to stop it," he replied. "You're scaring the kids."

Carmen grudgingly shoved the gun into his hand. She stormed back to her seat at the end of the bus and plopped down beside a little boy. He was no more than four or five years old and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. Tears welled in his eyes but did not overflow. The man slid the gun onto the dashboard then extended a hand to Jerome.

"I'm sorry about her." Jerome allowed the stranger to pull him to his feet. The handguns, ammo, and flashlights in his bag had squashed all feeling out of shoulders. Unable to take it anymore, he shrugged it off and set it in the closest seat. The man leaned down face-level with Emma, ignoring the way Rachel pulled her a step backwards. "You don't have to be scared, okay? I didn't help you just to let my sister hurt you."

Rachel glared at him and guided Emma to the nearest seat. "I sincerely hope not," she said.

He sighed, shifting awkwardly. "Let's start over. My name is Brandon Woods. That's my sister, Carmen, and my son, Adrian."

Jerome always tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Although the alternative was worse, Carmen's actions combined with the 'lights are on but nobody's home' look in her eyes almost made him wish they'd never got on the bus. After a moment of hesitation, he shook Brandon's outstretched hand. "I'm Jerome Dufour," he said, finding his voice surprisingly weak. "This is my wife, Rachel, and our daughter Emma."

"Nice to meet you," Brandon replied cheerfully. "What's that accent?"

"Oh, I'm French," Jerome said, surprised Brandon would ask about it just then. "I've lived in the U.S. longer than I haven't, but I guess the accent's for life."

"That's cool," said Brandon, nodding. "My mom was a Filipino immigrant."

Carmen called, "Are we gonna make a family tree, or would you like to get us away from those walkers?" The remaining parking lot biters ambled towards them. They weren't close enough to worry Jerome, but he just wanted to get away from that god-forsaken plaza before anything else happened.

"Right." Brandon returned to the driver's seat. He had a red bandanna tied around his head to contain his shoulder-length black hair. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said, pulling the gun from the dashboard and sticking it somewhere inside his denim jacket.

Jerome couldn't look away when Brandon turned on the window wipers. Guts, blood, and God knows what else smeared back and forth. Some chunks fell off while others just seemed to only get ground in. His gaze moved from the mess to the biters in the parking lot, now a few yards behind them. Some of the ones that had been crushed during their escape laid in piles. He wasn't able to tear his eyes away until Brandon put the vehicle back in gear and drove on.

Emma seemed to have calmed down just as quickly as she'd been upset. She was seated across the aisle from her father, digging around in a backpack. "Want some jerky, Papa?"

"Yes, please." Jerome caught the pack she tossed him and tore it open. The delectable smell of meat flooded his senses, waking his growling stomach.

No sooner than Rachel sat down beside him, she gasped. "Your arm!"

Jerome looked down to see the sleeve of his left arm saturated with blood. Panic surged through him as he dropped the jerky and fumbled to pull up the sleeve, mind racing for any moment where he could've been bitten. He winced as the cloth scraped over the wound, realizing that was the first time he'd felt any pain. A gash lay beneath, whelped and bloody. Shards of glass embedded in his skin twinkled like glitter. Jerome deflated against the seat, grateful it wasn't a bite.

"What's going on?" Brandon asked, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

"Jerome's got a pretty bad cut from the glass," Rachel said, hands hovering over his arm. "Do you have any tweezers?"

Carmen rushed forward and peered over the seat, so close her breath brushed Jerome's hair. "It is a cut," she confirmed.

"No tweezers, sorry." Brandon sighed. "All of our first aid stuff got used up a while ago."

"We've got bigger things to worry about right now." Jerome gently pushed away his wife's prodding hands and went back to his jerky, taking extra care not to bump his arm. "Does anyone know what that was back there?"

No one answered for a few moments, until Brandon said, "Gas explosion? That's the only thing I can think of."

"Was that you shooting?" Rachel asked. "We heard gunfire right before the explosion."

"Yeah, a couple walkers jumped out at me," he answered glumly. "But I don't think we're what caused it, because you guys look a lot worse off than us."

Jerome choked down a dry mouthful of jerky. "How did you know we were there?"

"We were raiding the apartment building across the street. I was upstairs when I saw you guys drive up," said Brandon. "We were just about to head out when everything happened."

Carmen sniggered. She leaned further against their seat. "My good Samaritan little brother couldn't mind his own business."

"Well...I'm glad," Rachel said, warily side-eying Carmen. "You wouldn't believe the day we've had."

"Are you guys staying somewhere around here?" Brandon asked. "I can drop you off if it's not far."

"Uh..." Rachel shared a hesitant look with Jerome. "Not really."

"No? Where are you from then?" Brandon swerved around a walker in the road, everyone leaning with the motion.

Jerome said, "We were at the refugee center, Fort McAdams. Someone came in and told us we had to leave, then someone started shooting. It was all downhill from there." Letting strangers know how vulnerable they were didn't seem wise, yet it felt wrong to lie to a person that just saved his family's lives. Even so, they didn't have to know all the details.

"No shit? Oh man." Brandon ran a hand down his face, suddenly dispirited. "That's been our goal since the beginning. We came all the way from Palmer."

"Your goal," Carmen corrected. "Guess it's a good thing we never made it there. I told you those places are doomed."

Brandon stayed quiet. He pulled the bus over and turned to face Jerome. His face was much gloomier than it had been minutes before. "To tell you the truth, we're just drifters. We do what we can and live out of this bus. If what you're saying about Fort McAdams is true...we don't really have a plan B. So, if there's somewhere you'd like to be dropped off, don't be shy."

"Hey, watch it," Carmen snapped. She gripped the seat until her knuckles went white. "I know we're on a bus but we aren't public transit."

"What do you want me to do, drop them off on the side of the road?"

"Sure, go ahead!"

"We actually have a plan B," Jerome interrupted their arguing and ignored the horrified, shocked glare Rachel was sending his way. "I was a miner, and I think our last site is perfect. That's where we were headed."

"A miner?" Brandon snorted. "I didn't know people still did that."

Jerome couldn't help but laugh. Mining had been his life for so long it was hard to imagine that some people still thought of it as pans and pickaxes. "Well, we do. Red Fox Creek is about thirty miles from here. It took me two hours to find it the first time."

Brandon anxiously ran a hand through the hair that wasn't contained within his bandana. "I'm sorry, but thirty miles is a long way…"

"Wait a minute," Carmen held her hand up. "This place sounds pretty good. Since my brother so graciously risked his life to save yours, I don't think it'd be too much to ask if - "

"We agree," Jerome interrupted. "You're welcome to stay with us if you like the place."

"Good call, Frenchie." Carmen slapped him on the shoulder and returned to her seat.

"You're a good guy," Brandon said. "I appreciate you giving us a chance after...you know. Not everyone has been so kind."

If you know what I did to escape the Fort, you wouldn't think of me as kind. Heat rushed up Jerome's neck at the thought. He mumbled a quick response before turning his attention to Rachel. She tentatively lifted his arm, studying the gash pensively. What hadn't been absorbed by his sleeve had dried on his arm, a bright scarlet color against his porcelain complexion. "Think I'll need stitches?"

"We should just focus on getting the glass out," she said. Jerome took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Being a clumsy man, this was the third time in his life he'd gotten glass into some part of his body. At least this time it wasn't his fault, but he didn't look forward to whatever makeshift solution Rachel had in mind.

"There has to be a pharmacy around here somewhere," said Brandon. "We should look for some more supplies anyway."

"You don't have to stop just because of me," Jerome replied, practically feeling Carmen bristle at the idea. "I'll be fine.

Brandon waved his hand dismissively. "Dude, it's nothing. We're used to going somewhere, getting what we need, and getting out. It hasn't killed us yet."

"You could get a pretty nasty infection if you don't take care of it," Rachel added.

Jerome decided to stop fighting it. As much as he hated being the center of attention, he also hated the thought of glass indefinitely embedded in his skin. He turned his attention to Rachel, noticing with a sinking feeling that she wasn't looking so hot herself. There were a few thin cuts along her cheek and a reddening patch along her arm that would surely turn into a bruise. "You got pretty banged up too," he said, running a calloused thumb along her injured cheek.

"I'll be fine after we're somewhere safe, and I get a good night's sleep," she said, patting his leg reassuringly.


The bus sped around town for the remainder of the morning. Since nobody knew the area very well, especially since they were constantly having to turn back thanks to car pile-ups and blocked roads, finding a pharmacy took much longer than expected. By the time Brandon found a small shopping center, they were on the edge of town and the sun was well into the sky.

Judging by the items littering the floor as Jerome, Rachel, and Emma walked inside the pharmacy, the building had been picked over several times. Jerome led the way, creeping forward one hand on the gun at his hip and the other across Emma's chest to keep her from rushing past him. He would have preferred to leave her somewhere safe, but there was no way he was going to leave her on the bus with Carmen. Even if she did seem devoted to watching her nephew, there was something feral about her that he didn't trust.

Behind the checkout counter, a single biter started at the sight of the living, snarling hungrily and staggering across the sun-dappled floor. The torn t-shirt it wore exposed a jagged, oozing bite wound. Jerome found he couldn't look directly at it for too long. This had been a teenage boy once, probably not long ago. His clothes were actually cleaner than Jerome's. "Stay back," he told Emma, pulling the revolver from his hip.

"Wait." Rachel put a hand on his wrist. "Let me do it."

"Are you sure?"

"You shouldn't have to do it every time." Her eyes flashed from her husband to the nearing biter. "Just give it here, he's getting closer."

Jerome handed her the gun, then took Emma by the shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction. "Hands over your ears and eyes shut," he said, knowing faintly that this was foolish. She had already seen more gore than anybody should in a lifetime, and her innocence wouldn't be preserved for much longer...but he wasn't ready to give up. Rachel raised the gun and found the biter's head in her sights, but she hesitated. "Hurry," Jerome urged, his heart racing as he watched the biter come closer and closer.

Rachel pulled the trigger and flinched at the bang. Her bullet missed the mark, piercing the t in prescription on the back wall. Unphased by the shot, the biter continued forward, groans growing more desperate with each step that brought him closer to a meal. Rachel took a few steps back and tried again. This time, the bullet hit its mouth. A few teeth and most of his jaw fell to the floor with a plop, but it kept coming. One final shot and the biter dropped, dead for good. Brain matter trickled out of the new gap in his skull onto the tile, turning off-white to maroon. "Piece of cake." Rachel smiled, though the trembling of her hand as she handed the weapon back to Jerome told him otherwise.

The pharmacy's front doors burst open as Brandon barreled inside, stopping just in time to avoid plowing Rachel down. "What the hell are you doing?" He demanded, scowling at the pistol in her hand.

"She put down a biter," Jerome answered, sharing a perplexed look with his wife. What were they supposed to do, slow dance with it?

"Maybe you didn't notice, dude, but gunshots are loud. Walkers come to noise like moths to a flame." Upon realizing he was raising his voice, Brandon backed down. "I'm not trying to be an ass, it's just...don't you have a knife?"

Rachel huffed, regarding Brandon with furrowed brows. "Do you really expect us to get that close to those things? If that works for you that's fine, but we have no intention of becoming food today."

Brandon ran a hand down his face. "Just hurry, please. We don't know what'll happen now." He was almost out the door when he turned back and added, "And tell my sister it was right on you, or you'll never hear the end of it."

"Got it." Rachel pursed her lips.

They continued through the shop and found most of the shelves either bare or with little more than makeup or lotion, things that were left behind in favor of necessities. While Jerome rummaged through a few random boxes of over the counter medications on the floor, Rachel came to his side. "Looks like this is the best we're going to find," she said, holding up a nail care kit and a smushed tube of triple antibiotic ointment.

"Going to do your nails later?" Jerome asked, smiling when she rolled her eyes.

"There are tweezers in here. And scissors, which might come in handy." They continued the search in silence for a few minutes. Emma had boosted herself onto the counter and sat swinging her legs, clutching a stuffed pig she had found. Rachel glanced at her over her shoulder then quietly said, "I think we need to talk before we get back on the bus."

"About what?" Jerome asked.

Rachel scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. "Things are moving pretty fast. Carmen had a gun to your head, and now we're going to be living together for God knows how long," she said. "We're going to be pretty isolated at Red Fox...I want to make sure you've thought this through."

"There weren't very many people in Alaska to begin with, but who knows how many are left now? I want to be on good terms with as many as I can." Jerome could tell by the way her jaw hardened that she didn't share his line of thinking. He reluctantly continued, "I think we've learned that there is not strength in solidarity. If Brandon hadn't stuck his neck out for us, we would be dead."

"I know that," Rachel replied. "I just think we should try to stay one step ahead for a while. We barely know them."

Jerome had just opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by Carmen hollering from somewhere outside. "Hey, get out here!" They stuffed their finds into Jerome's backpack and hurried outside. Brandon jogged out from the market next door and gave his sister a questioning glare. Carmen stood near the front of her bus, pointing somewhere up the road. Her face was as blank as her voice was monotone. "Look at that," she said.

Jerome rushed past the trees that were blocking his view and came to a halting stop as soon as he saw what Carmen was pointing at. A hundred yards or less up the road, more biters than he'd ever seen trudged forward. There must have been dozens of them. Jerome's senses tunneled until their distant moans were the only things he heard and their ambling forms were the only things he saw. People of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races. From all different walks of life, undoubtedly. More appeared out of seemingly every space around. Windows from the businesses across the street, down the street, from around the pharmacy. Mothers, sisters, and daughters, fathers, brothers, and sons. In the end, they were all the same. They all wanted to sink their teeth into living flesh. To stop them, he'd have to kill them. When did that become a way of life?

"Jerome!"

Jerome flinched as Rachel yelling his name broke through. There was an urgency in her voice that indicated this wasn't the first time she tried to get his attention. He took in a shuddering breath when he realized the reason his chest hurt was because he had stopped breathing. At some point, Emma had gotten on the bus. She stared at him worriedly through the windshield, mouthing something that looked like 'what are you doing?'

"We've got to go," Rachel shouted, eyes wide.

Jerome ran alongside Rachel and followed her onto the bus. No sooner than his feet hit the aisle, Brandon snapped the doors shut and went hard on the steering wheel, sending the bus into a turn so sharp Jerome fell into a seat beside Carmen. When he found his bearings and forced himself upright, he found her smiling smugly at him. "Welcome back," she sneered.


Hours had passed since Courtney fought with her grandmother but the only reason she'd stopped crying was because she ran out of tears. She was curled up on her bed, staring out the window with burning, blurry eyes. The photo album clutched to her chest was spattered with teardrops. For what had to have been the hundredth time, she opened the book and found her favorite picture, the one she looked at every night before she went to sleep. With both of her parents, both older brothers, and herself. They were all smiling ear to ear, and her oldest brother was making a goofy face. She still had trouble wrapping her head around the fact that she was the only one left.

Courtney's stomach ached with hunger but she refused to step foot out of the trailer or eat the meal her grandmother prepared. That would somehow be like admitting wrong, or at least that was how Peggy would take it. Someone knocked on the door, and Courtney squeezed her eyes shut with dread. Her luck seemed to have run out even further. Grandma wouldn't dare knock, but Grandpa would, and she didn't want to talk to anyone. They would just tell her Peggy was right, she was just a kid and needed to respect her grandmother. Sighing, Courtney cleared her eyes of tears as much as she could and walked to the door, bracing herself for the worst as she pulled it open. Her eyebrows hitched up at the sight of Keisha.

"Hi," Keisha greeted her, giving a big smile. "Can I come in?" Courtney nodded and stepped aside to let her inside. She searched for some sign of judgement or aggression but saw nothing but sincerity. Keisha stepped inside and took a seat at the dinette booth, interlocking her hands atop the faded table. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, inclining her head towards the other booth.

Courtney slowly slid into the seat. "About what?"

"I'm not a therapist, but I did teach eleventh grade world history for nine years," Keisha said. "I know a hurting teenager when I see one. Your Grandmother might not listen, but if you ever need someone to, I will."

"Oh." Heat flooded Courtney's neck. Running through camp in tears surely produced all kinds of thoughts in her fellow survivors, but she was most ashamed that they must pity her. "Well, you don't have to. I'm okay."

"I know I don't have to, but this has been hard on everybody," said Keisha. "We might as well try to help each other out when we can."

Courtney set her gaze on the woods beyond the window. A pair of wrens pecked between the roots of their claimed spruce tree. Life as usual for them, while all the humans were dying or suffering. "Grandma has changed so much," she blurted, surprising even herself.

"How so?"

"She didn't used to be such a…" Courtney struggled to find an appropriate word to say in front of an adult. "Bitter person. We all used to be really close, and now she won't even let me mention my parents or my brothers. I'm just supposed to forget about them, and I don't want to do that. They deserve to be remembered."

"You're absolutely right. Maybe it's best to respect the way your grandmother feels right now, for your own sake. But you certainly don't have to forget them." Keisha paused, shifting in her seat. "If you don't want to answer this, don't feel like you have to. But I couldn't help overhearing, and I just have to wonder…what did your grandpa do that has Peggy so mad at him?"

Courtney's eyes welled up again as the memories came rushing back. She roughly swept the tears away before they could roll down her cheeks. "Before Marvin and Clarence found us at that gas depot, my mom was with us. We were staying in a hotel with some other people. Mom got bit one day while trying to get food with Grandpa." She bit down hard on her lip, willing herself to continue. "We waited all day, but Mom just kept getting worse, then she fell asleep and Grandpa noticed she stopped breathing. He told me to go outside, and I know he…" she trailed off, unable to say the words. "Grandma doesn't believe she would have turned."

Keisha shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. She looked away for a long moment, and when she finally turned back to face Courtney, her eyes seemed much damper. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I can't even imagine."

"That was over a month ago, and I still have nightmares almost every night." The image of her mother shuddering on the floor, impossibly pale and moaning in agony, was something Courtney didn't think she would ever get used to. However, that wasn't the only person she saw in her dreams. She'd dreamt of everyone she loved being eaten alive or turning. "My brothers too," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Were they there?"

Courtney shook her head. "Brian was in the Air Force and deployed over in Iraq. Dustin went to the University of California. My mom tried to get a hold of them right up until the lines went down, but she never could." She sighed as an all too familiar sense of knowing fell over her like a black cloud. "They're gone too. I know they are."

"Your Grandma has chosen one extreme by refusing to believe bad things are happening," Keisha said. "You don't have to go to the other extreme and refuse to believe good things can still happen."

"Baghdad is five thousand six hundred and twenty-seven miles from Fairbanks," Courtney exclaimed. That number had been burned into her brain since the moment Brian deployed. As much as she would've liked to believe Keisha, the suggestion that Brian would come home was too absurd. "Five thousand miles. We didn't even make it ten miles before my mom got bit."

"I'm not saying your brother is going to show up in Fairbanks tomorrow," said Keisha. "But we don't know what the rest of the world is like, Courtney. Iraq could be holding their own. Besides, your brother is in the armed forces." Her gentle smile returned. "I'm married to a former military man, and I can assure you they do not give up without one heck of a fight."

"What about a philosophy major at UCLA?" Unable to look at Keisha's sympathetic face anymore, Courtney snapped her attention back out the window. "Dustin didn't know anything about survival, and he was in Los Angeles," she emphasized. "I can't imagine how many walkers there are there."

"There's no way to know for sure right now. One thing that is certain is that you are still alive. Their memory, no matter what, will live on in you. I bet you have qualities of all of them."

Courtney sighed. Though she appreciated what Keisha was trying to do, false hope didn't seem like the way to go. "I just wish Grandma would accept that Grandpa had to do what he did."

"How does she think people turn if not after they're bitten?" Keisha asked, tipping her head with curiosity.

"I have no idea." She had stopped trying to figure that out long ago. Grandma never explained, and given her hostility on the subject, no one ever asked.

"Well, everyone has dealt with this in their own way. She'll come around."

"I hope so." After a few moments of silence, Courtney added, "Thanks for talking to me."

"Anytime. And I mean that," Keisha said, locking eyes with Courtney. "You know where we live."

"I really appreciate that. Thank you." Courtney reached out and grabbed Keisha by the wrist as she stood up. "You can't go yet! You haven't told me anything."

Keisha blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Friendship is a two way street. I told you about me, now you have to tell me about you."

"Okay." Keisha hesitantly sunk back into the booth. She drummed her fingers on the table thoughtfully for a few moments. "I've got one. I'm really glad you and Aaliyah get along so well." Courtney scoffed, sweeping strands of brown hair from her face. Before she could speak, Keisha held a hand up to stop her. "Aaliyah can be a handful. At least when you watch her, I can help cook or clean up. In a single day, I went from being a career woman to a stay at home mom. And that's all I know how to do. I can't hunt, I can't fish, I don't like guns, I can't handle myself in the city…" Keisha trailed off. She shrugged, a sadness in her eyes. "All the skills I worked so hard to have don't mean anything anymore."

Thunderous knocking upon the door made both of them jump. Keisha put a hand to her chest and leapt from her seat, beating Courtney to the door. She pulled it open and Clarence stood with one foot on the steps, his face set into a heavy frown. "There's a strange vehicle coming down the path," he said. Aaliyah squeezed past him and slid into the dinette booth, pulling her knees to her chest. "Keisha, you oughta stay here with the kids."

"What?" Keisha's mouth fell open. "Clarence, no, I can…" the rest of their conversation was lost on Courtney. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest, all she could do was numbly join Aaliyah at the table. Nobody could find Red Fox Creek, at least that's what Ben had always said. They were supposed to be safe.