Disclaimer: I do not own TACIT, only my own characters and such, and, like always with my fanfictions, I do not profit from this story.

Chapter 1

Another step . . . keep going . . . And another . . .

The snow felt deeper than it actually was as she forced her boots through it. She could hardly pick them up anymore.

So much snow . . . so white . . .

Her vision blurred, and she blinked, attempting to clear it. It didn't help much. She hoped that the fog was just thicker now and it wasn't because of the blood loss. At least her arm wasn't in as much pain anymore.

Or was that a bad thing?

She dragged in one laboring breath after another, lungs burning in the cold. She had to be getting close. But she didn't know how long she'd been going. Her legs trembled again, and that momentary lapse in muscular control sent her stumbling to her knees. The snow cushioned her fall, but she felt jarred to the bone. A cry strangled in her throat at the last second, and she scrambled back up as quickly as possible, heart pounding even harder now as she cast a terrified glance all around her. Nothing but barren grey trees and white snow, screened in a haze of fog.

But she could only see so far ahead in the fog.

She trudged on, picking up her pace, spurred on by a fresh shot of adrenaline.

Almost there! You have to be almost there . . . !

She told herself to take slower, calmer breaths. She felt like a walking dinner bell, and she doubted her ability to defend herself against a zombie at this point. She still had the knife in her boot, but her body was reaching its limits.

A lot of good that knife did you . . .

Her chest tightened as she bit back the painful thought. If she could scream, she would. The fear, the rage, the desperation, had been festering like a slow but intense infection.

But that thought only brought back his face . . . the faded auburn of his hair, the desperate look in his own eyes, which he had tried to disguise with a smile of reassurance, as he had begged her to go, as the searing pain in her left arm had made her eyes water—as she had thought about reaching for her knife, while knowing that it would do nothing against them. They could easily kill her. They would. The shot to the arm had been a warning. A gift. For him. All they had cared about was him. And she was as good as dead to them.

But she couldn't die. She couldn't abandon him to those people. Who knew what they were doing to him—?

She felt sick. The feeling of utter helplessness grew like a black pit in her stomach. Guilt. Despair.

She was on her knees again.

Emil . . . !

Gasping, she almost gave in to the tears. But she fought them back. Her hands clenched the white powder, tainting it with the blood on her fingers. White. And red. Vibrant red . . .

She battled against the growing rage once again. She would find him. And if they hurt him . . . then she would really use this rage.

She breathed for a few more long seconds, and as her head began to clear, she looked around with a growing panic. Still no movement. No other sound but that of her breathing.

She lifted her freezing-cold hands to brush them off—and paused.

The blood on her right hand, from clutching her arm, was dry. But her left . . . She rubbed her fingers together. Then yanked up the cuff of her coat sleeve. Fresh blood. Her right hand flew to her wounded arm. She could feel the warmth seeping out of it, and the pain began to creep back rapidly. Her head swam, and her pulse picked up. In a sudden panic, she scrambled back to her feet, needles shooting through her calves and thighs as the circulation returned to her cold and exhausted muscles. But she ran, as hard as she could, gripping her wound despite the pain. She willed the next twenty paces to bring the border into view. Then the next twenty. And the next.

Come on!

It could have been ten minutes later, or thirty. But at last, she saw a large shape in the distance, looming through the fog. She ran faster, vaguely shocked that she was even capable of it, and a massive wall came into view. The large sign at the top of the archway proclaimed this as the entrance to Amina Zone 2.

She nearly cried in relief.

She had made it.

If only Emil had made it with her.

Without dwelling on that thought, she hurried through the archway, into the first phase of safety.

She still had a ways to go.

The zombie came out of nowhere.

Luckily, she heard it before it saw her. She darted behind an old parked car, crouched down, and pressed her bloodstained hand over her mouth. Her chest screamed with the strain of breathing quietly while her heart pumped overtime with the spike in adrenaline. She willed the creature to pass her by. Just keep going . . . please . . . She heard the man's slow, shuffling footsteps continue down the street. She waited. And waited. Listening intently. The steps faded. She kept waiting, this time listening for any other signs of movement. When none came, she peered down the street. Nothing but concrete, glass, and the occasional bulging green contaminant, attached like a glowing alien fungus to buildings and curbs. She cut a wide berth around one on her side of the street, and hurried on, trying not to think about how long it had been since she had taken medication.

Her anxiety increased with every block. There were too many ways for a zombie to be concealed in this place: alleys, around the corners of buildings, dormant vehicles . . . Unlike in the outside, her eyes never stopped darting.

At least the fog wasn't as thick here.

Soon, however, the sunlight began to fade, kicking up her anxiety another five notches. She would need to find a place to hide for the night, for navigating the city in the dark, just to save time, was not a wise chance to take. Besides, she was beyond in need of rest. Her arm would have to hold out a while longer.

She looked longingly at a snowbank as she passed by, her thirst having intensified by the hour, but there were too many contaminants around for her to feel comfortable helping herself to snow like she had in the outside. Again, she mentally kicked herself for failing to grab her backpack before—

No. Don't think of Emil. Focus.

It took her a little while, but after some very cautious investigation, she found an unlocked door in a public building, which she then navigated even more cautiously until she found a storage closet. Her hopes that there would be something to drink inside were low, and were soon dashed altogether. The only liquids on the shelves were bottles of chemical solutions that were probably too old to be of proper use. She swallowed her saliva miserably and tried to distract herself with something inane as she lay down on the cold, hard floor, stuffing a dusty old duffel bag under her head for a pillow.

But sleep came fast, and for several long hours, she didn't have to be thirsty or in pain.

But the pain returned with the morning, even worse than before.

She sat slumped against the wall of the closet, taking deep, slow breaths and clutching her arm, as if that would somehow stop the agony. It seemed that the wound had finally begun to clot, but that only worried her. It hadn't been cleaned, and an open wound in this environment was just asking for infection. She couldn't do this alone for much longer. She had to get moving.

Staggering to her feet and leaning heavily on the wall, she opened the door as quietly as she could, peering through the crack. Listening.

Silence.

Without hesitation, she crept out, closed the door behind her, and hurried off the way that she had come in. Her legs were suffering from the previous day's running, and her entire body felt weak from blood loss and lack of nutrition, but she pushed on, and soon emerged into the too-bright winter morning.

Stopping to lean against the wall by the door, she blinked hard, giving her eyes time to adjust. Any strength that she could muster up to fend off zombies would do her no good if she couldn't see well enough to spot them.

As soon as the spots had cleared from her vision, she set off. She stayed close to buildings when she could, venturing out into the street when contaminants got in her way, and never passed corners or alleyways without first making sure that nothing was waiting for her.

It wasn't long before her caution paid off. Two zombies wandered aimlessly on the sidewalk of the adjoining street, not twenty yards from the corner of the office building where she stood. She pressed herself to the wall, out of sight, then chanced another look. Their backs were turned to her. She didn't wait for another chance. Avoiding the low, tightly packed snowdrifts, she rushed past them, across the street, and kept going, fueled by panicked paranoia that they had sensed her and were in pursuit. She barely remembered to check the next alleyway.

Heart pounding, she looked over her shoulder and saw nothing but empty sidewalk. She gasped for breath as quietly as she could, and after taking a few more moments to collect herself, she moved on.

Several blocks later, she heard footsteps and groaning from somewhere up ahead. Before she could spot the source, she dropped to the ground—wincing at the renewed fire in her arm—and scrambled under the nearest vehicle. She watched the street, covering her mouth as her arm throbbed. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously, focused on the street.

The seconds ticked by.

Her ribs felt like they were being bruised by the concrete as her lungs expanded rapidly with short, controlled breaths.

Still nothing.

Maybe it was gone . . .

Then, movement caught her eye. A female zombie had emerged from behind a van less than a block ahead. It was coming her way. She put her head down and willed the creature to not sense her. She tracked its movement by the sound of its footsteps and those chilling, almost animalistic groans, and tried not to groan herself as her arm begged for the pressure to be released from it.

It felt like the longest wait of her life.

At last, when she could no longer hear the zombie, and no other seemed to be in the vicinity, she eased her aching, cramped body out from under the car, took a much-needed deep breath, and continued on.

It seemed like a miracle, but she reached Zone 1 without encountering another zombie. The smallest amount of tension eased inside of her at the thought of being one step closer to help, but the adrenaline was helping with the pain, so she welcomed the fear.

She ran quickly past two large contaminants—consistently purple now—then stopped to catch her breath, for what felt like the umpteenth time, under the covered entry of a building. Her legs trembled dangerously. She gripped her thigh with her right hand—her left held weakly at her side, thanks to her throbbing wound—bracing herself for another run. She couldn't take as much time to rest anymore, for she had a terrible feeling that she couldn't afford to be stuck out here for another night, and the afternoon was drawing on. She wasn't even sure how much farther she had to go until she reached the safe zone.

She pushed herself off of the wall and forced herself into a semi-jog.

But it wasn't long before she knew that she wouldn't make it. Not before dark. She had wasted too much time taking breaks. What she needed was real rest, and if she didn't want to risk collapsing out in the open, she needed a place to sleep.

Resigned, she tried the next building that she came to: a convenience store. The door was unlocked. She hesitated before entering. The shadows seemed even deeper after so much bright sunlight, and her heart pounded with anxiety as she willed her eyes to adjust more quickly. She couldn't hear anything. Slowly she advanced through the aisles—the shelves almost completely bare—and made her way to the back of the store. This storage room was smaller than the other, but it felt more secure than the restroom, so she lay down on the cramped floor, and was out in moments.

"Elise!"

Her eyes snapped open.

Her racing heart continued to pound as she realized that it had just been a dream. His voice still lingered in her head, as though he had actually spoken.

And finally, she let herself cry.

She wept for Emil.

Then, she wept for herself. Her pain. Her loneliness. Her inability to save him.

Then, the anger crept in, adding fuel to a dormant fire.

Them. They were to blame, not her. And she would make them suffer for what they had done. Give them a taste of their own medicine. They did seem to like the color red, after all.

With that vindictive thought to fuel her, she dried her eyes, pushed herself to her feet, and on legs somewhat sturdier than before, made her way back out to the street and the early rays of the morning sun.

Despite Zone 1's closer proximity to the safe zone, she didn't dare let her guard down. The moment she did so would be the moment that she would regret it the most, and there would be no going back. She couldn't count on what had happened to Emil to also happen to her if she was bitten. She didn't even know if what had happened to him was a good thing. She just knew that he hadn't tried to attack her—and that she had been beyond grateful that she'd been unable to kill him after the bite. He had begged her to . . . had tried to do it himself . . . but she would have rather gone with him than face this world alone.

Funny. His survival is apparently what caused her to end up alone anyway.

But as long as he was alive—

A snarl from somewhere to her right grabbed her attention. She whipped around to face it, and saw with horror a male zombie bearing down on her from less than fifteen feet away. It took her starved brain one precious second to kick her into gear. She bolted down the street with more speed than she had thought herself capable of, but the emaciated zombie pursued her relentlessly.

At the end of the first block, she chanced a look over her shoulder. The sight of his gaping mouth and wide, pale eyes only increased her panic. She pushed herself harder, vaguely realizing that it would be impossible to get her knife in hand while running. She wanted to scream for help, but the instinct to not draw more zombies locked her throat.

His snarls seemed to be growing louder. She imagined him clawing for her . . .

And in her distracted haste, her boot landed badly on a patch of packed snow—and she went down.

She barely managed to avoid falling on her left arm, but her good arm suffered for it. The pain was intense as she shielded her face from the concrete, but instead of the pain, she was focused on the creature about to bear down on her. She looked behind her as she struggled to push herself up, exhausted limbs shaking.

Too late.

Turning onto her back, she pulled the knife from her boot, then braced. Every cell in her body protested allowing the zombie to come so close. But if she could just get the blade into his brain . . .

No. This wasn't just intimidation that she was feeling now. Her instincts were warning her that she was too weak to handle such close-quarters combat when she wasn't on equal footing. His weight could be too much for her. But she had run out of time. There was only one other option.

She swept her leg into the zombie's shins. He tipped off balance and crashed into the ground beside her. The pain didn't seem to bother him—if he even felt pain. He was immediately clawing at her, thwarting any attempt at a clean shot at his head. So she took the opportunity to run.

Both arms now throbbed as she pushed herself to her feet. Her knees fared as well as her bruised arm, and protested with every jarring step.

She made it several yards before she heard the zombie lurch to his feet and start after her.

This time, she screamed.

"HELP! SOMEBODY!"

Faster—she had to go faster—she needed more distance—

But she had pushed herself too far. Her legs threatened to give out.

"PLEASE!"

She stumbled on another patch of snow, and barely managed to stay on her feet.

Then, through her ragged breaths, the pounding of her heart, and the moans and snarls behind her, she heard something else. Something that she couldn't identify. A strange kind of . . . whirring sound. But she had no time to look for the source. Her focus was on staying alive, if only for one more minute.

I'm sorry, Emil . . . I tried . . . I should've tried harder . . . !

Then, the whirring sound grew louder. Involuntarily, her eyes were drawn upward and spotted a . . . bird? No. It didn't move like a bird, and its shape was unnatural—and it glowed with cold blue lights. The object drew closer. And it suddenly dawned on her what it was.

She had heard that Amina flew drones.

Amina.

They were here.

An immense wave of relief made her head swim, and in her instant of disorientation, she lost her footing.

This time, she was unable to protect her wounded arm as she crashed to the ground. With a strangled cry, she rolled onto her back to face the threat barreling toward her and raised her hand—

Her knife was gone.

Frantically she searched the ground for it—spotted it lying a few feet away—reached for it—knew that she would be too late—

A BANG rang out from high above her, and she flinched, her frayed nerves recalling the last time that she had heard a sound like that. The zombie jerked in place—then dropped.

She stared at it, and at the hole through its head.

She gasped in utter relief, chest heaving, heart pounding rapidly, adrenaline fading—then slumped backward onto the cold concrete, clutching her left arm. It felt like it was on fire.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the bright, hazy expanse of sky. The whirring grew louder. She forced her eyes open, squinting. She couldn't see the drone.

Suddenly, footsteps joined the sound of mechanical flight, and she was hit with panic, but it passed quickly. They weren't zombie footsteps. They were steady, purposeful. Human.

She blinked against the light, tipping her head to the side to catch a glimpse of whoever was approaching, and was hit with sudden nausea.

A figure came into view. She forced her unsteady vision to focus.

It was a man. Tall . . . lean . . . dark hair . . . and his right temple glowed with a sort of greenish hue . . .

He stood over her. Even with the glare of the sky behind him, she could see the chill in his ice-blue eyes.

"Is that a bite?"

His voice—low, stern—was almost threatening. Her senses sharpened a fraction. He was holding a gun.

She realized what—and why—he was asking.

"No!" she gasped. Her grip on her arm tightened. "No, it's not!" She panted for breath. "Gunshot!"

The man said nothing. His eyes searched her face . . . moved to her bloody sleeve . . . then back to her face.

More footsteps approached. Another man came into view, stopping beside the first. Blonde hair . . . slightly shorter . . . his eyes not quite so cold . . .

"She bitten?"

"She says she was shot."

As if making the decision in that moment, the dark-haired man holstered his gun and knelt down beside her. As soon as the immediate threat was gone, her vision swam. She felt his large, gloved hand pry her smaller, freezing-cold one from her arm—somehow more gently than she would have expected—before examining the small tear in her coat sleeve.

"Doesn't seem like a bite," he told his partner. "We'll bring her in."

"Lisa won't be happy."

"If she's infected, I'll take care of it."

"It's your call, Bevrian. But you can be the one to tell her."

The dark-haired man—Bevrian—moved to Elise's right side, crouched down, and slid his strong arms under her shoulders and knees. She groaned miserably as he lifted her from the ground, cradling her arm to herself. He held her to his chest, and she let her head fall against his broad shoulder. Her eyes fell closed. She had made it. She was safe.

Safe . . .

It had been so long since she had felt safe. But at that moment, it wasn't just the fact that she was being taken to Amina that gave her a feeling of security.

She let herself drift, the man's arms supporting her battered and exhausted body, and the steady pace of his stride lulled her into unconsciousness.