"Why bother parking so far away?" Amy complained. The van was already two blocks behind them, which was stupid far for no reason. "What if we get ambushed or something and can't get to it in time?"

Shawn rudely kept walking. "This is now the only van in the neighborhood. Keeping it right in front of the bunker would be a dead giveaway to our location."

"Pun much?" Amy muttered.

"Wasn't meant to be a pun."

Amy glanced over her shoulder; she didn't need a zombie expert to tell her that she had to be careful now. They'd driven from the urbanized part of town to the suburbs—two-story houses with bloodied picket fences and trampled yards—and she didn't know what that meant for them. She didn't know much of anything, actually. Being an idiot loser totally bit—pun not intended.

At least nothing had shown up yet. If she died right after striking up an alliance, ghost Amy was totally gonna spend the afterlife haunting Shawn.

"So, uh, do zombies prefer cities or countrysides?" Amy asked.

Shawn didn't answer. He'd swerved up the driveway of an average-looking house with shuttered windows and a pretty white door.

"Um, hello? Ignore me much?"

Beside the door, Shawn uncovered what looked to be a keyboard and was staring at it intently. His eyeball was way too close to the keypad.

"Is that an eye scanner thingy?"

"Retinal scanner." Shawn snapped back to attention. He looked annoyed with her, which irritated Amy. She was the pretty one, the popular one, the perfect one. If he hated her already, she couldn't imagine how he'd look at her if he found out how she'd escaped the horde at uni.

He opened the front door of the house to reveal… another door, this one made of metal. Lame. Amy perked up when the door slid to the side like they were in a spy movie or something. Shawn stepped into the entryway, a small square-ish room that had yet another metal door on the other side. Amy followed him in. The door behind her shut, and Amy was so startled she bumped into Shawn.

"Sorry," she muttered, because at least one person deserved to get one today.

At the top of the second door was a mini TV like the ones that showed the menu at Tim Horton's. A dull light blinked overhead, dousing them in an eerie red glow that reminded Amy of the Halloween party she'd thrown on campus last year. A number appeared on the screen: two point three percent.

"What's that do?" Amy asked.

"Measures detectable virus particles against the threshold."

"What's the threshold?"

"Three percent."

The red light turned green, and the second door opened. They stepped through into yet another dimly lit passage.

"I don't get it."

"You don't need to get it," Shawn said tersely. "it just works."

Excuse him? Amy's anger flared, and she yanked on his sleeve. "Listen up, Hobo Guy. You might be in charge, but I need to know how things work around here. How am I supposed to fend for myself otherwise?" I need to survive. In order to survive, I need to be the best. To be the best, I need to learn everything I can.

Ugh, she sounded ridiculous. Might as well slap some glasses and pimples on her and call her a nerd. If Amy was any more of a weakling, she would've started crying. Good thing no one important was around to see her like this.

Shawn huffed. "Okay. Okay, you're right. Let's get you settled in, and then I'll explain everything over dinner."

Amy almost asked, What's for dinner? but she didn't want Shawn to throw her out of his weirdo bunker. She straightened up and nodded like she was in control of the situation.

"Nod of approval," she said.

Shawn looked at her weirdly. Amy pretended she didn't notice.

The corridor took them down a flight of stairs. With every step, Amy became increasingly aware of the smell. It wasn't rotting flesh, thank goodness, it was more like literal garbage.

"Why does it smell like pit stain in here?" Amy whined.

"Dinner."

I'm not getting anything out of him until then? Great. Amy's eye twitched.

They passed a third and final metal door, and Shawn led her into the bunker itself. From the entrance, she could pretty much take in everything, because the bunker seemed to be a giant room. On the farthest side was a bed, sheets disheveled, and nearby was a ratty brown couch pushed up against the wall. Right beside the entrance was a kitchenette that reminded Amy of the one she'd used in her college dorm. Well, she hadn't used it. Amy hadn't bothered with cooking when she had a roommate to do it.

Shawn set his backpack down on the kitchenette's tiny table—it had three seats, Amy noticed. Since Shawn was ignoring her existence, ugh, Amy took a seat on the couch. In front of her was a coffee table littered with papers and books. It was like she'd stumbled into the apartment of a stressed-out TA.

Stop comparing everything to college, Amy told herself, because she couldn't ever go back there again and what was the point?

On the wall across from her was a desk that held not one but two computers, plus an assortment of walkie-talkies. Alcoves were inlaid in the wall: one was a bookshelf, and one was a pantry.

Amy opened her mouth. She wanted to talk, because her voice was really freaking attractive, like she was an angel or something. But her gut, which she hadn't fed all day, told her that Shawn would kick her out. He was touchy like that. Amy closed her mouth.

The silence clawed at her. She had nothing to focus on, nothing beautiful to admire. Her hands shook and she bit her lip, not hard enough to draw blood. She hadn't seen blood yet. Her thoughts circled back to the morning, and what she'd done.

Don't think about that. Find something else to think about.

Shawn. Shawn was alive. He was as good a place as any to start. And Amy had a lot of opinions on this guy.

When she'd first stared up at him, she'd pegged him as a homeless guy ready to prey on the first hot chick that passed through town. Despite that, she'd taken the bait and driven up to meet him. At least he was a human hobo and not a zombie one. With her kick-butt athleticism, she could've taken down this guy in her beauty sleep.

Imagine her surprise when she'd seen him properly and realized he was literally her age, even if he tried to hide his youth behind that five o'clock shadow. Seriously, shave much? Hopefully there were razors in the apocalypse. Zombies or no zombies, Amy had to keep her legs cute.

Anyway, this guy had droopy eyelids and under eye circles so dark it looked like he'd gotten his lights punched out. His actual eyes were a meh shade of grey. His hair was an acceptable shade of brown, which would've worked for him if not for the fact it fell past his ears—hippie much?—and probably hadn't been washed since even before the zombies invaded.

And none of this was even getting to his outfit. His leather jacket was cool in theory, but it looked less 'badass biker' and more 'dumpster diving.' His jeans were not the cute, stonewashed, pre-ripped kind, but the ugly, dark blue, unidentified-stains kind. And the toque? There was no saving that thing.

If they'd met in college, Amy wouldn't have given him a second glance except to sneer at him and the way he oozed patheticness. But for the sake of the argument, for the sake of keeping her entertained, she'd imagine they met at a frat party. Her Halloween party, even. Amy would've taken it upon herself to give this guy a makeover so he didn't stink up the frat house.

First, she'd give that hair a wash. Trim the split ends, slick it back with gel. Then she'd make him change into an actually nice outfit. If it's Halloween, he can dress as a firefighter. Or a magician. She'd find some man-brand concealer for his eyes, force him to shave off the stubble, and bam, good as new.

The imaginary Shawn in her head still looked kinda mediocre. Probably because everyone was mediocre compared to Amy.

I am so pathetic. Amy cringed internally. Hypotheticals and nostalgia were stupid. Or at least, they used to be stupid, back when she had everything she wanted and life was perfect. Now, playing this ridiculous game of what-if gave her something to think about other than what had happened.

Unlike imaginary Shawn, actual-hobo Shawn was unpacking the supplies in his bag. He crossed the room to tuck battery packages under the desk, then to put granola bars back in the pantry. How often did he leave the bunker? Why had he been out today?

More conversation for dinner, I guess, Amy thought sullenly.

Only then did she notice how damn cold it was. It'd been blistering outside, and an underground bunker had no right to be this chilly. If she didn't watch out, her manicure would freeze right off. Amy adjusted the thin straps of her halter top. That didn't do anything, and she frowned. She really, really liked this halter top, but if she'd known she'd be stuck in the apocalypse, she wouldn't have changed out of her cheer uniform.

After that, it didn't take long for her thoughts to drift to darker places.

Okay, supplies look good. We won't need to go outside again for another week, as scheduled. Shawn glanced up at Amy, who was picking at the threadbare straps of her skimpy top. Scratch that, I may or may not leave earlier. He wasn't entirely sure he could spend a week straight in the same room as this chick.

This was not going to plan. Then again, even from the start, nothing had gone to plan. He'd been banking on at least an extra year of preparation. Most things were in order, but c'mon, the zombies couldn't have waited another twenty months?

Back to the topic of Amy, Shawn didn't feel like talking to her. Not until dinner. She'd made a good point earlier—if she was going to learn the ups and downs of survival, he'd need to explain everything, but c'mon, her snooty voice was as grating on the ears as the wails of the undead.

Dinner wasn't scheduled for another few hours. First, Shawn had to take care of some business. After he'd sorted his supplies, he slid into his desk seat and hopped back online. Very few internet servers were still up and running, but Shawn had everything he needed offline, including his camera project.

Shawn pulled up the security interface and got to work. Every so often, he heard Amy shuffle or sigh behind him. He ignored her. Boredom was just a part of life now, and he didn't want her touching his crossword puzzles.

His security cameras were all still working, including the one he'd installed earlier at the top of the parking garage. Sweet. Shawn allowed himself to smile. That made five up and running now, not including the ten surrounding his property.

He flicked through the camera feed. The quality wasn't top-notch, but it was good enough that he could spot shufflers in the shadows, waiting for darkness to swallow the land.

Good thing it's summer, Shawn thought as he watched a zombie dig through a trash can. The days were longer than the nights, and considering how zombies avoided sunlight, that worked to his advantage, for now. He didn't want to consider how things would change when winter hit.

Maybe I'll go south. Or we'll go south, I guess. If they didn't evacuate of their own accord, sooner or later, they'd get chased out of the bunker. It kinda sucked, knowing he'd have to abandon the place he'd spent years fixing up.

If Amy asked, he wouldn't explain how he'd financed all this stuff. All his college funds had been sunk into this project, it was now paying off, and that's all she needed to know.

Eventually, Shawn decided to be hungry. He swung around in his chair to face Amy. She didn't look as T.O.'d as he'd expected. She stared at the papers on the coffee table, a faraway look in her eyes. Curtains of blonde hair fell over her shoulders, reaching even lower than the neckline on that halter top.

"You should cut your hair."

"What?" Anger flashed across her face, and she straightened up. "No! I like it! I came out of the womb with this hair!"

"Princess"—at the risk of sounding like a misogynist, Shawn did not want to put up with this crap—"those thick locks of yours are going to get you killed. The minute it gets caught in something, you're zombie bait."

She clutched at the ends like it was her baby. "Ugh, where do you get off? Your hair is long, too! Hypocrite much?"

"Compared to yours? Hardly."

"Well, can't I put it in a bun or ponytail? I'll braid it if I have to!"

She was really fighting this, wasn't she? Long hair will work for her as long as she stays down here. Which she will. Shawn rolled his eyes. "That works, I guess. We're not compromising on the clothes, though."

"The clothes?" Amy looked scandalized.

The corner of his mouth quirked. "You can't tell me you're not freezing in that outfit."

"You're the worst," Amy grumbled. She crossed her arms.

"I'm gonna get dinner going soon. But before I do, here." From under his bed, Shawn retrieved a box of his civilian clothing, which he'd packed away as soon as his town had been overrun a few days ago. Was it battle-hardy? Nah. Would it keep her warm? Sure. Shawn unfolded old band t-shirts and sweaters, scuffed jeans and sweatpants.

"I'm not wearing your clothes."

It was almost amusing. "Your choice, I guess." Shawn left the box and settled himself in the kitchenette. Tonight's dinner: beans. Tomorrow's dinner: also beans. Maybe he'd offer a scoop of peanut butter for dessert, assuming Amy didn't have a peanut allergy.

Of course she doesn't have a peanut allergy. Those guys were the first to get eaten.

He made a point of keeping his back towards her as he peeled open a can and shook the contents into a pot. As he warmed the stove, her voice rang out. "Where do I change?"

Um, here? was his response before remembering Amy's comment from earlier, the one about being a girl. Shawn exhaled, and a nervous chuckle escaped him. "I didn't really expect to have company, so, er."

"'Kay, I'm not gonna change when you're standing right there and cooking. Where's the stupid bathroom?"

"Allow me," he said.

"What kind of looney bird puts a passcode on their bathroom?" Amy grumbled under her breath. "What kind of looney bird builds a compost toilet in the first place?"

Maybe the apocalypse was easier to bear if you were off your rocker. She'd have to keep that in mind. In the meantime, Amy stared at the mirror, scrutinizing her outfit.

"This was the least ugly shirt I could find, and it still looks horrendous," she muttered. It was a maroon shirt that hung off her frame and made her look like a nerdy tween boy, especially considering the band logo ironed on the front. And if it was too big on her, it was also probably too big on Shawn, who looked as lanky as she did.

"I can go shopping later," she murmured. "It'll be fun, because I won't have to pay for anything." Amy made a mental note that as soon as she could, she'd shoplift some designer shoes to save for when this whole thing had blown over. She'd throw a 'post-apocalypse charity gala' except all the money raised would go towards her new wardrobe.

"The apocalypse needs to end first, and who knows when that is gonna be." Amy's gaze traveled up from her outfit to her face. Her hair was crap, so she pulled it back to fix it into a ponytail. But the sight in the mirror arrested her. Her breathing grew shallow. Blue eyes, blonde hair, round face, foundation flaking off, lip gloss long since licked away.

With a shaking hand, Amy placed a hand to her right cheek, covering her mole. The tiniest of screams escaped her, and she dropped her hand and turned away from the mirror.

"I cannot afford to be a coward right now," she told herself, finishing off her ponytail. "I'm going to march out there and be the best at surviving the apocalypse. I can do it. I can do anything."

Amy was hot, smart, and capable. Anyone who said otherwise was a liar.

Carefully folding her top and jeans, Amy exited the bathroom and left her clothes at the end of the couch.

"You were in there a while," Shawn remarked, not looking up from the beans.

"Haven't seen a mirror all day. Is there a mall in this town?"

"You can't be serious."

Amy decided not to say anything else. For the first time in her life, she had to follow orders, not give them. She sat dutifully on the couch and watched him cook. He wasn't really cooking, though. It was more like he was watching the bean pot boil. Was there a trick to this? Ugh, I guess I have to add 'learn how to make beans' to my to-do list.

Eventually, Shawn poured the beans into two bowls, settled down at the kitchen table, and motioned for Amy to join him.

"Let's talk," he said.