Joel's boots thud an even rhythm as he crosses the hospital lobby. He shifts his rifle on his shoulder and checks the straps of the extra-large pack he's been issued. His finger brushes the light metal chain around his neck and his face darkens a little. The pendant - the one emblazoned with "Joel Miller" on one side and the Firefly logo on the other - sits between his tee shirt and his flannel, but it's not as if he can forget that it's there. The black armband bearing the same logo sits over his leather jacket. They at least hadn't tried to force him into some kind of uniform.

Technically, he's a private now. The Fireflies' operating structure is . . . paramilitary at best. He answers to a Sergeant Ulrich who answers to a Lieutenant who answers to a Colonel who, presumably, answers to Anderson. There's no distinction between commissioned and noncommissioned officers. It feels more like a ranking system cobbled together from the titles most recognized in military sci-fi novels. There is some structure to it, though. He has his primary duties, watch and patrol shifts, and a bit of simple grunt work like scrubbing floors and washing dishes - enough to keep him busy, which he suspects is half the point. They'd tried to make him do standardized PT, but he'd declared in no uncertain terms that he would not be running laps and cranking out pushups with a bunch of kids for no reason. Ulrich had wavered and eventually let him "test out" of the physical training with one sweaty, embarrassing afternoon in the gym.

Getting this particular work assignment, though, had taken no struggle at all. Like any faction trying to get by out here, the Fireflies rely heavily on scavenging for everything from computer parts and lab equipment to food and spare clothes. As an outsider with plenty of experience on the road, Joel's ability to get quickly and efficiently in and out of the different scavenging hubs is valuable to them. It's as close to an honest living as any, he supposes.

It's getting warm out, but not so warm that Joel wants to ditch the protection of his coat. The Fireflies' QZ is tiny - just the hospital itself and three more blocks adjoining it, all ringed with piled sandbags and razor wire. The Firefly manning the gate looks about twenty. He keeps watch from a perch like an old lifeguard's chair. "It's Miller, right?"

"Yeah," Joel growls.

"Going out alone?"

"Yeah. Nate Ulrich authorized it. Shift password is 'red delta bravo.'"

The kid pushes a button and the cobbled-together hunk of sheet metal rolls to the side with a groan. "Be safe out there."

"Yeah."

The Fireflies don't normally send scavengers out alone, but this part was almost suspiciously easy for Joel to talk Marlene into. He suspects her life would get a lot simpler were he to get nipped by a clicker out here. Still, he actually feels better once he's a few blocks out from the hospital. There's plenty of infected about, but they mostly keep to the buildings. One runner gets curious about a half a mile out, but he's able to redirect it to the sound of a tossed bottle, slip in behind it, and drop it quick and quiet with a blade to the larynx. Infected have always been easier to deal with than people.

He's moving east along wide avenues, making for the University of Utah. He's got orders to fill up on whatever general supplies he can get but to focus on specific ingredients from the biology labs - stuff Anderson needs for fungal cultures. They wrote down the names of the chemicals. Each is about twenty-five letters long and doesn't follow any of the conventions of English that he's familiar with.

All in all, it's a pretty pleasant hike, and he's feeling okay as he passes the red brick columns of the stadium where the Utes used to play. There's plenty of greenery here, but it's mostly little scrub trees and hardy grasses - nothing too taxing to tramp through. He has to be more careful, of course, once he's in the biology building. It's a four-story glass-and-steel affair with two basement sublevels carrying the faint whiff of old spores. The infected here are mostly clickers - no bloaters, fortunately. He's not looking for a fight, and he's able to sneak around them without too much difficulty. Previous Firefly scavengers have cleared the upper three levels and dynamited the stairs. Once Joel gets to the ladder Ulrich told him about, he's home free and can take his time poking through labs and stock rooms on the empty upper levels. Though his eyes are just about permanently crossed from squinting at faded labels, he's able to track down fifteen of the eighteen chemicals on Anderson's list, and it eventually becomes clear that the rest are nowhere to be found.

Once he has the important shit, he risks a bit of noise to crack open a couple of vending machines. They've still got plenty of water, and soda, and Powerade. He loads as much as he can into his pack and stacks the rest, for easy pickup the next time they need something from here.

It doesn't make sense to try to skirt past clickers with forty pounds worth of water on his back, so Joel sets up a small detonator on an extra-long fuse to draw the infected to the south side of the building. As soon as it goes off, he shimmies out a window on the second story, north side, and uses a rope to lower first his pack then himself to the ground. He's got what he came here for - officially, at least. But, he's not quite done.

He keeps heading east, sweating, now, from the late morning sun and the weight of the pack. Up ahead, a squat brick building bears a faded red U and the words "CAMPUS ST RE." He pauses at the door and listens, picking up a handful of echoing moans. Runners, but . . . only a couple of them. The store is built on a slab - there's no basement, so it's not a great breeding ground for spores. There's not much reason for the infected to stick around. He eases his pack to the ground, checks his holsters, and swings the lead pipe down from his shoulder.

Joel enters through the Starbucks and drops immediately into a crouch, alert for runners or stalkers. All is still. He creeps around the tables, pauses to grab a bag of beans from behind the counter, and slips out into the main bookstore. The space is cavernous and echoing and garishly red. He drops into cover behind a display of stacked Utes hoodies and takes a moment to mark the infected. Three runners, all scattered across the open space. They're standing hunched and moaning, the way they do when they're weak and there's no prey nearby. He doesn't think these three would last much longer, anyhow.

He moves as silently as he can, slipping through clothes racks and finding concealment behind giant bins of foam footballs. The first runner goes down easy with a shiv in its throat, but on the second he misses the windpipe and it's able to get off a gargling scream. The last runner screams in response and charges him from the opposite end of the store. Joel stands his ground, pipe held down and off to the side in a light grip. When the thing is three feet away, he swings with the confidence of muscle memory. The spikes on the pipe catch the runner in the temple, dropping it instantly. In its wake, he rolls his shoulder to loosen it. Damn, but he's getting too old for this.

The impact he never saw coming suddenly catches him against his side and knocks him to the floor. He grunts in surprise and alarm as the pipe clatters out of his hand. Instinct makes him jerk away and saves his life for the umpteen-thousandth time as a pair of gnashing teeth close on the leather of his upper sleeve rather than his neck. He spits a curse and swings a fist into the infected, his knuckles glancing off gray, horn-like knobs. The stalker hisses and claws at him, but he's able to get a leg between them and stomps out at its ribs once, twice, three times, and then he's free to scramble backwards, his fingers scrabbling for purchase. He grabs the pipe and whips it across his body. The first swing narrowly misses, but the second catches the infected in the neck, releasing a torrent of blood. The stalker dies like it lived - mostly silent.

Joel springs into a crouch, pulls out his pistol, and clears the room. Pauses. Sweeps his gun across the space a second time, watching and listening for any skittering bodies. There's nothing. He stands, panting, and jerks the pipe out of the thing's neck, leaving blades embedded in its spine. He really is getting much too old for this.

He keeps his gun in his hand, just in case, as he clears aisle after aisle, searching for what he came here for. Finally, he rounds a corner and finds a little nook, tucked back between the photo albums and the display of bibs and onsies.

Art Supplies.

He smiles and selects a thick spiral notebook of drawing paper and a pad of thin tracing paper. There's a decent set of 36 colored pencils that just barely fits into his pocket. He grabs a couple of paints, too, though he's not sure how they'll stand up to that autoclave thing. He heads back out through the Starbucks, fighting the crazy urge to whistle.

Outside, the coffee beans, paper, and paints just barely fit into his pack. The pencils will have to stay in his pocket. He's heaved the pack back onto his shoulders and is glancing at the sun, wondering if he can make it back to the hospital before the mess hall closes for lunch when a scream reaches his ears, high and piercing and undeniably human. He spins, rifle coming up automatically to his shoulder.

There's two of them, about two hundred yards away and stumbling out of the brushy trees. A man and a gangly girl, both armed with pistols, both running as if their lives depend on it, which, of course, they do. There's a pack about twelve strong running behind them - mostly runners, a few clickers. They're drawn easily by the girl's terrified screams and the wild shots the man keeps throwing over his shoulder.

Joel sites down the rifle and chambers a round. BANG and a clicker drops, twitching. Chambers another. BANG. BANG. Two runners drop before he has to pause to reload. He's thinned the herd a little, but there's no winning that game. The sound of his rifle is already summoning more infected from the eaves of the buildings. His next shot drops a runner not from the pursuing pack, but from a nearby courtyard halfway between them, where it would have cut them off. "Over here!" Joel bellows, "Don't stop!" The stragglers turn and race in his direction. As he shoots another clicker, his scope flashes across their faces and he realizes these aren't stragglers at all. His face tightens in anger, but there's no time to ask questions now.

He shoots them a path as efficiently as he can, but he's out of rifle rounds before the pair make it within 20 yards. He switches to his 9mm and steps aside, so they can clearly see the dark entrance to the bookstore. They're gonna make it.

They almost make it. Just ten yards away, the girl's coltish legs catch on the gravel slope and she goes down, hard. The man screams and turns back and Joel doesn't bother to tell him to keep going. The pursuing pack is still a few seconds behind, but before she can clamber back to her feet, a runner catches her from her right, knocking her down again. She kicks and struggles as it snaps at her. The man has the perfect angle on it, but he doesn't shoot - probably afraid he'll hit her.

Joel fires once and the runner's temple explodes. The other man grabs her and hauls her up and they're both stumbling towards him again. "Get in!" Joel barks. He waves them into the coffee shop and deadbolts the door, but glass won't hold the infected forever. "Keep going!" He herds them into the main bookstore - the door here is thick, anti-shoplifting steel. He slams it behind them and shoves the lead pipe through the handle to jam it.

In the sudden silence, their panting echoes. The light is dim, but not so dim that Joel needs a flashlight to inspect them. They're both soaked in sweat, from their boots to their sandy hair. Abby's locks have escaped their tight braid and are plastered to her forehead and neck. Jerry's hair stands up in clumps over his tomato-red face.

"What the hell are you two doing here?"

They don't respond at first. Abby is bent over, hands on her knees. She rolls her shoulders, and suddenly freezes. "My . . . my shoulder, oh god, I'm bleeding!" Her voice is winded and hoarse, but tight with panic.

Dr. Anderson stands bolt upright and color rapidly drains from his face, leaving it splotchy. "Oh god . . ." he gasps, "Oh god . . ."

In this particular moment, he's not a doctor. Joel shoulders past him and takes the girl firmly by the arm. "Let me see. Girl, let me look."

Abby has tears leaking down her cheeks and her face is clenched like she's expecting a bullet to the brain at any moment, but she lets Joel tug her loose shirt down past her shoulder blade and wipe away a few smears of blood with a tee shirt. He clicks on his flashlight to be safe and takes a good look.

"No bites," he says after a moment, "It's just road rash. You got it when you fell. Wear a jacket next time."

Abby's breath punches out of her all at once, and her father sags. Joel steps out of the way so they can wrap each other in a tight hug. He gives them a minute, then clears his throat. "Now," he says, "Do you mind telling me what in the hell you're doing here?"

Jerry is still panting, but relief makes him giddy. He huffs out a laugh. "Zebra watching."

Joel blinks, sure he heard him wrong. "Zebra watching."

"It's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to . . . nothing to fucking worry about? If I hadn't of been here, you'd be dead, doc. You. You do know what that would've meant, don't you?"

"Well, what are you doing here, anyway?"

"What am I . . . ?" He slings his pack down, making the water bottles thud and slosh. "My job. I'm out here doing my fucking job and risking my life to get you the pieces for your little science experiment. Y'know, the one you're supposed to be setting up to make a vaccine, save the goddamn world, and get Ellie out of that prison cell. And I find you out here gettin' chased by clickers with your girl because you were out sightseeing like a goddamn tourist in Central Park. And for what? Because you wanted to see the zebras?"

Anderson's face is tightening with anger, but Abby speaks before he can. "Show him, Dad."

"Abby . . ."

"Just show him."

Anderson sighs and rips open the small pack on his back. After fishing for a moment, he comes up with a thick manila envelope and tosses it to Joel. Joel upends it and a stack of Polaroids tip into his hand. He squints at them. They're inexpertly taken, but still striking. A zebra foal trots beside its mother in one. In another, a group of monkeys cluster close to the camera, pointing and hooting. Another shows the gray bulk of an elephant emerging from behind a small tree. "So, you took pictures," he growls, "Like any fucking tourist."

Now, even Abby is getting angry. "We took pictures for Ellie," she all but spits, "You know how cooped up she's been feeling. And she told me about the giraffes, and I figured . . . shit, it doesn't matter, we just wanted to give her something to brighten up her room. And Dad had the morning off while we wait to set up the cultures, so we went outside the perimeter. Nobody was supposed to get hurt."

Something twists in Joel's gut. He glances down the aisle, at where the dead infected still lie in a heap. Then touches his pocket to make sure that the colored pencils are still there.

Jerry runs both hands through his hair. He strives for a diplomatic tone. "Look, Joel . . . I know you think I don't care. You're wrong about me. I have to treat Ellie as an experimental subject. That's my job, and that's my duty as a researcher. But, that doesn't mean I don't care about her. It doesn't mean I want to see her unhappy."

Joel's ire is fading, at least a little. Still . . . "You," he tells them, "Are both goddamn idiots."

He doesn't get any arguments. Now that the danger is past, Jerry seems to be getting the shakes, and Abby is still half out of breath. Joel pulls two water bottles from his bag and tosses one to each of them. "The infected will get bored in a couple of hours. We'll be able to sneak out of here after that." He nudges Abby's arm. "Now, c'mon, girl, let's find something to clean out that shoulder."

tbc