CHAPTER 1: ONE STEP

July 27th, 1993

Harlan sat in his pickup truck as the engine purred. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, struggling to see through the thick morning fog that had descended over Rosewood.

Just grabbing a few things from the supermarket, he thought to himself as he adjusted his glasses, You've done it a million times before.

He shifted the engine and rolled down Main Street. Once lively, now its storefronts were smashed and burnt cars lined the curb. The town church stood to his right, its charred remains were all that was left after the end came. Harlan slowly rumbled down the road, headlights off, so as to not attract attention. He pulled into the supermarket parking lot, slaloming between lonely vehicles and the odd body on the ground, before pulling behind the building.

Harlan flicked his lights off, pulled the key out of the ignition, and took a deep breath.

"God, if you still care at this point, watch my back."

Harlan stepped into the morning fog, axe in hand, and heard the shuffling of feet. He could handle his fair share of these monsters, but it was hard to guess how many when you can't see five feet past your face. Through the silence, he heard three, maybe four, stepping over.

The first one emerged from the fog along the supermarket wall. She started gurgling when she spotted Harlan. Her sundress was stained a rusty brown from a chunk taken out of her face. Harlan's axe made contact with her temple and she was down. Harlan kept the momentum swung against another zombie behind her. This one was older, gray beard, farmer's coveralls.

Harlan held his axe high waiting for the next to come, but he heard nothing. He swung his head around, black strands of hair whipping around his face, but it looked like he was alone for the moment. A heartbeat came and went, and Harlan ducked into the back door of the supermarket. He pushed out memories of working there in high school to focus on the job at hand.

Canned goods, dry goods, and some chocolate for the hell of it.

The power went out a week ago, and the water soon followed, so he needed the most efficient and easy to store foodstuffs this place had. He ducked down in the darkness and reached into his backpack, pulling out the head-mounted flashlight he scored from someone's garage. Its lightbeam pierced the darkened loading bay. Harlan paused again, listening intently, and heard nothing. His heart was beating in his throat as he reached the metallic doors between him and the market's main floor. Another deep breath, and he pushed his way inside.

The swinging doors echoed throughout the cavernous shop floor, but the smell hit Harlan a lot harder than the noise he made. It stunk, it really stunk. Like death himself set up shop. Harlan untied a bandana from his thigh and wrapped it around his face to, at the very least, convince himself it didn't smell that bad. He didn't hear any movement, and dipped between the shelves.

"Another one of these and I might hurl," he muttered, plucking a few cans of spaghetti bolognese for his backpack. It's all he's had the past three days.

In the next aisle, fruit preserves and cereal. After that, a big sack of jasmine rice and some pinto beans. Harlan sung his bag onto his back when he heard a thud from across the store. He froze for a moment before swinging out his axe. In an instant, his body was lit with the icy flames of fight or flight. He panicked for a moment over his headlamp.

How badly do I need to see if it gives me away? Can't fight if I can't see.

He waited a moment and worked out his options. He could go towards the noise, or run away, and he had way too much room left in his bag to go home so early. And these things weren't too dangerous. Slow, stupid, uglier than sin, but if you get too close you have a chance of never coming back.

Harlan put that idea out of his mind and stepped towards the end of the aisle, taking a short measured breath. His shoes crawled across the dusty linoleum as he peered out, left, then right.

Nothing. At least nothing he could see.

Harlan looked down, a dented can of peas rolled to his feet.

"Hello?"

"WHOAH!" Harlan jumped back, crashing into a row of shelves, sending it into the next three rows with a storm of dust. Harlan kept his axe up.

A man stood before him, his hands up in the air like he's being mugged. He lowered one to shield himself from Harlan's headlamp. "I'm friendly! Please, I'm friendly!" The man looked desperate. Harlan brought his voice down.

"Who are you?"

Before the man could speak, they both turned to watch as dark forms emerged from the fog and began to bang on the front windows. A few at first, but it only gets worse.

"Please, I need help. I'm on my own out here." Harlan looked him up and down. He couldn't tell if this man's torn teal dress shirt was more blood or mud at this point, ditto for his pants. "I'm sorry I scared you but I'm desperate." He sounded like he was from New York.

"You should get out of here." Harlan walked away. The man followed him.

"My name's Anthony, I've been running for two weeks. I- I was in Louisville. Work flew me in then everything got FUCKED!" Harlan's body was still tense, ready to swing. "I don't even know where I am." Anthony fell to his knees and clasped his hands together. "Please?"

Harlan was flooded with doubt, this was the first living person he had seen in weeks, but how long was this guy going to live? "Were you bit?" Harlan raised his axe higher.

"No! I know that's how you turn, but I wasn't bit! You can check me yourself!" Harlan laughed. Anthony stared up at him with wide brown eyes, when a chorus of bangs echoed from the storefront.

"We've got bigger problems right now." One of the display windows shattered, glass shards jingled to the floor as the undead poured in. Harlan lost count, and he didn't want to stay and become part of the final tally. "Follow me!"

Harlan ducked down along the back row of shelves with this haggard man following close behind. They burst through the metallic doors a moment before the undead reached it. Harlan beelined to the same door he entered through and was greeted by the morning sun.

But the two men weren't alone, their antics drew a small group.

"Get in, passenger side!" Harlan ordered as he hoisted his axe and brought it crashing down onto an undead man's skull. Anthony didn't waste a moment and the door slammed behind him. Harlan stepped around the car and swung on another zombie, cleaving off half of her face and sending her stumbling back into the bushes. Harlan threw himself into the car, gunned the engine, and nearly crashed into a parked car as he peeled out of the lot.

The sun was higher now, illuminating what used to be the town's main thoroughfare. The street was lined with shattered storefronts, totalled cars, and rotting corpses as Harlan sped through. Some of the undead made weak attempts to grab their car, but none of them could stop it. Harlan took a corner at breakneck speed, swerving into a residential neighborhood. They passed burnt out houses in complete silence.

"Thank you. I mean it, thank you from the bottom of my heart." Anthony held his face in his hands. "I don't even know your name."

"Harlan," a heartbeat came and went, "Delgado."

"Well, Harlan, thank you." Anthony leaned back in his seat. "If there's any way I can make it up to-"

"Just, please, save it until we can get to someplace safe." Harlan counted the streets before taking a hard left, coasting down the street, and parking in front of an unassuming home with boarded windows. He killed the engine and stepped out, waving for Anthony to follow.

"Is this place safe?" he asked, trailing after Harlan.

"For the time being, this is the safest place in Rosewood. Maybe all of Kentucky." Harlan held the sheet rope out to Anthony. "I promise none of those things are in there. I'll be right behind you."

Anthony gripped the rope and gave it a good tug before slowly climbing up and through the window. He spilled out onto the tiled bathroom floor in near pitch blackness, save for a small candle in the corner. Harlan stepped over the windowsill, his pack of cans making a dim rustle. "Home sweet home."

Harlan led Anthony into the hall and down the stairs. What was once a typical suburb home had been repurposed into a survivalist's staging grounds. The windows were boarded up from the inside, as well as the outside, and topped off with thick sheets to prevent any light from escaping. Harlan plonked his bag of cans on the dining room table and started taking inventory, muttering about carbs and protein.

Anthony did a short lap around the room, its green walls lit by flickering candlelight. Whoever lived here was a smoker, you could see imprints left on the wall from formerly hung picture frames. He turned to see Harlan light a cigarette of his own, and saw his face clearly for the first time. Dark skinned, tight black goatee, and glasses. Harlan's hair was tied back into a loose ponytail. Anthony walked up to the table next to Harlan, who was scribbling in a notebook.

"So."

Harlan looked up, ashes tumbling from his cigarette. "You hungry?" Anthony nodded in the affirmative. He turned back to his bag and reached inside, "Feeling lucky?"

"Uh, I mean, I guess I'm lucky to be alive right now?"

Harlan chuckled and pulled a can out, "Spaghetti bolognese! It's your lucky day." He handed the can to Anthony and turned back to his notebook. Alongside it was an assortment of maps scribbled with annotations. A skull and crossbones here, dollar signs there, and bold red X's formed a semicircle around what Anthony assumed was the house Harlan shacked up in.

Anthony inspected the can only to find it didn't have a pull-tab. He was about to speak when Harlan cut him off, "top drawer to the left of the stove."

Anthony grabbed a can opener without uttering a word, all but ripped the can open, and chugged its contents as Harlan watched with equal amounts of bemusement and concern.

"How long has it been since your last meal?" Anthony lifted a finger while he scarfed down the rest of the can and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"What day is it?"

"It's the 27th."

"Three days." Harlan's eyes widened.

"Three days? Christ." He looked back down at his notebook, his maps, then looked back up at Anthony. "Are you thirsty? I have water too."

Anthony nodded emphatically. Harlan fetched a couple bottles from a 24-pack by the boarded up front door and tossed one to Anthony, who similarly chugged its contents.

"You gotta slow down before you hurl it back up, man." Harlan paused, "How did… or, what happened?" Anthony looked at him. "I mean, how did you get here from Louisville?"

"How much time do you have?"