Garrett Hilbert

April 13, 2032

Sparkhill Research Facility

2243 Hours

The lantern is flickering again.

Turns out, that's the least of my problems, but still one of the more annoying ones. When the lantern flickers, it makes it hard to see my notes, and Sparky and I haven't managed to scavenge any batteries lately. This might shave valuable time off my research if I can't study at night.

I drag the lantern across my desk, peering more closely at my notes. I wonder if there are any medicinal plants out there that could bolster the potency of my injection—maybe athaflax? It's gotten us out of a few scrapes before.

The sound of running footsteps echoes through the woods, and my hand is on my pistol before I remember that Sparky has been out scavenging. My best friend bursts into the tent, his dirty blond mane falling into his eyes, and gasps, "Gar—there's someone out there!"

"Zombies?" I ask, standing, my body instantly on high alert.

"No, it's not groaning—it sounds more like whimpering, and I thought I heard a voice. Sounds like they need help."

"Spark," I sigh. "We can't bring anyone else into our camp. The more people, the more zombies we attract."

"But it sounds like a kid," Sparky protests. "What if they're hurt?"

"We could be walking into an ambush, Spark."

Sparky crosses his arms, sticking his bottom lip out. "We ain't leaving anyone out for the zombies, Gar. Did I leave you out for the zombies?"

He has a point. Six years ago, when the zombie apocalypse began, I was separated from the rest of my family while we fled our hometown of Plano, by a storm a lot like the one that's going on right now. I wandered around in the woods for days, exhausted and totally lost, and that's how Sparky found me. I must have been a pretty depressing sight—scratched up, filthy twelve-year-old, stumbling through the trees with no sense of direction.

Sparky was thirteen. He ran into me—literally—in the woods. Almost knocked me out, actually. But there were zombies after him, so he grabbed me by the collar and dragged me through the woods until we were safe.

We've been together ever since. Always the two of us, Sparky cooking and battling zombies while I researched a cure for the wasting disease. And now, my worst nightmare has come true—adding someone else to our company. But who knows? Maybe this kid will be gone as soon as we get them out of reach of zombies.

"Alright," I sigh. "Let's go."

The woods are pitch-black, and we put our night vision goggles on so we don't have to turn on flashlights. If there's anything that attracts zombies faster than two guys stomping through the woods, it's two guys stomping through the woods and flashing lights all over the place.

As we draw near to the ravine, I realize I can hear raspy, swift breathing—someone is hyperventilating nearby, probably on the verge of tears. A scrabbling noise follows the breaths, sounding almost like a terrified animal. Maybe that's all it is.

But then I hear an intake of breath, and a hoarse voice cuts through the darkness. "Help!"

Darn. Animals don't call for help.

"I think it's coming from the ravine," Sparky whispers. "Sounds like a guy. I don't know why he'd be in a ravine in the dead of night, but something must've happened. C'mon, let's go talk to him."

"What if he thinks we're zombies?" I hiss. "He'll tranq us before we get anywhere past 'hello.'"

"We'll go slow," Sparky promises. "Tell him we come in peace. And I'll do the talking."

He edges closer to the ravine and whisper-shouts, "Hey, is someone down there?"

"Yeah!" comes the voice, desperate and shaky. "Um—who are you? I—I can't really see anything."

"Sparky. My buddy here's Garrett. Hang on, I'm gonna shine a flashlight down there."

"Be careful, Spark," I caution, taking my pistol from its holster. "I'll cover you. If I see zombies, I'll start shooting, and you pull the kid up and run."

Sparky turns on his flashlight and aims the beam down into the ravine. Despite my words from a moment ago, I can't help but look down, and my heart twinges at the sight.

A teenage boy, probably a year or two younger than me, is seated on a rock, his hands wrapped around one ankle, which is propped up on the stone. He's skinny, too much for his own good, and dark tousled hair sticks out from under his backwards baseball cap. One side of his face is reddened with scrapes, the bleeding area stretching across his cheek, jaw, and chin, and his clothes are torn and damp. But the saddest thing about the kid is the lost, terrified look in his eyes.

"What's your name, kid?" Sparky asks, lowering his goggles as he takes in the boy's sorry state.

"Cory," says the kid. "Cory Cotton. I'm from Ruin River—it flooded, it was really bad. I don't know what happened to Coby—he tried to save me, but the flood dumped me in this huge ditch—I'm pretty sure my ankle's broken, could you guys help?"

He stares up at us with liquid dark eyes, and it's really hard not to feel sorry for him. He's clearly rambling—I'd better check him for head trauma once we pull him up. Speaking of which—

"Do you have a rope, Spark?" I ask.

"Always. Hang on, kid, I'm going to throw down this rope! Can you walk at all? It'll be easier if you can get over here on your own."

Cory enthusiastically tries to stand up, but his face pales and he sits down hard on the rock. "Um. No. Hang on, I'll keep trying!"

The kid's stubborn, I'll give him that. After several failed attempts, he manages to get up onto one foot and hop over the rocks to a spot directly below us. Sparky finishes tying the rope to a tree and looks back over the side, tossing the end of the rope down and instructing, "Tie it around your waist. Make the knot as tight as you can. It doesn't matter if you can't undo it, we've got knives and Gar's great with knots, but I don't want you to fall."

Cory doesn't seem particularly good at knot tying, but he wraps the rope around his waist, threading it over and under until there's no way it can break, even with no knots. He gives Sparky a thumbs-up, and we both grab the rope, pulling Cory upwards. It's not hard—he can't weigh more than a hundred thirty pounds, soaking wet. Poor kid doesn't look like he's eaten in a while.

After we haul Cory over the side, Sparky unties the rope from the tree, and I take the liberty of untangling the kid. I go as fast as I can, since there could be zombies about, but it takes at least a minute.

"Back to base," Sparky decides. "C'mon, kid, we'll help you. Gar can look at your ankle when we get back."

I take Cory's right arm and pull it over my shoulders, holding it in place with one hand while the other stays steadfastly on my pistol. No sense in disarming ourselves, even if we are dragging this kid back to our camp. Sparky takes Cory's other side, and we set off through the woods, moving as fast as we can.

All my senses are on high alert as we walk the quarter mile back to camp. Every small animal and snapping twig draws my attention, and my entire being is screaming at me to run. We almost never see zombies this far out in the woods, but you can never be too careful, especially when you're dragging a kid and being a lot louder than you'd like.

By the time the faint, flickering lantern light appears through the trees, casting shadows on the ground, I'm so high-strung that my pistol almost goes off. I shove Cory inside the tent, and Sparky helps him over to his camp bed while I zip up and padlock the tent door. I complain about the subpar security measures all the time, but this is the only shelter we have, and a lock is the best we can do.

I turn to Cory, raking my gaze up and down his body to check for any injuries I missed. "Shoe off, kid. It'll hurt, but I have to check out your ankle."

Cory grits his teeth but pulls his hiking boot off, then his sock, stretching his leg out so I can see. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I glance over the injured joint. It's swelling, yes, and the skin is hot to the touch, but there isn't really enough bruising for a break. At any rate, there's no deformity of the bone, though that doesn't rule out a fracture. I carefully probe the skin, and Cory inhales sharply, but he doesn't seem to be in enough pain for it to be broken.

"Sprained," I conclude. "Spark, could you get the first aid kit? If you could patch up his face, that'd be great."

Cory's eyes widen at the sight of the first aid kit, which is really more of a first aid suitcase. Sparky throws it wide and pulls out a SAM splint and the entire stock of triangular bandages, tossing them to me. I bend the splint in half and slide the fold under Cory's heel, forming a stirrup, then start tying the bandages around it. It should be compact enough to fit back into the hiking boot if we loosen the laces.

Sparky wets a scrap of fabric and dabs at the scrapes on Cory's face, wiping the dirt out of them. He catches several abrasions on the kid's knuckles and elbow that I didn't even know were there and uses about fifty Band-Aids patching them all up. By the time we're done, Cory looks like he went five rounds with a bear, but he seems a lot better. I'm worried about our first aid supplies, though—supply runs are dangerous, and I don't want to have to do one.

"Any more that I missed?" Sparky asks.

"You didn't miss it," Cory reassures him. "You can't see it. But there's a big one on my ribs—stings like crazy."

Sparky pulls up the kid's shirt, and I cringe at the sight of Cory's too-prominent rib cage as Sparky rubs antibacterial ointment on the abrased skin. It's a big scrape, so he tapes gauze over this one. "Better, kid?"

"Absolutely," Cory says, grinning up at him. "You guys are the best. Thanks a lot, I thought I was gonna be down in that ravine forever."

"Can you test out the splint?" I ask. "I want to make sure you can at least stand on it. Injuries happen, but better for you to limp away from a horde of zombies than to lay down and let them take you."

Cory eases himself off the camp bed, standing on his uninjured foot, then gingerly places the bad one on the floor. He winces but doesn't collapse, limping in an experimental circle.

"I think we're good?" he says tentatively. "I mean, I couldn't even stand up before, so this is probably an improvement. Although I don't think I'm going to be running anywhere for a while."

"Three weeks at least," I tell him. "I'm not saying you can't walk until then, but we'll have to keep you off it for a couple of days, and even after that, no running. Hope you don't have anywhere you need to be."

Cory's face clouds as he sinks back onto the bed. "I have to get back to my camp! I don't know where Coby is—he could be hurt, maybe worse than I am, and he's gonna freak if he doesn't know where I am."

Sparky holds up his hands. "Back up, kid. Who's Coby?"

"He's my twin brother—he looks just like me, only less loud and probably a lot madder—oh, gosh, he's gonna kill me—"

I grab Cory by the shoulders, pinning him with my stare. "Don't freak out. Spark, grab some ice for his foot, would you? Advil, too, if we've got it. I've got to give him a concussion test."

"I'm not concussed, man!" Cory insists. "I'm pretty sure I'd know if I had a concussion!"

"You wouldn't. Hold still."

The concussion test turns up nothing, so I guess rambling is part of Cory's personality. Sparky gets him some ice and ibuprofen and doles out bowls of soup, and the combination of pain relief and food practically knocks the kid out. Cory ends up curled on Sparky's camp bed, breathing almost soundlessly.

"I'll get a sleeping bag for the night," Sparky says in response to my raised eyebrow. "Kid's been through enough, we ain't moving him now. Think we should try to find his brother?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I mean, we don't want any other kids out there with a bunch of zombies, but we have to go out together if we go at all. I'm really not keen on leaving Cory here alone, and we can't bring him with us for a few days. But by then, a lot of things could've happened to his brother."

"We'll figure something out," Sparky reassures me. "I'll check the cameras every so often to see if anyone is passing by, maybe rig up a few more. We might have to do a supply run for those, actually—and for everything else. We're running out of Advil, and Cory needs a camp bed. And I really don't wanna have to hunt for dinner every night."

"We'll be fine." I clap my best friend on the shoulder. "Try not to worry too much."

"Me, worry? You're the one who didn't want to bring the kid here. If anything, you're worrying."

"I'm not!" I protest. "It's just—this is really going to disrupt our routine."

Sparky grins. "Hey, we'll be fine. This is gonna work out, I can feel it!"

I sigh. "I hope so, Spark. Really, I hope so."