Cory Cotton

Sparkhill Research Facility

April 14, 2032

1049 Hours

When I wake up, I have no idea where I am.

This isn't my hammock, the one I've woken up in every morning—or afternoon—for the last six years, minus that one time I got really lost in the woods and slept in a tree. This is a tent. A really big tent.

Oh, yeah.

I sit up, pushing my hair back from my forehead, and blink in the morning light filtering through the ceiling of the tent. My gaze drops to my splinted ankle, then my bandaged knuckles, and I remember the flood. The ravine.

Coby.

Man, I hope he's okay. He's a lot better at survival than I am, though, so I don't think I have to be overly worried. Of course, the idiot jumped into the river after me—I won't pretend to be an expert in flood safety, but I'm pretty sure that's not a great idea. I just hope Coby didn't end up unconscious in the ravine.

Seriously, I hate ravines. Or, well, that one in particular. The flood was bad enough on its own, but then it had to dump me ten feet onto a rock, where I tried to land on my feet and busted my ankle. Then of course I had to fall farther, bounce off a rock or two, and then hit the bottom and knock all the wind out of my lungs.

There is no worse feeling in the world than not being able to breathe. I've never been winded before, so I was completely unprepared for the overwhelming lack of air. All I could do was curl into the fetal position and gasp in breaths that never came, not for at least a minute, and then when I finally got one in, I coughed up a crap ton of water. By the time it was all over, I was so lightheaded I thought I might pass out.

I actually just ended up laying there for a while until I could breathe without seeing stars, and then I realized that the ravine was kind of filling up with water. Not fast, since the flood had mostly burned itself out, but I didn't want to sleep in a newly formed stream, so I tried to get up. But that was no longer feasible with my injured ankle, so I crawled up the rocks to where the water couldn't reach me.

From there on out it was blind panic. I could barely see, couldn't walk at all, and my breathing was still pretty shaky. For the next two or so hours, I tore up my knuckles trying to climb out and probably made my ankle worse. And screaming for help, combined with all the water I swallowed, really hurt my throat. I don't normally like it when people pity me—who does?—but I'm glad Garrett and Sparky did, because I was in pretty bad shape.

Well, that's over, and I'm totally fine now. I wonder if breakfast is available.

I stand up and immediately decide that this was not a good idea. I shift too much of my weight onto the injured side, and my ankle buckles. There happens to be a small table with my soup bowl from last night next to my bed, so I grab the side as I go down, but I only manage to knock the whole thing over. The spoon and the bowl sail across the tent, and the latter hits a second table stacked with glassware, sending a beaker crashing to the floor. I fling up a hand to block my face from the flying shards, squeezing my eyes shut.

I open them to see Sparky standing in the door of the tent with a hand over his mouth and a look of great surprise on his face.

"I swear I didn't try to do that," I defend, raising my hands in innocence. "It was totally an accident. And possibly bad judgement."

Sparky grins crookedly. "You're good, kid. Let's get you up."

He grabs me under the arms and hoists me upright, and I flop backwards onto the camp bed, looking down at my ankle in exasperation.

"You know, you're going to make that worse if you keep trying to stand on it," Sparky says conversationally, sitting beside me on the bed.

"I know," I sigh. "It's just really annoying. I don't want to have to sit here all day."

"We could try to figure out some kind of crutches," Sparky suggests. "Might have to do a supply run if we can't find good-sized branches. That's no problem, though; we do one every year or so, and it's almost time. Trust me, kid, I've been where you are, and it's no fun."

"What's your story, Sparky?" I ask. "How'd you and Garrett get out here all by yourselves?"

Sparky tilts his head. "Why do you want to know?"

"Some stories are worse than mine and make me feel better about myself. And some are better and make me believe in humanity."

His smile widens. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but mine's pretty depressing. I was thirteen when the apocalypse started, and my folks didn't believe in it. They thought it was some kind of manufactured thing or a government rumor. I tried to get them to leave Plano, but nothing swayed them—not until the zombies got in. I had to run, and they still didn't believe me. When I got into the woods, I took a pretty bad fall. Almost broke my hip. Of course, pain like that tends to disappear when you're running from zombies. So when they came over the hill, I jumped up and started running again."

He laughs. "I actually plowed right into Gar. Almost knocked us both out. But he was alone in the woods and so was I, so I grabbed him and we ran until we got here. And that's how it's been ever since—me and Gar, fighting zombies, trying to figure out a cure for them. Always the same, until you came along."

"It's gotta be pretty hard for you two," I mumble, staring at my knees. "I mean, if you want me to leave, I bet I can try and make it back to camp."

"We don't just kick people out, Cory. I mean, if you want to go back, you can. But you're welcome here for as long as you want."

Sparky bumps his shoulder against mine, and the twinge of gratitude in my chest wrestles with the pang of sadness as I think of how I did the same thing to Coby just last night. Is he okay? Is he looking for me? What if something terrible happened to him?

No, my brother wouldn't let terrible things happen to him. I'm the one that leaves the door open for danger and gets us into trouble. Of course, this one was mostly my fault, so maybe I shouldn't rule anything out.

"Thanks, Sparky," I say, grinning as widely as I can. "Can we see about those crutches?"

Sparky and Garrett are surprisingly good at building things. I convince them to put off the supply run until later—because I want to go with them, why else?—and so they chop several branches off a willow tree and start hacking them to pieces and tying rope around seemingly random spots. Of course, when they're done, I have a working pair of crutches, so I have to be impressed. I couldn't make something like that in a million years.

No matter how impressive, though, crutches are very uncomfortable. The tops dig into my pits, and my shoulders are sore from swinging myself around. So is my good leg, which seems counterintuitive.

"You guys are awesome and everything," I pant, sitting down on one of the logs around the fire pit, "but I hate crutches."

"There's not really another option," says Garrett. "Unless you want to hop around on one foot for three weeks."

"No, I'll use them, I just hate them. Not, like, the look. They look awesome. But I didn't know using crutches hurt this bad!"

"You'll get used to it," Sparky reassures me. "Don't worry, we can probably take you off them in a week or so. Then you can start weight bearing again."

"Any way we can start looking for Coby?" I ask. "He's gotta be freaking out. He knows I can't handle myself outside camp."

"Are you really that bad at survival?" Garrett asks, crossing his arms. "You can't be, if you've lived out here since the apocalypse started. You've gotta have some kind of skills."

I shrug, then wince as I remember my bruised shoulder. "I really don't. I mean, I can find edible plants, and I'm a fast runner. Coby says I can go heart-to-heart with anyone, but I should really be going head-to-head with zombies. Plants taste horrible, and I'm usually only running because I got myself into a scrape. I'm loud, clumsy if I don't know where I am, and apparently prone to overreacting. Not great qualities in a post-apocalyptic world. Oh, and I'm also a horrible shot. Couldn't hit a zombie if it lay down and begged me to do it."

Garrett nods stoically. "You're right, kid. That's pretty bad."

Sparky punches him on the upper arm. "Gar! He's got it hard enough!"

"I'm just saying, he doesn't have much of a chance!"

"Is that really what he needs to hear right now?"

"Somebody's gotta face the facts!"

Sparky sighs, sitting down on the log across from me. "I don't think you believe enough in yourself. Your bro's right about your heart, kid, I've got a gut feeling about that. So I've gotta know—why can't you shoot zombies? Is it really because you can't aim, or is it because you don't want to?"

Wow, that was…personal. I stare at my knees for a few more seconds before I whisper, "I just can't."

"Okay, but why not?"

Why am I baring my soul to this guy I met fifteen hours ago? "Well, I really am a horrible shot. But even when I should be able to hit them, it just doesn't work in my brain. Every time I see them, I know I should shoot, because they put Cobes in danger. But then I remember that they used to be people—they could be my parents and I'd never know. Even if they weren't, though, they were still people, and I can't do it. And I cry over every zombie Coby shoots, even though I know it has to be done, because they were supposed to have a life and they didn't get it—they got undeath, and it's all just so unfair…but now Coby's out there all alone with them, and they could kill him…I don't know what I'll do if I lose him. He's all I've got left, and I can't do anything without him, and I…I just…"

I'm crying, burying my face in my hands. Why am I crying? Coby doesn't cry. I can't remember the last time he did. All I can remember is all the times I've cried, all the times Coby sat next to me and patted my back, or put an arm around me, or abandoned all pretense and just hugged me as tightly as he could while I sobbed.

Man, I wish he was here.

Soft footsteps tiptoe across the clearing, and I hear someone sit down next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I glance up for a moment and catch a glimpse of red hair. Garrett? Garrett is hugging me?

Sparky sits down on my other side, scooting his log closer, and offers his own arm, creating something of a hug sandwich. I wipe the tears from my eyes, struggling to breathe. You're okay, Cory. You're fine. You can figure this out.

"Sorry," I choke out. "That was…I…no one's ever asked me that before. I didn't mean to dump my emotions all over you guys."

"Sparky's notorious for emo dumping," says Garrett. "I'm used to it. We'll figure this out, kid, okay? We'll find your brother, and I think I'm getting close to finding a cure for the zombies. We're not just going to fix your situation, we're going to fix the whole world."

"And who knows?" Sparky adds. "Maybe you can help us do it."

I manage to hoist a watery smile onto my face. "When do we start?"