Garrett Hilbert

Sparkhill Research Facility

April 15, 2032

1042 Hours

Sparky is making sandwiches, using the last of the cheese and lunchmeat. It's times like these when I'm incredibly grateful for our minifridge—not many people have one of those. At least, I don't think so. I haven't seen anyone but Sparky for six years.

Our setup today is rather picturesque. Sparky sits by the fire pit, putting the sandwiches together, and I'm at our Lifetime table with my notes spread out in front of me. Cory is swinging himself around the clearing, getting a feel for his crutches and having an unnecessary amount of fun with them. Sparky is cheering him on as if Cory is running a race, throwing out mostly useless tips.

I can't keep from smiling. What the crap is wrong with me?

It must be the kid. Cory's presence is…infectious, to say the least. I have never seen anyone smile that much, not even before the apocalypse, and his enthusiasm for everything is off the charts. He absolutely lost it when he heard we usually eat lunch and dinner, which makes me feel sorry for him. Apparently Cory doesn't get to eat much, which explains his small frame. We're going to have to get him to fill out.

"Lunch!" Sparky bellows. "Get over here, Cory! Gar, stop working!"

"I'm almost done!" I insist. "I just need to go over my notes on athaflax!"

"Athaflax can wait! It's lunchtime!"

I sigh, sliding my papers into a stack and setting a rock on top so they don't blow away. Standing, I go over to the fire pit and sit down on my usual log next to Sparky, taking the sandwich he hands me with a nod of thanks. Cory sits down on Sparky's other side, panting and wiping his forehead. "Thanks, Sparky."

He takes his sandwich and bows his head for a moment, his lips moving quickly. Before I realize he's praying, Cory looks up again, saying cheerfully, "So! When's the supply run?"

"We can't go until you're off the crutches," I remind him, swallowing a bite of sandwich. "So not for another few days."

Cory sighs dramatically, staring at the sky. "I absolutely despise these crutches."

"No, you don't," Sparky says, bumping Cory's shoulder with his own. "You were having the time of your life with those things."

"Yeah, and then I heard that I'm not allowed to go anywhere with them, and suddenly I kind of hate them." Cory looks at me with wide, pleading eyes. "I can go really fast, Gar! I bet I can go faster than you!"

"I don't think so."

"Seriously, I think I can! I'll prove it."

"Not now. Let me eat in peace."

I take another bite of my sandwich, wondering what we're going to eat for the next few days while we wait for Cory's ankle to heal enough that he can walk on it. Leaving the kid here while Sparky and I go on the supply run is out of the question, since Cory wouldn't be able to defend himself if zombies did show up, and taking him with us isn't a good idea, either. I guess we'll have to starve until we can leave.

"Any ideas for dinner?" I ask. "We're out of food."

Cory raises his hand as if in school. "Oh! Cobes and I have plants for dinner every night—I can find something!"

Sparky shudders. "Vegetables?"

"They'd do you good," I tell him. "You know, for someone living in the woods—"

"Don't you start, Gar!"

"I can find us some chickweed," Cory says. "It's really good—plus it helps swelling go down; I can put it on my ankle and it'll get better faster."

"Are you sure?" I ask, skeptical.

"Obviously," Cory says as if this should be something everyone knows. "It's not like we've never gotten hurt before. Trust me, it works."

"So you've tested it?"

"Yeah. Works on pretty much anything. And it tastes like corn on the cob, so that's a plus."

"Still a vegetable," Sparky complains, wrinkling his nose. "Is there anything you can find me to eat that isn't a vegetable?"

"Blackberries?" Cory suggests. "I could probably find some."

"But that's a fruit."

"Well, nature doesn't produce sandwiches, so don't expect me to forage for those."

Sparky sighs. "Fine, kid. Let's go find some veg."

"You're sure you know which plants are which?" I ask, studying the purported blackberries. "Because I'm not in the mood to be poisoned."

"Of course I know," Cory says impatiently, dumping several berries into the satchel I scrounged up from our equipment. "I've been doing this forever, Gar, I know what's not gonna kill us."

Sparky is holding a blackberry, glaring at it as if it has done him a great personal wrong. "Can we at least make pie or something with these things?"

"Do you guys actually have stuff for pie?" Cory asks, excitement creeping into his tone. "Because I haven't had pie in six years and if you could make it today would be the greatest day of my life."

"I think we have enough baking supplies left," I say. "We're only out of prepared supplies. Although we're going to have to stock up on baking too, or this might be the last pie we ever make."

"So yes pie?" Cory actually starts bouncing up and down. "Oh my gosh, I love you guys."

"I'll start it when we get back," Sparky promises. "Unless we can just go home and not look for any more vegetables?"

"We've gotta find athaflax," Cory tells him. "And more chickweed if we can. I promise it'll be good."

I have to admit that I agree with Sparky. We've been out here for almost an hour, looking for so many plants that I can't remember what they're all called. Sparky and I don't even want to touch any of them, but Cory keeps sticking straight-up leaves into his mouth and insisting that they taste amazing. I don't know about this guy.

"Let's just head back to that patch we saw earlier," I suggest. "And there should be athaflax down by the riverbank, if the flood hasn't torn it all up."

"Sounds great!" Cory's already swinging himself back towards camp. "Come on, guys!"

"He's actually really fast," Sparky comments as we start after Cory. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to bring him on the supply run."

"He might be fast, but he's still a liability," I insist. "He won't shoot the zombies, and he'll give us away no matter where we go. That's part of my reasoning for not taking him with."

"So you're going to leave the kid here even when his ankle's better?" Sparky asks. "That's cold, Gar."

"He'll still be quieter when he's not on crutches," I say. "And once we get back, I'm going to start him on the weapons we've got in the back of the tent. I'll pull out those old tranq darts or something; that way we can get him to shoot the zombies without doing any real damage. It's not how I'd do it, but there's no other way. It's all about waiting until he's ready."

"You might be waiting a while," Sparky says. "Training's gonna take a bit."

"He'll learn fast."

We catch up with Cory at the chickweed patch, where he's alternately putting leaves in his satchel and eating them. His crutches are lying on the ground beside him, and he's taken his hiking boot and the splint off.

"Whoa, kid, what are you doing?" I gasp, rushing forward. "You can't just take that off!"

"I'm fixing it!" Cory defends around the plethora of leaves in his mouth, chewing rapidly. "Let me show you!"

He spits the leaves out into his hand, then starts to pack the salve around his ankle, covering the bruised, swollen area. Taking one of the triangular bandages, Cory wraps it around the joint, binding the salve to his skin.

"That's…that's disgusting, kid," I manage, thinking I might actually vomit at the sight of all those chewed-up leaves.

Cory shrugs as he ties the bandage off. "Yeah, but it works. Could you help me get the splint back on, Gar?"

I kneel down next to him and reapply the splint, trying not to let my hands touch the salve. Cory pulls his shoe back on and stands up, shifting all his weight to his uninjured side as he props himself up with the crutches. "Alright, show me the athaflax!"

"It's kinda far," Sparky cautions. "And we've gotta go over this huge dead tree. It's gonna be hard with crutches."

Cory grins. "Hey, I like a challenge. Lead the way!"

Sparky takes off through the forest, with Cory going as fast as he can after him. I bring up the rear, following more slowly and looking around the woods. I haven't been this far from camp in a while, and it's kind of nice, with all the birds singing and the wind rustling through the leaves.

Oh, and the dragging footsteps, combined with the rattling breaths that I know all too well.

I freeze and pull out my pistol, looking around for the source of the sound. I don't see any zombies, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.

Should I call Sparky and Cory back? No, Cory needs someone with him who can actually fight. I'm the only one who can really handle myself out here; better that those two are together. Besides, if they run back towards me, they'll draw attention. I can deal with this on my own.

"Come on," I whisper into the trees. "Get out here."

And then I see it: a tall, gray-skinned undead, moaning as it stumbles through the trees. I lift my pistol and look through the sight, then shoot, watching as the zombie keels over without a sound.

There could be more. There are always more. Are any of them close to Cory and Sparky?

I start off through the trees, following the path back to camp, and eventually come across my two companions. Sparky has taken his shoes off and is wading through the flooded earth, picking athaflax shootlings out of the mud as Cory directs him.

"You have to get the roots too, Sparky! You want to eat tonight, right?"

"Not if these taste anything like they look!"

He tosses a whole plant at Cory, which hits the kid in the side of the head. Cory catches the shootling on the rebound and laughs, wiping the mud off his cap. "Nice throw!"

"We have to get out of here," I pant as I stumble into the clearing. "We have to get back to camp, you guys; I just shot a zombie."

Sparky's face goes white, and he dives for his shoes, tugging them back on. "Just one? There's never just one, Gar! Run!"

"Don't panic," I say firmly. "I know that's not usually the case, but I didn't hear any more of them. We'll go back to camp and watch the cameras. If we see any zombies, we'll get out. We're going to be fine."

Sparky and I walk with our pistols out, being as quiet as possible. Our efforts are negated, because Cory snaps so many twigs that, by the time we reach camp, I'm wondering if I should take one of our old darts and tranq the kid.

We don't see any more zombies, so Sparky deems it safe to make pie. While he gets it started, I take Cory out back and shove one of our spare pistols into his hand. "Shoot that tree."

Cory tilts his head, confused. "What? Why would I shoot a tree? It didn't do anything."

"It's dead, kid. And we need to work on your combat skills." At his terrified look, I assure him, "You won't be using real bullets on the zombies. I'm going to give you a tranq gun when we go on the supply run."

Cory looks visibly happier. "Okay, I'll give it a shot." He grins cheekily. "No pun intended."

"Just shoot the tree, kid."

It soon becomes clear that Cory cannot, in fact, shoot the tree. Every other tree in a hundred-foot radius, yes, but not the one he's aiming for. Finally, when I can smell the pie, I decide to switch Cory to the bow. We've had it for years but almost never use it because Sparky is a horrible archer and I'm more comfortable with a pistol.

As Cory nocks an arrow, I'm not hopeful. I'm really not. But he takes aim at a high-up branch on the dead tree, one Sparky and I sawed the end off for firewood years ago, and lets the bowstring slip free.

I know before it happens.

Cory yelps in pain, clutching his arm to his chest, but my eyes are fixed on the arrow. It seems to fly in slow motion, twisting as it streaks through the air, and strikes the middle of the branch, beautifully centered.

"Dude," I breathe. "That…that was…perfect."

"Was it?" Cory asks, his eyes watering. "It really hurt!"

"That's because you're not wearing an arm guard," I sigh, apologetic. "Sorry, kid, I forgot. Hang on, I'll go get it."

I duck into the tent and pull the arm guard from the box of weapons we keep in the corner, still reeling from that shot. It was phenomenal, to say the least. But there's no way the kid can make it again.

Right?

"Put this on," I say as I step back into the clearing. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Cory says, examining the bright red welt on his forearm. "Can I try again?"

He pulls his sleeve back down and takes the arm guard, strapping it to his arm, then grabs the bow and another arrow. "I'm gonna try and hit right next to the first one."

"Good luck."

Cory nocks the arrow, pulls back, and lets it go.

And it's perfect.

Again.

"I think we found your calling, kid," Sparky says, wiping blackberry juice from his mouth as he finishes his pie. "Never seen anyone do that with a bow."

Cory stares at his knees, but he's smiling. "I've never even touched a bow before."

"Well, you should've," Sparky tells him. "It's gonna take forever to get all of those arrows down."

I set my empty plate down, throwing Sparky an appreciative nod. "The pie was adequate, Spark. Cory, I'll start attaching those tranq darts to the arrows. Should have them ready by tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, Gar!" Cory says cheerfully. "And Sparky—if you would make that pie every day, I would not be mad."

"Neither would I," Sparky agrees, "but Gar would have our hides."

"Can't be getting soft out in the woods," I say sternly. "Tomorrow we're having salad."

Standing up, I go into the tent, rummaging around in the weapons box until I pull out the old case of tranquilizer darts. Outside, I can hear Sparky trying to climb the tree, probably to get the twenty or so arrows that Cory has fired into the branches. I don't know how many of them he'll be able to get down, so I take the rest of our supply of arrows and decide to attach the darts to those.

As I walk back to the front entrance, I pass by the camera feeds and, just for kicks, study them. The forest is dappled green and gold, and Cory is encouraging Sparky as he tries to climb higher up the tree, looking like a particularly incompetent monkey. The scene is ridiculous and yet idyllic.

Oh, and there's the slight drawback of hordes of the undead making their way through the woods.

Sparky screams, and Cory's voice joins him. "Zombies!"

This time, I don't freeze. I grab both bags of emergency supplies from where they're stored under my camp bed, sweeping my notes into one of them and wrapping a single beaker in a blanket, then shoving it in too. Arrows, darts, extra bedroll, the last of the sugar—I've got everything. This is it. I knew this would happen at some point; it's just our luck that it was now. But it's fine—we're prepared.

I lock up the tent and burst out the back entrance into the clearing, looking wildly around as I see the zombies approaching. They're going fairly slowly—still a few hundred feet out—but Sparky is still up in the tree, yelling his head off as he tries to pull Cory up with him.

"Get down!" I shout, putting the backpack with the glassware on before going to the tree and tugging on the back of Cory's hoodie. "Come on, guys, that's not going to help! We've got to run!"

"They'll chase us!" Sparky howls.

"They can go about three miles an hour, idiot! Get down!"

Cory scrambles down first, grabbing his crutches and pulling his bow over his head. The second Sparky's feet touch the ground, I thrust the other backpack at him, plus two of the bedrolls, and slap my best friend on the back. "Go, you guys! Supply run's happening early!"

And we take off through the woods, the undead screaming behind us.