Cory Cotton

The Woodlands, TX

April 16, 2032

0627 Hours

It's too early to be awake.

The sun is just about to break the horizon behind us, although it's so cloudy we probably won't be able to see it, and the dark, misty skyline of Woodlands rises from the trees, smudged but imposing. Garrett, Sparky, and I stand in the bushes outside the city limits, watching the deserted, dusty street. Everything is perfectly silent except for the soft dawn breeze.

I think I might pass out.

We're not in danger. It's not pouring rain like it was on that horrible night. We're not even very close to the site of the crash. But all I can think about is the suffocating darkness of that night, the freezing rain, the sting of thorns as they caught against my skin—and the overwhelming fear and pain that drove my eleven-year-old self to tears.

I take a deep, shaky breath and try to focus on the present. We need to get supplies. I have my bow and the tranquilizer arrows Garrett was up half the night making—I guess Sparky convinced him not to leave me behind. We're all going to be fine.

But the zombies might still be there. They could come out at any second, and I'd be undead before I got to see Coby again. Is it really worth it? I can't die without my twin. Not without saying goodbye.

My head is spinning, my chest tight as my heart speeds. I'm shaking, my hands and face tingling as though electricity races through them.

"Kid?" Garrett asks. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I manage, struggling to keep my voice from trembling. "I am absolutely not freaking out right now."

My knees go weak—or the one I'm putting weight on does—and my crutches fall to the ground as I sit down hard, shoving my head between my knees and trying not to lose it. Sparky gasps, and I feel his hands on my shoulders as he says urgently, "Cory—talk to me, kid, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I gasp out, now shaking violently. "I'm—I'm okay—"

"You're not," Garrett says firmly. "Out with it."

And out it comes, the words spilling from my lips like the flash flood. I choke out the story of leaving the city, the crash, seeing my parents' bodies, everything I felt on that night. Sparky and Garrett listen, and I feel the former hugging me from behind, his arms around my trembling form as his chin rests on my shoulder.

"It's okay, kid," Sparky whispers as tears burn in my eyes. "You're okay. You don't have to go in."

"I do," I say, my voice hoarse but certain as I look up. "Or I'll never be able to. I have to do this."

"Look, kid, you really don't have to," Garrett says, putting a hand on my unoccupied shoulder. "You probably shouldn't. You can't be scared in there. Or—you just can't let it control you. I don't know if you're ready."

"Neither do I," I whisper. "But I've made it this far."

The ginger cracks a smile. "You're right, kid. And we're proud of that."

Does he know I heard him yesterday? Is this Garrett's way of trying to make up for it? Even if it isn't, the affirmation bolsters me slightly, and I draw in a deep, shaky breath, my pounding heart slowing.

"Your choice, kid," Garrett says. "It's up to you."

"I can't let you guys down," I say. "I'm coming with you."

"You sure?" Sparky asks, releasing me. "You'll be okay?"

"I have to try."

I stand shakily, finally able to put a little weight on my ankle as I prop my crutches under my arms. "Thanks…thanks for listening, guys. I guess I…I just needed to get all of that out, you know?"

Sparky claps me on the shoulder. "Gotcha, kid. We've all been there."

"I haven't," Garrett insists.

"Not recently, no—"

Garrett cuts him off. "Let's get going."

I close my eyes for a moment, taking in the cool air, and we start down the road into Woodlands, my crutches clacking against the asphalt. A tumbleweed rolls across the road, brushing the tip of my hiking boot, and a dust devil rises in the wind. The landscape almost looks like a post-apocalyptic Wild West scene, dusty and parched with crumbling buildings and grass struggling to poke through the cracked concrete.

"Weapons out," Garrett breathes as we pass the first building. "Stay on guard."

He and Sparky both get out their pistols, and I pull my bow over my head, taking an arrow from my quiver and nocking it. We move silently through the city, weapons pointed at anything that moves, until we stop in front of a large wooden building. The faded sign over the door reads Bass Pro Shops.

The words strike a pang of sorrowful nostalgia into my heart. Coby and I used to come here every weekend as kids, running around and trying on too-big survival gear while Dad laughed and told us we looked phenomenal. We'd chase each other with fishing poles and catfish bait, not caring when the employees told us to stop.

Those memories are one of my last pieces of innocence. After an apocalypse, you tend to lose some of that inner child, because you have to grow up so fast. Danger is everywhere, and you can't afford not to see it. And when you don't have parents to protect you, you have to fend for yourself.

Coby never let me fend for myself, though. Every time something happened—every time I got into trouble—my twin stepped in to handle it. He's always tackled problems with logic, reason, and guns, none of which I possess, even now. I wish Coby was here. I wish he could protect me.

But he's not here, and I have to protect myself. I've gotta be capable of that, right?

"That's our target," Sparky says under his breath. "Don't see any zombies, but you never know."

He tiptoes to the door and, before Garrett can stop him, pushes it open. I suck in a breath, holding my bow in a vice grip, waiting for zombies to swarm Sparky. They don't—nothing happens, and I lower the bow.

"Don't put that down!" Garrett hisses, elbowing me as we step cautiously toward the entrance. "Sparky's already reckless enough—you aren't adding to it."

"In case you forgot, I can't hold a bow and walk at the same time!"

Garrett blinks, remembering I'm on crutches. "You're right. Okay, you can put it down, but be ready."

The inside of the store is filled with drifting motes of dust, which glitter in the pale light streaming through the upper windows. Most of the shelves are still full, which surprises me. I would've thought they'd all be cleaned out, but I guess the zombies are too much of a danger to raid this store. Maybe we're being complete idiots going in here—but, hey, it wouldn't be the first time.

We weave between the shelves, picking out the necessities. Sparky insists on picking up a backpack for me, so I don't have so much of my stuff to carry (and probably so I can carry more of his stuff). With the surplus arrows, canteen, and bedroll—which Sparky, not wanting to carry it anymore, thrusts into my hands with enthusiasm—I start to feel like a walking camping store.

Garrett jams a pith helmet onto my head, along with a pair of safety goggles. I probably look ridiculous with the bill of my cap sticking out the back of the helmet, but Garrett insists that I can't be too safe. If he had the resources, he'd smother me in bubble wrap and then take the liberty of adding knee pads.

"No camp beds," Sparky reports, emerging from between two shelves. "But I did find an air mattress—is that gonna work?"

"It's fine with me," I tell him. "You really think we can go back?"

"Course. The zombies'll move on eventually."

Garrett stiffens next to me. "Oh, they've moved on, alright. Nobody panic."

Sparky and I look up at the same time, and, of course, we both panic.

Sparky releases a bloodcurdling scream at the sight of the zombies, and then his pistol goes off, causing me to let out a loud squeak of surprise. I almost spill all of my arrows trying to pull one out of the quiver and then nearly snap my bow in half before remembering that I can't take it off, since I've placed a backpack over it. Garrett, seeing our incompetence, gives up on the offensive and sighs, "Run."

We take off toward the back of the store, and the zombies follow us, faster than I would've expected. I push over several racks of camping supplies, hoping the fallen bags of trail mix will slow the zombies down. Garrett outpaces both me and Sparky, launching himself onto a higher display that features hunting blinds and life-size fake deer.

"Get up here!" Garrett yells as I topple a gift card stand. "Come on, you guys! Quit destroying stuff!"

Sparky takes a flying leap, scrambling up onto the display, and I follow him, tossing my crutches up before Garrett grabs my wrists and hauls me over the edge. "Out the window, kid!"

"What?" I yell as Garrett fires his pistol into the horde of oncoming undead. "What window?"

"That one!" Garrett jerks his head to a rectangle of glass that looks barely wide enough for my shoulders. "Knock the glass out!"

"How? By punching it?"

"I don't know! Figure something out!"

I contemplate throwing one of the deer through the window, but then I have a better idea. I shift my weight onto my right crutch and swing the left one, shattering the glass as Garrett continues shooting. Clearing as much glass from the window frame as I can, I shout to Sparky, "You first!"

Thankfully, Sparky doesn't question me, and he hoists himself up, fingers scrabbling against the wood. I look out over the zombies, backing up as they draw closer to the display, and wonder if I should pull out my bow. Would it take longer to do that than to wait for Sparky to climb out?

I glance up to see that Sparky is still halfway through the window, kicking frantically as if attempting to propel himself through. Putting a hand on his leg, I whisper, "Sparky, you okay?"

"I'm stuck," Sparky hisses. "Don't tell Gar!"

My gaze rakes over the window, noting that Sparky's backpack is probably the issue here. Filled to the brim with camping supplies, it's clearly hindering his escape.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask. "I could try and pull you back this way."

"No, kid, we've gotta get outta here! Push!"

Fully aware of how ridiculous this must look, I shove my shoulder against Sparky's backside, pushing as hard as I can. The facts that I'm nowhere near strong and only bracing myself with one foot don't help my case. I grit my teeth, clamping down on a gasp of pain as I put my injured foot to the ground to try and keep myself from slipping.

"What's taking so long?" Garrett snaps, and he turns toward us. His pistol goes off again, seemingly inadverdently, as he yells, "Sparky, not now! I told you!"

"It's not me, Gar! It's the backpack!"

Garrett's face is nearly as red as his hair. "Well, you'd better get out of there in the next thirty seconds or I'm going to shoot you myself!"

"I'm working on it," I gasp, standing on one foot again. "Just keep shooting, Gar!"

Suddenly, something grabs me around the ankle, yanking my foot out from under me. I yelp in surprise as I crash down onto my side, realizing with dazed horror that a zombie has hold of my foot and is dragging me towards the edge of the display.

I grab one of my crutches and swing it wildly, making contact with the zombie's head. It groans in pain but doesn't release me, instead clamping its other hand right above the first one. Panic jolts through me, and I switch to jabbing the crutch as hard as I can at the zombie. "Let go!"

A resounding crack, and the zombie falls with a wail of anguish. I scramble up with the help of my crutches, throwing a breathless thanks to Garrett and then thrusting my full weight back into Sparky's glutes. The zombies start trying to crawl up onto the display, and my heart threatens to hurl itself out of my rib cage as sweat pours down my face.

There are too many of them. We're trapped. This is all going to end, right here, right now.

My mouth is dry, my knees shaking. I can see nothing but hazy shadows and flashes of light as I throw myself against Sparky, praying for a miracle.

Finally, I hear the sound of fabric tearing, and Sparky tumbles through the window with a yelp of shock. Garrett fires off several more rounds and jerks his head toward me, shouting, "Go, kid!"

"Are you coming?" I ask, terror in my voice as I edge away from the zombies.

"I won't make it through there, kid, and I've gotta hold them off! Go!"

"But—"

Garrett pulls something wrapped in paper out of his pocket and thrusts it into my hand. "Don't let that break! Now get out of here!"

His eyes are shining with angry tears, and as I place the object in my pocket, I feel my own eyes start to well up. "Gar, I—I can't—"

"Cory." Garrett stops firing and looks at me, the weight of a thousand years hanging in his gaze. "It's been a good run. Tell Sparky I love him. Go."

He musters a smile. "Please."

I can't stop myself. I lunge forward, clasping my arms around Garrett's shoulders, and he hugs me back as I whisper, "Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"Go pay it back, kid," Garrett breathes, and then I break away from him and throw my crutches through the window, sliding through with tear-blurred vision. My backpack brushes the top of the frame, but I make it through, tumbling downward. Concrete scrapes against my elbows as I land, hard, but I barely even feel it.

Sparky pulls me up, sees my face, and I know the moment the realization hits him. He runs back toward the window, screaming Garrett's name, the sound ricocheting off my heart and cracking it further every time. Tears streak the inside of my safety goggles as I prop myself up on my crutches, vaguely hearing Sparky's howl of anguish. The zombies are a blur of gray as they stream around the side of Bass Pro Shops, limping toward us faster than I've ever seen the undead move.

My focus sharpens, my foggy senses heighten. We have to go. Garrett didn't sacrifice himself only for us to be overwhelmed by grief and zombies.

So Sparky and I tear away into the broken streets, knowing nothing but that we have to get away from the undead. I can't focus on anything else now—Garrett's last request was for us to escape. There is no way I'm letting him down.

"Left here!" Sparky yells, and I almost fall over trying to make the turn. More of the undead burst out of an alley, almost cutting us off, but I swing away just in time. Sparky fires back at the zombies who have joined the chase, felling one of hundreds. How are we ever going to get away from these guys?

That's how it goes for a couple blocks: Sparky shouts directions to me, we make sharp turns, more zombies burst out of nowhere, stirred by our presence. Will this ever end?

Finally, it happens.

There's a vast brick building behind us, ancient and crumbling and blocking our escape. Zombies are marching down both sides of the street, groaning, shrieking, giving me a sensory overload.

Sparky looks at me with wide blue eyes, and I nod, slipping my backpack off and pulling my bow from my back. My hand shakes as I nock an arrow, the bowstring singing with tension, and I let it fly.

One zombie falls. One.

There is no way I have enough arrows, no way Sparky has enough bullets. Our only choice is to go down fighting.

"Gar said to tell you he loves you," I say as I nock another arrow, trembling so violently I'm not sure I'll be able to shoot.

"He said to tell you he was sorry," Sparky whispers, and I can feel him shaking too as we stand shoulder to shoulder, prepared to fight a battle we can't win. I close my eyes and breathe out a final, desperate prayer, begging God to comfort Coby when he realizes I'm gone.

But as I loose my arrow and the zombies close in, I hear it.

"Get away from him, you undead scum!"

And there he is, blasting his way through the wall of zombies with gun in hand, two other guys behind him. He's obliterating zombies by the second, carving a path through the sea of undead. He's scratched up and limping and looks like he's carrying the weight of the world.

Just like me.

Exactly like me.

Coby.

Some zombies flee. Most of them fall. I think I hit about two or three. All I can think about is the fact that Coby is here, and I'm not going to die without getting to say goodbye to him, and now everything is going to be okay.

As the last zombie limps away into the rain, I turn to my twin and immediately burst into tears.

Coby catches me as I drop my crutches and sink to my knees. He follows me to the ground, wrapping his arms around me as I start to sob into his shoulder. My fists bunch up the fabric of his tracksuit, and my tears are definitely soaking through it, but Coby doesn't care. He just sits there, rubbing my back gently, whispering, "Shh, Cory, it's okay. We're okay."

"I'm sorry, Cobes," I choke out, face still buried in Coby's shoulder. "I d-didn't mean to…it's—it's all my fault…w-we lost Gar and I should've…I should've done something…"

He has no idea what I'm talking about, I know that, but he doesn't need to. Coby can feel my heart breaking, and his cheek is warm against my temple as he murmurs, "It's not your fault, Cor. None of this is."

"But I—h-he told me to go and I—I just left…"

Coby traces circles on my back, saying, "You can't save everyone, Cory, you know that. But Garrett's okay now. I promise you that."

"How—" I start, then swallow against the lump in my throat. "H-how did you know his…his name?"

I feel my twin shrug. "Twin dreams are surprisingly informative. Got some kind of telepathy thing going for us."

My laugh is watery, broken, but it's there. Coby pulls back, and I see the relief shining in his gaze as he pulls off my helmet and safety goggles, exposing my muddy cap and probably reddened eyes. He cups my face in his hands, surveying it, taking in the scrapes, the dirt, the tear tracks, and then rests his forehead against mine.

"I was scared, Cor," Coby says, his voice cracking. "So afraid we wouldn't make it here. But we did, and everything's going to be okay."

I close my eyes, feeling my heart slow as the tension goes out of my body. I have to believe him. I have to believe that there is a better future for us.

"Promise?" I whisper, and I place a fisted hand on my heart.

Coby does the same, sealing his word.

"Promise."