Sara opened her mouth, and closed it. This was all a lot to process.

Kellerman, here, in front of her, in the midst of this eternal winter that had followed the apocalypse. Well, okay, she doubted the epidemic had an actual impact on the weather; but the winter felt eternal, after the contamination definitely put heating out of style, along with, you know. The rest of normal life.

Here was this man, Not-Lance, Not-An-Addict, with her inside a Walmart turned Ice Palace.

Him, him, of all the people in the world, when the rest of humanity was gone—

Except it isn't gone.

The implications of what he'd said finally speared through the shock, the horror, that the first living person she had encountered in the past two months was the only one she would have preferred to see dead.

"What?"

Kellerman shook his head. "I don't know how to break this to you. Did you really not see anyone this entire time?"

"I—"

Sara licked her lips. Suddenly, ridiculously embarrassed by what the apocalypse had looked like to her, what it might have looked like to Kellerman. She pictured him, hacking through walls of zombie flesh with a machete, and though it had to be an exaggeration, she'd just as soon not admit that, for the past two months, she had sat huddled in a storm cellar, buried in covers and blankets, hunting from the ample supply of canned foods littering the shelves. True, she had rationed the food, but only to be safe. Who could say whether she'd need to hide here two months or two whole years? The one resource she had really needed to ration were matches and candles, because when she ran out, she wouldn't be able to pass the time reading anymore—there had been a heap of books in the shelter.

The absurdity of it hit her as Kellerman stood there, staring at her.

A zombie-epidemic had ravaged the world, and she had spent it in relative comfort, eating canned foods and reading books.

Books.

Maybe when she was an old woman, she'd be able to laugh, telling her grandchildren that she had simply waited out the apocalypse. Just now, though, there was no room for humor in it.

"Two whole months?" Kellerman said. "And you didn't come across a single faction? No one tried to rip your head off over a can of tuna? You just—wandered the world, like it was all one big museum and no one was collecting tickets? No one is that lucky, Sara."

Her fists bruised deeper into her hips. Her fingers felt frozen, her mind numb and tickling, but she'd be damned if she let him see that. "I don't think I like your tone."

"If that's your number one issue with me, I'm sure we can work things out. Hey," he added, when she took another step backward. "I'm not joking around. The Dead may all be really dead now, it's the living you need to worry about. It's a jungle out there, Sara. Food, shelter, clothes, weapons. They're the only currency, the only thing in this new world worth a damn. Anything you have is something somebody wants, something somebody will kill you for."

"I thought—" she hated the shock in her voice, hated that she was learning this from him, that he was, again, in a position of power. "Eighty percent of people were contaminated. That's the last thing that made it to the news before the power went out. Then—"

"You assumed the Contaminated ate the twenty percent that was left?"

Sara didn't deny.

It had felt like a reasonable assumption, at the time.

He sighed, and no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't detect any condescension there. "That twenty percent didn't avoid contamination by sheer luck. Of course, something about the immune system must have played a part. But for most, it came down to who had the resources to protect themselves. The government tried to stay on top of things—that lasted about a week. Pretty soon, the military took over."

"You mean, staged a coup?"

Before 2021, she might have sounded more surprised.

"If you want to call it that. There wasn't much to overturn, at that point." He issued a wry sigh. "Suddenly, politicians didn't hold much sway against people with military training. Big dollars and diplomas became uninteresting commodities, pretty fast."

"Right. And of course, of all the handful of politicians who didn't die—"

He chuckled, like she had meant this as a joke. "I think we can agree we've both proven—adaptable, when it comes to survival."

Sara didn't say anything.

It was more diplomatic than to own up to the fact that, last week, she was debating whether to read Treasure Island for the third time or finally take a nibble at the Twilight saga.

"Anyway. They have what's left of power over the country—the military. They've organized into factions, and they're going from town to town, recruiting survivors."

"Recruiting?"

"Everyone alive is a potential resource. They don't give you a choice." His eyes narrowed, like it was important she got this part loud and clear. "When I say that consent is the last thing anyone cares about anymore, I mean that absolutely. As a doctor, I imagine you'd be a valuable asset. If anyone puts a gun to your head, you be sure to get that out before they pull the trigger." He cocked his head to the side. "I don't think you'd live comfortably if they got their hands on you. You sure as hell wouldn't be wandering the streets, doing whatever it is you're doing, whatever it is you want to do. But you'd live. Probably. I'm sorry, I'm just trying to make sure this is crystal clear. Out there, right now—it's not exactly kittens and unicorns."

"Wow, thank you. My whole life has been nothing but kittens and unicorns, so I'm sure this will be an awful shock to me."

He rolled his eyes.

Rolled his eyes.

Her teeth clenched so hard, she half expected to spit them out in pieces. "Let me ask you one thing. If the military is ruling over what's left of humanity, taking whatever they want, whoever they want, why aren't you with them?"

Kellerman looked genuinely puzzled.

"You'd be a resource, too," she said. "Hell, I'm surprised you're not commanding your own faction. Why aren't you enjoying your seat at the top of the food chain? That's something you're good at. Having power over people."

"Because," he said, as if explaining the basic of math equations to a first-grader, "I don't do that anymore."

She laughed. Christ. Even now, when there was no one to impress? Why bother with the act? It wasn't like she was likely to vote for him.

Eyes still grave, he added, "I prefer freedom."

"Right. Well, thanks for the heads up."

"Sara," he sounded cautious again. Maybe realizing the possibility of her walking out on him had not actually faded. "If you go out there, alone, they'll eat you alive. The military. The rest of the survivors. I need you to understand, that might happen on a literal level."

Two fingers pinched the bridge of his nose.

Like she was being so stupid.

He hadn't looked very different when he left her to drown in that bathtub.

"Are you so stubborn that you won't get it into your head how dangerous it is out there, just because it's coming from me? Are you going to get captured or killed just to spite me?"

Outrage scorched at her throat. "You give yourself way too much credit."

For a horrible second, she thought he would mention the interviews. The crusade she had launched against prisoner abuse in the past few months; but of course, he'd call it a crusade against him.

He didn't. And the anger and fear in his eyes looked genuine.

"For crying out loud, Sara. You're not in Kansas anymore. And you're not ready to meet the wizard, trust me."

"Trust you," she repeated.

Because, really? Really?

She studied Kellerman awhile, eyes probing him with ten thousand needles.

If things out there were really as dire as that, there was no doubt that he could help her get to Chicago; find Michael, if he was still alive.

Kellerman's skills would probably come in handy at some point or other, and the mere fact of having a companion—urgh—might be enough to dissuade possible attacks.

Just to picture it made her skin crawl. Campfires, keeping watch while the other slept, trading thoughts out loud because it was better than the silence; better than the darkness.

But why would Kellerman even do any of this?

"So, you just want to help me," she said, "out of the kindness of your heart?"

He groaned. If his frustration was an act, he deserved an Oscar. "Is it so hard to believe I don't want you to get enslaved, or eaten, or killed?"

Spider legs tickled at the base of her spine.

That's what it all came down to, wasn't it? Believing him. Trusting him.

A thought came in, like a knife plunging into hot dough.

What tells me even a shred of this is true?

What proof did she have that the world he had painted for her was not a fantasy, imagined on the spur of the moment precisely so he would feel useful to her?

Arguably, the one thing she knew for certain about Paul Kellerman was that he was a good liar.

Clamminess cloaked over her palms, and she resisted the urge to wipe them, hardened her fists until nails broke through her epidermis.

"You want to—what? Team up? Is that it."

A bar shot between the middle of his brows. "We're not about to play a game of tennis."

Up to a second ago, she had thought hell was standing in an empty Walmart, after a zombie apocalypse, with Paul Kellerman.

Now, she knew that it was the image of him in tennis shorts.

"I get you're not thrilled about it."

"Thrilled?"

Why did he make it so easy to repeat what he said?

"But desperate times call for uncomfortable measures—and sometimes, for less than ideal alliances."

Sara drew in a breath. How many times had she wanted to wash politics-speak out of her father's mouth? Had she really endured it for twenty-nine years to take it now from Kellerman?

"I'm not suggesting this as an act of kindness," he said. That brought down her defensiveness half an inch. At least, he wasn't taking her for an idiot. "The circumstances have changed. The world has changed, and we're back to whatever came before the social contract—man being a wolf to other men, and all that jazz."

The voice of caution whispered in her mind.

And he knows all about that, Sara. Being a wolf in sheep's disguise.

But his hands were still in the air, his face making a visible effort at transparency. "That's all I'm offering. Some sort of—of social contract. Between you and me. Not because it's my idea of a good time. But because all that matters now is survival, and being two instead of one doubles our odds of staying alive."

Her lips stretched into a thin line. "That's a bit of a stretch, considering we've both tried to kill each other."

To his credit, he maintained an air of seriousness. "We have no reason to get into that anymore."

"Speak for yourself."

"Let me rephrase. We both offer skills that would optimize our chances of not being killed, and not being captured. I don't know how you've managed to avoid either of those fates for so long. But it shows how good you still are at surviving against all odds."

"Don't flatter me, like I'm some potential voter—"

"I'm not. Just stating a fact. We're both good at surviving, alone." His brow brightened. Sara wondered if that was some of the energy he sparked into life at political rallies. "But together, we bring things to the table that could be a gamechanger. Just think about it. If I get hurt, I can't nurse myself back to health. I can't sew up a wound, I don't know much about avoiding infections. I can loot a pharmacy, but I don't know what to do with the drugs once I have them. And you—"

He licked his lips.

Geared toward diplomacy.

"You grew skills that would enable you to help people. Not harm them."

"I don't know about that. I did a pretty good job harming you."

He nodded, the considerate nod of a poker player acknowledging his opponent's mediocre hand.

"I don't mean this to come out disparaging. But if you come up against a faction, or even a lone survivor who wants the coat on your shoulders or the food in your backpack—you don't stand a chance."

She laughed.

Not because he wasn't just, again, stating a fact.

But because here it was again: this scarecrow, this boogeyman, factions and depraved survivors she had seen nothing of with her own two eyes.

What tells me they're not a distraction, Paul? That you're not just like the Wizard of Oz: not a shred of magic to you and liar to the heart?

She studied him, carefully.

Was the world out there truly a return to the jungle, to the absence of laws and civility?

Or was it all mirrors and smoke? All a magic trick.

She shook her head. "You can't really think this would work. You and me."

His jaw was set. "Your husband knew how to rely on people he hated, when the situation demanded it."

That he would even talk about Michael should have filled her with rage; instead, a block of salt sank down her throat.

If her husband was still alive—and he had to be—if Kellerman could help her get to where she needed to be…

No.

No, damn it.

She forced herself to think of how easily she had let this man into her home, all these years ago, after he brushed off the possibility of his being attracted to her. That was what she had feared, then, when Not-Lance was a man from her AA group. How simple life still was to her, then; and what a fool she'd made. She had been thrust into a new game but was still playing by the old rules, where the only men to be considered dangerous were those who might want to rape you.

Had the rules changed now? Or was he only playing the oldest card in the book?

Let me protect you. I'm such a nice guy, can't you see? It's a dangerous world out there. Not everyone is as nice as me.

Stomach acid rose to Sara's mouth. It tasted like the water from that bathtub in Gila, and just a little bit like blueberry pie.

If she trusted this man again, and he betrayed her again—what did that make her? Fool me once, sure, fool me twice, all right, but fool me three times? When does blame roll down onto the fool's shoulders? Could she take a chance on Kellerman now, would it be even more foolish to turn her back on him? After all, he could follow her. If it was really what he wanted, he could overpower her now.

Besides, what if he was telling the truth? How could she hope to get to Chicago without running into anyone hostile?

She cursed inwardly, her path back to Michael gleaming on the horizon like an elusive golden ticket. Did that ticket really come in the shape of Paul Kellerman?

Of all the men in the world.

Of all the apocalypses in the world.

Of all the tricksters and all the wizards—

All right, all right.

Arguably, Sara had spent too much time with books these past couple of months.

He eyed her, carefully. "It's not about us liking each other, or this being comfortable."

"You're asking me to trust you," she said.

"I'm asking you to use me." A glint in his eyes silenced her protestations. "And to let me use you. To trust that I won't kill you, not because I've proven reliable before, but because I would have no reason to do it now, when you can help me make it out of the old world alive. Because I think, together, Sara—we simply increase our chances of becoming part of the new one. And that's all I want, all that anyone wants. It's all that matters now."

Sara licked her lips.

In her head, she pictured the wink of a coin tossed into the air.

Head or tail?

To trust or not to trust.

Her thoughts collided into mayhem.

How does this end does he kill me do I kill him do we stay stuck do we both change do I let him?

"If you want me to leave, I'll leave," Kellerman said. A genuine truce? Or was he only sensing her hesitation, slithering into the crevices? "We go our separate ways. That's also an option. Not our best one—but it's your decision. You have the power here."

Sara let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

Did she?

There was no time for her to make up her mind before a crack sounded at the entrance of the store. The revolving doors being smashed open. Shoes grinding glass on the floor.

Sara's heart clenched, her arms dropped down her sides like they'd been dipped in tar.

Someone was here.

It was time to meet the wizard.