Author: Angela Scott
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Zombies; Horror; Westerns; Paranormal; Romance; Fiction; Fantasy; Young Adult; Historical Fiction; Historical
Description: Trace Monroe doesn’t believe in luck. He never has. But when a fiery-headed cowgirl saunters through the saloon doors, wielding shotguns and a know-how for killing the living dead, he believes he just may be the luckiest man alive. Trace wants to join "Red’s" posse, but she prefers to work alone—less messy that way. In order to become her traveling companion, Trace has to agree to her terms: no names, no questions, and if he gets bit, he can’t beg for mercy when she severs his brain stem. He agrees, knowing only that Red is the sharpest shooter he’s ever encountered. The fact she’s stunning ha
Publisher: Evolved Publishing

WANTED: DEAD OR UNDEAD

(The Zombie West Series – Book 1)

By Angela Scott

www.EvolvedPub.com

Copyright © 2012 Angela Scott

Cover Art Copyright © 2012 Staci Perkins and Mallory Rock

~~~~~~~~~~

Edited by Melissa Sawatsky and Lane Diamond

eBook License Notes:

You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

Dedication:

For Diana,

For forcing me to take Grand Canyon-like leaps, and
refusing to let me do anything less.

Table of Contents

Prologue – The Night Knew No Difference

Chapter 1 – Marked

Chapter 2 – Related to Zombies

Chapter 3 – Zombies Hate Snow

Chapter 4 – Bacon and Eggs

Chapter 5 – The Makings of a Posse

Chapter 6 – Lavender

Chapter 7 – KilKenny Cats

Chapter 8 – Miniature Rises and Valleys

Chapter 9 – Uglies and Nutters

Chapter 10 – Lonely Boys

Chapter 11 – Trapped with a Madman

Chapter 12 – Milk and Honey

Chapter 13 – Can a Woman Forget Her Suckling Child?

Chapter 14 – The Right Thing

Chapter 15 – Damned

Chapter 16 – Others

Chapter 17 – Wanted

Chapter 18 – Family

Chapter 19 – Hand Gestures

Chapter 20 – Wild Card

Chapter 21 – Sticky

Chapter 22 – Love You Forever

Chapter 23 – Butterflies and Bats

Chapter 24 – Don't Let Go

Chapter 25 – Snowmen and Swords

Chapter 26 – Not Like You

Chapter 27 – Hewn Down

Chapter 28 – A Line of Concern

Chapter 29 – The Truth

Chapter 30 – Dangerous

About the Author

Coming Soon: Desert Flower

Also From Angela Scott

More from Evolved Publishing

Prologue – The Night Knew No Difference

Elisabeth walked the path to the streambed with precise, careful steps. The moon provided enough light to go by as she navigated the familiar brush and rocks. She held a metal pail in one hand, and her father's pistol, pointed toward the ground, in the other.

At the end of the path, she placed the gun on a small boulder and knelt to dip the bucket into the stream. Frigid water trickled over her fingers as she clung to the handle, waiting for it to fill. She struggled to her feet on the muddy bank, weighed down by the heavy bucket, but she found her footing and stood in the slippery mess.

"Elisabeth!"

She stopped moving and the bucket slapped against her thigh, soaking her dress. Tortured sounds came from the direction of the cabin—screams and cries intertwined—and wrapped their frozen fingers around her.

"Elisabeth!"

She threw the bucket down, grabbed the gun, and ran toward the sound of her brothers' squeals. Sharp rocks tore at her bare feet as she leapt over fallen trunks, clutching the pistol in her white-knuckled grasp.

The deer carcass her father had hung in the barn could have brought a mountain lion or wolves to the premises, but most likely, the smoke from the chimney had attracted unwanted attention from the Natives in the area. Attacks were common. The Smiths on the other side of the hill had been burned out of their cabin just a few months before.

Elisabeth cleared the trees and scanned the grounds around her home. Nothing—no Natives, no animals—only the swirl of smoke that escaped the chimney and the yellow, flickering glow of firelight that illuminated the windows. Silence blanketed the cabin and surrounding woods, which frightened her more than the sound of her brothers' screams and cries. She stood, gun raised, panting heavily as her fingers trembled on the trigger.

"Ma?" She took a hesitant step forward. "Pa?"

No answer.

"Peter? William?"

She half expected her brothers to come running through the open door and tackle her about the waist, but they didn't. Instead, she heard the sound of a wooden chair being dragged across the floorboards. Furniture tumbled. Dishes crashed. A shadow crossed in front of the window.

Elisabeth cocked the gun and pointed it toward the sky, afraid of accidentally shooting her mother or brothers in a panic. She lifted her foot and placed it on the bottom step.

"You a'right?" She softly placed one foot in front of the other on the weather-beaten boards until she reached the landing. "Ma?"

The door stood open a crack, but not enough to see inside. As she stepped forward to push the door wide, a sticky wetness seeped between her toes. Blood oozed over the threshold onto the porch and Elisabeth stood squarely in the middle of it. She opened her mouth to scream, but clasped her free hand over it and allowed only whimpers to escape through the spaces between her fingers.

She plowed through the door and wielded the gun like the sharpshooter her father had trained her to be. He would have been proud to witness his daughter's steady hand wrapped around the Remington revolver, if he weren't looking down the barrel of it instead. His cloudy eyes stared up at her as he knelt over the dismembered, gutted body of her mother. No sound crossed over Elisabeth's lips, though her mind exploded with terror and her knees threatened to buckle.

She didn't doubt her pa's guilt for a second. Blood drenched him, dripping from his hands, face, and mouth. He threw his head back and grunted, displeased by the interruption. The inhuman sound forced her to take a step back. That man was not her pa. He was hardly a man at all. He reminded her of a wild animal in the forest, feasting on fallen prey. Her mother? Fallen prey?

"Pa?" The word choked her. She couldn't breathe. On crooked limbs, he worked his way to a crouching position, cocked his head to the side, and pinned his gaze on her. He stood and dragged himself forward—one step, then another.

"Pa, no!" Tears wet her cheeks. The man who had hugged his family just hours earlier, who swung each of the boys around until they fell laughing and dizzy on the ground, had vanished. He had called her li'l girl, even though she was no longer little. The hideous monster that slowly lugged itself toward her had replaced the man she knew and loved.

"Please, Pa, don't!"

He snapped his head from side to side and roared a guttural response. Her mother's blood fell from his tongue and lips, splattering the floor at his feet. He reached his arm forward, and Elisabeth didn't hesitate—she wound her finger around the trigger and pulled.

The bullet ripped through his shoulder and his arm fell limp at his side. If anything, the injury stunned him, but didn't alter his progression. He continued his slow, agonizing path toward her. She fired again. The bullet penetrated his right eye and went clear on through, lodging itself in the wall behind him. His knees bowed and he wobbled briefly before collapsing in a broken mess on the wooden floor.

She continued to hold the gun in her hands, but squeezed her eyes shut. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. Her shoulders shook as sobs ripped through her chest and heart. Now she turned to throw her head back and yell into the night, to release the pain and fear that threatened to destroy her.

The sound of whimpering from the loft caused her eyes to fly open. She'd forgotten about the boys.

"Peter! William!" She stepped over her father's broken body and refused to look at her mother's remains as she moved past. "It's okay," she called to them. They must be terrified, hiding in the loft above her. "It's okay now. Everything's gonna be a'right. Come on down."

"Beth?"

She released a sob from her constricted throat upon hearing the sound of her brother's voice. "Peter!" She climbed up the bottom rungs of the ladder. "It's okay now. No one's gonna hurt you."

He poked his blond head over the edge of the loft and peered down at her. "I don't feel so good, Beth." Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. "Pa bit me."

Elisabeth climbed the remaining rungs to reach her brother. He sat on his haunches, rocking in pain. He leaned to the side and retched dark blood onto the floor.

"It hurts!" He removed his arms from around his belly, exposing a gaping hole beneath his bloodied nightshirt.

She grabbed the closest thing she could find—his discarded jacket—and balled it up before pressing it into his abdomen. Why is this happening? It doesn't make sense.

"It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be fine." She looked around the loft, panicked. "Where's William?"

Peter shook his head and nodded toward the shadows. "Willie's sick, too."

She crawled on her hands and knees toward the huddled figure in the corner. "William, you okay? You hurt?" She held her hand out toward her frightened brother. "I know you're scared, but it's a'right now. It's a'right."

The ten-year-old boy lunged forward, leaving her mere seconds to pull her hand back to escape his snapping jaws. He wore the same crazed expression she'd seen on her pa's face.

She fell backwards and scooted away from him, but William sprang forward again and gripped her ankle. He opened his mouth, ready to clamp down, but she kicked at him with her other foot until he released his hold. Once free, she pushed past Peter and climbed part way down the ladder before jumping off and landing on the floor below.

"Peter!" she yelled up at him. "Jump down to me! Come on! Jump!" The sick little boy, still pressing the increasingly bloodied jacket to his stomach, launched himself over the side and Elisabeth caught him.

"Don't look!" she told him, and Peter pushed his face into her shoulder to avoid the gruesome scene of their parents' deaths.

She carried him out the door and ran toward the barn with Peter wrapped firmly around her torso. He dug his fingers into her shoulders, while his tiny body shook and grew hotter by the moment. His warm blood seeped through her dress. She didn't have much time. God, help me! she silently prayed. I can't do this on my own.

The town was ten miles away, and she would have to hitch up the wagon in order to get her brother to help safely—balancing him on a horse would be near impossible—but it would take too much precious time. Time she didn't have.

"It's okay, Peter. Just hang in there."

He let out a low, throaty hum and she quickened her pace. If she didn't hurry, she would lose him, too.

Elisabeth struggled to hold onto her brother while fumbling with the wooden latch that held the barn door closed. As she shifted his weight to her hip, his sharp baby teeth clamped down on her tender flesh and a searing pain engulfed her shoulder. He shook his head like a dog refusing to release its bone.

She cried out, begging him to stop. Agonizing pain radiated down the length of her arm and her fingers splayed to the point of near breaking. She grabbed the back of his head and tugged at his hair in an attempt to pull him off, but his strength rivaled that of a full grown man.

She spun around and slammed his body against the barn door, trying to knock him off with force. He clung to her with greater resolve and tightened his fingers around her upper arms. When she slammed her brother's body into the barn door for a second time, it splintered and flew open, but the boy seemed unaffected. She wound her left hand around Peter's twisted face, pushed her fingers into his eye sockets, and began to pry him off her. He screamed out briefly, but his vice-like jaws clamped onto her shoulder once more and she lost all feeling in her arm.

She stumbled into the barn, searching for anything she could use to strike him. A burning pain flowed through her veins and stiffened her joints and muscles, shortening her steps. Her eyes began to blur, and she blinked in an effort to restore her vision. Her mouth dried up, as though her body was reabsorbing itself, and her stomach growled and rolled.

Without warning, Peter's head snapped upright. He cried out as his body went rigid, and his grip on her arm slackened. He slipped from her body and sunk to the earth at her feet, crying as his arms and legs jutted out and retracted.

She couldn't see him clearly, but heard everything—his moans, his cries, the sound of him choking to death. She stumbled backward, clutching her useless arm to ease her own pain. When her brother lay still, Elisabeth fell to her knees and looked heavenward.

Crickets chirped in rhythm and an owl hooted its warning off in the distance. The night knew no difference.

Chapter 1 – Marked

Trace cast a downward glance at the five cards in his hand—two queens, a pair of deuces, and a five of spades that did him no good. The old bugger who sat on the opposite side of the table chewed the end of his unlit cigar while he kept his good eye fixed on Trace—a dusty eye patch covered the other. Trace could tell he was bluffing.

"I raise." He slid a stack of coins into the middle of the table and increased the pot by an additional hundred dollars, fifty dollars more than the other man's bet. The old gambler arched a wrinkled brow as he reviewed his own hand once again. Trace remained neutral and waited for the old timer to decide whether to match Trace's bet or fold.

The gambler added another fifty dollars to the growing pile and took two new cards from the dealer. Trace watched the old man's face as he studied his cards, and was rewarded with a quick twitch of the jaw line—a sure sign the old man had nothing. Trace held onto his pair of queens, threw away the other three cards, and nodded to the dealer, who gave him three cards off the top of the deck.

Trace slipped them into his hand without looking. "I'm in."

The old man placed his cards face down on the table and spit a chunk of cigar on the floor. "You sure you want to do that, son?" He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his protruding belly. The butt of his pistol stuck out of the holster at his side.

Trace had seen many gamblers make the same move and it didn't faze him. "I said I was in."

The gambler chortled under his breath. "I see your mama raised a foolish child. Ain't she proud?"

Trace kept his expression blank and didn't say a word.

The old man tossed a few more bills on the pile and topped it off with a gold pocket watch. "Lay 'em down, boy."

Trace trained his eyes on the gambler and turned each card over in succession—queen, queen, three of hearts, queen, queen. He didn't need to look down to know what they were.

The old man stood and directed his colt peacemaker at Trace's chest, toppling his chair in the process. "You're cheatin'!"

The dealer stepped back from the table, and several men in the vicinity cleared out of the way. An awkward hush fell over the room in anticipation of gun fire.

"No, sir, not a cheater. Just lucky today, is all."

The gambler pulled back the hammer on his pistol. "You feel lucky now?"

Before Trace could reply, the saloon doors slammed open against the wooden walls and rattled on their hinges. Everyone's attention turned toward the creature that dragged itself forward on stiff legs, drooling blood. Its milky eyes scanned the room before it threw back its head, raised its arms, and growled toward the ceiling.

"That's Bill Johnson!" Miss Krissee called from the balcony above. She pulled a Derringer pistol from the garter encircling her leg and aimed it over the railing.

Trace looked up at Miss Krissee; dark ringlets fell over her bare shoulders and her lips were the color of cherries. Rumor had it nearly all the men in town had visited her at least once, though few admitted to it. Indeed, she was quite a looker, but Trace disregarded women who shared their wares so easily.

"Someone should go fetch the doc." A cowboy at the bar made the suggestion, but no one moved to do so.

"It's too late for that." Miss Krissee shook her head. "He's already dead. Just look at him."

Sunken features, decaying flesh and teeth that ground and snapped against themselves—Bill was dead all right. Sure, he walked around grunting, but that was only a technicality.

Zombie Bill lunged at the man closest to the door, ripped a chunk of flesh from the screaming man's neck, and howled as warm blood gurgled between his teeth.

"He's got it a'right!" someone yelled.

Beer bottles and whisky jugs exploded from ill-aimed bullets. Wood chips showered down from the rafters and the air filled with the metallic smell of gun smoke. Trace fired a shot or two of his own, but decided his best option was to find some sort of shelter—drunks made horrible shooters. He pushed the poker table over on its side and hunkered down behind it. It was better than nothing.

The old poker player crouched beside him. "Don't go thinking we're through just 'cause a zombie walked in here and stopped me from killing you."

Trace shook his head. "No, sir, I figured we were just having ourselves an intermission." He aimed his gun over the top of the table and watched Zombie Bill continue forward, his body riddled with bullet holes. The dead man wouldn't die.

"God, help us!" Slap Jack yelled from his safe position behind the bar. The bartender pointed his pistol at the zombie, his hands shaking from old age. Even in the best of circumstances, Slap Jack's aim proved dangerous, and Trace became more thankful for the thick wooden table every minute.

The saloon doors swung open once more and the apparition of a fiery angel wielding a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun appeared in the door frame. Her hair glowed in the evening sun, and the smoky room accentuated her ethereal presence. She took a couple of steps inside, spurs clinking against the wooden planks, and anchored two shells to the back of the zombie's skull. Once emptied, she tossed the shotgun aside, removed two pistols from the holsters on her hips, and fired them as well.

Where Bill's head used to be, nothing but fleshy, pink pulp on a broken stem remained. Mangled, he continued to stand on crooked legs, until the red-haired cowgirl lifted her boot and gave him a swift kick in the back. The zombie wobbled and tumbled over, more dead than it had been moments before.

"He bit me!" The poor man Bill had attacked withered on the floor, his hand pressed over his oozing neck and his eyes wild with fear. "He bit me!"

The angel with flaming red hair reloaded, aimed, and shot that man dead as well.

"What did you go and do that fer?" a cowboy protested. "We might've been able to save him."

Trace sneered at the cowboy. That dead man would have crunched his jaws on some poor sap in a matter of hours, and spread the disease even further.

"What a shame," Hank mumbled from his place at the end of the bar. He'd watched the earlier commotion while perched on the same stool, finishing his liquor. "Thought we had the town protected." He swooned on the stool, nearly falling over, but caught himself. "Ya know, even with all them wooden fences we staked around the outskirts"—hiccup—"guess we're not as immune to the plague as we thought, are we boys?"

"Hank's got a point," Slap Jack said, putting his pistol back under the bar. "Anyone can walk into town feeling pretty healthy and fit, not knowing the virus is destroying their internal organs. Unless we strip everyone from head to toe, we'll never be certain. We need a better plan."

Trace barely listened to the conversation around him as he focused on the red-haired girl. Something about her rang familiar, but he couldn't quite place how he knew her. She sauntered past the dead bodies and through the crowd of inebriated cowboys. For a passing moment, she locked her eyes on him with a blank stare. He couldn't turn away. Even if he couldn't quite place her in his mind, he was instinctually drawn to her, and he always trusted his gut. It had never steered him wrong before. Well, not when it counted, anyway.

The girl propped her foot up on the brass railing that ran the bottom length of the bar, and slammed down several coins on the counter. "Pour me an Old Grand Daddy."

If the men's jaws hadn't been hanging before, they surely were now. She was putting on a show, but he smirked a little at her sass, regardless.

"Girlie, you sure you ain't wanting a glass of milk instead? Maybe some cookies?" The men roared with laughter at Slap Jack's joke, a dig at her youth.

Trace didn't laugh. He'd been on the receiving end of a few such jokes himself and didn't find it funny, especially since she'd succeeded in killing a zombie when no one else could.

The girl reached across the bar, took hold of the old man's shirt, and pressed the barrel of her pistol under his chin. "Pour my order."

The men hushed.

She couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen, but held her gun in a way that showed she'd mastered the weapon. No doubt she'd fire it if pushed.

Slap Jack raised his hands. "A'right, a'right. Jus' havin' a bit o' fun."

While she waited for the old man to pour her drink, she turned to face her audience and rested her elbows on the bar behind her. "I can tell ya right now, there's no point in havin' a plan. The disease is spreading across the country faster and wider than you can imagine. The whole town of Smithfield—gone. Men, women, and children. The place is a ghost town now, except for a few walkers. And, if y'all recall, they'd put up fences, too."

A few men shook their heads at her. "That ain't true," one man countered. "I's jus' there last month and the place was running like normal."

"A lot can happen in a month." She turned her back on them once more.

"Then what's it you suggest we do?" Hank put his bottle down long enough to pose the question. "We can't just sit here and do nothin'."

The girl raised her glass and tossed it back. She let her breath out slowly, as though dealing with a bunch of idiots. Trace continued to be amused by her confident demeanor.

"One more." She set her empty glass down on the bar. "Well, for one thing, I suggest y'all keep a loaded gun on ya at all times, even while sleeping and taking a piss, and make sure to aim for the head—a bullet in the gut ain't gonna do a thing. And second... well, there ain't no second thing. Keep a gun handy. That's about all ya can do."

The men grumbled.

"She don't know nothin'," said a large man wearing buckskin pants, a coon cap, and a beard that hung part way down his chest. He looked directly at the girl. "Ain't that right? You know nothin'. I bet that zombie was your first kill. You jus' got lucky, huh, li'l girl?"

Trace saw her clutch the empty shot glass and waited for her to aim it at the ignorant man's head, but she did no such thing. She kept calm and approached the man with an air of utter confidence, staring him straight in the eye.

"How many you killed?"

"Zombies?"

She nodded.

"I've killed a handful or so."

"Five?" She raised her brow.

He looked at the cowboy to his left and then back at her. "I reckon so. Maybe more."

"So, shall we say six? Or should we give you the benefit of the doubt and say seven? Better yet, let's round it up to an even dozen. That sound fair?"

The man nodded in agreement, but Trace could sense a trap.

"Let's not even count that man over there." She pointed to Bill's victim, lying dead near the entrance. "He wasn't a full-blown zombie, yet. We all know he would've been, but for the sake of argument, we'll let that one slide. So, your friend Bill there makes ninety-and-nine for me."

She removed a small, pearl-handled dagger from its sleeve and carved a quick notch in her belt, which was riddled with tiny holes.

Trace had no quarrel believing her. Everything about the wild-haired girl rang authentic, from her dust-covered chaps to her weather-beaten hat. She could've exaggerated, but he didn't think so. Of all the zombies walking North America, he'd killed exactly... zero. His belt looked as polished as ever.

The mountain man threw his head back and laughed. "A pretty li'l thing like you? Killing all them zombies?" He lowered his head and peered at her with a sinister expression on his face. "I don't believe you."

"Never said you had to."

He clasped her forearm with his grimy hand and pulled her firmly to his chest, his weathered face only inches from hers.

Trace stood, ready to step in if necessary.

She yanked her arm back and smashed the palm of her hand into the man's pudgy nose. The crack of the break echoed through the room and silenced the already stunned group of men. She sent an elbow into the man's chin, to make a final point.

"Damn, girl!" The mountain man held his nose as blood trickled down his beard.

"Hey, mister," Miss Krissee called down from the railing above. She leaned her arms against the railing and her large chest nearly tumbled out of her corset. "You wantin' to get frisky? Do it with someone who won't put up a fight. It'll only cost ya three dollars."

A few men chuckled, but the red-haired girl didn't look the least bit amused. She finished her drink and headed for the door. Before stepping outside, she turned to no one in particular. "Make sure you burn the bodies. If you don't, the smell will just about kill ya."

As Trace watched her walk through the swinging doors, it dawned on him how he knew her. Damn. He couldn't just stand there and watch the girl disappear. He took a step forward, but the old gambler grabbed his arm.

"You forgettin' we're not through here?"

Trace felt a wave of disappointment as he watched the girl swing herself up on her horse and head for the town's borders. "Didn't forget," he lied. "Just hoped after such a crazy moment, I would've found you in a more forgiving mood."

"I'm not too keen on forgivin'." The old man placed his hand on the butt of his gun. "You're a cheater."

"I would have to disagree." Trace slid his hands over his own pistols. "I played a fair game. The cards just happened to be in my favor. You wouldn't want to shoot an innocent man, now would you?"

The old man narrowed his gaze, but didn't remove his hand from the gun. Trace flicked his eyes toward the girl now riding off across the desert plains.

"How about this then. Another game. High card." Trace motioned to the scattered bills and coins on the saloon floor. "One card. That's all. Or do we take this argument outside?" He swept aside his jacket to reveal the Schofield holstered and ready on his hip. "What do you say?"

Trace didn't want to kill him—that hadn't been a part of his plan—but if he must, he could lodge a bullet in that man's skull before the old man pulled his gun out of the holster.

"A'right then." The old gambler cleared his throat. "But I pick the deck of cards."

"Of course."

The old man picked up a deck from a nearby table and Trace helped him right their own. He fanned the cards across the top and invited the old man to pick a card. He pulled one from the middle and slapped it face up on the table. A queen of spades.

Nice card, Trace thought. Tough to beat. With an eight in fifty-one chance of pulling a higher card, he took a moment to hold his hands over the cards as if the right one would send an invisible vibration up through his fingers. He picked up a card, held it briefly from the sight of the others, and placed it on the table for all to see.

A six of spades.

A man standing behind Trace slapped him on the back. "Nice try, kid."

He tipped his hat at the old gambler. "Appears it wasn't my lucky day after all."

He smiled and walked out of the saloon alive. He could have won, but chose not to. It would've only invited more trouble, and he didn't have time for trouble. Of course, the old man didn't know—no one knew, in fact—that Trace had marked every card in the saloon.

He hated leaving such a large pot behind, but something about that red-haired girl made him believe he hadn't lost entirely.

Chapter 2 – Related to Zombies

The small fire spit red-hot embers into the darkened sky. They cracked and snapped in the night like a miniature fireworks show. She placed another log on the fire and swung the metal hook holding the small pot over the heat. It wasn't much—beans again—but it would do for now. She'd hoped to restock her supplies in the last town, but with all the zombie commotion and that jackass of a man calling her a liar, it was more prudent to get out of there and make do.

She leaned forward and stirred the steaming beans before she removed the pot from the hook, and settled back on her bedroll to eat her meager meal. The bushes rustled and she flipped onto her belly, pulling both of her Quickdraws from their holsters.

"Hold up! Don't shoot!" A man revealed himself with hands raised as he led a buckskin quarter horse into the clearing. He looked familiar, but whether that was a good thing or not, she couldn't quite recall.

"Stop right there! That's plenty far enough." She refused to lower her guns until she placed him.

He did as she asked and kept his distance. "Ma'am, I mean you no harm."

"That's what most outlaws say before they stick a knife in your side and rob you."

He shook his head. "I swear, ma'am, I ain't no outlaw."

"And your word is as good as what?"

"When you put it that way, I guess it ain't worth much, but I promise my intentions are pure. I'd just like to share your fire, is all. I hoped you'd oblige me with your hospitality."

She pulled back the hammers. "No one's that polite without a reason. What d'ya want?"

"Nothing." He raised his arms a smidge higher. "Honest. I can toss you my guns if you like. You can hold on to them for safe keeping, if it'll make you feel better."

"I suggest you leave your hands where I can see them. If you so much as make a move to reach for your gun, I'll shoot ya."

"Then I'm not reaching, even if I feel a scratch comin' on."

She didn't like this cowboy. His humor made her even more cautious. "What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"My arms are gettin' pretty tired. Mind if I put them down now?"

"Lower 'em and I'll shoot."

His horse stomped at the ground and reared its head. Her own Red Dun fidgeted in response and snorted at the newcomers.

"You didn't answer my question," she continued. "Why you here?"

"I guess the honest answer would be that I'm here looking for you."

She stood, but kept the barrels of her guns trained on him. "Why?"

"Actually, I'm not exactly sure myself. I saw you kill those zombies in the bar back in Sundance and was impressed. I was heading this way and thought you might like some company. If not, I'll move on. But I swear, ma'am, I'm not here to hurt you. That's not the kind of man I am."

She raised her brows. "What kind of man are you?"

"Well, right now, I'm a bit of a terrified one." He cleared his throat and nodded to her guns. "I'm also a hungry one. Your fire looks mighty invitin'."

"It's not. This here's a private fire."

"Must get awful lonely out here on your own."

The fire crackled in the silence, as she considered his assumption. "I'm used to it."

"Just one night. I'll leave at the crack of dawn, I promise." He nodded toward the toppled bowl of beans in the dirt beside her. "I have a skinned rabbit. Nothin' better than rabbit cooked over an open flame."

She loved rabbit.

"Hell, my arms are tired. Shoot me if you want." He dropped them to his side.

Her fingers ached to pull the trigger, but something stopped her from following through. It would be foolish to let this stranger come near her. Very foolish.

"You bit?" It was a perfectly reasonable question.

He narrowed his eyes, apparently unsure of her meaning, and then realization dawned across his face. "Nope. I'm not bit. Completely infection free."

"Show me your arms."

He unbuttoned one shirtsleeve and rolled it up. She motioned for him to come closer, but held up her hand when he stood two arm lengths away. No bite marks.

"Other one."

He rolled up the other sleeve as well. Again, no sign of teeth marks.

If he'd been bitten, the sweats and shaking would be evident by now—a good three-hour ride from Sundance.

"Okay. I get half the rabbit."

He smiled. "Sure thing." Once she holstered her guns, he moved in and reached out his hand. "My name is—"

"No! No names. I don't care who you are."

"Fair enough." He slipped the dead rabbit from his pack. "But I'm partial to names, so I guess I'll have to come up with one for you."

"I wish you—"

"Red. I'll just call you Red. You know, for all that hair."

She didn't like him much at all. Red—how original. She should've just shot him and avoided the trouble. Maybe it wasn't too late to change her mind. His horse carried several bulging supply bags that looked mighty fine.

She sat back on her bedroll and kept her eyes trained on him as he skewered the rabbit and placed it over the fire. He didn't look all that dangerous. She could take him in a gunfight. Her stomach growled and she clasped her hands over it.

"Where you from?" He stoked the fire with more kindling and looked up at her.

"Does it matter?"

He took the black Stetson off his head and placed it on the ground. "I guess it doesn't. Just thought it'd be a good conversation starter."

"I'm not one for talking."

"I gather."

"The rabbit almost done?"

He glanced at her and smiled. "If you like it still kickin'."

She could smell the fatty drippings as they fell on the burning embers below. It reminded her of home, of how her older brother Davis used to set up snares for them. He was quite the hunter, almost as good as her pa. Her mother would create various meals from the meat—stews, soups, and fried rabbit with homemade biscuits and sauce.

"When's the last time you ate?"

"What?" His question pulled her back into the present.

"Ate? When did you last eat?"

"Well, I was just about to before you showed up."

"No, before that. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here."

She slapped her hands over her belly and tried to settle her noisy gut. "Not that it's any of your business, but yesterday morning. I had a cup of coffee and some bread."

"Jeez, Red, you should really try to pack some more meat on that tiny frame. Winter's comin', you know."

"Thanks for the advice, Cowboy. I'll be sure to take it into consideration the next time someone scares the bowl of beans out of my hands."

He held a rabbit leg out to her. "Here. You look like you can't wait any longer."

"I can wait."

"Come on. Ladies first."

She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head. "Who said I was a lady?"

He lifted the rabbit leg to his mouth and took a bite. "You trying to prove you're tougher than me? Because I've already figured that out."

He ripped off another leg and held it out to her. "Go on, eat the darn thing."

What was she trying to prove? She didn't even know herself. She snatched the rabbit leg and proceeded to pick the bones clean. She even snapped them in half and sucked the marrow. Apparently, starvation had turned her from a civilized person into an animal, but she didn't need to impress him.

"You related to zombies or something?" He smiled from the other side of the flickering flames and watched her eat. "I mean, the way you're attacking that rabbit, it makes me wonder."

She threw down the bones, pulled out her gun, and aimed it at his head. "Git out of here! I don't want you here no more!"

"Hey, now." He held his hands up, still clutching his portion of the rabbit meat. "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. You eat as fast as you need to, okay?"

By the look on his face, her reaction genuinely surprised him. He brought his hands down and proceeded to eat once more, as if he knew full well she wouldn't shoot. She holstered the gun and sat down, angry as a bobcat. Why couldn't she bring herself to kill this guy?

"I'm gonna eat your rabbit, but I don't wanna talk to you no more."

He nodded. "Sounds fair. Besides, every time I open my mouth you're real quick to want to put a bullet through it."

This cowboy annoyed her to no end, but he presented no real threat. He was too soft and polite to be a true frontiersman, yet not rugged enough to be a bandit or an outlaw. A city boy, most likely. If he wanted to hurt her and steal her belongings, he would've done it already and kept the rabbit to himself.

She watched him for any signs of ulterior motives, but every time he caught her staring, he'd flash a stupid grin. Yeah, she could take him if it came to that. It didn't matter how many times he turned his lips up in an asinine smile. If he made one wrong move, she'd lodge a bullet in his skull so fast he'd be standing at the pearly gates, scratching his head, wondering what the hell happened.

Chapter 3 – Zombies Hate Snow

Trace watched her while she slept on her side with one arm tucked under her head. She looked rather peaceful, pleasant even, except for the pistol clutched in her hand. He actually found her quite attractive, but he'd never do anything ungentlemanly. He had other plans, and pushing himself upon her romantically wouldn't get him to his ultimate goal—the reward.

He couldn't be positive that Red was the girl in the faded photograph on the wanted poster, but his gut insisted she was. He couldn't drag her back to Sundance at this point. He'd get them both strung up if he did that. Nope, he'd have to get her to the next town and collect his hefty reward there.

Until then, he'd have to play it cool. He could always tie her up, but hell, she kind of scared him. Bounty hunters did crazy stuff like hog-tying people, or clonking them on the head, but that wasn't his thing. Breaking a pony with kindness yielded much better results than whipping the beast into submission. And Red didn't look like the submissive type at all.

She tossed and turned in her sleep, and her restlessness made him nervous. He wished she'd just settle already. More than anything, he wished her finger didn't seem so homey on that trigger. He placed more wood on the fire to keep himself warm and to deter curious animals from investigating their camp.

Trace looked up at the stars. He usually avoided sleeping out in the open—towns with small hotel rooms were much more his style—but if the girl found the rock-hard ground good enough to sleep on, then he wouldn't complain.

Red adjusted in her sleep, moaning as she found a more comfortable position, but never once let go of her gun. Trace held his breath the entire time she moved; it would be difficult to dodge a sleeping girl's bullet. He'd told her he'd leave at first light, but the longer he sat there watching her, the more he wanted to stay. It would be easier to keep an eye on her that way.

"What're you looking at?"

He hadn't noticed her open eyes staring back at him. "Nothin', ma'am. Just tired, I guess. My mind's drifting."

Red stretched her hands over her head and yawned, still clasping the pistol. "I'll take over the watch now."

"You sure? If you're still tired, I can watch for another hour or so." He preferred to stay awake, aware of the fact that he couldn't have been the only one to take note of the weathered wanted poster. Surely others would put two and two together. Then again, Sundance didn't host the brightest bunch of men.

"If your mind's drifting off, then that'll do neither of us any good, now will it?" She eyed him with an unreadable expression.

"What do you do out here all on your own? How do you sleep?"

Red pushed the coals around with a stick and brought the fire back to a blaze. "I don't. Not really, anyway."

"Maybe you'd feel better staying in town instead of way out here on your own. You'd get better sleep." Trace pulled off his worn boots and sat them next to his hat. "I can't say enough about a comfortable bed and the next town should have plenty. I'd be glad to put you up in a hotel for a good night's rest." He'd do it, too. Right before he handed her over to the sheriff.

"I never stay in town. They're too noisy with too many people. The more people there are, the higher the chance that one of them is infected." She gazed up at the clear night sky full of twinkling stars, and then looked him square in the eye. "My only threat out here happens to be you."

"You're wrong, Red. I'm no threat. I promise you that." He slipped inside his bedroll and turned on his side to face her. "I haven't given you any reason not to trust me. I told you my intentions were honest."

She pondered that for a moment, which he took as a good sign. "I don't plan on liking you, Cowboy. So don't even try to win me over."

Obviously, he still had a lot of work to do, but he enjoyed a good challenge. "I'm sorry to hear that. It's part of my nature to be friendly. I'll do my best to be more rotten if you like."

He settled back in his bedroll as her blank expression broke into a partial grin. She looked downright pretty when she smiled—a beautiful outlaw.

***

Trace woke to the smell of coffee brewing. Red was also cooking some sliced potatoes and the remainder of the rabbit meat over the fire.

"I hope you don't mind, but I helped myself to some of your supplies. Aside from some stale biscuits, I didn't have much to offer you from my own stash."

His breath caught at the idea of her rummaging through his things. If she'd found the folded-up wanted poster, he'd be dead right about now.

"No, I don't mind." Trace sat up and stretched. His back ached and he couldn't quite work out the painful kink in his neck. "It smells good."

First light had come and gone. If Red had wanted him to leave, she could have woken him up at sunrise and sent him on his way.

"After breakfast, we go our separate ways," she said, as if reading his mind. "I travel alone."

He was a fool to think it would have been so easy. Trace nodded, slipped from his bedroll, and turned his boots over to make sure nothing had crawled into them during the night. Thankfully, they were empty.

"How long until breakfast is ready?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes, I reckon."

"Plenty of time for me to clean up a little, then?"

Red shrugged.

Trace put the bedroll away and pulled out a shaving kit. He balanced the small, cracked mirror in the crook of a tree and set up his shaving station. He much preferred to get his shaves in town, but for now he would have to do it himself. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of Red watching him as he used the straight-edge razor.

"My father used to have one of those."

He turned to look at her, his face still half-covered in white foam. "Where is your father?"

"He's dead." Red stared into the pan as she stirred the contents around.

Trace set his razor aside. "I'm sure sorry to hear that."

He waited for a moment, wondering if she'd say anything more. When she didn't, he went back to shaving, but continued to steal glances at her in the mirror.

"Where's your family?"

An opening. She wouldn't have asked if she didn't want to know. He reminded himself to take baby steps.

Trace wiped the remaining foam from his face with a small towel, left his shaving supplies where they were, and sat down next to her. "I never had much of a family. My parents died of cholera when I was a kid, and I grew up in an orphanage in Illinois. I took off at fourteen, and I've been on my own ever since. How about you? Where's the rest of your family?"

"I don't like to talk about that." Red shook her head and fixed her green eyes on him.

The sullen look he read in her features saddened him, but at the same time it provided evidence of the vulnerability he'd been looking for. "I understand. So if it's not to your family, then where are you headed?"

"I have an older brother who joined the Cavalry during a zombie uprising a couple years back. I hope to track him down, but so far I haven't had much luck." She swallowed hard. "More than likely, he's dead. I've heard stories."

Trace had heard those same stories. Zombies were harmless in small numbers; bullets and swords held back their ravenous desire to eat human flesh. But zombie mobs were entirely different. Several Cavalry units still fought, trying to gain some kind of hold on the epidemic, but the zombie population grew every day.

"Yeah, I'll never forget reading President Garfield's address in the paper: You're on your own and good luck." Red's brother had probably died a long time ago, but Trace would never say that to her. "What are you gonna do once you find him?"

She shrugged. "Head north, I guess. I heard cool weather really slows the zombies down. They don't like snow."

"I guess I shouldn't head to California then, unless I plan to live in the high Sierras, huh?"

Again, she shrugged. "I don't know if it's true or not." She plated up the grub and handed one to him.

"Well, it sounds plausible to me. I'd place a bet on it."

She looked up and caught his eye, but said nothing.

He ate the last of his breakfast, but chose to prolong the inevitable by pouring himself another cup of black coffee. He liked it with a little milk, but milk was a rarity these days. Zombies ate anything that moved—horse, cow, sheep, dog. Fortunately, the animals never "turned." They either died immediately or shortly afterwards from their injuries. Everyone knew that a bitten animal was a tainted animal. No one ate the meat, no matter how close to starvation. That meat smelled different.

"Thank you for your hospitality." Trace held his hand out to her. "Breakfast was wonderful, but I found your company even more so."

He expected her to aim her gun at him once more, but it sat safely in its holster at her waist. That had to mean something.

"I best be off." He gathered up his things and rearranged them in his pack. He'd never gain her trust if he didn't stick to his word, so he'd just circle around and follow her from a safe distance.

"Here." He handed her a burlap bag full of various edible items. "Take this to tide you over until you can get more supplies."

She made no move to take it. Man, she's stubborn.

"Suit yourself." He laid the sack on the ground. "I'm leaving it here in case you change your mind. Sure would be a waste to leave perfectly good food behind." He placed his foot in the stirrup, swung himself up on his horse, and tipped his hat at her. "Thanks again."

He gave his horse a gentle kick in the ribs and left Red to stare after him.

Chapter 4 – Bacon and Eggs

Darkness had fallen and Red felt on edge. Even though she sat high in the saddle, she couldn't see far into the distance, so her other senses had to compensate. She listened for footsteps, the sound of a breaking branch, or the unmistakable smell of a zombie—rotting fish dipped in outhouse waste, with a hint of syrupy sweetness.

Cowboy had actually smelled rather nice. She noticed that about him right away. Most men had a good month's worth of filth and body odor working against them, but he obviously took great pride in his cleanliness if he made time to shave even at camp. She sniffed her own armpits and recoiled at the stench. She wouldn't go so far as to say she stunk like a zombie, but close enough. Maybe in the next town she'd use her small amount of money to buy herself a bath—a warm one in a big ol' tub with bubbles. No frigid river baths this time.

"Hey, Classy," she whispered to her horse, "looks like we'll be sleeping out here tonight."

It was late and she'd been riding for miles. Junipers and pines stood scattered randomly about, but she'd hoped to find a ridge line of some sort. It was safer and more practical to sleep on a hill or mountainside than on the open plains. The infected didn't climb very well, but they often walked the flatlands.

Red pulled back on the reins and slowed her horse. "You're a good girl, yes you are." She rubbed Classy's neck. "Thanks for carrying me all this way."

She dismounted, tied a rope between two trees, and attached the horse to it, making sure Classy had plenty of brush and grass to nibble on.

She hadn't taken a break for a meal since breakfast, aside from a short rest along a river for her horse to take a drink. She started a fire, and small swirls of smoke rose up through the thin branches above. Although moving on would have been preferable, her rumbling stomach demanded attention.  She stopped and listened for any unnatural sounds, but only an occasional coyote baying in the distance broke the silence.

The bag of food Cowboy had left for her hung from her saddle horn.  She hadn't wanted to take it, but like he'd said, it would've been wasteful to leave it behind. She untied the small rope that cinched the bag closed and stared at the contents in wonder—dried fruit, jerky, sausage, a slab of bacon, some flatbread, three whole potatoes, several handfuls of red and white beans, two eggs that somehow hadn't busted open, and an onion. If the food wasn't enough to make her feel rotten for being unkind to the man, the small stack of rolled bills nestled in the middle certainly did.

She sighed and chose not to wallow over it. Nothing could be done about it now, and the bacon begged to be fried. She pulled a skillet from her supplies and warmed it over the fire. Hardly able to contain herself, she cooked up half the bacon and used the fat to fry an egg as well. It was the best meal she'd had in a long time, not counting the rabbit.

She'd just finished eating when Classy neighed loudly and yanked her head against the tether, straining for freedom. If the horse hadn't been tied up, she would have bolted.

"What is it, girl?"

Classy's behavior could only mean one thing. Red gripped her guns. When the thick smell of decay assailed her nose, she jumped to her feet. There was no mistaking that smell, but the darkness made it impossible to know how many zombies approached her camp.

She trained her guns on the sound of movement to her left, listening and waiting. Given the minimal noise, only one or two zombies approached, at most. Manageable.

Classy was having a fit, but zombies always went for the humans first. They only turned to animals when their appetites left them no other option. By saving herself, Red would ultimately save her horse.

A decrepit, rotting corpse dragged itself into her line of sight. She took stock: right arm missing, left ankle broken with bones protruding from the skin, eyes cloudy, and facial and rib bones quite visible. She couldn't tell its gender, but it appeared to have gone without sustenance for quite some time. More than likely, it had laid itself out on the plains and withered away while waiting for some unlucky soul to wander by. Unfortunately for the zombie, Red wasn't unlucky.

She raised her gun and put one bullet through the forehead, another through the neck. She liked it that way: the first shot for the kill, the second for certainty. Quick and easy. The zombie crumpled into a heap and lay there unmoving while she continued to listen. Silence, except for nature's peaceful sounds. Still, Red waited a few seconds more before lowering her guns and putting them in her holsters.

She gathered her items, repacked everything, and retied Classy to a tree a little farther from the camp. She slipped some nice, good quality gloves on. They were three weeks old—three weeks! A new record. She sighed as she moved her fingers around inside the firm leather, and even raised the gloves to her nose. They still smelled new. Well, she knew how she'd use part of her new-found wealth. This would make pair number seventy-six.

Red had disposed of dead zombies often enough to know that putting it off only made matters worse. She grabbed the corpse by the feet—broken ankle and all—and dragged it to the fire pit. Zombies, especially the more decayed ones, weighed little more than a child. Most of the time, she could manage on her own.

She'd once gunned down a recently turned, overweight zombie priest. His weight had played to her disadvantage; one look and she knew the zombie wasn't going anywhere. Instead, she built a fire around him in the middle of Main Street. She didn't like to make a show of it—tried to give the zombies a little respect in their official deaths—but the fat priest had given her no choice. The townsfolk watched the grizzly cremation as if it were some circus show, but Red refused to take part in that kind of gawking. She'd mounted her horse and left the townsfolk to clean up the remains.

This zombie, however, had very little muscle mass, and Red easily maneuvered the body into position next to the fire. She gathered more brush and branches to bring the fire to a nice roar, rolled the dead zombie on top of it, and watched until the body blazed.

"Rest in peace." She sighed. If she were ever turned, she hoped someone would have the decency to do the same for her.

***

Trace kept a safe distance and followed Red along a parallel path, just north of her own. He lost sight of her a few times and it made him nervous, but it couldn't be helped. As they progressed, trees occasionally obscured his view, or mighty river crossings demanded all his attention, but once she returned to his line of vision, he settled into a comfortable rhythm.

When she set up camp for the night, he did the same about a mile away. He wanted to build a fire—the chill air cut deep—but she'd likely spot it, and would probably kill him before he could reveal his identity. He spread his bedroll under a couple of scrawny trees for cover, and kept his lantern burning low.

The sound of gunfire echoed over the distance, one right after another, and he scrambled to his feet with a pistol clutched in his hand. He ran toward her, jumping over sage brush and rocks while the moonlight illuminated his way. The gunshots had most likely been fired by her, but he prepared himself for anything.

Not even halfway to her camp, the rot attacked his nostrils. As she bent over and dragged the dead zombie toward her fire, Trace pulled back, slowed his gait, and spun his head around to check for any sign of additional walkers in the area. Zombies rarely wandered this far out in the middle of nowhere—bandits and outlaws would have seemed more likely.

Still, though cloaked in darkness, he was easy prey and probably in more danger than she was.

Damn. Not a sound broke the night, other than the crackle of fire that licked at the zombie body and sent up a plume of putrid smoke. He took a few quiet steps backward, then turned around and started back for his camp on the ridge.

Chapter 5 – The Makings of a Posse

Red surveyed the small valley below from her position on the rise. A dozen or so wagons parked in a circular formation, but there appeared to be no signs of life. A good thing, in some ways, as no movement meant they wouldn't have any walkers to contend with. Even so, the disheartening silence raised a few goosebumps on her arms.

There should have been a number of people down there—men, women, and children—cooking food, watering animals, playing stick games, taking a rest from many days of travel on their way out west. Normalcy.

But nothing about the situation below appeared normal. No people. No animals. No sound.

She sighed and slumped down a little lower in her saddle. The caravan appeared abandoned, but Red couldn't fathom the idea of that many people walking away and leaving all their possessions behind. Things should have appeared more hopeful heading west, but the silent wagons below cut deep into that hope.

The sound of a quick, low whistle from behind brought her upright. She turned with her guns ready, and let out an aggravated sigh.

It was him—Cowboy. What's with this guy?

She debated whether or not to put her guns away. He had supplied her with enough fresh food to sustain her over the past day and a half. Still, annoyance crept in and she had a mind to shoot him for following her.

He raised his hand with a wave of sorts, before trotting his horse up beside her. "I thought I'd give you a warning, so you didn't shoot me accidentally."

"If I shot you, it wouldn't be accidental." She slipped the guns back into her holsters."What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." He removed his hat, ran his hands through his dark locks, and smiled. "I figured you'd be long gone by now. Are ya stalking me or something?"

She huffed. What a piece of work. "You're the one who came up on me, not the other way around."

He winked at her and placed his hat back on his head. "What's going on down there?" He motioned to the scene below.

She shook her head. "Sadly, not a thing."

He scanned the area for a moment. "Where do you think they all went?"

"Everything looks the same as they would have left it." She pointed toward the wagons. "See the clothes hung out to dry, the fire pit in the middle, untouched supplies? Every wagon looks to be intact as well. If it were Indians, it wouldn't look this tidy."

"Zombies?"

"Nothing else makes sense."

"A whole wagon train, turned?" He shook his head. "There'd be bodies lying around, you know? People shooting each other, trying to survive."

Red shrugged. "It's the strangest thing I've ever seen."

"Should we go down and check it—"

"Did you see that?" A flicker of movement from inside one of the wagons, the third one from the left, caught her attention. She swore the wagon shifted from side to side.

"What? I don't see—"

"There. That wagon." She pointed, but when Cowboy followed the line of her finger, the wagon stopped moving. "I'm positive I saw it move. Just give it a second."

"I don't know, it looks pretty dead down there, pardon my expression."

She kept her eyes on the wagon, but it didn't move. Maybe it was the wind? The air hung around them, calm and still, not even a hint of a breeze.

"You don't think the wagons are full of sleeping zombies, do you?" The smirk on his face told her that he wasn't serious.

What an idiot. "Of course not. If there were zombies down there, they would've smelled us by now and clamored over one another to feed on us."

"Then let's go check it out. What're we waiting for?"

"That." Red nodded in the direction of the moving wagon once again.

Someone moved around down there. The perplexed look on Cowboy's face gave her great satisfaction.

"You need to trust me more." She feared that, at some point, Cowboy would get the two of them killed.

He tipped his hat at her. "You're right. From now on, I will."

"What do you mean, 'from now on?' We're not traveling companions."

Before Cowboy could respond, a young man jumped out of the end of the moving wagon, threw a bag over his shoulder, and took a few steps into the middle of the ring. Red's horse neighed, alerting him to their presence, and he quickly dove behind a wagon for shelter, pistol drawn.

"You sick?" His voice echoed from the valley below.

Cowboy raised his arms in surrender, or perhaps in an act of peace. Red trained her own gun on the stranger, establishing equality between both parties. She'd put her hands up for no one.

"Nope!" Cowboy yelled down. "We're clean. You?"

"I'm clean. No bites."

"You alone?" Red yelled. With so many covered wagons, anything was possible.

"It's just me. That's all. Everyone—gone. I needed supplies."

"Can you both put the guns away so we can come down and check things out, too? We could use supplies as well." Cowboy made the negotiations, but Red didn't intend to put her gun away unless the man she trained it on put his down first.

"Yes, yes. Come down! There's plenty!" He put his gun in his holster, stepped out into the open, apparently trusting she wouldn't shoot, and waved them forward.

Cowboy turned to her and smiled. "A new friend. Ain't that nice?" He urged his horse to descend the hill and headed into the valley ahead of her.

Red didn't like it one bit. Cowboy was too eager and trusting. She couldn't help but wonder if they were setting themselves up for an ambush.

"Come on." Cowboy gestured for her to follow him. "If he wanted to kill us, he would have shot me by now, don't ya think? You know, get the man out of the way and keep the pretty girl as a plaything?"

Boy, I really want to shoot him. If she needed a friend, maybe she could swap him out for the Asian man waiting for them below. "You think you're funny, don't you?"

"I'm not?"

Smug, son of a—nope, she wouldn't go there. He wasn't worth her energy. She would get away from him as soon as possible.

"Your humor's gonna get you killed, you know."

Cowboy shrugged. "Sounds like a mighty fine way to go, if you ask me."

"Well, when your humor puts a bullet in your hind end, I'd like to be as far away from you as possible."

He laughed. "Come on. The guy looks harmless. Besides, it's getting late and I can't think of a better place to set up camp for the night. There's bound to be some pretty nice bedding in some of those wagons. Just think about sleeping up off the ground—wouldn't that be a nice change?"

She didn't respond, but guided her horse to follow close behind his. Although she holstered her gun, her left hand perched on top.

Cowboy climbed off his horse and approached the man with his hand outstretched, full of city boy manners. "Anything of use?"

The other man smiled and clasped Cowboy's hand in between both of his own and shook it eagerly while he nodded his head. "It's very strange." The man swung his arm around, indicating the campsite. "It looks as though they were here one minute and then vanished the next. Food, supplies—they left it all behind."

"What do you think happened?" Cowboy took off his hat and held it in his hands as he scanned the dozen or so abandoned wagons.

Red climbed down from her horse and stood a few steps behind him, listening to the conversation. She remained cautious and kept her eyes and ears open. Someone had to.

The man shook his head. "Not sure. But whatever it was, it couldn't have been good." He looked them both over. "You guys come from the east?"

Cowboy nodded.

"How is it back there?"

"Not good. The disease is spreading like wildfire. That's why we're"—he glanced at Red, but she just glared at him—"I'm heading west."

The man squatted and held his head in his hands. "But there are survivors, right?" He looked up at them, his almond-shaped eyes pleading.

Cowboy shot a warning glance to Red, and then nodded. "I'm sure there are."

The zombie-to-human ratio on the East Coast was now roughly two-to-one, perhaps more. The plague thrived where a higher concentration of people congregated, the reason so many folk headed westward, loading up wagons in hopes of outrunning the plague.

The man stood up again, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "My sister and her husband live back east, and I had hoped the situation was better there." He sighed again, appearing to come to terms with the news. "It's not good, is it?"

"No," Red said. Cowboy cast an incredulous look her way, but she couldn't give the man a false sense of hope and ultimately send him to his death. "It's not good at all. It's getting worse every day, actually. Those who survived the initial outbreak left a long time ago. No choice, really. If your sister and her family are alive, they're not back east anymore, I can promise you that."

The man crumpled onto the packed dirt, not crying, not doing much of anything. He needed a moment.

Cowboy attempted to change the focus and lighten the mood. "What about California? How's the situation there?"

The man looked up at them and shook his head. "Not good there either, though better than the east, it sounds. There are a few camps in the mountains for the unaffected. A few in Oregon, too, but they're dwindling fast. There used to be several hundred set up. Now, I think there may only be a dozen or so. They're quite selective too, careful about who they let in. Depends on who's in charge."

"What do you mean 'who they let in'?" It seemed easy enough to Red. "Anyone who's unaffected should be let in, right?"

The man smirked. "They wouldn't let me in. Apparently, I'm too 'yellow.' The Indians are finding it just as difficult. The blacks, too. It depends on which camp you go to. But after being turned away from four camps, I got the picture." He shook his head. "I'm on my own, but you should both be allowed in."

Cowboy reached down to help the man to his feet. "It doesn't sound like a place I'd much like to be myself, I can tell you that. This sure as hell isn't the time for that nonsense. It's the living against the non-living—that's all."

"I appreciate that," the man said. "But it doesn't change a thing."

Red released a frustrated sigh. "There have to be other camps. Maybe farther north, in Canada?"

"Yeah, maybe." He shrugged. "Up until now, my plan was to find my sister. Not sure what I'm going to do at this point."

"Not sure what I'm doing myself," Cowboy said. "Maybe we should just stick together until we figure it out. Safety in numbers, you know."

Red didn't like the sound of that—putting together a posse. She tried to avoid this kind of thing.

"My name's Wen," he said before Red had a chance to stop him.

Her breath caught in her throat. She would have been content to call him "the man" until she left in the morning. Now she knew his name. Wen. It made a difference.

"I'm Cowboy." She found it interesting that he used his nickname. "This here's Red."

Wen laughed. "Seriously? You look more like a city fella to me. Your ma must've had some sense of humor."

"She should've called him Jackass." Red smiled. "I know I would've."

"Seems more fittin'." Wen tipped his head back and smiled.

Grateful for the change in his demeanor, she couldn't help but smile back. She and this stranger now had something in common—a shared joke at Cowboy's expense.

"Hey, wait right there." Cowboy turned to Red. "Really? You think I'm a jackass?"

She shrugged and tried to ignore the fact that he seemed hurt by her comment. "Don't push me, or I'll start calling you Jackass right now."

Cowboy pointed at her with a serious expression on his face, though Red could hardly take it as such. "That's it," he said. "You can't have any more of my potatoes."

Chapter 6 – Lavender

Cowboy ignored Red for the remainder of the evening. He didn't talk to her, or look at her. When he finished cooking dinner, Cowboy slid some potatoes and meat onto a plate for Wen, but didn't offer any to her. Fine. The angrier he became with her, the better. Maybe he'd go his separate way and leave her alone for good.

She nibbled at some hard tack and potatoes of her own—well, technically they were his too—and listened as Cowboy questioned the stranger about the land out west and what might lay ahead for them. Red stood, gathered her empty dishes, and went off to clean them. The trio had found darn near everything they could hope for in the abandoned wagons—tubs for washing, wooden barrels full of water, clothes, bags of beans and rice, and lots of flour and cornmeal.

Yet no matter how useful it all was, a horse could carry only so much. The less weight Classy had to carry, the longer she could travel, and the sooner Red would reach California and find her brother, Davis. She had no problem leaving behind perfectly good supplies to ensure a well-rested, fast horse.

As the blood-red sun dipped below the western horizon, she left the men and climbed into a wagon she hadn't searched earlier. She found plenty of food and a couple of clean shirts, but what she most longed for was a nice bar of lye soap to wash her hands and face. She sighed. Soap. Such a small thing.

She opened a chest near the front of the wagon and searched through the contents, mostly dresses and children's clothing, nothing of use to her. Then she brushed her hand over a large, leather-bound book. A family Bible.

She lifted it out of the chest and placed it on her lap, turning the pages and reading the scrawled names of strangers: Joseph W. Bell, Martha Jane Williams, their children Samuel, Ella, James, and Mary. Dates detailed births, deaths, and weddings—decades of family genealogy. Further on in the Bible, portraits of people had been inserted between the pages. Red looked at one after another, sad to know that these particular people were gone.

Her fingers brushed over the picture of a young boy dressed in knickers held up by brown suspenders. A school pail dangled from his fingers. The laugh in his eyes and the tuft of blond hair poking out from under his cap reminded her of her youngest brother. She held up the picture and examined it more closely. For a moment, it brought the image of her brother back to her, which she feared she'd forgotten. A tear threatened to escape the corner of her eye, but she wiped it away before it had the chance.

She shoved the pictures into the book, just the way she'd found them, and placed the book back inside the chest. She didn't need a Bible. She needed soap.

Red moved onto a second wagon. She only stayed inside for a moment—the baby clothes, toys and dolls proved too difficult to rifle through. She left each small item where it had last been placed.

The children bothered her most. They turned faster than grown adults, the feverish sickness ravaging their tiny bodies so quickly that their whole makeup changed in a matter of minutes. They were also faster and hungrier than their adult counterparts. Every time she had to shoot a child, it tore at her heart. They would find peace only in death, but that didn't make it any easier. She hated it above all else.

The third wagon looked more promising. A soft mattress with a large comforter covered the floor of the wagon, and Red claimed it for herself. Cowboy would be jealous, but it served him right. She searched through the contents of the wagon for anything of use and found a small suitcase buried beneath wool blankets and loose clothing. She opened it and sunk down onto the thick bed with a smile.

Soap.

She lifted the paper-wrapped package to her nose, and closed her eyes while breathing in the flowery fragrance. She actually moaned with pleasure at the scent of lavender—the best thing she'd smelled in months. The suitcase also contained a hairbrush, comb, and other toiletries and ointments. She pulled out a tube of cherry-red lipstick and twisted the bottom until the color surfaced from its metal encasing. Proper ladies didn't wear stain on their lips. Her ma never did and probably would've slapped the lipstick from her hand had she been there.

Red turned her head and listened through the canvas covering the wagon. The men continued to talk outside, seemingly unconcerned about her whereabouts, so she tipped the tube toward her mouth and rubbed it lightly over her lips—first the top and then the bottom. She smacked her lips together and was amazed at how heavy it felt. Feeling self-conscious, she drew the back of her hand over her mouth and removed the color, then rolled the lipstick back inside its tube and tossed it out the front opening of the covered wagon.

Red couldn't wait to wash the grime and filth out of her hair and off her body, so she climbed out and went in search of water. She found a small metal tub and filled it with cool water from one of the barrels. She considered warming it up over the fire, but didn't want to interrupt the male bonding still taking place next to the pit. Besides, she'd bathed in water far colder than that found in the barrels.

Cowboy glanced up at her as she passed by, but he didn't say anything, so she ignored him.

Inside the wagon, she wriggled out of her clothes and sat in her dingy undergarments. She'd been thrilled to find a replacement pair during her earlier search, and couldn't wait to put them on after she cleaned herself. She might have offered up a prayer of gratitude for having come across these abandoned wagons, if she still believed in God.

With the sun descending in the sky, she lit a small lantern and placed it on a crate out of the way. She unwrapped the soap, dipped it into the water, lathered up her hands and ran it over her body, washing her arms and neck. The wagon began to smell like tiny purple flowers—it reminded her of the hills behind her home.

She didn't want to think about that. Not any of it. Nothing good came from remembering what she'd lost.

She hung her head over the washbasin and vigorously scrubbed her curls, weaving her fingers between the strands to remove the accumulated tangles and dirt. She felt almost human after ridding herself of the weeks of travel and grit that coated her body.

Done bathing, she tossed the water outside, put on the clean undergarments and a fresh shirt, and climbed under the blankets. She double-checked to make sure both of her Colts were loaded and within reach, and kept her vest-pocket pistol next to her pillow. The guns must be handy and ready, always.

Even though Cowboy and Wen planned to take the first watch of the night, she found it difficult to close her eyes and fall asleep. For Red, surrendering to sleep without worry or fear had died with her family.

When she finally shut her eyes, horrific images played out behind her closed lids, as they did every night. Someone's mother, father, son or daughter murdered by her hand. They weren't to blame for contracting an illness that destroyed their bodies and minds. At one time, they held their loved ones close and hoped for a better future, just like those fortunate enough not to be infected. She couldn't forget that. She wouldn't. Even if others did.

The worst images were those of the people she'd loved most, turned into something she no longer recognized, a creature she had to kill so the person she loved could find eternal rest. And, ultimately, so she could survive.

Red opened her eyes and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall down her cheeks.

***

Trace had found it almost amusing to sit by and watch Red prepare her own dinner over the fire after he refused to plate any of his meal for her. He'd intentionally turned his body away, angling to keep her on the outskirts of his conversation with Wen. If she thought he was a jackass, he may as well behave like one. She hadn't played nice either and had it coming.

Trace almost buckled when he watched her struggle to carry the water-filled tub to the wagon. He fought the instinct to jump up and help—something a non-jackass would do—but he held back and let her handle it on her own. The invisible tally board had him ahead by two.

Wen added another kink in the chain of uncertainties, but he decided to extract as much information from him as he could. He said very little and allowed Wen to talk all he wanted, prodding him with a question now and again. Sometimes that was all a person needed—a chance to talk and be heard.

"I didn't realize things were so bad on the East Coast. I kinda hoped the plague was localized and the rest of the country was unaffected. Guess it was a good thing I ran into you both." Wen poked the fire with a stick and stirred up the embers.

Trace nodded. "I guess so. Good thing we met."

He began to think it might be beneficial to align himself with Wen and create camaraderie of sorts to keep the girl safe. Two men watching over one stubborn woman just might work. Perhaps he'd even split the reward with him as well.

While they talked, Trace cast his gaze toward the covered wagon Red occupied. The lantern inside the wagon illuminated her silhouette through the cream-colored canvas, and he watched her remove her clothing, run her hands through her hair, and lift and lower her arms as she washed them. She'd be horrified to know he was witnessing her bathing waltz.

Wen had his back to her and didn't notice anything. Fortunate, since Trace couldn't help his distracted stares.

When she extinguished the lantern, casting the wagon into darkness, he wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed. A bit of both.

"...ghost towns. You'll find a lot of those between here and the California border. People are packing up and heading for safer ground."

Trace only picked up part of what Wen said, but nodded his head anyway. "Safer ground? Where?" He'd not found safer ground anywhere.

Wen shook his head. "Just a figure of speech. There's no such place. People want hope, and if they think they'll find it in Canada or Mexico, well, they've got to try. I mean, if you heard Southeast Asia was infection free, you'd sell your left arm to catch a boat ride there, right? I know I would."

He was probably right. Up until recently, Trace hadn't realized how dire the situation actually was. The walking dead, the invisible plague, people eating other people—he'd heard about it and seen a few zombie killings, but he'd otherwise been living his life as usual. Apparently, residents of the Midwest didn't have a clue about how bad things were on the coasts, or that the plague was making its way to the middle of the country at such a rapid pace.

"You know what, though?" Wen went on. "Even the rich are finding it difficult to escape the sickness. Money doesn't buy what it used to."

Trace glanced toward Red's wagon again. He wondered what the devaluation of money meant for him, and for the girl. Just then, a shrill of terror echoed through the silent camp. Both men jumped to their feet, guns drawn and eyes wide, scanning the camp for signs of an intrusion. The surrounding darkness made it difficult to see, but Trace was sure the cries had come from Red's wagon. He darted in that direction with Wen close behind, compelled by an instinct to protect her.

Trace threw back the canvas flap, and the yellow glow from Wen's lantern revealed Red's wild, terrified eyes. No intruder, just a scared girl staring back at them with a look of such panic and fear that his determination to keep her at bay dissolved. Red scooted to the far corner of the wagon and hid her face, out of fright or embarrassment.

The two men glanced at one another, uncertain and awkward, unsure of what to do.

"Go away." Her cries softened into painful whimpers. "Just go away."

"What's wrong?" Wen asked. "You hurt?"

"No. I'm fine. Please leave me alone."

Her shoulders trembled, and she took quick intakes of breath, which proved she was anything but all right. Trace couldn't leave her in this state.

He looked over at Wen. "Why don't you go back to keeping an eye out? I'm going to sit with Red for a minute."

Wen gave him a thoughtful nod before disappearing with the lantern, leaving them shrouded in darkness.

"Mind if I come in?" Trace made no move to enter the wagon without her permission. He wanted to comfort her, but she slept with guns, and he didn't want to get shot in the head for his effort.

"I'm okay." Her entire body shook and gave away the lie. "Please just go. I'm fine. Really."

"You're not fine. Can I come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

He pulled the canvas flap to the side and climbed into the wagon. "You didn't say no."

"I'm saying no now." Red swallowed, her face hidden behind damp curls. She looked so young and vulnerable, nothing like the tough, mouthy girl he'd come to know. She did have a soft side after all.

He smiled and shook his head in defiance. "It's a little too late. I'm already inside." He knelt down and reached out to brush his thumb over her wet cheek, wiping away a trail of tears. Definitely soft.

For some reason, this act had the opposite effect than he intended; it made her cry even more, and he questioned whether or not he'd done the right thing by touching her. The more she tried to pull herself together, the more tears fell, and crying women always left him confused and at a loss. Should he hug 'em? Leave 'em alone?

"Hey." He decided on the former, pulled her toward him, and held her. "It's okay. Cry all you want."

He expected her to push him away, and he would've let go had she done so, but she didn't. Instead, she folded her body into his and buried her face in his neck, her warm tears wetting his skin. It surprised him, but he didn't mind. Not at all.

She smelled real nice, too. Like flowers. He didn't mention this, figuring it wasn't the time for compliments. Even so, he couldn't help but lower his face into her hair and audibly breathe the scent in. He hadn't smelled lavender in a long time, and it smelled amazing on her.

Her tears slowed in their progression, and she relaxed her body against his. When she tried to free herself from his hold, he refused to let go. "No. You need this."

She wove her arms around his waist and wet his neck with her tears once again. He couldn't help but wonder what caused her to cry like this. A nightmare couldn't have caused so many tears. There must be something else, but this wasn't the time to ask.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

After he answered, Trace realized she wasn't apologizing to him.

Chapter 7 –  KilKenny Cats

The early morning light filtered through the holes in the canvas covering the wagon. Red knew she should climb from the warmth of her bed and join the men outside. They needed to prepare breakfast, pack their things, and start pressing onward. Nonetheless, she couldn't find the will to extract herself from the comfort of the down-filled blanket that enveloped her.

Someone pulled back the canvas flap, and she assumed Cowboy had come to check on her once more. He'd kept tabs on her throughout the night and insisted she didn't need to take a turn keeping watch. After last night, she decided to be more tolerant of him. She had no idea what to think about it, and hoped he didn't read too much into the way she behaved.

Yet, as the canvas flap opened, her anticipation betrayed a truth she fought hard to ignore; she liked him. And she hadn't liked anyone in a very long time.

Red sat up, but her smile quickly faded when the partial visage of a woman peered in at her. The zombie's lips and gums pulled to one side and revealed the grotesque, viscous inner workings of its jaw and flickering tongue. It thrashed its arms in a mad attempt to grab her and growled in annoyance at its failure.

A rapid succession of gunfire blasted through the morning air. The booms echoed and bounced off the valley walls, sending her senses whirling. The men outside shouted and cussed, but the zombie continued to stand in the opening, unharmed and unaffected. It worked its angled body over the edge of the wagon, one boney limb at a time. The shots were not directed at this zombie, which meant there was more than one in the camp.

She rolled onto her side, grabbed her Colts, and sent two bullets into its skull as its fleshless hand clamped down on her ankle. She didn't have time to recover before a second walker appeared, pulled at the canvas, and tore a portion of it from the frame. She fired two more bullets at its head. The contents exploded over the interior of the wagon, splattering her with bloody brain matter, undoing the effort of her bath the previous night. A string of unladylike curses ran across her lips as she wiped the nastiness from her face.

Red pushed one dead body aside and shoved the other onto the ground, as she swung herself over the tail end and crouched between two wagons to survey the situation. A dozen or more zombies maneuvered their rotted, mangled bodies between the wagons or crawled beneath the wagon beds. Several more lay dead, their heads shot clear through by Wen's and Cowboy's precise bullets. The men held their own, firing rifles as quickly and accurately as possible. Zombies fell, but more ambled into the camp to take their place.

Red slipped easily into the middle, firing her pistols, but she needed her shotgun and more ammunition to continue the fight. She took down two walkers as she moved toward her pile of supplies. She reached it just in time to throw down her empty pistols and pick up her sawed-off shotgun. Aim. Finger the trigger. Fire. Turn to the left. Repeat. In an instant, she took out the ones that posed the greatest threat, the ones too close for her liking.

The zombies kept on coming, undeterred by their fallen comrades. They clambered over one another and stepped on the dead as they pushed their way between the wagons. Gunfire came from behind, and she hoped Cowboy and Wen held their own. She had more than enough zombies to contend with. When the shotgun clicked empty, she grabbed her rifle and kept on firing, making each bullet count. She couldn't waste a single one.

Red lost track of how many bullets she'd fired, until the dreaded click of an empty chamber. She knelt on the ground, with an eye on the approaching mob, and slipped her hand inside one of her saddlebags in a frantic search for more ammunition, but came up empty.

Damn it.

She searched the other saddlebag, and though the cool metal cartridges graced her fingertips, she had to let them go. The zombies fell upon her. Swinging the rifle above her head, she slammed the butt of the weapon into the face of the closest walker, breaking its bloody jaw, but failing to hinder its progress. She swung again and connected with its skull, which bust open and sent the zombie sprawling to the ground at her feet. One down, but six more ready to destroy her, each aiming for a limb, an organ, a bit of flesh, a chunk of her existence.

"Reload." Wen yelled. The blade of his machete sung through the air and sliced through the neck of the nearest zombie, separating the head from its body. "Do it! Now!"

He beheaded two more as she grabbed a handful of bullets and jammed them into the rifle, her hands shakier than normal. She cocked the gun in one swift movement and fired just left of Wen, taking down the decomposed walker.

"Jeez, watch it!" Wen eyed her as if she was crazy.

To prove she was a better shot than both of the men, she fired once more to the right of Wen, within inches of his shoulder, sending a bullet into the zombie he planned to decapitate.

He whipped around. "Okay, I get it!"

No more time for games. She rolled onto her side and fired more bullets as the band of walking dead crept nearer. Wen sliced through heads with a skill that impressed her, and held them at bay while she reloaded—a team effort she highly appreciated.

Red had no idea what Cowboy was up to, but heard him firing off shots of his own. She worked with Wen to kill the crowd of wagon zombies that advanced upon them. Mothers, fathers, teamsters, small children—it didn't matter. Sentiment had no place in zombie annihilation. She didn't miss a single target, as each forehead was penetrated and the dilapidated bodies collapsed to the ground.

When no more approached from her direction, she waited for a second to be sure, and then rolled onto her belly to take on any coming from behind. Only there weren't any. A pleasant, yet unexpected surprise. Cowboy stood there, watching and waiting with his rifle raised. Wen held his machete across his chest, ready as well. Silence prevailed, but for the sound of their own rapid breathing. As quickly as it had begun, it ended, but none of them were willing to let their guard down just yet.

"Everyone okay?" Cowboy asked, the butt of his rifle still pressed against his shoulder. "Anyone bit? Hurt?"

Wen shook his head. "I'm good. I'm real good."

Red slowly stood, her rifle shaking in her hands. "I'm good too."

"Perfect." Cowboy lowered his weapon and smiled. "Couldn't have gone better."

"We need to burn the bodies. Pile them. Set them ablaze. But"—she indicated the bloody mess that covered her from head to toe with an unnatural tremble in her fingers—"I need to get this off of me."

Cowboy scanned her body and lingered on her bare legs poking out from under her night shirt.

"Go." He turned away out of respect. "We'll keep an eye out and start putting them in a pile. Get cleaned up."

Red stepped over the zombie corpses littering her path and returned to the wagon that had provided such peace the night before. Her hands twitched more now, but she managed to toss the remaining dead zombie out onto the ground before sinking onto a clean area of the mattress.

She inched up the bottom of her soiled night shirt to reveal what she knew was there all along—a gaping hole on her thigh, several inches deep. The bite mark bubbled and spilled red, foamy droplets onto the mattress below. She didn't know which zombie had bit her or when it happened, not that the details mattered, only that the pain was excruciating and its liquid heat radiated through her veins. She balled her fist and punched the mattress once, then twice more.

Damn it.

With nothing more to do, she leaned her head back against the side of the wagon and waited.

***

Trace couldn't believe it. Not just one or two zombies, but thirty-eight. Hot damn! The three of them had fought like Kilkenny cats and came off victorious. That was something worth bragging about; dragging the bodies into a pile, not so much. He could hardly stand the awful stench that wafted from the rotting bodies. Zombies smelled horrid at any time, but dead, really dead....

Wen had the right idea. He tied a bandana around his nose and mouth, and handed a second one to Trace. It helped some, but the smell still made his eyes water and nose run.

They prepared to set the bodies ablaze, but they couldn't do that until they'd saddled, readied, and packed the horses to go. Wen explained that the smell of burning zombie flesh was far worse than what they experienced now. Multiply it by thirty-eight and they'd all be vomiting their guts out.

Trace packed his horse while Wen arranged wood and brush around the bodies to ensure each one would catch hold of the flames and create a bonfire. Trace packed enough supplies to keep the three of them comfortable and fed until they reached the next town. He also found plenty of ammunition among the wagons to replace what they'd spent that afternoon—a blessing he couldn't deny.

Red still hadn't emerged from the wagon. He proceeded to saddle her horse and pack some supplies for her, growing irritated with her prolonged bath. He didn't want to linger in the area any longer than required.

Wen wiped the sweat from his forehead with the arm of his shirt. "Maybe you should go check on her or something."

"Yeah, I guess I should."

Trace approached her wagon and heard very little movement inside—a moan and then a deep intake of breath.

"Hey, you okay in there? Everything good?"

Red raised the torn flap and shoved several "womanly" items toward him. "Can you pack these for me?"

Trace took a brush, comb, and bar of soap from her. "You don't look so good." He worried at her blotchy face, more pasty white than normal.

"I haven't eaten anything this morning and my stomach hurts, but I'll be fine. I'm almost ready." She smiled at him. "Can you give me another moment?"

"Sure." He couldn't say no to a smile like that, but wondered what was taking her so long. "Five more minutes. Then we have to pony up."

Red nodded and slipped her head back inside the wagon.

Women. He'd never understand them, but he really wanted to figure this particular one out, wanted poster or not.

When she finally made her way to him and Wen, she appeared to be in pretty rough shape, staggering and sweating as though the midday sun beat down upon her.

"You sure you're a'right?"

"I will be." She nodded. "I just need a little something to eat. Maybe a drink of water, too."

Wen fumbled around in the saddlebags, none of which were technically his, and handed Red a piece of jerky and a canteen of water. He even uncorked it for her.

Trace noticed her hands shaking, but chose not to mention it. "Wen, why don't you take Red's horse and she can ride with me. A'right?"

Wen gave him a concerned look before nodding agreement. She didn't complain or demand otherwise, which bothered him. It was uncharacteristic for her to follow his lead without a fight.

He helped her climb onto his horse and then swung himself up behind her. He reached around her waist, took the reins, and steered his horse a short distance away as Wen started the bonfire. The flames took hold and licked at the pile of dead bodies—a quick burn that would leave little behind.

Good riddance, Trace thought. He gave his horse the go-ahead, and with Wen close on his heels, they left the circle of wagons and heap of fiery bodies behind.

Chapter 8 – Miniature Rises and Valleys

Red's body slumped against Trace, and he tightened his grip on her. Heat radiated through her clothing as she burned with fever. She was sicker than she'd let on, and getting worse.

He lowered his head and placed his lips on her brow, gently brushing them against her—hot, just as he figured. Damn, this isn't good.

"What are you doin'?" She jerked her head from his touch.

"Not kissing you, that's for sure." He raised the back of his hand to her forehead and touched her skin once again. "You're burning up with fever, Red. We need to find you some help."

"No," she insisted. "I'm fine. I just need to rest is all."

He yanked the reins on his horse to stop their progress. Wen caught up, pulled Red's horse alongside, and looked at the two of them with trepidation on his face. "She getting worse?"

Trace nodded. "She's on fire. We need to find a place to set up camp. Hopefully near a river or something to cool her down."

"It's only a few more hours to town. Maybe they have a doctor there," Wen suggested.

"No!" She became rigid in Trace's arms. "You take me to a doctor and I'll shoot the both of you. That's a promise."

"Okay, okay." It encouraged him that she still had some fight in her. "Settle down. No doctor, it is. But we can't keep going like this. Your fever's getting worse. We need to find a place to stay for the night, or at least until your fever breaks."

"What if it doesn't break?" Wen asked, staring directly at Trace over the top of Red's head, a thick coat of accusation punctuating his words.

Trace wondered the same thing—hated himself for it—but it couldn't be helped.

"She said she wasn't bit—" She wouldn't lie about something like that, would she?

"Sorry." Wen raised his gun and aimed it directly at Red's head. "But I don't believe her."

"What the hell are ya doing? Put that away." Trace held his hand up in a futile attempt at deflection.

"I know you like her an' all, but you can't ignore the obvious. Once someone's bit, it's over." Wen cursed. "We've been riding for two hours now, two hours! She could turn any second."

Trace noticed Wen's hand was steady as he directed his gun at the woman he held in his arms. His face began to soften a little, but he didn't lower his gun.

"I don't want to kill her. You have to know that. But it's the humane thing to do."

"Please." Red tugged on Trace's arm. "Let me down."

With great reservation, he loosened his grip on her and kept his eye on Wen as she worked her tired body off the horse. She tumbled forward and went down on one knee. Trace made a move to help her, but she climbed to her feet and wobbled on unsteady legs with her arms wrapped around her middle as though she might vomit.

"Just leave me here," she said. "Leave me my gun, a few supplies, and go. You can have my horse."

Wen cocked his pistol, and Trace instinctually drew his own from its holster and aimed it over Red's head at Wen. "Don't make me kill you. I like you and I'd hate to have to put a bullet in your skull."

"Hell, I like you too, but we can't be traveling with a zombie!"

"Stop it!" Red held up her trembling hands. "Stop it, both of you! Please."

Then she shocked them both as she undid her pants and removed them one leg at a time, while she kept her head down and avoided their eyes. When she reached up and began to unbutton her shirt, Trace had to stop her.

"Wait a minute. What are you—" he couldn't finish. She was out of her mind.

Her shirt and undergarments fell into a crumpled pile at her feet, and Trace's eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and horror. He'd never seen such a thing, and as Wen lowered his gun, it became apparent that he hadn't either.

Red stood before them with teeth marks of all shapes, sizes, and depths—healed over but visible—dotting her otherwise perfect body. Her shoulders trembled and she hung her head, as she used her hands and arms to shield her more intimate parts. A dozen or more scars ran along her upper arms, shoulders, back, and thighs, creating a maze of suffering that covered her pink flesh in miniature rises and valleys. One open wound, fresh and bleeding, oozed from the makeshift bandage wrapped around her thigh.

She'd been bit.

Trace continued to stare. He didn't know whether to be delighted about the possibility that she'd survived being bitten, or horrified to witness her pain and embarrassment. Nothing had prepared him for this, and he was unsure what to do with this newfound knowledge. The inflated reward on the wanted poster now made perfect sense.

"Don't you dare shoot her," he said to Wen. "Don't you dare!"

Wen shook his head. "I'm not planning to."

Red swayed, and before Trace could climb from his horse to catch her, she collapsed to the ground. He clambered from his horse and knelt next to her, feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything. When he found a weak pulse, a great sense of relief washed over him.

He looked up at Wen. "She's still alive."

Wen nodded and slipped off his horse. "That's good."

Trace could tell he meant it, too. Wen tossed him a blanket, and Trace wrapped it around her unconscious form.

"I need your help to get her onto my horse." Trace lifted Red and placed her in Wen's arms.

Wen hesitated briefly, but took her and even rocked her slightly as he waited for Trace to mount his horse. It was hard to balance a nearly naked, unconscious girl and manage his horse at the same time, but having no other way, he'd make it work.

"Let's go." He gave his horse a slight nudge in the ribs to set it galloping.

***

They set up camp just above a tree-lined ridge, high enough that zombies would struggle to climb it, and with enough trees to make it difficult for other potential intruders to see their fire. Even though Trace believed it relatively safe, he continued to stand watch over his fellow travelers as they slept, with his pistol at the ready.

He walked around the outer circle of their camp, listening. Everything stood silent, except for the sounds of nature and Wen's unconscious snores. This was good. He'd come to learn that when nature fell quiet, he needed to worry.

He knelt next to Red and pushed back the damp strands of hair from her forehead. She was still warm to the touch, but not nearly as hot as before.

Red opened her green eyes and looked up at him. She didn't say a word, only blinked in confusion, staring wide-eyed through her fever and delirium.

"It's okay. Get some sleep." He took a cloth, dipped it in a pan of cool water, and wrung out the excess before lifting one ragdoll arm and running the cloth over it. She closed her eyes once more.

Wen had voiced his concerns to Trace when they first made camp. "I know she survived before," he'd said. "But what if this bite is the one? What if this bite flips her to the other side? Then what?"

He'd promised Wen that he wouldn't let anything happen to him. "If she seems to get worse, I'll shoot her myself. I give you my word."

The whole concept of Red's condition baffled them both, but only she knew what her body was capable of withstanding. He had to believe that since she'd survived before, she'd do so again. She had to.

Her eyes flew open and she focused on him with crazy intent. She bolted upright and grasped his arm with such force, his skin pinched and bruised beneath her fingertips. His heart thumped in his chest as he stared into her wild eyes. He instinctively reached for his gun with his free hand. Damn it! She's turning. She's turning!

"Don't tell." Her voice rumbled low and rough as her grip tightened around his arm. Trace winced. Do zombies talk? Do they? Remember!

"Don't tell," she repeated. Her hand slipped away and she fell back against the blankets, her body limp and unconscious, as if nothing had happened.

Trace sat back on his haunches, unsure of what he'd just witnessed, but whatever it was, it scared him something awful. He scooted away to put some much needed distance between them.

He worked his battered arm out of his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeve to the elbow, and touched the purpling skin of his forearm. Damn.

***

Red rolled her head to the side and clenched her eyes shut as a sharp pain welled inside her skull. It built until it reached a crescendo and then tapered off. She blinked several times in an attempt to right herself, but the fog refused to lift. A dull ache pulled at her stomach and her head throbbed, protesting her every move. She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer. Once again, she'd managed to survive the hell that terrorized her body and mind—the aftermath of a zombie bite.

She recalled that in the midst of the boiling heat that crept through her veins and the pain that assaulted her body, she'd begged for mercy and invited death to relieve her of her burden. Yet here she lay, like all the times before, changed, but not turned, stuck in a world full of misery and pain.

Just once, she'd like to not wake up at all.

In some respects, she envied the walking dead, their fate already sealed. They turned and it was over. No more pain. No more worry or fear. Every bite took her close to the edge, dragged her to the brink of turning, but something inside her fought back every time.

Red opened her eyes and looked through her distorted lenses, trying to make sense of what had happened. Trees. Lots of trees overhead. The leaves swayed in rhythm with the breeze. Sunlight trickled through the crisscross of branches. She shifted her head to the left, taking her time.

Wen slept nearby, and Cowboy sat by the fire with his back to her.

She didn't recognize this place and had no idea how she got here. The last thing she remembered.... What's the last thing I remember? The events of the previous day blurred and ran together.

She placed both hands on the ground beside her and worked herself up into a sitting position. Her muscles screamed and her head pounded, but she pushed through it and took in the surroundings. She noticed the pan full of water beside her, the cloth, and the canteen. They'd been taking care of her. This realization brought a slight smile to her lips. No one had taken care of her before.

The wool blanket that covered her slipped to her waist and when the cool air met her warm skin, a different kind of terror settled in. She was naked and surrounded by complete strangers—two men, no less.

Red snatched the blanket to her chest."Where are my clothes?" She forced the raspy words through her parched lips, and tightened the blanket around herself.

Cowboy turned to face her, surprise and happiness clearly displayed on his face, which confused her even more. "Hey, you're awake. How're you feeling?" He smiled as he approached her.

"My clothes? Where are they?" Panic welled up inside her. What do they know? What did they see?

The smile on Cowboy's face gave way to concern. "It's okay—"

"It's not okay! Where are my goddamn clothes?"

"Okay, okay." Cowboy stopped and raised his hands. "Let me get them for you."

Red lifted the blanket away from her body and looked down—not a stitch of clothing. Oh, my…! She pulled the blanket tighter. If her legs worked right and she didn't still feel like throwing up, she would've grabbed that blanket and run for the hills.

Cowboy returned and held out a pile of clothes. She snatched them from his outstretched hands.

"Why did you take my clothes? What's wrong with you?"

He looked down at her, confused. "Whoa, just a minute! I didn't take your clothes. You took off your clothes. You stood in front of me and Wen and got buck-naked."

She shook her head. That didn't make sense. She'd never do that, ever. Though it did sound vaguely familiar. A dream perhaps? It didn't matter. Whether they stole her clothes, or she took them off freely, they'd witnessed her secret.

"What... what do you plan to do with me?"

Cowboy shook his head. "Plan to do with you? I don't know what you're talking about."

Wen sat up, stirred out of sleep by the conversation. "What's going on? Is she feeling better?"

Cowboy shrugged his shoulders. "She's acting weird. Not making much sense."

Red held onto her blanket and clothes and backed away from both of them. Where are my guns? She spun her head from side to side, pain bouncing off the walls of her skull. She steadied herself to keep from falling to the earth. What have they done with my guns?

Naked and unarmed. She couldn't have been more vulnerable. "Stay away from me!" she yelled. "Don't come any closer."

"We didn't hurt you and we're not gonna hurt you." Cowboy tried to approach her, but she just moved farther away, so he stopped.

"You saw me naked!" They knew she was a freak of nature—a highly dangerous piece of information for them to have.

"You didn't give us a choice. We didn't ask you to take your clothes off. You did that on your own!"

Red shook her head. She must have been out of her mind to strip down and risk everything by showing these men—these strangers—her hideous scars. It didn't make any sense.

"So what are you going to do to me now?" She looked from Cowboy to Wen and back again.

If they tried to dismantle her piece by piece to discover why she lived when others couldn't, or sold her to someone who would, then she could blame only herself. She shouldn't have been traveling with them in the first place, but had disregarded her internal warnings.

"The only thing I want to do is keep all three of us alive." Cowboy squatted down to look her square in the eye. "We're not going to hurt you." He looked over at Wen, who nodded agreement. "That's a promise. I'll do everything I can to protect you."

Wen pressed his hands together and bowed slightly from the shoulders. "And I will do the same."

"Hell, Red," Cowboy continued. "You're giving us hope. I now know those damn zombies can't win—you actually have the ability to beat them."

She shook her head and kept her eyes locked on his, still unsure whether or not to trust either of them. "What's the point of beating them when the people I love can't?"

Chapter 9 – Uglies and Nutters

"Does it hurt?" Wen asked Red as they sat around the campfire. "I mean, what does it feel like? I just... well, I'd like to know what to expect when it happens to me."

"You plan on gettin' bit?" Trace asked him.

Wen looked over at Trace with a grave expression. "There's a good chance one of those Uglies will get me. Probably you, too."

Uglies? He'd never heard that one before. It was almost as good as "The Nutters," which he'd heard from one old man.

"They won't get me if I can help it. You know, when you talk like that, you're just inviting trouble."

"I jus' wanna know." Wen ignored Trace's comment and looked to Red. "I'm curious. So tell me, what's it like?"

Red's eyes flickered toward Trace, and a knowing look passed between them. He sensed that she didn't want to describe the experience to Wen any more than Trace wanted to hear it. Her little mannerisms expressed a whole lot without her saying a word: a crinkled brow when annoyed, biting her lip when nervous, arms crossed over her chest to signal a heap-load of trouble headed his way.

"Talk amongst yourselves," he said, standing. "I'd rather go water a tree."

He meandered off a little ways, so he didn't have to hear what she said. Denial was a more forgiving place to live in than reality ever could be. He tucked his gun in the waistband of his pants and unbuttoned his fly, thinking back to the saloon, where Red had warned everyone to carry a gun at all times—"while sleeping and pissing" had been her exact words. He'd followed her advice ever since. No way in hell would he be ambushed with his pants down.

He couldn't imagine a fate worse than being left to wander the plains as a naked zombie.

With his business complete, he returned to warm himself by the small fire. Wen sat with shock and disbelief on his pale face. Whatever Red had said must have not settled well. Trace couldn't help but smile. It served the fool right for asking.

"So, you glad to know now?" Trace squatted by the fire and held his hands out over the flames. The nights had turned chilly, and winter would soon be upon them.

Wen shook his head in slow-motion shock. "I don't know. Just promise that you'll shoot me if I happen to get bit. Shoot me real quick. I don't want to suffer like that."

Trace glanced at Red, who lifted a mug of steaming coffee to her lips and avoided his gaze.

"If you're ever bit, I'd be proud to put a bullet in your head." Trace mocked him.

Wen took Trace's hand and shook it, clenching the deal. "Thank you. And I'll do the same for you."

Trace smiled at the absurdity of their conversation. "So, we're all in agreement. I get bit, you shoot me. You get bit, I shoot you. Except her," Trace nodded toward Red. "She gets bit, leave her be."

Red put down her mug. "No, I want in on the agreement."

Trace glanced at Wen, who raised his shoulders. "You want to be the one to shoot us? That's fine. If I'm bit and you're closer, you have my permission to shoot."

"That's not what I'm saying." She looked at him directly. "The next time I'm bit, I want you to shoot me."

Trace couldn't believe what she was saying. She lived through a zombie bite, multiple times, and she wanted to be shot? "Neither of us are gonna do that."

She hauled off and threw her mug of unfinished coffee at Trace, missing him by only inches. It disappeared into the darkness behind him and clattered against a tree in the distance. Red had quite an arm on her. He didn't know if she was trying to hit him or just intimidate him, but it sure got his attention.

"You don't know what it's like for me!" She turned away from Trace and pounced on Wen. "I told you everything, so you promise me then. I mean it!"

Wen looked like a scared rabbit with his head in a noose. He turned to Trace for support, but Red grabbed a hold of his arm and forced him to look at her—the noose tightened. "I don't want to go through it again. Please."

"You can't possibly be serious." Trace railroaded the conversation away from Wen. "If you reacted like the rest of us, then hell yeah, I'd shoot you. But the fact is you can survive a zombie bite. That means something."

"What does it mean? Tell me, because all I know is that being dragged to hell and back is more than I can bear. And to what purpose? So I can do it all over again? Or perhaps it's so I can watch everyone I love suffer and die."

"You're a miracle, Red! I'm not shooting you." Trace realized Red wasn't wanted because she'd committed a crime, but because she was a treasured oddity.

She laughed. "Miracle? I'm no miracle. If anything, I'm cursed."

"You're not thinking straight—"

Red shot to her feet. "I've never been more clear-headed than I am right now, you horse's ass!"

"Horse's ass? You're a freakin' lunatic!" The words exploded from his mouth before he thought to stop them.

Wen jumped up and positioned himself between them, catching Red's hand before she struck Trace's face. "I'll shoot you," Wen said. "If that's what you really want, I'll do it—I promise."

Trace couldn't believe it. "You're willing to shoot the one person, the one person, who could survive the plague and help the rest of us figure out how we can, too? Are you out of your mind?"

Wen glanced back and forth between them. "If it's what she wants, then who are we to deny her? You don't know what it's like to be bit. She does."

Trace shook his head. "You're both nuts. I almost want to shoot the pair of ya right now."

Wen just smiled at him. "Trace, I promised I'd shoot her if she gets bit. But I'm gonna make damn sure she never does. That there's my promise to you."

"You can't promise—" Red started, but Wen cut her off before she could finish.

"I'm not gonna let you get bit. That way, I'll never have to fulfill my promise to shoot you."

Both Red and Trace stared at him, unsure of what to say, stunned.

"And just so you know," Wen continued. "I always keep my promises."

***

A rustle of branches came from the darkened trees, and Trace turned his gun in that direction. Red had drawn her guns a split second before him. Wen also had his rifle cocked and ready. Trace didn't think a zombie had managed to climb the ridge, given their slow gait and dangling limbs, but anything was possible. If a human intruder had seen the low fire burning, their eyesight would have to be incredible. As far as camps went, this one was all but invisible.

A bush swayed, a twig snapped, and the creature stepped into the clearing. Its ears flattened against its head, and its dark eyes shimmered with a reddish glow from the firelight. It stared at each of them in turn, raised its head slightly, and sniffed the air. Its hair lay matted against its bony skull, and its dark tongue hung over the side of its panting mouth. Mud covered all four scrawny limbs, and a line of crusted dirt ran from the top of its head to its blackened nose. It had to be the ugliest mutt Trace had ever seen.

All three of them stood there and watched, but did nothing.

"You seeing what I'm seeing?" Trace asked no one in particular.

"Yeah," Wen said. "I think he's hungry."

Red put her guns away and knelt on the dirt. "It's okay." She held her hand out toward the strange creature. "No one's gonna hurt you."

"For crying out loud," Trace said. "Don't invite it over here! We don't know what it's capable of."

Red glared up at Trace and continued to reassure the dog. He was just watching out for her. It could attack, or be full of disease. Why didn't she think of that?

"Look at him. He's scared to death. And it's amazing he found us way out here. Means he's smart." She continued to hold out her hand. "Come here, boy. Come on now, don't be afraid."

Just what they needed—a smelly, dirty, crotch-sniffing dog.

Wen knelt down next to Red and together they tried to urge the mangy animal forward. The dog took a couple of steps, but wouldn't come any further.

"You're doing it wrong." Trace reached into his bag and produced a piece of dried meat. "Okay, you ugly thing. Here ya go." He tossed the meat a few yards from the animal. The cautious dog just eyed it and stared up at him. "Go on, mutt. Eat it."

The dog didn't make a move for the meat, even in its apparent hunger.

"It's there if you want it. I'm going to bed." Trace turned away and climbed into his bedroll.

"You certainly have a way with animals, Cowboy." Thick sarcasm coated Red's words. "I'm impressed."

"I can smell that dog from here. It stinks."

"You stink and we keep you around."

Trace didn't know what to make of her anymore. "You know, ever since you got sick you've been nothing but a pain in the—"

"Enough!" Wen interrupted. "Knock it off, you two. The world is full of walking dead people and all you can do is bicker like children. Kiss and make up already." Wen directed his command toward Trace. "I'm gonna get the dog a bowl of water."

Red stood, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at Trace. "Yeah, apologize. But don't even think about kissing me."

"I promise you, it didn't even cross my mind." Trace shook his head. "What exactly am I supposed to apologize for? I've done nothing wrong here."

Red's arms fell to her sides and a pained expression washed over her face. "You think calling me a lunatic isn't worth an apology?"

She turned away from him and focused her attention on the dog, who took a few more steps toward her with its tail tucked between its legs.

Trace let out his breath. She was right. He should have apologized right away, but he allowed his ego to keep him from doing so. Taking his lead from the dog, he walked up and stood beside her, his invisible tail hanging low. "I'm sorry. I never should've said that. I didn't mean it."

"No, you meant it." She nodded softly. "But you don't understand where I'm coming from when I say I can't go through it anymore. It's unbearable, and the thought of suffering that kind of hell one more time terrifies me."

He made a move to touch her arm, but held back. "You're right. I don't know what you've been through. But I do know I could've treated you with more respect. You didn't deserve that and I hope you can forgive me."

Red turned to him, her eyes wet with tears that didn't fall. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

The filthy dog took a few more steps toward them and bumped its cold nose against Trace's hand. Damn, the mangy beast is kind of cute.

He rubbed the dog's dirty head and scratched it between the ears. "You still smell."

The dog lay down and rolled over onto its back with all four legs extended into the air. The mutt almost appeared to smile, with its big ol' tongue hanging out over its jowls.

Trace knelt and gave the smelly mutt the belly rub it was looking for.

Chapter 10 – Lonely Boys

They came upon it too soon for Trace's liking. He knew they'd encounter a fully functioning town sooner or later, but he'd hoped for a little more time. He needed to be certain. They'd passed through two ghost towns during their travels, and a third would have been just fine at the moment.

He stared at the small town that lay ahead, knowing he would have to make a decision. He owed Red nothing. They hardly knew each other. Hell, they were barely more than acquaintances—traveling buddies at best.

He took a sideways glance at Red and a ripple of doubt buckled his resolve. She had no clue about his plan. Trace read it on her features. Her innocent green eyes trusted he was the person he claimed to be. She probably didn't know that a flyer with her face on it even existed. If he were a better person, he would have told her.

With a pretty good idea why the authorities wanted her, he now had a duty to hand her over. The world needed her ability to sidestep death. People were dying all over the country, and there she stood—a beacon of hope.

"What are we waiting for?" Wen eyed him. "Let's go."

Trace didn’t think he was ready for this. Whatever decision he made, it would have consequences.

"Maybe we should pass this one up. I'm not sure it's safe."

Wen shook his head. "I don't think we have a choice. We've already passed by two ghost towns, and our supplies are dwindling. Who knows if any other towns lay ahead. We can't take that chance."

"Wen's right." Red sat on the horse behind Trace with her arms wrapped loosely around his waist—a sensation he enjoyed. "We need food, or we're gonna have to resort to eating the dog."

The mangy mutt stood and wagged its tail.

"I don't think he'll taste very good." Trace hardly heard a word either of them said. His mind was elsewhere.

"You do know I was joking, right?" Red's arms fell away from his waist.

Trace took a deep breath and focused on the town ahead. "Yeah, of course. Sorry. I guess we should see if they'll let us in."

He secretly hoped they wouldn't.

***

The town had locked down behind a small fortress of chopped wood, overturned wagons, crates, barrels, and barbed wire. Men on rooftops stood guard with their rifles, ready to shoot anyone who showed symptoms, and law enforcement officials guarded the only entrance.

It reminded Trace of the makeshift wooden fences erected around Sundance, except this place looked a bit more organized. This town took the added step of keeping a doctor at the ready, to shove a thermometer into each person's mouth before letting them enter.

"You're fine," the doctor told Wen. He barely cleaned the little glass cylinder with his cloth before forcing it in Trace's mouth.

How many mouths has this sucker been in?

His stomach churned, and if he thought about it any longer, he'd be sick, which more than likely would get him shot.

Just don't think about it. Just don't think about it.

After five minutes, the doctor declared him healthy and turned to Red, who didn't seem the least bit disturbed when he placed the thermometer in her mouth without sanitizing it. Stupid country doctors.

Trace patted his leg, and the ugly mutt sauntered up to him. "You're lucky." Trace rubbed the dog's ears. "They're not gonna take your temperature. No they're not."

He snapped his head up. They wouldn't do that, would they?

After a few minutes, they received the go-ahead—the animals unchecked—and proceeded into town.

They rode down the middle of the main street on their horses. Everyone went about their business as usual, seemingly unaffected by the plague. Buildings rose on both sides, and the residents conducted themselves as they would in any normal town. It was as if they'd stepped back in time, into a place untouched by the craziness outside its borders. Men and women walked down the street, hand in hand. Horses were tied to hitching posts outside the General Store, while their owners chewed tobacco and spit into the bronze spittoon at their feet. Even music played. A honky tonk twang filtered out of the bar and into the streets.

It almost made Trace believe this was reality.

He watched a little boy pop candy from his bag into his greedy little mouth as if he had no cares in the world. Several old men sat on a bench in front of the defunct bank, watching people pass by. A man wearing a white apron swept the porch in front of the barbershop. A girl carried flowers. Two ladies stood near the entrance to the saloon and gave Wen and Trace a wink. He didn't know whether to relax or be on guard.

"You lonely, boys?" the raven-haired one called to them, angling her stance to reveal the garter around her thigh. "We can show you a good time."

Trace tipped his hat to them and shook his head. "No, thank you, ma'am," he said. "But I appreciate the offer."

"I may be back!" Wen smiled and waved to them. He cranked his head to keep the women within his sights as the three of them rode on. "Don't go anywhere!"

They giggled, and Trace saw Red roll her eyes in disgust.

"You sure you guys want to continue west?" A crooked grin played across Wen's lips. "I think I like this place. The people are friendly and accommodating."

"You're just horny," Trace said.

Wen continued to smile.

Trace had to admit, a little female company would do wonders for him, too. But a more pressing matter weighed on his mind: what to do with Red.

"We should rest here tonight, see what supplies they have available, and get a room at the hotel with a big ol' bed for each of us. We'll head out tomorrow at first light after a big supper and a good night's sleep. That sound a'right to everyone?" They each nodded.

"I'm gonna go see if they have any rooms available." Trace slipped off his horse and tied the reins to a post.

Red climbed from the back of his horse and stood next to him. "I'll come with you to get a room. I mean...." She stumbled over her words as her neck and face flushed. "...get my room. You know what I mean."

Trace smiled and gave her a wink. "Let's go see what they have."

"Hey, is it okay with you two if I go now?" Wen still had his eye on the women standing in front of the saloon. "Do I need to help you get supplies or something?"

"Go on." Trace waved him off. "Do what you gotta do. You won't be much use to us otherwise. But meet up here later, a'right? We need to check out the General Store." Among other things.

"Yeah, will do." Wen had already started to walk away. He turned and smiled. "I'll be back in a bit."

Trace caught the look of concern on Red's face as Wen left. "He'll be back. Don't worry."

Red shook her head. "It's not that. It's just that I can't imagine"—she shook her head again—"Never mind. I'm being ridiculous."

She started for the hotel entrance, but Trace grabbed her arm and stopped her. "Ridiculous? What do you mean?"

Red glanced in the direction Wen had gone and then back at Trace. "It's nothing, really."

Trace furrowed his brow. "Something's bothering you. Just tell me. Maybe I can help."

She lowered her eyes a fraction to avoid his. "There are some things about men I just don't understand." She bit her lower lip. "But I don't want them explained to me either, least of all by you. Let's just get some rooms."

Much as he wanted to continue the conversation with her, he had no idea what she was talking about—only that it had something to do with Wen. The least she could do was make an effort to be intelligible.

He held the door open to The Grand Palace Hotel and waited for her to pass through it.

The dog tried to follow them, but Trace held up his hand. "Stay. Sorry, boy, you can't come in, but I'll scrounge up a little something for ya." The dog wagged its tail before flopping on the porch to wait, as if the dog understood everything he said.

At least the ugly mutt was a heck of a lot easier to communicate with than Red.

***

"Here's your key." Trace pressed it into Red's palm. "I'll be right next door if you need anything. Wen will be down the hall, third door on the left. I suggest you stay in tonight, just to play it safe."

Red narrowed her brows. "Are you staying in?"

"I figured I'd check things out, see if I might get a feel for the town."

"So you're going out and Wen's having himself a great time exploring the fine inhabitants of this town, but I'm supposed to stay in and do nothing because I'm a girl? Is that what you're trying to say?"

Damn, she's difficult. If she just kept to her room for the evening, he wouldn't have to worry about someone recognizing her before he decided what to do.

"This place makes me nervous. I'm just trying to look out for you, and it would be better if you didn't go out—not until I got a better feel for things. So why not just stay in, take a bath, and read a book or something. Doesn't that sound good?"

Red folded her arms across her chest, and Trace knew he was losing her. "It did until you suggested it. I don't like being told what to do."

"I'm beginning to understand that." He nodded in an attempt to ease the situation. "This place is a little suspicious, and since you're a girl and all, I just want to keep you safe."

The heat from her glare made him regret his words. His eyes flicked briefly to her hands and then to her holstered guns. She didn't reach for them, so he relaxed. "That came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that."

She rolled her room key around in her fingers and eyed him. "I can take care of myself. Been doing it for a long time."

"I know."

"You should be more worried about yourself. This town seems like the kind to eat you up and spit you out."

She must be the most stubborn woman he'd ever met, and he was in no mood for a battle of wills. Red could take this round. "You're probably right."

Red put her key in the lock, opened the door, and turned to him once more before stepping into her room. "I know I am."

Chapter 11 – Trapped with a Madman

Red assessed the borders surrounding the town. They were good—well constructed. Men guarded the gates from the rooftops, which appeared even better. Nevertheless, everything the officials had done to protect the small town—including the doctor with his thermometer—provided only a temporary fix.

The zombies would eventually sniff out the healthy human meat. They would come.

She'd been concerned when they first approached the town and found the doctor waiting. She'd quickly tried to come up with a plan to avoid the thermometer and its results, but when she watched him read Wen and Trace's temperatures, it became clear the "doctor" didn't know much about medicine. She opened her mouth and allowed him to slip the tiny tool under her tongue without saying a word.

The normal temperature for the human body averaged 98.6 degrees. Red ran a consistent 100.9—not a high-grade temperature, but a temperature all the same. Fortunately, the doctor had whipped it out of her mouth before it could provide an accurate reading. He barely glanced at it before shaking the mercury down and shoving it into the mouth of the next person in line. The townspeople had placed their faith in a foolish man, and the happy, naïve settlement would suffer because of it.

She walked along the wooden pathway that led from one store to the next with the dog at her heels. Yellow light from hurricane lamps spilled out of the windows and into the darkened streets. She glanced up at the men on the rooftops, stoic in their duty, and at the townsfolk who went about their business, content to believe those same men could actually save them.

She would've found Cowboy and Wen and insisted that they leave right now, but as the sun went down, the town's officials sealed its only exit. She felt trapped, and the morning couldn't come too soon for her liking.

Outside the saloon, she found a bench and sat down. The dog placed its head in her lap and she rubbed the spot between his ears. She heard Cowboy's voice as he played cards—a wasteful and deadly pastime. Whether people won by means of intelligence or through tricks and deceit, they usually found themselves with a bullet between the eyes.

Red didn't much care for cards, though she did enjoy the occasional drink. She debated whether or not to head in for a shot of something to calm her nerves, but with so many men inside—drunken men—she needed to be on her toes, and didn't want to be standing on them tipsy.

A low, distinct laugh from inside the saloon caught Red's attention. She stopped caressing the dog, and he looked up at her for an explanation. When he didn't receive one, he curled up at her feet. She was about to dismiss it as the work of an overactive mind, but when the laughter resounded once more, her breath locked within her chest and her whole body went rigid as she balled her hands into fists.

He was here. Inside.

No! How is it even possible?

She stumbled to her feet and stood near the swinging doors to see for herself. His dark hair, graying at the temples, and his mustache trimmed and balanced above his lip, made him easy to spot. It was him, sure enough, casually playing cards with Cowboy, drinking liquor, and laughing as though all was right with the world. Except it wasn't.

She turned away from the door and leaned against the building. This can't be happening. It's just a coincidence. Even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. He was searching for her, just like he'd said he would.

Red closed her eyes. I watched him die. I watched the zombies attack him. They attacked him!

He shouldn't be alive. Unless... her eyes flew open as the realization set in. He did what he'd set out to do.

Red looked up and down the street; she needed to get out of there now. She was trapped inside the boundaries of the town with a madman.

She pulled her hat down tighter over her head and crossed the road. The dog followed in step beside her, and she never felt more grateful for his company. She walked behind a row of buildings, looking for a possible escape. There were bound to be holes in the barrier that surrounded the town that she could squeeze through, but even so, that meant leaving behind her horse and supplies. She wouldn't last long without them—not in the desert, anyway.

"Come on, boy." She rounded the side of the post office and started for the hotel, the dog still trailing behind her. She'd stay hidden away, like Cowboy had wanted, and when morning came, she'd leave—with or without the men.

She crossed the road, keeping to the shadows, when a hand clasped onto her arm and dragged her forward at a hurried pace. Red spun around, forcing the release of his grip on her. She stood her ground—legs parted, hands formed into fists—ready for the pending attack.

"Don't hit me!" Cowboy said. "It's just me."

She punched him in the shoulder anyway. "Don't ever do that. You scared me to death."

He didn't respond, but grabbed her hand and continued to drag her toward The Grand Palace hotel. She took two steps to each one of his. When they entered the inn, he didn't even tell the dog to stay outside, but allowed him to follow them up the stairs. He opened the door to his room and hastily pushed her inside.

After he shut and locked the door, he turned and faced her. "You're staying here tonight. No arguments." He went to the window and pulled the drapes closed.

"What's going on?" She needed to know what he knew.

"There's a man down at the saloon that seems a little odd. I'd just feel better knowing you're here with me. I don't trust him."

Red sat on the edge of the bed. She wasn't sure how much to tell him, or if she should tell him anything. She still didn't know how far she could trust him. The man at the saloon had proved to be a turncoat, and so could Cowboy.

A knock sounded on the door and they both jumped up and reached for their guns at the same time.

"Hey, it's me," Wen called from the hallway. "You in there?"

Red relaxed a little at the sound of Wen's voice, and Cowboy opened the door.

Wen stepped inside and squatted to give the dog some affection, oblivious to the tension in the room. "I was worried about you, fella. Thought you'd left us for good." The dog wagged his tail as Wen rubbed his belly. "How did you get him inside?"

Cowboy shut and locked the door once again. "He followed me up the stairs. No one said a word."

"What a good dog." Wen rubbed the dog's head before rising to his feet. "He needs a name. I like Bo. What do you think?"

"I don't think it matters," Cowboy said. "We've got bigger issues to deal with."

Wen looked at him in confusion. "Like what? What's going on?"

"There's a man down at the saloon." Cowboy glanced at Red and then back to Wen. "He's a strange one. Has some weird ideas that rubbed me the wrong way. Red's staying with me tonight."

Wen smiled like a schoolboy and bobbed his head. "Nice. I'll have to try that line on the ladies sometime."

Cowboy stepped closer to Wen. "Don't disrespect Red like that. I'm serious. I just want to make sure she's safe. Nothing else is going on here."

She sat back and watched him lecture Wen, with a sense of gratitude rising within her. Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge him.

Wen nodded with a serious expression. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"It's okay." Red attempted to relieve Wen of his embarrassment. "And by the way, the dog's name is Lasso. I already named him."

Cowboy looked at Red with resignation. "Are you serious? The dog gets to have a name, but you don't want to know mine? Isn't that a little odd?"

"No. It's fitting."

Cowboy pointed his finger at her. "Oh, I see how it is. You're just toying with me now, trying to get under my skin, aren't ya?"

"So what's the plan?" Wen attempted to change the direction of the conversation.

Cowboy glanced back and forth between them. "Well, we leave at dawn. You and I will get supplies and prepare the horses. Red will stay here until we're ready to go."

Wen nodded. "Sounds good."

"Speaking of horses, Wen, we need to get you one of your own. Doubling up is a strain on the horse and makes it mighty difficult to take off in a hurry."

"I agree," Wen said. "But—"

Cowboy shook his head. "No buts. You need a horse and it just so happens I found the means to get you one."

"So you lucked out at the card table tonight?" Red took off her hat and set it on the bed beside her. The thought of spending the night in the same town as John Gatherum didn't seem as frightening with Cowboy and Wen on her side.

Cowboy smiled. "Luck had nothing to do with it." He pointed to his head. "It's all about knowing when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, and when to walk away."

***

Cowboy blew out the candle flame, inviting darkness. He lay on top of the covers beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Part truth and part lie. She should've felt uncomfortable with him lying so close to her, but he made her feel safe, just as he had back at the wagons.

Nevertheless, John Gatherum nagged at her mind and refused to let her rest. She wanted to kill him. He might survive zombies, but being "different" didn't protect him from bullets, and she wanted to put a bullet in John's head for everything he'd put her through. Unfortunately, she couldn't kill him in a protected town like this one. They'd string her up. Her best bet was to leave, and if she happened to cross paths with him again in a less conspicuous place, she'd kill him. If the end of the world came, leaving only a few survivors, he mustn't be one of them. She'd see to that personally.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Cowboy whispered in her ear. "I won't let anything happen to you tonight—no bad dreams, no strange men. Just me."

"I appreciate that."

"So, you wanna know my name?"

Red couldn't help but smile. "No. I'm perfectly happy not knowing it."

"That's too bad, because I think you'd like it. You might even find it sexy."

She rolled onto her side and saw the outline of his body lying next to hers, one arm tucked under his head. "Is that so?"

"Yep, that's so. If I told you my name, I bet you'd agree."

She brushed her fingers over the whiskers on his jaw line. "I bet you have a nice name."

"Oh, I do." He turned onto his side and faced her. The space between them diminished as his leg touched hers. "I'd really like to know yours as well."

"Maybe someday." She smiled in the darkness, gave his cheek a quick pat, and rolled back onto her other side. "But not today."

Chapter 12 – Milk and Honey

Leaving town proved uneventful. No need to shoot their way out, as Trace had expected. The guards simply opened the gate at dawn and Trace, Wen, and Red rode away. Easy.

Red had tucked her fiery locks beneath her hat and pulled her coat collar up around the sides of her face. She wrapped the horse's reins tightly around her right hand, which unnaturally whitened her knuckles, and rested her left hand on her pistol. She'd been rather quiet all morning, avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

Maybe she knew more about the man in the saloon than she let on, which wouldn't have come as a surprise to Trace. The man certainly knew a lot about her, although he never mentioned her by name. He was forthcoming with his own, though—John Gatherum from Pennsylvania. When Trace asked what brought him out west, John said he was searching for his mentally unbalanced wife—a pretty, red-haired girl with a temper and misconstrued ideas of grandeur. She thought she could survive a zombie bite.

The other men at the table had roared with laughter when John made his claims. "Your wife's nuts," one man said. "I hope you find her before the dead do. They'd be more than happy to prove her wrong."

John had nodded and looked over at Trace with an intense stare. Trace forced a smile and pretended to laugh along with the others, as John proceeded to tell the men of his plans to put Red in her place. Although he never came out and said exactly what those plans entailed, Trace could easily imagine.

In that moment, Trace knew he wouldn't be handing Red over to anybody. He just couldn't do it.

If that man was Red's husband, then Trace was a zombie's uncle. Red would never have married a man like that—he didn't seem her type. Her type was a man more like... well... himself.

But as he watched Red now, with her head lowered and face hidden, he couldn't help but wonder. She'd gone to an awful lot of trouble to hide herself from him, and that had to mean something.

The wanted poster burned a hole in the side pocket of his saddlebag. He would get rid of it at the first opportunity. Money or no money, he wasn't handing her over to that man.

***

Trace caught sight of swirling smoke that floated above the tree line. They followed it, hoping for a place to rest and water the horses. Where there was smoke, there had to be humans.

They came upon a small log cabin that sat pleasantly tucked within the majestic mountain landscape. Large pine and juniper trees surrounded it on all sides and kept it hidden from view. It appeared untouched by the world and its problems. Under different circumstances, this would be the kind of place Trace would want to live, perhaps with a lake or pond nearby for fishing. An ideal home.

"What do ya think?" he asked his companions. "It looks normal enough to me."

"Sometimes when things look normal, it's all an illusion." Red shrugged her shoulders.

Trace stared at her for a moment, picking up on the subtext.

A petite young girl with blond hair emerged from the cabin. She walked around the side to a stack of wood, piled a bunch of logs into her arms, and carried them back inside—a child sent to complete a chore.

"Looks good to me," Wen said. "I think we should see if they could use any help in exchange for some hospitality."

"I agree." Trace looked over at Red, who didn't say a word. "But first, I need to talk to Red alone for a minute, if you don't mind?"

Wen nodded, and rode his horse a little ways off to give them some privacy.

"Everything okay?" Red asked when they were alone.

"That's what I was gonna ask you." He just came out with it. "That man in town—he said he was your husband."

The expression on her face didn't change. No hint of surprise or guilt. Nothing.

He didn't know what to make of it. "Please tell me it ain't true."

Red took a deep breath and slowly released it. "It ain't true."

Oh, thank God. He couldn't have imagined sending her back to that man, yet he didn't think he could continue traveling with another man's wife either. That would have been a dangerous thing to do.

"So, why would he say he's your husband if he's not?"

She slumped in her saddle, holding onto the horn. "Because, excluding myself, there are only three people who know my secret, and he's one of them. John Gatherum will do and say just about anything to get what he wants, and right now, he wants me."

"And from what I gather, you don't want to be found?"

Red shook her head and looked at him. "Honestly, I had no idea he was looking for me. But now that I know—"

"You can't possibly want to go back and find him." Trace had to stop her. "If there's something you feel you need to say to him, I'd suggest you just let it go. He seems rather crazy to me and not the talking type."

She vigorously shook her head, keeping her eyes on him all the while. "Who said anything about talking? I plan on killing him."

Killing John Gatherum sounded like a good idea, and kind of reasonable under the circumstances. "All right then, what do we do?"

"We don't do anything. I'll take care of it when the time comes." With that, she maneuvered her horse down the hillside in the direction of the cabin.

***

The smell of bread baking inside the cabin nearly brought Trace to his knees. Fresh bread—there was nothing better. He couldn't remember the last time he ate bread warm out of the oven with a brown crust and light, spongy middle.

"Would you like some milk, too?" The woman who owned the cabin offered him a cup. She smelled like warm honey and cinnamon. "I have some in a pitcher, if you'd like."

Trace was dumbfounded. Milk. Fresh milk. "You have a cow?" The idea of that amazed him. Most people no longer had access to livestock, and those who did have them had to take great precautions to keep them alive. The walkers would eat anything that moved if there was no other option. They preferred humans, but farm animals would do just fine.

"We've been able to save one." She motioned to her children—a boy of about five and the girl they saw earlier. "For the children's sake."

Trace poured himself a cup full and drank the warm liquid. He looked around the table and noticed a frothy milk moustache lining Wen's upper lip. Red, on the other hand, didn't partake in the treat. She simply tore small pieces off her slice of bread and placed them into her mouth.

The children sat quietly eating their buttered bread while they watched the three strangers. He found most kids annoying, but these two seemed all right. The girl kept eyeing him strangely, but for a little bread and milk he'd put up with pretty much anything.

"Where's your husband?" Red asked. "You're not out here all by yourself, are you?"

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and smiled. "Unfortunately, we are. My husband died earlier this year, and with nowhere else to go, we just stayed on. It's our home. We built it ourselves when we moved out west, and I can't imagine leaving."

"Aren't you worried about zombies? They're everywhere, you know." Wen slathered creamy butter over another piece of bread. "You need to be careful."

"We prefer to call them the 'unfortunates.' It sounds less"—she nodded toward her children—"frightening. And yes, I'm worried. But we're careful."

The girl stared at Trace from across the table, her eyes unblinking. Something was wrong with that kid. "Thanks for allowing us to rest here for a bit and for sharing your food. We're truly grateful."

The woman smiled sweetly. "We don't get many visitors out this way, so it's us who should be thanking you."

The girl spilled her milk. It ran across the table and over the edge, forming a small white puddle on the floor.

Red jumped to help her, but the mother just smiled at her daughter and dabbed at the mess with a cloth. "Be more careful," she told her.

The girl didn't say a word, and the little boy climbed from the table and proceeded to play with a wooden train in the corner. He didn't look up at them again.

"Is there anything we can do for you while we're here? Any work that needs doin'?" Wen asked. "We'd love to help."

"Oh, you don't need to do that." The woman started to clear the table. "But it's kind of you to offer."

"No really," Trace said. "We can chop wood or work on any projects that need fixing. Really, we'd like to do something."

She looked around. "Well, I do have this wagon in the barn that needs a wheel replaced, and there're a few dishes that need washing, but really, we're fine. It was just nice to share our table with you all. I'd hate to put you out."

"You're not putting us out—"

"I'll help Wen with the wagon," Red jumped up, interrupting Trace. "I guess that leaves the dishes for you." She grinned.

Trace just nodded. There was no point arguing with her, though he wanted to something fierce. Dishes were a woman's chore.

"Rivers," the mother addressed the girl. "Help with the dishes and I'll show our guests to the barn. Fisher, stay here." She pointed to the boy who didn't even acknowledge her.

The girl pulled her hair back into a ponytail and lifted a large pot off the wood-burning stove. "It's hot," she said as she handed it to Trace to pour in the metal wash bin.

Those were the first words either of the children had uttered. For a while there, he'd wondered if they were both mute.

"Rivers?" he said, trying to make conversation. "That's a pretty name. Different, but pretty."

"My pa named me. He liked to go fishing when he was alive." She nodded toward her brother, who pushed the train back and forth, over and over. "That's why his name's Fisher."

He nodded and rolled up his sleeves, ready to get to work on the small pile of pots and pans. "They're both good names."

Rivers placed her hand on his arm to stop him from washing the dishes. The ten-year-old girl's grip took him by surprise, reminding him of Red's inhuman strength the night of her fever. He looked down to see her tiny hand squeezing the feeling out of his arm.

"You need to go," she said.

"We'll be going as soon as we finish the—"

She shook her head and gripped his arm tighter. "No. You need to go now."

Her eyes filled up with tears. She motioned for him to lower his head, so he bent to her level. She might have ripped his arm off otherwise.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "You're not safe here."

"What's going on, Rivers? What aren't you telling me?"

"Just go. Go save your friends and get out of here."

This kid was no normal little girl—not with a grip like that—and the intensity with which she spoke frightened him. This was exactly why he didn't care much for kids.

Rivers released his arm and gave him a forceful shove toward the door. "Go!"

He made to leave, intent on taking the girl's advice. Something wasn't right here and she did her best to warn him.

A loud thump came from the next room and Trace froze. The repeated banging grew louder and louder, followed by the agitated wail of a baby—a baby in dire distress.

He looked at Rivers. She stood motionless and stared at the closed door. Fisher stopped playing with the train, tucked his head into his lap, and began to rock back and forth.

Trace approached the door—he couldn't just ignore a screaming infant. He touched the handle and—

Rivers snatched his hand. "Don't do it. Don't go in there!"

He opened the door, and Rivers stepped away. "I warned you," she said.

Fisher began to whimper, and Rivers went to him, covering his small body with her own. "It's okay. It's okay."

The thick smell of blood hit him like a punch to the stomach. The rancid air was suffocating and his gag reflex threatened to make him vomit. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm to diffuse it.

A wooden cradle, pressed up against the far wall, rocked viciously side-to-side as the occupant waved its tiny arms over the top railing. The howls were almost deafening.

What in the hell?

Miniature hands reached up and clasped the side of the cradle. The baby slowly pulled itself to a standing position on bowed legs. When its cloudy eyes fixed on Trace, the baby shook the cradle harder, tossed back its baldhead, and growled with desire. The baby wanted him.

Holy...!

Blood and entrails littered the floor in a coagulated coating. The skull of an animal, a human hand, and various other pieces and parts. They were feeding it. They're keeping it alive!

He turned to leave, determined to find Red and Wen and get the hell out of there, but he came face-to-face with the mother, who watched him with a blank expression.

She didn't have to say anything. The Winchester .44 rifle aimed at his chest told him everything he needed to know.

Chapter 13 – Can a Woman Forget Her Suckling Child?

Straw. Dirt floor. Cow.

Tiny points of light tiptoed across Red's vision. She blinked a few times in an attempt to focus her eyes, but the haziness persisted. The back of her head throbbed and she searched for the source of the pain, wincing when she touched a goose egg-sized knot at the base of her skull.

She pulled her hand away and cringed at the sight of thick blood coating her fingertips.

What in the world?

She pushed herself into a sitting position. A sharp pain raced across her forehead and down her neck and a wave of vertigo threatened to topple her over once more. A ringing sound like a continual high pitched whistle came from inside her eardrums. Not good. She blinked a few more times.

The cabin. The mother. The broken wagon that didn't exist. The metal shovel to the back of the head. She hadn't seen it coming.

Red felt she deserved the knock to the head, if for no other reason than to remind her that she needed to be more careful and trust no one. She'd fallen for an illusion before, and this time she should've known better.

She glanced around and sized up her situation—a wooden barn, closed door, farming equipment, and Wen sprawled out on the dirt beside her, face down and unconscious.

Wen!

She crawled toward him on her hands and knees, spurred forward by the sight of her motionless friend. He bled from the back of his head as well, but his lump appeared more ominous than her own. She didn't want to turn him over onto his wound, but she needed to know if he was alive. Red placed her hand near his mouth and felt warm breath pass through his lips.

Relieved, she let out her own, and tried to rouse him. "Wen, please wake up."

He lay still.

She tried to make sense of what had happened. That diminutive woman couldn't have taken them both down without a fight, but aside from the contusion on the back of her head, she was perfectly fine. Wen appeared the same—no cuts, no bruises, just the ominous, blood-oozing knot that had sent him into oblivion.

The outhouse!

As they'd walked toward the barn, the woman asked Wen to check out the roof of the outhouse, which needed to be patched. She'd asked him to take a look at it and see if it was fixable. Of course, Wen quickly obliged.

The woman must have nailed Red while Wen was out back, and then waited for Wen to return, to take him by surprise as well. Had they been together, it wouldn't have happened. A pretty, petite widow with two kids didn't seem like much of a threat. Everything about the woman, the barn, and the kids just didn't add up. What did she want with them? And where was Cowboy? Besides the family cow, she and Wen were alone in the barn. Either he would come looking for them, or....

Red refused to consider that possibility.

"Wen." She tried again to wake him. "Come on, Wen, open your eyes." He moaned a response, but his eyes remained closed.

Her guns.

She reached for them, but found her holsters empty. Even the pistol she kept strapped to her thigh was gone. She searched around Wen and found his guns missing as well. The mother had rendered them helpless.

She looked around the barn. There were no windows—the only way out was through a hinged door at the front. She struggled to her feet, limped over to the door, and pushed against it. Locked, of course. The mother wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of bashing them over the head to simply leave the door unbarred.

Red slammed her shoulder into the door, but the wooden bar held strong. She looked around the barn, breathing hard from her efforts. There had to be a way out—something she'd missed, something she could use. With one hand on the back of her head, she ambled around in search of anything that might help.

The farm equipment—a plow and a harrow—were useless, much too big for her to maneuver without a horse. Even then, what would she do? Use the horse to ram the sides of the barn? There had to be something else.

She spied some buckets, bales of hay, and various useless odds and ends.

Red staggered along the walls, searching for a weak spot, a section of wall that didn't meet with the floor. She kicked against the railing of the animal pen and the cow protested in fear. It didn't matter. Neither a frightened cow nor the continued throb of her head would stop her. If she could get a board loose, it would help even the odds.

The board weakened, and she grasped it with both hands, yanking it back and forth until the rusty nails pulled away and she fell backward with a section of the wall in her hand. The pain in her head returned in full force from the fall, and she instinctually grabbed it with both hands, rocking back and forth to ease the pressure.

When the aching settled, she crawled over to Wen. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive. The woman must have walloped him good.

She gently touched his face. "I sure wish you'd wake up. Together we could take her."

Footsteps approached the barn.

She jumped to her feet, ignoring the pain, and positioned herself near the door with the broken board in hand.

Someone began to move the wooden latch and it scraped against the outside of the door. The barn door opened, and Red swung the board with all her strength, but pulled back at the last possible moment to avoid hitting the little girl. The girl's eyes widened as she glanced from Red, to the board in her hands, to Wen lying on the ground.

"Go." The girl looked terrified. "Go now."

Red pushed the girl aside and started for the house. She needed to find Cowboy. She approached the property with trepidation—she didn't want to risk getting either of them killed with an ill-timed attempt at heroism.

Inside, Cowboy argued, begged, pleaded with the woman. Although she couldn't understand his muffled words, his tone said it all. He was alive, but something was horribly wrong.

She peeked through the kitchen window and found him tied to a chair with one arm stretched and bound tightly over the surface of the table. The interior filled with the sound of animal howls and pounding noises, but Red couldn't find the source. The insanity of what she witnessed left no room for comprehension.

"Don't do it! Please!" Cowboy pleaded. "Don't!"

The mother planned to slaughter him—one piece at a time. She stormed into the cabin and swung the board with more strength than she thought she possessed. It connected with the mother's head and she fell to her knees. The silver-bladed butcher knife clattered on the floor beside her.

Red continued to hold the board above her head for another strike, but the mother didn't get up. A four-inch nail had penetrated her skull and blood dripped down the side of her face and neck, disappearing in tiny rivers beneath her dress. She stared up at her assailant, shocked and dazed.

Red was tempted to hit her again, but the mother's eyes rolled back and she collapsed onto the floor.

The growling and gnashing sounds persisted, but she could only focus on Cowboy. The fear and gratitude in his eyes nearly brought her to tears. She threw the board down and ran to him, tearing at the knots that bound him to the chair. Once she released the ropes, he used his free hand to rip away the others that bound his arm to the table. He pulled her toward him, crushing her body against his chest.

"I thought you were dead." He squeezed her once more and then grasped her face in his hands. "Thank you. Thank you for not being dead. And for saving me—my arm."

He kissed her roughly, which came as a welcomed surprise. Cowboy clung to her and she gave in to his embrace, reveling in the feel of his arms around her. If the little girl hadn't opened the barn door when she did, everything would be different right now.

"Can a woman forget her suckling child? He's the son of my womb!"

Red whipped around and saw the mother standing on shaky legs, thrusting the butcher knife in front of her to emphasize her words.

"Then shalt thou say in thine heart, who hath begotten me these, seeing I have lost my children, and am desolate, a captive, and removing to and fro?"

Cowboy shoved Red behind him as the crazed woman dragged herself forward. Red wished she'd hit her a second time.

"My baby's hungry, and I will give her what she wants! I will not forget my suckling child."

Baby? Red's eyes widened. The screeching and pounding is coming from a baby?

Cowboy grabbed a chair and held it in front of him. "That creature in there is not your baby, and you know it."

The woman shook her head. "She's my baby. My baby! She's just sick, is all. And until she gets better, I will do what I have to."

"You can't believe that—"

She waved the knife within inches of his face. "I will do what I have to do!"

Red's makeshift weapon lay on the floor on the other side of the room, out of reach. The chair in Cowboy's hands held the woman back, but as she moved closer, they backed themselves into a corner with no way to defend themselves. Cowboy tipped the table over and created a wall, but the woman only tilted her head and smiled.

The racket from the other room persisted, a shriek that dug at Red's eardrums like a beetle burrowing into her brain. It pricked her spine and filled her with the desire to throttle its neck and end the noise.

"It's okay, sweetheart!" The mother cooed, "I'm coming, darling."

The baby howled louder and the mother grinned with wild determination before lunging forward. A blast vibrated off the walls and silenced everything, including the little monster who bawled in the bedroom. A heavy hush hung in the air.

The mother dropped her knife and clutched her middle as blood seeped between her fingers. The fine white apron she wore slowly turned a grisly reddish-brown, and when her last breath escaped her lips, she tumbled in slow motion to the floor.

The blond-haired girl stood in the open doorway, eyes frozen wide, clutching Red's Colt pocket pistol in her shaky hands.

Chapter 14 – The Right Thing

The little girl bent down and carefully laid the gun at her feet. She took a cautious step back, watching both Red and Cowboy with a blank expression. She held her shoulders straight and strong, but her hands trembled.

"Rivers—" Cowboy moved toward her, but the girl turned and bolted out the door. "Rivers!"

Red placed a hand on his arm. "Let me," she said. "I'll go find her and the boy. You go check on Wen. He's in the barn."

"Is he okay?"

"He's alive."

Cowboy nodded, comprehending.

The baby started to howl and pound the wall once again, and they both turned their heads in the direction of the bedroom.

Cowboy sighed. "What do we do with that thing?"

Red didn't have a clue. She'd never killed a baby before and wasn't sure she could. "Leave it." She glanced at the mother, prone on the floor in a pool of her own blood. "Leave it all for now. The dead can wait. We need to take care of the living."

She found the girl under the shadow of a pine tree, hugging her knees to her chest. A few yards away, the boy sat beneath another tree with his hands clasped around Lasso, burying his face in the dog's fur. Lasso's dark eyes tracked Red, but he made no move to untangle himself from the boy's thin arms.

Good dog. He was exactly where he needed to be.

She lowered herself next to the girl and they sat together in silence. When the girl needed to talk, Red would be there, ready to listen. The fragrance of pine infused the air, and needles blanketed the ground. A calm wind rustled the branches above, but there were no animal sounds or bird chatter. They'd probably long since disappeared from this place.

Red pulled her own legs up to her chest, mimicking the girl. She couldn't leave these children here. They'd never survive this far away from civilization without an adult to take care of their needs. Perhaps one of the camps would take them in. She could take them there and deposit them at the gates. What other options did she have?

"I couldn't let her hurt you," Rivers said. "No more. Not again."

Red nodded. "I know. Thank you."

"Is she dead?"

"Yeah, she is."

The girl wiped her eyes and laid her head on her knees. "I didn't want to kill her."

"I know."

Rivers' small shoulders shook and she covered her face.

Red slid closer and placed a hand on the girl's arm. She wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but the girl and her brother would never be fine again.

"Doing the right thing isn't always easy." She raised the girl's quivering chin and looked her in the eyes. "This plague has forced me to do things I never thought I could do. Especially to the people I loved."

Rivers threw her arms around Red and cried into her neck. "I killed my momma."

Red nodded, smoothing her hair. "I know exactly how you're feeling. I killed my pa." The revelation startled the girl and she looked up. Red nodded. "I had to. I had no other choice."

"Did I have a choice?"

"No, you didn't. You saved our lives."

Rivers hugged her tighter, shaking uncontrollably as sobs escaped her tiny body. "I'm scared."

"I know," Red whispered. "I know more than you think."

***

"Are you going to kill my baby sister?" Rivers stood near the barn with Fisher's arms wrapped around her waist.

Wen positioned himself behind them, woozy and in a great deal of pain, and placed a hand on each of their fragile shoulders.

Cowboy looked to Red and she nodded. "We need to let her go. Give her peace. It's the right thing to do."

"Are you going to shoot her?" Fisher's voice wavered.

Red shook her head. She glanced at Cowboy and Wen who stared at her in disbelief. Did they really expect her to put a bullet in the infant's head? No, she would take care of the situation the only humane way she knew how.

"What are you planning?" Cowboy wrinkled his brow. "You can't get close to that thing—"

"She's not a thing," Rivers said, tears fresh on her cheeks. "Her name's Brooke, and she was the most beautiful baby ever. I got to hold her right after she was born and she liked it when I sang to her."

"She liked to hold my finger," Fisher added.

"She was a good baby and hardly ever cried." Rivers looked at Red, her eyes pleading. "She used to smile all the time and laugh when I tickled her. She was super smart, too—I could tell."

Red nodded. "I bet she was wonderful."

"Our momma wasn't a bad person," Rivers said. "She wasn't. She just loved Brooke very much."

Red took a deep breath and slowly released it. She didn't want to do it, but no one else could. "I'll be as quick and gentle as I can." She glanced from Rivers to the boy. "I promise you."

Rivers' lips trembled as tears slid down her pale cheeks. Fisher avoided her gaze and stared at the ground.

"I have to do this. It's not fair to leave her here, suffering. You do know that?"

Rivers nodded. Even the boy nodded his head.

"When it's over, we'll bury her with your mother. That way, they can be together."

Red didn't think the kids should have to witness their loved ones being burned. A burial would be best in this particular situation. They were miles and miles from town, but they'd still have to dig a deep hole, just in case.

Cowboy stepped up beside her. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Red shook her head. "It's safer if I do this myself." She indicated the kids with a tilt of her head. "You stay with them."

"I'd feel better coming with you."

She touched his cheek. "Remember: I'm invincible, you're not."

***

The little monster held the remains of a rat or squirrel and crunched the bones between its tiny teeth. The creature caught sight of Red, tossed the carcass aside, and glared at her. It howled with ferocity and produced the same racket as earlier, when it rocked the crib from side to side and pounded the wall. Drool spilled over its blackened lips and dripped to the floor as it sniffed at the air—at her—with its partially decayed nose.

Red recoiled and wished she could just walk away and leave the little beast to its own devices. Just having fed, the little zombie was at its strongest, but left alone, it would wither and become weak. She couldn't leave. It would be more cruel to walk away than to shoot it. The baby deserved peace, wholeness—finality.

"It's okay, little one. It'll be over soon."

Red approached the cradle and kept an eye on the little monster's wild arms, reaching for her through the bars of its cage. She raised her knife, swallowed, and dragged the edge along the length of her left forearm to release a trickle of blood. It dripped from her elbow, slow at first, then in an accelerating rhythm.

The baby screeched, shook the bars of the crib, and snapped at the air.

She held her arm above the baby's head, and the wild beast lapped up the blood, frantic to catch each drop. It just might work, given what had happened after a zombie bit her. One bite was all it took. No zombie had ever bit her twice. Whatever kept her from turning had a powerful effect on them as well. Her protection was their peril.

The little monster stopped moving. It looked up at her with its glazed eyes—vacant of color, soulless—and began to foam at the mouth. A twitch, a quick convulsion, and then stillness. Red pressed a cloth to her arm and put pressure on it to staunch the blood flow. Then she pulled down her shirtsleeve and slipped on her leather jacket to hide the evidence. No one needed to know.

***

Red carried the baby outside wrapped in a pink quilt to conceal its deformities. She created the illusion of a peaceful sleeping babe. The children deserved the opportunity to say goodbye and remember their baby sister as she used to be, not as this horrific creature. They needed closure.

Rivers approached her, but the boy held back. "Can I hold her?"

Red nodded and lowered the baby into the girl's open arms. She stepped back to give them a moment together.

"I haven't held her in months." Rivers cradled the bundle to her chest. "Not since she got sick."

Red nodded and looked over at Wen and Cowboy.

When she caught Cowboy's eye, he immediately came to her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You didn't get bit, did you?" He reached out and took her hand. "Did you?"

"No bites, I promise. How's Wen?"

"He'll be okay. We're going to have to take it easy and go slow."

She nodded and became conscious again of her own head injury, which ached without reprieve. "We need to get away from here—even if it's just a few miles. It'll be better for the kids, I think."

"I agree." He leaned in close and nodded toward the children. "What're we gonna do with them?"

She shook her head. "We have to take them with us. Maybe to the next town, or onto the camps in California. We can't leave them here."

He watched the children for a moment and then looked at her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Red touched his face with affection. "Don't worry about me. I'm more than okay."

***

All of them helped dig a large hole in the earth, taking turns with a shovel—the one used to clonk them over the head—and pick axe they found near the cabin. When it was deep enough, Cowboy and Wen lowered the mother's shrouded body, wrapped in a homemade quilt, into the grave.

Red turned to Rivers, gave her a comforting look, and held her hands out. "It's time."

Rivers handed the baby to Red, and she made a great effort to lay the infant on the mother's chest. Wen and Cowboy shoveled mounds of earth over the open grave while Red stood next to the children with her arms wrapped around their shoulders.

The scene was awfully familiar. Her mother. Her brothers. She'd experienced firsthand the kind of loss and uncertainty the kids felt.

When the last shovel full of dirt covered the grave, Rivers stepped forward and placed a small wildflower on top of the fresh mound. "There is an appointed time for everything." She spoke in a steady whisper. "And a time for every affair under the heavens. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant. A time to kill,"—she paused briefly and went on—"and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance."

Red recognized the scriptures—a time for everything. Her own mother had read from the Bible daily, and Red had loved to hear the word of God. She'd believed in their truth and doubted none of it, until the world rotted with the plague and her family was destroyed. Floods, maybe. A whale swallowing a man whole, perhaps. But the undead consuming their own children? A just and loving God wouldn't have allowed for such a thing. The Bible had wise words, if one believed in them. She no longer did.

Rivers wiped her eyes and glanced up at Red. "I'm ready. We can go now."

***

They'd been riding for several miles when Red glanced back over her shoulder. The blaze of the cabin, visible through the trees, sent smoke billowing up to gray out the blue sky.

Another horribly familiar scene.

Chapter 15 – Damned

Red tucked the blankets around the sleeping children to make sure they were warm enough. Rivers wrapped Fisher protectively in her arms, and Lasso lay awake at their feet, watching over them. The dog had taken to the boy, and Red knew wherever the children ended up, the dog would most likely stay with them. The boy needed the dog more than the rest of them did. She patted Lasso's head, tucked the blankets once more, and went back to sit near the fire.

"They asleep?" Cowboy asked.

Red nodded. "They're finally out. Sleep will help—I hope."

She eyed Wen across the crackling fire. He hunched over and clasped his coffee cup without lifting it to his lips once. He'd been quiet all day, not uttering more than a word or two at a time. She chalked it up to the pain of his fractured skull, but as the day wore on, she wondered if something more coaxed his silence.

She left Cowboy's side and sat next to Wen. He didn't acknowledge her presence, which confirmed her fears. "Are you okay? You've been real quiet today."

"I'm sorry. I just keep replaying the whole thing over and over in my mind, wishing I had done something different. You know?"

"I do. But what's done is done. We're alive and that's something to be thankful for."

"I let you down."

"You didn't let me down."

Wen shook his head. "I told you I'd protect you—do everything I could to keep you safe—and I didn't. I failed you."

She scooted closer to him and slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. "You didn't fail me. I failed me. I should have been more alert. That woman fooled us all, Wen. Don't blame yourself for what happened. I certainly don't."

He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. "Thank you. I promise to do better and keep you safe from now on."

"Wen, don't make promises you can't possibly keep. Besides, it's not your responsibility to protect me. It's mine." She shrugged. "I can't promise to keep any of you safe either. It's foolish to think anyone could."

"Is that why you refuse to tell us your name? You think that can somehow keep us from being concerned for one another? That if I don't know your name, or Cowboy's, I won't feel the need to protect either of you?"

She swallowed and removed her hand from his arm. "I don't know." Such a simple thing, a name, yet that secret kept them at a safe distance. The less they knew about her, the better.

"You don't have to tell me your name. I don't need to know it." He turned his dark eyes to meet hers. "I already know you—Cowboy, too. Hiding behind a false name doesn't change your true identity. Hide if you must. I'll keep my promises."

Red stood, but then crouched to look Wen in the eye. "All I know is that if you get yourself killed for my sake, I'll be pissed. Save yourself first. I didn't ask for your promises and I don't want them."

Wen smiled. "That's the beauty of a real promise. They're freely given. It's my promise. I can do with it what I want. You don't have to like it."

She stood and strode away, fuming. The fire gave off a small amount of light as she walked into the darkness. She'd sworn to keep to herself, yet the people around her continued to grow in numbers. First Cowboy, then Wen, and now two dependent children and a dog, made up her traveling posse.

"You okay?" Cowboy approached from behind.

She nodded.

"You shouldn't stand in the dark like this."

"I just need a moment."

"What's goin' on, Red?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You don't look so fine to me."

She leaned back against a tree, worn out by it all—the day, the kids, Wen's promise, the fact she was falling for Cowboy. "I'm sorry. I just feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders right now."

He glanced back at the camp. "I'm worried about the kids, too, but they'll be okay in time. We'll get them someplace safe and then go search for your brother."

"What about you? Wen?"

Cowboy shrugged. "What about us?"

She just stood there looking at him.

"We're coming with you. That's all there is to it."

"What if I told you not to?"

"I'd still come."

"Coming with me will probably get you killed."

He closed the distance between them and placed his hands on the tree, trapping her between his arms. "Red, the world is dangerous with or without zombies and madmen on the prowl. I might fall off my horse, or be trampled by wild buffalo. I could get shot by drunken card players, or someone who doesn't like the look of my face. My heart might just decide to stop beating while I sleep. A woman may try to feed me to her baby." He smiled. "We're all gonna die eventually, Red. No one's immune—not even you." He touched his thumb to her cheek. "The one thing I know is that while I'm alive, I'll do everything I can to protect you. We're in this together."

***

They'd traveled for hours and the sun was at its apex, so Red suggested they take a break. The kids looked like they needed one.

"Here, boy!" Fisher yelled to Lasso and waved a stick above his head. The poor dog needed a rest, too, but when the boy called, he jumped up and began to play fetch.

"I thought he was my dog." Cowboy smiled as he rummaged through the bags for something they could snack on.

"Looks like he found someone better." Red smiled. "Smart dog."

Cowboy shook his head. When she started to walk away, he caught her around the middle and pulled her close. "You're always the funny one."

"I was being perfectly serious."

"Ah, there you go again."

"If you and Wen could keep an eye out, I'd like to go down to the stream and clean up a little." She touched the back of her head. "I'd like to wash my hair at least, get the blood out."

"Go on." He winked at her. "Use your lavender soap. I like the way it smells."

She pushed him away, grabbed her towel, bucket, and soap, and made her way down to the streambed.

Red looked around to make sure she was alone, and then stripped off her pants and shirt. She waded into the middle of the stream and searched for a foothold on the slippery, moss-covered rocks. She crouched to allow the water to run over her bare shoulders and her breath caught in her chest as she adjusted to the cold temperature. The knife wound on her arm stung, but it was worth the discomfort to get it clean. Besides, the wound had closed, healing quicker than she'd expected.

She dipped the bucket into the water and quickly poured it over her head before she changed her mind. Even the cut and bruising at the base of her skull seemed better, less bothersome. She washed her hair, taking time to unravel her matted locks, caked with blood. When she finally got around to cleaning her body, numbness had spread to her extremities. She quickly ran the bar of soap over her limbs and got out of the water before losing all feeling.

Back on the riverbank, the little girl stood nearby, her eyes wide with shock. Red looked around in every direction, anticipating an attack from zombies, or some wild animal. They were alone.

Red realized the girl was terrified of her. She'd seen the bites and scars all over her body.

Red grabbed the towel and covered herself. "Rivers, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were there."

Rivers didn't answer. She simply turned around and, with trembling fingers, raised the back of her shirt.

Red stared in disbelief. Jagged pink scars lined the girl's lower back. Not very many, but enough for her to recognize what they were—bites and scars just like her own.

Chapter 16 – Others

"Stay right there," Red said as she gathered her clothes. "Don't move. Please."

Rivers stood with her arms wrapped around her waist and her eyes still wide with surprise.

Red was certain her own expression matched that of the little girl—disbelief. She pulled her clothes on, but fumbled with the fasteners and it took her longer than usual to dress.

When she was decent, she walked over to Rivers. "Can I see?"

The girl nodded and tentatively turned around. Red raised her shirt just enough to see three bite marks; two had done little damage, but the third had ripped a portion of the girl's flesh from her back. An ugly, puckered scar remained.

"They're old scars. Are those the only ones you have?"

Rivers nodded, lowered her eyes, and tucked her shirt back into her skirt. "A few months ago, my momma took Fisher into town with her and left me home with the baby. Brooke had the sniffles and she didn't want to take her out, thinking her cold might get worse. So she left her with me." Tears fell down the girl's cheeks. "The unfortunates came—three of them—and I tried to protect Brooke. I really did. But they bit her even though I had covered her with my body."

Red pulled the crying girl into her arms. "It's not your fault, Rivers."

"I got real sick. It hurt bad, but when I woke up, I was fine. Brooke wasn't. My ma thought she'd get better because I had. I wanted her to get better too, but she never did."

Red squeezed the girl and held her while she sobbed.

"My ma thought I was a freak—a work of the devil. She even said so." Rivers looked up to her in search of validation. "But you're just like me. We're the same."

Red looked down at the child, baffled and amazed. If two of them had the ability to outlive a zombie bite, perhaps there were others just like them. The questions and possibilities were endless.

"I don't know what we are." She lifted the girl's chin and looked her in the eye. "But I do know I'm not the work of the devil. Neither are you. There's a reason we are this way. But for now, I don't want you to tell anyone about your bites besides the three of us. Don't show anyone—not anyone. Okay?"

Rivers nodded. "I only showed you because I saw yours."

"I know. I'm glad you did. But no one else, okay? It's not safe out there."

Rivers swallowed hard and avoided looking at Red. "How come you have so many?"

"Because"—Red pulled the girl close, wanting to protect her from the pain she'd experienced—"I made the mistake of telling the wrong person."

***

Trace sat on the blanket next to Wen and watched the boy play chase with the dog. "Energy is wasted on the young," he said, and Wen nodded in agreement. "Imagine how much we could accomplish if we had even half the energy that kid does."

"I know. You tell a kid to take a nap and they throw themselves on the ground and have a fit about it. But I'll tell you, if you told me to take a nap, I'd probably be so happy I'd kiss ya on the mouth."

"Hell, Wen." Cowboy slapped him on the back. "Thanks for letting me know. No napping for you."

Fisher suddenly stopped moving. The knee-high grass rustled in the wind around him, but the boy stood motionless as he stared down at the grass. Trace sat up a little straighter, wondering what he'd found.

The boy dropped out of sight, and his panicked screams brought both Wen and Trace to their feet, running. Lasso barked and pranced around, lunging at something Trace couldn't see. He skipped over rocks and sagebrush toward the sound of the boy's fearful cries.

The zombie held the boy's leg in its vice-like grasp, wanting him, but unable to do anything about it. Its legs were missing from the knees down and the lower portion of its decrepit face was gone. A gaping hole occupied the place where its mouth had been—the boy's saving grace.

Trace took his pistol in hand and fired twice into the zombie's skull, rendering it dead—well, deader. This didn't stop the boy from screaming—he continued to wail and thrash about as Trace snapped each bony digit that encircled Fisher's ankle and yanked the boy into his arms.

"You okay?" He looked him over. "Did it bite you, scratch you?"

Fisher shook his head through his tears, but Trace lifted the boy's pant legs one at a time to make sure.

"Fisher!" Rivers ran a few paces in front of Red. She stumbled upon the dead zombie and began to scream, which set off Fisher all over again.

Red pulled the girl into her arms in an attempt to calm her, while the boy wrapped himself around Trace and cried into his shoulder. Trace held him, unsure how to calm him. He'd never been good with kids, probably because he'd never been much of a kid himself. He watched Red comfort the girl and followed her example, rubbing the boy's back and telling him over and over that everything was fine. The little boy must have believed him, because he settled down.

"Take 'em away from here." Wen darted his eyes back and forth between the zombie and the rest of them. "I've got this covered."

Red led the girl away while Trace continued to carry Fisher, who had wrapped his little arms so tightly around his neck, the kid just might squeeze the life right out of him.

"You're okay, buddy." He patted the boy on the back until Fisher's arms relaxed and he could breathe again.

"What the hell happened?" Red looked as though she might tear him apart piece by piece. Trace didn't think he could feel any worse than he already did, but Red's contempt succeeded in doing just that.

"We didn't see it. It must've been laying in the grass before Fisher came up on it. I'm sorry."

She turned on him, her hands balled into fists. "There's no room here for apologies."

"Damn it, Red! I didn't see the zombie! It was hidden—a fluke circumstance. Fisher's fine. Nothing happened."

"Rivers, take your brother over by the horses for a minute, please." Red took Fisher away from Trace and set him on his feet.

Rivers grabbed her brother's hand and led him away, but stared over her shoulder at them the entire time.

With the kids a safe distance away, Red pushed against his chest with enough force it nearly knocked the wind out of him. He'd expected as much. "He could've been killed!"

"Don't you think I know that?"

Trace was ready for her now and steeled himself for a slap in the face, a punch to the gut, a kick in the crotch—something. When her shoulders sunk and she covered her face with her hands, he was dumbfounded. He wasn't prepared for tears.

"This is too hard," she said. "We can't keep them safe, can we?"

He put his arms around her. She tried to shrug him off, but he held on tight and she eventually gave in. "We're doing okay. We could be doing better, but right now, the kids are fine. I'll have to be more aware, more in tune, so nothing like this ever happens again." He kissed the top of her head. "We'll get them to the next town in a couple of days and find people who are better equipped to take care of them. We can handle a couple of days."

Red shook her head and buried her face in his chest. "We can't leave them in town. We have to come up with a different plan."

"What do you mean a different plan? I thought the plan we had was a good one—get the kids to safety and then go after your brother."

She shook her head once again. "My brother is gonna have to wait."

"Red, what's going on?"

"It's Rivers. Down by the bank, she saw me bathing and showed me her back."

Trace didn't follow.

"She's like me, Cowboy." Red looked up at him. "She has three old bite wounds on her back. She's just like me."

His arms fell away from her and he glanced over at the children. The girl? How was that possible? He glanced at the boy and then back to Red. "Fisher?"

She shook her head. "He's never been bitten, and I don't want to take the chance."

"But he could—"

"My brothers couldn't."

Trace took off his hat and ran a hand through his dark locks. "You saw the bites?"

"Yeah, I did."

"You're sure?"

Red nodded. "I'm positive."

"If you and Rivers can both survive being bitten, then there have to be others."

"My thoughts exactly, but it will be difficult to find them." She slipped her arms around his waist. "I know what happened to me when I told someone who I thought could help. He nearly killed me. You can't tell me there aren't more people like that out there, eager to get their hands on people with ability like ours"—she motioned to the girl and herself—"even if they have to destroy us in the process." She stared up at him. "I won't let that happen to her."

"Me neither." He hugged her once again—a perfect fit. "I won't let anyone hurt either of you. We'll just have to go where no one can find us."

She held him a little tighter. "That's what I was thinking."

Chapter 17 – Wanted

"The weather's gonna turn soon," Wen said. "We need to figure out which direction to head, and what we're gonna do for supplies and shelter to see us through."

Trace nodded agreement. "I figure we have maybe five or six weeks tops until the snow starts falling. We could head south to avoid the weather, but most likely everyone else has the same idea. And where there're people, we're bound to find the diseased. It might be better to head north, but then we face the colder weather coming on us even faster."

Red rolled her shoulders forward and hung her head low as if giving up, which scared him. That was the last thing he needed her to do.

Wen looked across the terrain. "A lot of people have picked up and headed west, leaving their homes and property behind. Maybe we should head northeast towards Wyoming or Montana and see what we come across. It would be easier to find shelter than to build something. We just don't have enough time for that."

Trace turned to Red. "What do you think?" Of the three of them, she was the smartest by far—they needed her input to help set the course. But she just shook her head.

Trace released his breath in resignation. "I, for one, think we need to cut back the way we came and head north. We're taking the risk of not finding shelter before the weather turns, but I still think we need to try. We need to avoid as many people as we can—especially John Gatherum and other people like him."

Wen nodded. "We should probably load up on supplies at the next available town. We can avoid the plague, but trying to outlast the winter just might be the thing to kill us."

Trace and Wen met each other's gaze, obviously concerned about the same things. Red had checked herself out of the conversation, leaving him and Wen to decide.

"I guess all we can do is take it one day at a time," Trace said. "And hope for the best."

Trace watched Red for signs of a reaction, or some indication that she agreed they were making the right choices, but she simply pulled her knees up to her chest, placed her chin on top, and stared into the distance, absorbed in her own thoughts. He wished he could help her, but didn't know where to begin. His words of assurance made little difference, and she'd work through it on her own and return to her confident, bossy self in no time. Until then, he and Wen would have to make the tough decisions for all of them.

"We have a few more hours of light." He rose to his feet and brushed off his pants. "I suggest we make the most of 'em."

***

The town resembled a few others they'd come across—barriers and fences surrounded the outskirts, and men with guns stood guard.

"Wen and I will go into town and check things out. We need supplies and I can't carry it all myself." Trace looked at Red and the kids. "I think y'all should stay here. Keep the fire low, stay together."

They'd found a small cave for shelter in the rocky mountainside, which protected them from the rain the previous night. Without it, they would have been soaked to the bone and freezing. They were lucky to have come across the alcove. Ah, there it is again. Luck.

Trace watched Red. She didn't look at him, but nodded her head in agreement. He didn't feel comfortable leaving them alone, especially with Red behaving in such a peculiar manner, but he couldn't think of any other way. If Wen stayed behind, Trace would be more vulnerable should something happen in town. Even if nothing happened, he'd struggle to carry all the supplies they needed back to the campsite. A better option would be to leave Wen with the kids and have Red come with him, but since the last town they visited had proved dangerous for her, he didn't want to risk it again.

"We'll return as soon as we can—an hour or two, tops."

She nodded. "We have no other choice. Go, but be quick. Please."

Tears began to build behind her bravado. She bit her lip and turned her eyes from him. Separating was dangerous business, since it could very well become permanent.

He knelt beside her. "I'll be back. That's a promise."

"You know what I think about promises."

"I will be back." He cupped her face and pressed his forehead to hers. "I don't know what's going on with you, but everything's gonna be okay—I'll make sure of it."

She didn't say anything.

"Come on, Wen. The sooner we go, the quicker we can get back here and be on our way." He patted the dog on the head as he walked by. "Keep 'em safe until we get back, boy."

***

The townspeople bartered for goods by shouting over the top of each other, shoving their competitors when the negotiation didn't work in their favor.

They were in a heap of trouble, with plenty of money but nothing of worth to barter; everything they owned, they needed.

No women or children milled around the crowd gathered outside the old General Store, just a bunch of burly men who looked like they'd shoot someone over a measly bag of flour.

"Sure glad we left Red and the kids behind," Wen said, pulling his hat down a little more.

Trace nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."

Along with the lack of women and children, Trace noticed the run-down saloon and hotel, its windows and doors boarded up, looking as though they'd been that way for quite some time. The town had obviously devolved into a place to gather supplies and move on. The odds that they would get everything they'd hoped for seemed slim.

Both men tied their horses to the post and stood at the back of the crowd. The shopkeeper lifted his hands and told the men to give him some breathing room, his frustration clearly growing with the mob of edgy, needy men.

"Come on, a'ready!" one man yelled. "We ain't got all day!"

"A'right. A'right." The shopkeeper held up a bolt of cloth. "Whaddya blokes have ta offer?"

"I gots a bottle of rum!" someone called from the back.

"I'll give you some 'coon skins. Two of 'em!" A man in front held up the furs.

"What do we do?" Wen whispered to Trace.

"I'm not sure." Trace shook his head. "If we can't get what we need here, I don't know how we're gonna make it. Let's see if my money's any good. If not, we move on regardless." Trace leaned his arm on Wen's shoulder. "If we get separated for any reason, head back to Red. We'll meet there, okay?"

Wen nodded.

"Take this." Trace pressed a small bag of coins and bills into Wen's hand. "Go to the blacksmith's shop and see if we can get a deal on a wagon, or if they know of someone who wants to get rid of one. I think we're gonna need it."

"We should have taken one from the wagon train where we first met." Wen smiled. "There were at least a dozen there for free."

"Well, a lot has changed since then. See if you can get something small and light, so we can run with it if we need to."

Wen nodded and headed down the street.

The crowd pressed down on the shopkeeper and continued to yell over top of one another. Trace knew he wouldn't be able to get much, and kept one hand on his gun, just in case. It was that kind of crowd.

He eyed the dilapidated town and its surroundings, wondering where the sheriff was. Surely the town had someone in a position of authority to maintain order.

The shop owner yelled, "I have cornmeal and tobacco! Whatcha got to offer?"

The crowd pushed forward. They carried Trace along with it, wedging him between two rather large farmers, each with their own distinct smell of recently toiled earth and body odor. Men yelled out offers in an attempt to outbid the next guy. Determined to get that cornmeal, Trace steeled himself against the men who pushed and swore at one another. So far, the madness only consisted of verbal abuse and shoving, so he decided to take a gamble that no weapons would be drawn.

"Twenty dollars!" Trace yelled, hoping his money still carried some worth.

"Fifty!" someone else shouted.

"Hundred!" he countered.

Several men turned to look in his direction, and Trace wondered if he'd done the right thing by bidding that high. It was foolish to let them know he held that kind of money.

"To the man in the back!" The shopkeeper called over everyone, and Trace received an elbow to the ribs from the man to his right. Trace just took the cornmeal and tobacco, pressed them to his chest, and fought his way through the crowd. He wanted out of there.

"I have two blankets, now. What'll ya give me?"

Trace needed those blankets, but he decided to shut his trap and let someone else have them. Good thing, too. One man bickered with another over the value of the blankets, insisting a crippled old mule was worth more than a jug of rum. The man with the rum drew his pistol and shot the owner of the mule in the head. This silenced the crowd for a moment, but no one did anything to rectify the situation, so they went right back to bartering and left the dead man lying where he fell.

An old man placed his wrinkled hand on Trace's arm. "I could really use that tobacco, son. If you're willin'."

"What do you have in exchange?"

"Come." The man dragged Trace away from the crowd and down a side street. "No one takes me seriously anymore. They figure if you got a gray head of hair, you ain't much worth listenin' to."

The isolated alley sat tucked between two buildings, and Trace looked back over his shoulder and considered returning to the main road. The crowd of frantic men fighting over supplies might have actually been safer than following a stranger down a deserted road. The old man appeared innocent enough, but so had the petite woman who had tried to feed him to her undead baby. He looked the old man over, made a mental note of his weapons, and scanned his surroundings for a possible ambush.

"Here we are." The old man lifted his shaky hand and removed a tarp from over the top of a wagon. "Take what you want. It's no use to me anyhow."

Crates and barrels of various sizes littered the flat bed of the wagon. Some were busted open with the contents spoiled, but a great deal of useful supplies remained. If the wagon itself didn't have a broken axle, Trace would've made an offer on that as well.

"How is it that you haven't been looted?" With a town full of wild, desperate men, he couldn't understand why they hadn't robbed this old guy of his supplies, however meager they were.

"Like I said, no one takes me seriously."

Trace nodded. Although the old man seemed genuine, he glanced around once more. "Well, I do. I could definitely use what you have."

"Take it all." The man waved his hand over it. "I'm not going anywhere. I thought I'd try to head west, but I probably wouldn't make it. Besides, there's nothin' there for me no how." He took a jug from the back. "This one isn't for sale. I plan to smoke and drink myself into a state of bliss."

Trace wondered if he should offer to bring the old man along with their band of misfits, but thought against it. He hardly knew how to take care of the people he was already responsible for, and he had to be especially careful not to let anyone near Red and Rivers. He handed the tobacco to the old man and threw the tarp back over the wagon.

"I appreciate this." Trace shook the old man's hand, deciding to take him at his word. "I have a woman and two kids who will be mighty grateful." Trace paused, stunned by his own words. A woman and two kids.

The old man dug into the tobacco, took a pinch, and placed it in the side of his mouth. "You're lucky to have a family to cling to in times like these. What I wouldn't give to be in your shoes."

Lucky. There was that word again.

Trace made his way back to the center of town in search of Wen. He needed to find him quickly; couldn't leave the old man and the wagon of supplies unattended any longer than necessary. Most of the rowdy men still gathered in front of the General Store, so he headed in the opposite direction, toward the smith shop at the far end of town. For the most part, he kept his eyes forward and his ears wide open.

A weathered poster on the door of the boarded-up saloon flapped in the breeze and caught his attention. He glanced at it briefly and continued on his way. Then it hit him.

He turned around and slowly approached the saloon.

Several notices were nailed to the door, but one in particular stood out. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching him, yanked the flyer off the door, and shoved it inside his jacket.

***

The kids drew pictures of themselves and the dog on the cave walls, with a rock that left white markings. Red loved Fisher's depiction of Trace and Wen—stick men with cowboy hats and guns as big as their heads. They drew a picture of everyone, even Red, although she had no idea why Rivers chose to depict her in a dress. She hadn't worn a dress in years, but she didn't say anything. It felt nice just to be included in the mural.

Trace and Wen had been gone for hours now, and the coloring no longer held the kids' attention. They'd covered every inch of space on the cave wall.

"You want me to tell you another story?" Red handed both kids another piece of dried meat to tide them over until supper. "Or play tic-tac-toe?"

Rivers slumped forward and rested her arms on her knees. "When're they coming back?"

"Yeah," Fisher piped in. "I'm bored."

"Soon."

The sun disappeared from the mouth of their shelter. The men had been gone far longer than expected. They should have been back for lunch, but she and the kids ended up sharing their portion. Now it was going on dinnertime and they still hadn't returned.

Red turned away from the kids and closed her eyes for a moment. If they didn't return by morning, she'd have to take the kids and move on. The men would do the same if the circumstances were reversed.

A twig snapped in the distance and brought her upright. She released her breath and the heaviness in her chest lifted. Red turned and smiled at the kids. "Well, let's go see if they brought anything special for you two."

She expected them to jump to their feet and tear out of the cave, but they sat motionless with wide, terrified eyes flicking back and forth from the cave opening to her. Neither of them said a word.

Red whipped her head around and took in a sharp breath.

A swarm of decrepit souls crashed through the trees just a few yards away, clambering over rocks in the direction of the cave. Their jaws cracked and stretched while their cloudy eyes fixated on her and the kids. There were so many—too many—and she and the kids had nowhere to run or hide.

Classy neighed and bolted to avoid the onslaught of zombies. Lasso barked repeatedly and snapped at the air, but the walkers were unfazed by the furry creature.

"Get to the back!" she yelled at the kids. "Now!"

Rivers yanked Fisher's arm and pulled him to the far corner, while Red grabbed her weapons and prepared to take on the horde herself.

As the zombies shuffled closer, she fired the rifle and took each rotting corpse down as fast as she could. Twenty-five bullets, spread over three guns, wouldn't be enough, but she continued to shoot, hoping for a miracle. Giving up wasn't an option.

Her ears rang from the shots vibrating off the rock walls, intermixed with her fluid curses and the children's terrified cries. She held her hands steady and fought back the fear that threatened to overtake her. If it weren't for the kids, it would've been easy to give in.

Rivers huddled in the back of the cave, shielding Fisher with her own body. "Don't let them bite me!" she cried. "Please, don't let them bite me!"

Red shot the last of her bullets into the heads of a few zombies that threatened to enter the cave. Rivers' cries pushed Red onward even after the bullets were long gone, and she crushed zombie skulls with the butt of her rifle, using all the force she could muster.

The undead crumbled to the ground and created a pile at the mouth of the cave, but more came crawling on all fours over the scattered bodies, sniffing the air, growling through broken jaws. The children cried, the zombies shrieked, and Red continued to smash her rifle down on bone.

When it became slick with blood, she threw the gun to the side, and with a war cry of her own, grabbed one zombie and snapped its neck with one quick twist. Then she snapped another, and another. She yelled out when one clamped its crooked jaws onto her arm and another pierced her leg with its jagged teeth. The vile venom flowed through her blood stream and attacked her organs, cells, tissue, and nerves.

Her pained cries only exacerbated Rivers' fearful pleas. The girl screamed, "Don't let them bite me!"

Despite the pain from the liquid heat, Red continued to snap necks even as she lost feeling in her arms and the twitching began. The zombies who had bit her foamed at the mouth and regurgitating their insides, as her blood killed them. The numbness crept down her arms and legs and her vision blurred, then disappeared all together. Her tongue thickened and soon she couldn't speak.

She pried one set of zombie fingers from her arm, kicked at another to free herself, and stumbled backward, blindly groping the cave walls. She threw herself on top of the kids and pushed them into the corner, hoping to spare them from feeling anything but her weight.

If the bites must come, let them come to her.

***

Inside her belly, it breathed. Its feelers reached out from her core, snaked itself through her veins, and wrapped itself around her spine. It had a hold of every bone in her body, and the ability to crush her if it so desired.

But it waited.

It toyed with her and dragged out the misery, extending her hell as it licked the inside of her temples. Tainted blood rushed to every part of her aching body and seeped into her cells. Blackness distorted everything as she fell deeper into the fiery abyss. It scorched her from the inside out. Her heart fought tirelessly to pump the thickness that flowed through it. The sulfuric smell ate away at her senses.

I can't do this anymore.

The beast inside her squeezed a little tighter. She gave in and allowed it to drag her all the way under.

Chapter 18 – Family

With everything packed and ready to go, Wen and Trace hitched up the horses and climbed to the seat. They hadn't acquired enough to see them through the winter, but with the wild crowd Trace had found in town, they had a whole lot more than he expected.

"I hope she has dinner on the go," Wen said. "I'm feeling rather peckish."

"Sorry about that." Trace gave the reins a snap and the horses started forward.

The horses weren't used to pulling anything behind them, and balked at it, but after a few yards they gave in and pulled the wagon smoothly.

"I didn't think we'd be gone all day." Trace shook his head. "I don't like the idea of Red and the kids being on their own for so long, but taking them into town with us would have been the wrong thing to do."

Wen settled in the seat beside him. "Yeah, it was better to leave them behind."

"He's still looking for her."

"How do you know for certain?"

Trace pulled out the crumpled poster and handed it to Wen, who smoothed it out.

Wen sat quiet for a minute while studying the drawing. "This ain't good. This ain't good at all."

"Notice he wants her alive. Two thousand dollars to bring her in unharmed." Trace rested his elbows on his knees. "People will be riding all over the country looking for Red. It's a lot of money."

"Well, we ain't gonna let that happen, are we?" Wen folded the poster, handed it back, and placed his hand on Trace's shoulder. "We're family now. And I won't let anyone mess with my family."

Family? The concept excited him and scared him at the same time. Excited him, because he'd never had a family before. He'd always pretty much been on his own. Scared him, because now he stood a great chance of losing them.

It was all so unfamiliar—Red, the kids, even Wen. He'd been so focused on survival that he hadn't considered his companions as much more than that—companions. Except for Red. He wanted to be with her in every sense of the word. He just wished she'd open herself up to him.

At times, he felt them connecting, drawing closer. At other times, she pulled away and left him to wonder at his foolishness in trying.

***

Trace smelled it before they even drew close to the cave. Rot and decay wafted down the mountain and enveloped them. The overpowering odor made bile rise to his throat, but he swallowed the burning taste away.

Before he could pull the wagon to a stop, Wen jumped off and ran full speed up the wild terrain. Obviously, he smelled it, too.

Trace heard Lasso barking, but nothing else. No children. No Red. He yanked on the reins to stop the horses and the wagon, and jumped off to climb up the hillside after Wen.

"Red! Red!" He couldn't feel the rocks he scrambled over, or the trees and brush he pushed through. Everything was out of focus except for one thing—Red and the kids.

"Please be okay. Please be okay." He repeated the phrase over and over, as if doing so would make it a reality.

Wen stopped suddenly, and Trace just about slammed into him as the cave came into view. Bodies littered the cave's entrance and created a wall that obstructed the men's ability to see inside. Some of the dead continued to foam at the mouth, while others stared up with cloudy eyes and a bullet lodged in the middle of their foreheads.

"Red! Rivers!" Wen yelled, as he began to heave aside the rotting corpses.

Trace pulled himself together, dove toward the bodies, and joined in Wen's frantic excavation. There were so many of them.

"Red!" he called out. "Red!"

Silence.

After clearing the pile of bodies away from the entrance, they found more inside the cave. Red had put up quite a fight fending them off—crushed skulls and severed limbs littered the floor. Trace and Wen pitched them like ragdolls onto the pile accumulating outside.

"Rivers! Fisher!" Trace fought against his churning stomach. "Say something! Please say something!"

Come on, come on, come on!

Then he heard it—whimpering, faint, yet distinct. Someone was alive inside the cave.

The boy rocked on the ground with his arms over his head while small, pitiful sounds escaped his lips. Beside him, Rivers and Red lay unconscious and drenched in blood. Rivers' bare legs and arms revealed a few bites that bubbled on her skin.

Face down next to the girl, with one arm tossed across Rivers' belly, Red's back oozed a bloody, foaming mess that soaked through what little remained of her shredded shirt. Puncture wounds, scratches, and deep bites peeked through the strips of cloth.

Trace had seen men lashed—struck repeatedly with jagged leather straps that tore their flesh open—as a punishment for their crimes, but Red's wounds were by far the worst he'd ever seen.

"She's burning up!" Wen pressed his hand over the wound on Rivers' arm, but blood continued to flow through the cracks of his fingers. "What do we do?"

"I don't know," Trace said. Rivers didn't look too bad, but Red.... He couldn't imagine her coming back from this. "Carry Rivers to the wagon and then come get the boy."

"Look at them! We can't move 'em!"

"We sure as hell can't stay here!"

Trace pulled his shirt over his head and pressed it to Red's back to staunch the flow of blood. It soaked his shirt in a matter of seconds; she was losing too much.

"Come on, Red," he whispered near her ear. "Help me out here. Help me, please."

He watched Wen scoop the girl in his arms. Unsure of what to do, he lifted Red and carried her out of the cave and down the hillside as quickly as he could. Her slick, warm blood coated his hands and arms, and her skin burned against his chest, hotter than any human could possibly withstand. Yet she was still alive.

"Don't die, Red." He pressed his lips to her forehead, but quickly withdrew them from the scorching heat. "Don't you dare die on me."

Wen laid Rivers on the ground, jumped into the back of the wagon, and removed the tarp that covered the supplies. He folded it haphazardly to make a bed out of it, and pushed the boxes and crates aside to make room for their ailing companions.

"Hand her to me." Wen held out his arms, and Trace handed Red over to him.

Once Wen had placed her carefully on her stomach, leaving her back exposed, Trace handed Rivers up to him. The two of them lay unconscious, side-by-side, and Trace couldn't help but think they might lose them both. He pushed the thought aside and determined not to let that happen.

Wen bolted over the edge of the wagon and ran back up the hill to retrieve the boy. Red's horse was long gone, but when Wen returned with Fisher in his arms, Lasso came running after.

They needed to find a safe, warm place, but they couldn't turn to anyone without exposing the girls' secret and putting them in even greater danger. It was up to him and Wen to keep them alive.

***

"I promised I'd shoot her." Wen looked over his shoulder at Trace, who sat between the girls, bathing their heads with a cloth.

"I know."

"I should do it, too. I should. She looks like hell."

Trace didn't say anything. It would be easy—place a pillow over her face, shoot her in the head, end her misery—except he couldn't do it. If he had any chance of helping her pull through, he wanted to take it. Selfish, perhaps, but he couldn't give up on her. Not yet.

"I made a promise. I usually keep my promises, but I don't think I can do it." He shook his head. "I don't think I can shoot her."

"I know."

"If she pulls through, which I pray she does, she's gonna shoot us both."

Trace brushed back the sweat-soaked hair from Red's face. "I know." He didn't care. She could yell and scream all she wanted. She could put a bullet in his belly. He just needed her to live.

"I'm not going to shoot her."

"Good."

"But if she gets worse—I will."

If she got worse, Trace would step aside and let him.

Chapter 19 – Hand Gestures

It appeared as a mirage—a lava rock structure rising out of the desert. The military fort was a place of rest for the weary traveler.

Trace couldn't imagine anyone less weary than the five of them. "You see anything?"

He stood in the bed of the wagon and watched for signs of life—smoke, movement, or anything to suggest the fort was either occupied or abandoned. He couldn't see much indication either way.

"Nope," Wen said. "The walls are too high."

"Anyone in the towers?"

"Not that I can see."

"I hate not knowing what's in there." Trace shook his head and nibbled at his lower lip.

No smoke rose from the fort, which was a good thing. If people were inside, they'd have fires burning in order to keep warm or prepare their meals. However, lack of smoke didn't guarantee anything. A shelter this large with eighteen-foot walls that appeared indestructible couldn't have just been left abandoned. With enough food and supplies, the fort seemed an ideal place to wait out the plague. Surely, they weren't the first ones to have come upon it.

Wen's eyes narrowed in concentration. "What do ya think? Should we go check it out?"

Trace released his breath and considered their options. "The girls need a safe place to rest and recover, but if there are people down there, we're not going to receive the welcome we'd like once they catch a glimpse of what we have in our wagon."

Red's and Rivers' wounds had healed some and they'd stopped bleeding, but the sores still oozed. Both looked horrible—pale, sweaty, feverish—and the fact they remained unconscious didn't help. No one in their right mind would let them in with Red and Rivers looking so sick.

It was strange how their bodies mended themselves, little by little, with each passing hour. They'd come out of it, just as Red had before. He just had to give it some time.

If people had indeed taken refuge inside the fort, and if they were smart, they'd keep the mammoth-sized gates closed.

"If no one can see what we're carrying, then once we get inside, we'll go from there." Wen nodded with determination.

"I don't know." Trace wasn't so sure. "Hiding them to gain entrance is one thing, but if they find out once we're inside... well, I don't want to take that chance. If we get into a shootout with two of our members sick and a third only six years old, the odds would not be in our favor."

Fisher sat between them on the wagon and looked from one man to the other, his eyes wide. They tried to engage him—to pull him out of what could only be shock—but other than the occasional whimper, he remained silent. He didn't tell them if he was hungry, cold, or in need of anything; it was up to them to make sure he didn't starve or freeze to death.

It pained Trace to see the boy in this condition, but until Red and Rivers were settled in a place where they could recover, Fisher would have to take a back seat. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.

"Maybe I should go down and scout out the situation first," Trace said. "I can wave you in if it looks safe. If not, I'll just see if they can spare a few blankets and tell them I'm headed north. I don't want to put any of us in danger if we don't need to."

Wen nodded. "Good luck."

Trace turned away and rolled his eyes. Either he would go down and find the place empty, or he wouldn't. Luck had nothing to do with it.

"If you hear any shots, take off." Trace checked his pistols, making sure each chamber had a bullet. "Don't worry about me. Just get them out of here as quick as you can."

Again, Wen nodded. "Be careful."

Trace tucked his guns into their holsters, pulled his jacket on to conceal them, and started toward the massive structure. Lasso tried to follow him, but he shooed him back. "Stay here, boy." The dog cocked his head to the side and lifted his ears. "Stay with them." Lasso stood a few yards in front of the wagon with his tail stilled, watching Trace go.

He expected to see someone in one of the two towers that faced him with a gun aimed in his direction, but the lookouts appeared to be empty. His walk up to the fort proved rather uneventful.

Trace pushed against the thick, wooden gates on the eastern side, but they didn't budge. He thought about knocking, but quickly dismissed it. A horde of sleeping zombies might be on the other side, and he didn't want to unleash well-contained flesh eaters. If both sets of doors were locked from the outside, he'd return to Wen and they'd move along. Whatever was locked inside should probably stay that way.

A slight breeze whistled past his ears as sagebrush tumbled by, which added to the already foreboding silence that surrounded him. A crow cawed overhead and Trace whipped around, his nerves getting the best of him.

Damn it. Pull it together.

He shook it off and walked around the circumference of the structure, close to the rock walls and out of the line of vision from the towers. The west-facing doors also appeared to be shut, but on closer inspection, Trace noticed a stone, no bigger than a walnut, jammed into the crack where the doors met.

Clever. Very clever.

Zombies possessed no capability for cleverness, and since no undead fingers reached through the crack or growled at him from inside, the fort must be zombie-free.

But someone had been here. Whoever had planted that rock between the doors would be back. If Trace and his companions were inside before then, the fort would be theirs, and the original squatters wouldn't take it back without a fight.

All was fair in love and war, and there weren't no war like a zombie plague.

He gazed over the western plains for any sign of life, and saw nothing except rolling tumbleweed and brush swaying in the slight breeze. He pulled out one of his pistols and nudged the huge door open, just enough to squeeze inside.

A dozen or so smaller rooms and outbuildings surrounded a large, open courtyard. A few shade trees dropped fruit, and a garden in the northeast corner still had plenty of vegetables left to give. Two goats, a lamb, several chickens, and a cow ate in their open stalls, hardly paying attention as Trace moseyed past. There was also a bunkhouse, water well, kitchen, and blacksmith shop. But he fancied the telegraph station most. He didn't know if it still transmitted messages, but the possibility excited him.

He walked around the courtyard, watching for signs of a threat, and opened several doors and scouted out the empty rooms. When he happened upon the captain's quarters, he found an old man asleep on the double bed inside. He stepped back, aimed his gun at the old man, and cleared his throat to rouse him, but the man continued sleeping. He tried once again with the same result. The third time, he kicked the side of the bed, and the old man's eyes flew open in horror when he saw Trace standing there with a gun trained on him.

The man raised his hands, but didn't sit up.

"Are there more of you?"

The old man nodded.

"How many?"

He held up one finger.

Trace liked those odds. He could take them both out if necessary, but perhaps they'd be reasonable and it wouldn't come to that.

"Step out of the bed very slowly. Keep your hands up and don't try anything stupid."

The old man's hands trembled and he adamantly shook his head. Trace again asked him to stand up, but the old man continued to shake his head.

"Now!" Trace had no patience for the man's defiance. His companion could return at any point and put a bullet in Trace's back. "I need you to get out of that bed."

The old man curled his shaky fingers and pointed across the room toward a set of homemade crutches leaning against the wall.

Damn it, Trace thought. He'd yelled at an invalid. "You can't get out of bed, can you?"

The old man shook his head.

"You're not much of a talker, either."

The old man touched his lips and shook his head again.

Trace let out his breath. The old man appeared incapable of caring for himself, and posed no threat. It looked as though Trace would be responsible for yet another lame, dependent person if they took over the fort—a price he would gladly pay.

"Okay, I'm not gonna hurt you. No one's gonna hurt you. But I have a family waiting for me out there"—Trace nodded toward the exit—"and they need a place to stay and rest awhile. That's all we need, just a safe place to rest. So I'm gonna go get them now, and I promise that no one's gonna hurt you."

The old man began to make hand gestures, placing his hands high above him and then dropping them to his heart over and over. Trace had no idea what the old guy was trying to tell him. Was he praying to God? Telling Trace thank you?

"Not sure what you're saying, mister, but I'll be back. We're good people and mean no harm. We just need a place to stay, that's all." Trace hoped that by repeating himself, the old man would realize he meant what he said. "I'll be right back."

He left the old man, scaled the wooden ladder up to the tower facing Wen and the wagon, and looked as far as he could for any sign of movement in either direction.

Nothing.

He took off his black hat, found Wen in the distance, and waved it back and forth. Wen waved his hat in response.

***

Wen pulled the wagon into the inner court, jumped off, and helped Trace shut and bar the heavy doors into place. Trace had already locked up the other set of doors as well. No one was getting in—zombies, intruders, or even the person who had left the old man behind.

"We're sure lucky this place is empty," Wen said, as he helped Fisher down from the wagon and set the boy on his feet.

"It's not." Trace pointed to the captain's quarters. "There's an old man in there. Harmless. Bedridden. He said there's one more person, someone who went outside the walls for some reason. They'll be mighty upset about being shut out when they get back."

"It could've been worse," Wen said. "The place could've been packed with people."

"It actually went far better than I imagined."

Trace removed the blanket that covered Red and Rivers. Except for an increased amount of sweat on their brows, they appeared to be in much the same condition.

Trace lifted Rivers and handed her down to Wen. "Pick a room and put her inside. Make her comfortable."

Wen nodded.

Trace turned to Fisher. "In that room over there"—he indicated the old man's sleeping quarters—"you'll find an older gentleman. He doesn't say much and can't get out of bed, but I bet he'd love to meet you. Why don't you go keep him company and see if there's anything he needs, okay?"

The boy hesitated, then tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants and walked in the direction of the old man's room with Lasso on his heels. Part way across the courtyard, Fisher looked back at Trace.

"Go on, now. He's harmless, I promise. You can both be silent together." A man who couldn't talk and a boy who wouldn't—a perfect pair.

With Fisher out of the way for a moment, Trace carried Red into one of the vacant rooms and laid her face down on the lumpy mattress. It was a nice enough room, with a washbasin and pitcher, dresser, wardrobe, fireplace, and a single window looking out onto the courtyard. If she were awake, Red would probably complain it was too feminine.

He touched the back of his hand to her rather warm forehead. He needed to cool her down and find fresh clothes for her, something besides the shredded, bloodied mess she wore.

"You need water?" Wen stood inside the door. "I'm going to get some for Rivers. She's fevering again."

Trace nodded. "That would be great."

"How's she doing?"

"No worse than before. Let's get them settled, and then make sure the boy and the old man are fed and the horses are taken care of."

Wen left to retrieve the water, and Trace searched the chest of drawers. He found very little of use in there, but the wardrobe held a lot of useful items. Wen returned and poured cool water into the porcelain basin.

"Here." Trace tossed Wen a nightgown. "You can use that for Rivers. Get her out of her soiled clothes."

Wen took it and left Trace alone with Red.

The open sores seethed and blistered on her skin, and even though he'd cleaned off most of the blood the day before, it didn't look any less horrific. As tenderly as he could, he peeled her shirt away from the festering wounds. The material clung on, and he soaked it with water before prying it from her skin. He didn't want to add to her injuries, but she didn't move or protest.

"I'm sorry, Red." He removed the remaining portion of her shirt and actually tore the sleeves from her arms. "I'm trying to give you as much dignity as I can."

After removing her clothes, he dipped the strips of her old shirt in the water bowl and gently dabbed at the wounds in order to clean her back. In one of the drawers, he found a large piece of linen, most likely used as a table covering or material for sewing undergarments. He tore it into wide strips and draped them over Red's back, covering the gaping flesh. Medicine of some sort, to expedite the healing process, would be nice. He'd explore the fort later to see what might be available.

He covered her with a lightweight quilt, but didn't clothe her, since he would need to clean and redress her wounds later. He could imagine her cursing and accusing him of stealing her clothes again.  He hoped within a day or two, her back would have healed sufficiently enough for him to slip a nightdress on her.

"Get better." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "I'm giving you no other option."

Chapter 20 – Wild Card

The sun dipped beyond the horizon and cast a golden hue over everything. Trace looked forward to a quiet evening, especially after spending all afternoon scouting out the place. He'd found plenty of food, clothing, weapons, and ammunition to see them through the winter months, as long as they were smart about it. They couldn't have found a better setup than this one.

Even Fisher had come out of his gloomy shell. He continued in silence, but his eyes seemed less sorrowful than before. They even sparkled a little when Trace gave him permission to climb the lookout towers, though with the specific order to be careful. That was all Trace needed—another person to mend—but he couldn't deny the boy some fun.

Trace and Wen managed to help the old man to his feet and bring him outside for some fresh air. They propped him up in a chair and set up a little table at his side with a mug of black coffee and a plate of food. He'd been in his room for most of the morning, and who knew how long before that. A change of scenery might do him some good. Trace also wanted the old man, who still could not talk, to know they were good people and meant him no harm. There was no better way to prove that than to let the old man see them in action.

Trace had just finished watering the animals, when someone began to pull at his sleeve. Fisher had a mighty fine hold on his arm and wasn't in any hurry to let go.

"What's goin' on, boy? Everything a'right?"

Fisher just stared up at him, and said nothing.

"You hurt?"

The boy blinked.

Trace squatted to Fisher's level and placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "You're gonna have to help me out here, son. I know you need something, but unless you tell me, I won't know what it is."

Fisher raised his arm and pointed toward the tower he'd been playing in.

Trace glanced from the tower to the boy. "Did you see something? Is that it?"

Fisher lowered his arm, but still said nothing. Damn, Trace wished the kid would just speak. It'd make everything a hell of a lot easier.

"Wen!" Trace hollered, standing once again. "I think Fisher saw something!"

Without another word, he grabbed his rifle and scaled the ladder to the west tower. Wen took the east. They looked over the desert plain, each temporarily at a loss for words at what they saw heading their way.

"Oh hell," Trace whispered.

Bearing down on them from the south, a swarm of decrepit zombies marched toward the fort—more than he'd ever seen in one place before. What worried him most, however, was that mere yards in front of the undead army, someone tried to outrun them.

The man staggered, fell, regained his footing and started running once more, but only after losing some of his lead.

"What do we do?" Wen called from the adjacent tower.

"What we have to!" Trace raised his rifle and fired into the crowd, killing the closest walker, which gave the person below more of an advantage. "Go to the west gate," he yelled to Wen. "Let him in!"

Wen scrambled down from his lookout, and Trace fired again, took down another zombie, and quickly reloaded. There were just too many of them, and they all headed in the direction of the fort. So much for the quiet evening he'd hoped for.

Trace aimed for the fastest walkers and took out two more, blasting through each skull with one highly skilled shot apiece. Four bullets. Four dead zombies.

"Go to the west side!" he yelled to the poor sap who tried to outrun the swarm. The fellow nodded, turned, and staggered off in that direction.

Maybe it was a mistake to let this person in, but leaving him outside the fort walls to be devoured by a mass of flesh eaters didn't sit well with Trace. He skimmed down the ladder and got to the base just as Wen yanked the man through the small opening. Together, all three of them pushed the gates closed and positioned the heavy crossbeam in place.

They stepped back, waited and watched. Everyone knew it was coming, including the old man and the little boy. They glanced from one gate to the other and listened, steeling themselves for the inevitable.

A silent minute passed. Then another.

Then the howls, the clawing of nails on wood, the pushing and pounding on the heavy gates, the smell of death. Lasso barked and ran around the courtyard in search of a way to get at them, but the guard dog only managed to add to the intolerable level of noise vibrating off the stone walls. Trace had to give him some credit, though.

The rest of them stood still and silent, as they watched the gates and prayed they would hold steady. They had plenty of supplies to see them through for a while, but would have to carefully ration their food, since leaving the fort was no longer an option. Not any time soon, anyway.

Fisher slipped his hand into Trace's, and he pulled the boy to his side. "It's okay, they can't get in. We're safe." The boy needed to believe nothing could get to him, even if it wasn't true.

"Should we shoot 'em? Kill as many as we can?" Wen looked to Trace for guidance.

"No, we'd just be wasting bullets."

"So what, then?"

Trace let his gaze fall on the stranger who stood silently before them. "I think we ask our foolish friend here how he got mixed up with the undead like that, and why he led them right to us."

The stranger just looked at the ground.

"Wait a minute." Trace stepped back and pushed Fisher behind him. "You sure as hell better not be bit."

Wen stepped back too. He raised his gun and trained it on the stranger's temple.

"Well, are ya?" Trace asked.

The stranger shook his head, but still refused to look up. "No, I'm not bit. I promise."

Both Wen and Trace took another step backwards, not out of fear or worry, but due to utter disbelief. The high-pitched voice with soft edges indicated that the stranger wasn't a man.

"Holy Moses," Wen said. "He's a girl!"

She looked up then, and her dark eyes darted from one man to the other. "This is my fort." She pointed to the old man still sitting in his chair. "If he could talk, he'd tell ya that's the truth."

Trace shifted his attention to the old man. "That so?"

The old guy nodded and started in again with the hand signs, pressing his closed fists to his heart. Trace wondered what it all meant.

"So this is your fort?"

The girl nodded.

"Then why in the world would you leave it?" Trace asked. "A stone in the door seems rather risky. We're pretty decent folk, but you could have invited in some really rotten types who would've killed you both and taken everything you had."

"I know." She looked back down at the ground. "But I had no choice. My father needed a few things."

"Your father?" Wen looked from one to the other. "I don't see the resemblance."

Trace threw him a not-so-subtle glance to silence him. "Well, it looks like we're all here together now. So we have two options. The first is that we find a way to get along peacefully and help each other." Trace pointed to the old man. "As you can see, we've been good to him and had every intention of continuing to do so, since we thought he might have been abandoned—"

"I didn't abandon him!" the girl snapped.

Trace lifted his hand to calm her. "I see that now. Either we can all get along, or we can choose to go with option number two."

She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to the side. "Which is?"

"Well, I was honestly hoping we'd just go with option number one. Option number two could get rather complicated. Besides, I don't think any of us want to reopen those gates, and that would be a big part of selecting option number two."

She slipped the pack from her shoulders and allowed it drop in the dirt. Then she took her time removing her gloves and hat. Jet-black hair, loosely braided, fell over her left shoulder. "Option number one it is, then." She took in Fisher, who peered at her from behind Trace's back. "How old are you?"

The boy said nothing.

"He's not much of a talker," Trace answered for him. "He's a shy one."

The girl smiled. "My father's not much of a talker either."

Trace nodded. "We've noticed."

"So, it's just the three of you then?"

Trace shook his head. Her eyes widened and she glanced around, possibly fearing an ambush. He couldn't blame her. A fort full of lonely men and one lone girl could be her undoing.

"There are a total of five in our party. Myself, my friend Wen here, and my boy Fisher. We also have a woman and a young girl with us."

The girl eyed him suspiciously. "They hiding or something?"

"I guess you could say that."

Red's and Rivers' lives hung in the balance, and Trace wasn't sure he could trust her with such delicate information quite yet. This girl, with her sudden appearance, was a wild card, and who knew exactly how that card would fall.

The noise outside the gates grew louder and more intense as the relentless zombies fought to get in. Even though they couldn't break down the doors or scale the enormous walls, the threatening sounds weren't any less frightening.

Fisher, in the midst of the heightened insanity, wet his trousers. A large spot formed and grew on his tan pants, and the child buried his face against Trace's hip. The kid had been through more than his fair share of zombie mayhem. It just didn't seem right.

Trace lifted the boy into his arms, wet pants and all, and looked from Wen to the girl. "You two make sure there's no possible way any of the living dead can get inside. Maybe reinforce the gates somehow? I'm gonna get Fisher cleaned up and check on the girls."

Wen nodded, then walked over and placed his hand on Fisher's back. "They can make all the noise they want, but ain't nothing gettin' in. I promise you that."

He tousled the boy's hair, but over the boy's head, he and Trace exchanged a meaningful glance. Even the girl swallowed hard, and Trace saw the worry in her eyes.

They were in a heap-load of trouble, no doubt about it.

***

"It's okay, Fisher." Trace helped the boy slip out of his soiled pants. "Accidents happen. Nothin' to be ashamed about."

Kids were a whole different breed—real short, for one thing, and they made no sense, for the most part. Nonetheless, Trace adapted to the new role he'd been forced into. He actually cared for the boy, and his sister too.

Fisher stood naked, clasping his hands over his miniature parts, while Trace filled the metal tub with one more steaming pot of water. He dipped his fingers into the tub to make sure the temperature was right.

"That should do it. Climb on in."

Fisher just looked at him with wide eyes and continued to shiver.

"Come on now, you don't wanna go around smelling like piss, do ya?"

Still, the boy made no effort.

Trace sighed and squatted before him. "I wish you'd just tell me what you're thinking, I really do. But since you won't, I want you to know that it's okay to be scared. Hell, I'm a little scared myself. I also wish I could tell you there is no such thing as monsters, but we both know that ain't true—we've seen 'em. But Fisher, we're gonna be okay."

Trace shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "I don't know how I know that, I just do. I'm gonna do everything in my power to keep us all safe—you, me, Red, your sister, even Wen and the new people. I ain't gonna let anything happen to any of us."

Fisher didn't say anything, but he slowly climbed over the edge of the wash tub and settled himself into the water. His big, dark eyes remained locked on his surrogate father.

Trace nodded, and without another word, he knelt next to the tub and poured water over the boy's head.

Chapter 21 – Sticky

"They're beautiful." Red's mother pressed the fragrant wildflowers to her nose and breathed in. "Just perfect."

Seeing her mother so happy brought a smile to her face. Her mother.

Red hadn't seen her in so long, and relished the time she could spend with her. She continued to hand her the flowers, one after another in quick succession, until her mother's arms overflowed. Each flower represented one more moment with her mother, an extension of time, so she kept picking and adding to the bunch.

She breathed in honeysuckle and Virginia bluebells—so sweet and potent—and brushed her mother's arm to feel the warmth of her skin, alive beneath her fingertips. The birds chirped in the trees, the breeze played through her hair, and the sun kissed her face. Her mother's sing-song voice and the sound of her laughter—it all felt so real.

"Let's go home." Red reached out to take her mother's hand, but her ma flitted away, and all she grabbed was air.

"Why the rush, sweet pea? Aren't you having fun?"

"I want to see pa and the boys." Red handed her mother another freshly plucked flower. "Please?"

Her mother started down the hillside and flowers fell from her arms as her hips sashayed from side to side. Red followed behind and walked over the discarded blooms.

In the distance, smoke curled out of the fireplace and her younger brothers chased one another in a game of tag. The sound of an axe splitting logs echoed across the field, and she watched her father raise the axe once again.

Red couldn't see them clearly, and the more she rubbed her eyes to adjust the focus, the worse it got, until everything blurred and smeared together.

Her mother stopped moving. The rest of the flowers fell from her arms, and the wind picked them up and blew them randomly about.

"Ma?" Red's chest tightened. Please, not again. I smelled the flowers! I smelled them!

Her mother dropped onto all fours, her neck cracking as her head twisted around to glare at her from over the top of her shoulders. Her tongue slithered around the edges of her lips, licking at the air, while her eyes sunk into her skull and became wild with hunger.

Not again!

Her father and brothers closed the distance, and their moans became an evil chorus that grew louder and louder.

Her mother lunged forward, but Red dove to the right and avoided her mangled mouth. She turned and tripped over her feet, but quickly gathered herself and climbed the hillside on all fours. I can't do this! Not again!

The hill gave way and flattened as she climbed, the dirt crumbling in her hands. No matter how fast or high she climbed, it always ended up the same. She could never get away. Her mother snaked her hand forward and latched onto one of Red's ankles. Her father grabbed onto the other, and together they dragged her down the hill as she clawed at the ground. Her entire family pounced, restricting her movement by pinning her beneath their weight. They devoured her—first her arms, then her legs, and finally opening her stomach to remove her innards.

Through the whole process, Red felt everything.

***

Red opened her eyes, and nothing looked familiar. The bed. The room. None of it made sense. With great labor and pain, she turned her head to the side, playing along with the current illusion. Moonlight splashed through the tiny four-paned window and bathed the room in a white effervescent glow. A full moon. She couldn't see it, but no matter.

Her arms and legs ached, and when she reached up to remove the blankets that covered her, a sharp pain radiated through her entire body, nearly causing her to vomit. Her body went rigid and struggled to follow her commands, but she pushed through it and forced herself into a sitting position.

She grasped her head, pinched her eyes closed, and bit her lip so hard it drew blood. She'd never hurt this bad before. It had to be real.

If so, she would kill Wen for failing to keep his promise to her. And when she finished with him, she'd move on to Trace, because it was probably his fault that Wen hadn't followed through. She shouldn't be alive, and they were to blame.

Red planted her bare feet on the wooden floorboards and tried to stand, but her useless legs sent her sprawling to the ground. She tried to brace herself for the fall, but her weedy arms gave way and her head slammed against the side table, which sent the water pitcher toppling from its stand as well. Tiny lights skipped across her vision.

This all felt very real, but when the door opened and a dark-haired girl stood in the frame, cast aglow in white light, Red wasn't so sure anymore. This room, this person—nothing was familiar.

"Oh, my goodness! Here, let me help you." The girl knelt, slipped her hands under Red's arms, and lifted her back onto the bed.

"There. Until your legs are ready to hold your weight, you're gonna need help getting around."

The dark-haired beauty smiled, and Red wondered if she was some sort of angel, because someone that beautiful couldn't possibly be human. "The boys are gonna be so happy to know you're finally awake."

The boys? Wen and Cowboy? Or was she referring to her brothers? Was she really awake?

"Are you real?" Red's tongue and lips struggled to form words. It actually hurt to speak.

The girl nodded. "I feel real."

Her answer didn't help Red.

"Are you hungry?"

"Maybe." If eating tortured her as much as speaking, Red preferred to skip it all together.

"Stay there. I'll be right back." The girl disappeared, leaving Red on her own to decipher the validity of her situation. Where in the hell am I, and who is that girl?

A sticky wetness oozed down her back, and she reached behind to investigate. She brought her hand back in front and was surprised to find a dark, pasty substance coating her fingertips. Odd. She raised it to her nose, anticipating the smell of blood, but instead it smelled sweet—thyme, sage, honey, lavender, aloe. Very, very odd.

The more she experienced, the less real it felt. This must be another dream to add to the many.

A dark figure slid to a forceful stop in front of the door, clutching the frame for support in his breathless state. "You're awake!"

He entered the moonlit room and Red's heart lifted. Cowboy, wearing nothing but long johns, his dark hair tousled in a wild mess. He'd never infiltrated her dreams before now, so she didn't know what to make of it. She couldn't imagine why she'd dream of a man in his underwear, but her dreams had been anything but logical.

He knelt before her and cupped her face in his large hands. "How you feeling?"

"I hurt." Everything ached, all the way to the marrow in her bones. She wanted to tell him not to touch her, but his hands felt remarkably warm and soft on her face.

"But you're alive. You're awake and alive, and that's all that matters." His eyes glistened in the moonlight that highlighted the goofy grin on his face. He seemed so happy.

Now, if only she understood why she didn't feel the same. "My back's all sticky."

"That would be my doing," the dark-haired girl said. She stood in the doorway balancing a tray in her hands. "It's supposed to draw out the poison and ease the pain. I hope it helped."

Red couldn't tell if her back felt any better than the rest of her body.

"You thirsty?" the girl asked.

Red nodded, and the girl handed a tin cup to Cowboy, who then held it gently to Red's lips.

The water should have tasted cool and delicious, but it only intensified her dehydration as it burned down her throat. She gagged and pulled away, spilling the liquid down her neck.

"Whoa." Cowboy caressed her arm. "Take it easy. Not too fast now."

They tried again, but a smaller sip didn't garnish a better result. Red didn't understand why the water burned instead of quenched.

"Okay." Cowboy set the cup to the side. "Small sips for now."

Red reached forward and placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. "You guys aren't gonna try to eat me, are ya?"

Cowboy laughed, and the girl put a hand over her mouth to stifle her own.

"No," Cowboy said. "I'm a carnivore, not a cannibal."

She would have wrapped her arms around his neck, but the thought of doing so, and the pain it would cause, was more than she could bear. Her hand against his face would have to do.

***

Three weeks. Red couldn't believe it. A zombie attack had never rendered her unconscious for so long. Four days at the most. But three weeks? She shouldn't have survived. Yet, she did.

The worst part wasn't that her body groaned and complained whenever she moved, but rather trying to catch up on everything she missed while she was "away." The fort. How the kids had fared. The new people. She'd lost so much time, and felt like a strange interloper in the midst of a group of people who had managed quite well without her.

Red sat on the edge of the bed with her arms propped up on either side of the mattress, to help maintain balance. She wanted to just dive back into life, but her muscles and bones hadn't quite caught up with her mind. She'd been awake for two full days now, but she'd yet to leave the confines of her room.

Cowboy had offered to carry her outside so she could take in some fresh air, but she'd turned him down. The thought of his touch sent spasms of pain shooting down her spine. No, when she left her room, it would be on her own accord. So far, it was a very slow process.

"How're you feeling?" Wen stood in the open doorway and fidgeted with the hat in his hands.

She smiled, aware that he was worried about their friendship and his broken promise to her.

"I'm feeling a little better." Perhaps there was some truth to that. She hoped so, anyway.

Wen nodded. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"No. I think I'm fine."

He nodded again, still fidgeting. "Caroline's working up another concoction for your back. I just saw her in the kitchen."

Caroline. Another name to add to the ever-growing list of names she'd rather not know. It wasn't that she didn't like the dark-haired girl, who'd been nothing but kind to her. She just didn't need another person to worry about.

Red had yet to meet Caroline's father, Ira, but she'd heard a lot about the silent, grandfatherly figure. From what Cowboy told her, Ira had taken quite a shine to Fisher, and vice versa. Apparently, they spent hours together in silence, enjoying one another's company.

Caroline brushed past Wen as she entered Red's room, carrying her familiar bowl of herbs and rags. Red saw a flirtatious smile pass between the two, and wondered if Caroline had succumbed to Wen's charms. The next time she caught him alone, she'd have to ask.

"Let me know if you need anything," Wen said. "Anything at all."

Red smiled again. "Thanks, I will."

When he turned to leave, Caroline shut the door to give Red some privacy. She helped to lower the gown from Red's shoulders, and peeled back the dressing that covered her entire back.

Red's breath caught in her lungs each time Caroline dipped the rags in the bowl of clear water and gently dabbed at her raw skin.

"It's looking better. If you'd seen it before, you'd be amazed at the difference."

"Show me. I want to see." She could imagine it well enough—scars, torn flesh, and ragged bumps. It was different than the old bites that had healed-over on her legs and arms. These were worse. Although she didn't want to see, she must.

Caroline stopped her hand in midair. "Are you sure?"

No, I'm terrified. Red nodded.

Caroline positioned the dressing mirror in front of Red, and then carefully helped her to her feet. Red could stand on her own now, whereas the day before she couldn't, so yes, she was getting better. Small progress, but progress nonetheless.

With the gown covering her breasts, she turned around and peered over her shoulder at the image in the mirror. Nothing she'd imagined could have prepared her for the sight.

Chunks of flesh torn from her frame made it impossible for the miniature canyons to heal. Dozens of teeth marks riddled her back and shoulders—not even an inch left spared. Very little of the top layer of skin remained, and what did appeared all but transparent, bluish and bruised.

A fire wouldn't have been any less damaging.

She couldn't breathe. Tears burned her eyes as she stared at her grotesque body, at the hideous monster she'd become—less like a human being, more like the undead creatures. She pushed against the mirror and its horrific reflection, tipping it backward on its legs. It fell and shattered into pieces across the floor before Caroline could catch it.

Red crumpled to the ground amid the shards and buried her face in her shaking hands. She didn't want to live like this.

"Red—"

"Get out!" The last thing she wanted to see right now was the girl and her perfect, unbitten body. "Get out of here!"

Caroline stumbled backward and made for the door, only to bump into Cowboy's chest. "What's going—?"

Red swung her head around on her shoulders and the bones in her neck cracked, which caused her to remember her dream and the image of her mother turning. She glared at Cowboy and Caroline from her crouched position. Shards of glass bit into the flesh of her knees, but she felt none of it.

"Get out! Get out!" she screamed. "Get out!"

"Red, please—" Cowboy took a step toward her and reached out his hand.

She lunged forward and clamped her teeth down on the tender flesh between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to provoke him. Pull your gun, pull your gun, pull your gun!

But he didn't, not even when she bit harder and his bittersweet blood slipped down the back of her throat. She clamped down even more, and he screamed as she pierced through the delicate skin and rubbed her teeth together.

He pushed against her until she finally gave in and fell back onto the floor. Shoot me! Do it!

Instead, he cradled his injured hand against his chest and stared at her in disbelief. Why didn't he shoot? She would have.

Wen appeared behind Cowboy and Caroline, and all three of them watched as she reached up and wiped her bloody lips with the back of her hand to make a point.

She wished she could bite them all.

Chapter 22 – Love You Forever

It took eight stitches to close the wound. Caroline offered him a swig of whisky to take away the sting, but Trace refused the temptation. Getting roostered-up wouldn't help the situation one bit.

What should he do with Red? Had she finally turned? No, not turned, but definitely highly volatile.

Wen had barred her door so she couldn't get out. She was in no shape to go anywhere, but none of them knew what she might try next, given her present state of mind. Who knew, maybe next time she'd bite off one of his digits.

Trace winced as Caroline wrapped a bandage around his hand and tied it in place.

"How does that feel?"

"Fine, thanks."

She sighed and proceeded to put the first aid kit away without another word. Caroline acted a little odd herself, talking and avoiding his gaze.

"What's wrong with Red?" Wen handed Caroline some cotton scrubs and tweezers, but directed his question to Trace. "Why would she act out like that? I thought she was doing a'right."

Trace shook his head. She'd been through a lot in the past few weeks, and endured more than most people could handle. Perhaps she'd hit her limit.

"It's my fault." Caroline looked down at the table. "It's all my fault."

"What are you talking about?" Wen placed his hand on her arm and waited until she looked up.

"She wanted to see her back." Caroline batted back the tears in her eyes. "She wanted to know what it looked like."

Trace slumped in his chair. It all made sense now.

"I should've said no. I should've convinced her to wait—"

"No," Trace interrupted her. "If she wanted to see it, there's no way you could've stopped her. She's stubborn that way."

Wen nodded in agreement. "Yeah, she sure is. She would've found a way, with or without your help."

"She seemed so tough, tougher than any woman I've ever met. I thought she could handle it." Caroline closed her eyes briefly before turning them on Trace. "I think she bit you because she didn't like what she saw and hoped you'd put her out of her misery."

Caroline's words hit him like a horse kick to the chest. Shoot her? Never.

Trace rested his arms on his knees and hung his head. He would have to convince Red of her beauty, when the only thing she saw in the mirror was her flaws. That might prove damn difficult.

***

Curled up in a fetal position on the bed, Red hugged herself and stared at the wall. Her tears had long since dried up. She shouldn't have bit Cowboy. It had been a stupid thing to do, but in the moment, it seemed rational. She couldn't blame them for locking her inside the room—she herself didn't know what she was capable of.

Red hoped she hadn't caused him any permanent damage, and that somehow he'd find a way to forgive her.

"Red?" The little voice that spoke her name with such concern tugged at her heart.

Red turned her head toward the door. "Rivers?"

The girl peered in at her through the window and pressed her hand against the glass. "Are you a'right?"

Red got up, ignored the pain, and made her way over to the window using the wall for aid. "I will be."

Rivers smiled before looking up at Red with gravity in her young, brown eyes. "You scared me something awful. You made Fisher cry, too."

Red squeezed her eyes closed as the girl's words punctured her core. She'd been too absorbed in her own pain to think of anyone but herself and her own misery. Selfish and stupid.

"I was scared you had turned," Rivers said. "Because if you turned, that would mean someday I could turn too, and I don't want to be a zombie. I don't want any of us to be zombies!"

Red placed her hand on the glass, mirroring Rivers in an attempt to comfort her. "I'm so sorry I scared you. I really am. I was wrong to do that."

"You shouldn't have bit Cowboy, either. He loves you, you know?"

Red didn't say anything. What did a ten-year-old know about these things?

"I love you, too." Rivers smiled her honey grin, and Red had to swallow her rising emotions. "You saved me and Fisher, and so I'll love you forever."

Red wrinkled her brow. "No, Rivers, I didn't save you. I tried to keep them from biting you, but I couldn't stop it from happening. I wish I'd tried harder."

Though she'd saved Fisher from certain death, she'd failed Rivers. The girl had begged her not to let the zombies bite her, but Red's strength and will had given way.

The little girl pressed both hands to the glass, her eyes intent. "You did save me. I only got bit when I tried to save you."

The words caught Red off guard.

Before she could question the girl, Rivers turned away and removed her hands from the window. "I've got to go," she said, and disappeared across the courtyard.

Red continued to press her hands against the cool glass long after the girl had left.

***

No one dared to approach Red's room for the remainder of the day, except for Trace. When he checked on her, she simply sat on the floor in the corner with her head on her knees, staring at the wall.

By the following morning, Trace couldn't stand it any longer. He looked through the window and found her balanced on the edge of her bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She lifted her sad eyes to meet his.

"Is it safe to come in?"

She gave a slight nod, but said nothing.

He unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open, but didn't step over the threshold. "You're not in a biting kind of mood, are ya?"

"I don't think so." Her face was as solemn as ever. "But I make no promises."

"Fair enough." He took a couple of tentative steps into the room and left the door open—just in case. "You hungry or anything?"

"No, I'm okay."

"How're ya feelin'?"

"Like a fool." She swallowed hard and pointed to his hand. "I'm sorry about that."

"Caroline told me about the incident with the mirror."

Red turned her head away and pulled the shawl draped over her shoulders a little tighter. The shards of mirrored glass had been carefully arranged in a pile near the door. She must have spent the night on her hands and knees cleaning up the mess she created. Even the now empty wooden frame sat righted.

"I knew it was going to be bad, but I didn't... I wasn't...." She closed her eyes and composed herself. "It just shocked me, is all." Her eyes were glossed over but she did not cry. "It was worse than I imagined."

"Can I sit?" He motioned to the space on the bed beside her.

"If you dare." She slid over and made room, which he took as a good sign.

The bed dipped under his weight, and her hip slid down to rest against his. He placed his injured hand on her knee in an attempt to bridge the uncomfortable gap between them. Red gently slid her hand beneath his and lifted it for inspection, turning it palm up and then back down. Aside from the blood that dotted the white bandage, there wasn't much to see, but she spent a great deal of time looking at it anyway.

"I'm really sorry." She set his hand back down on her thigh and covered it lightly with her own hand. "Does it hurt?"

"No." Making her feel guilty wouldn't help the situation, and he knew his pain didn't compare to hers. "It's not too bad." He turned his hand upward and weaved his fingers between hers as if to assure her.

"It was a stupid thing to do."

Trace squeezed her hand and attempted a smile. "I can't argue with that."

She tried to remove her hand from his, but he wouldn't let go. Not yet. Not now.

"Red." He spoke her name quietly, his hand still entwined in hers. "Have dinner with me." The words just came out as his brain struggled to keep up with his rascal mouth.

"What?"

"Tonight," he explained, trying to make sense of his words. "You and me. A date."

She yanked her hand free, and Trace cringed as stinging pain shot up his arm. He held back the explosive curse that licked at his lips, begging for release. No swearing. Be calm. He'd told her it didn't hurt and this sure wasn't the time to prove himself a liar.

"I'm not interested in your stupid games," she said. "It's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm being serious. Very serious." At least he thought he was.

"Why are you doing this?" A thick layer of hurt coated her words.

"Doing what?"

Red stood and crossed the room. She folded her arms over her chest and stared at him. "This!" She swung her arm about. "This whole patronize-the-damaged-girl act. I don't need you to do that."

Patronize. He didn't know what that meant, but assumed by her tone that it wasn't good. "That's not what I'm doing." By the look on her face, she didn't believe him.

"Why don't you ask out Caroline instead? Go ask the pretty girl—"

"I am asking the pretty girl." He crossed the room and stood within inches of her, then tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I've seen your wounds. I know what they look like. And I'm telling ya, there's nothing ugly at all about a girl who's willing to risk everything, including her life, to protect two little kids. Actually,"—he paused—"I can't think of anything more beautiful."

"Cowboy, please. Don't—"

Trace took her hands in his, silencing her as he gently squeezed them. "Tonight. You and me. Dinner."

***

"Let's pin it up." Caroline slipped her fingers into Red's hair and swirled it into a bun on top of her head, leaving a few loose curls to frame her face. Hair up. Hair down. Red didn't care, for the most part anyway.

"Perfect," Caroline said with a smile. "You look so pretty."

Red would have to take her word for it because no one would let her near a mirror. Perhaps it was better that way. She felt foolish in this gown with her hair all pulled up, and seeing her reflection in a mirror would only verify this was a ridiculous idea.

A date inside a zombie-surrounded fort with Cowboy? Didn't they have better things to do, like make plans to survive?

"Twirl!" Rivers pulled Red to her feet and danced around her like an energetic puppy. "Twirl around!"

Red didn't feel like twirling, and didn't even know if her body could do such a thing, but she gave one little spin for Rivers.

"Do it again!" Rivers clapped her hands together.

Red put her hand up. "No, that's plenty for now."

The little girl's face fell and her bottom lip turned down in a dejected pout. Red hated to disappoint her, but she didn't think she could handle another spin.

"Let's remember she's still healing." Caroline placed her hand on Rivers' shoulder. "We don't want her to hurt any more than she already does. Especially not tonight. Cowboy wouldn't like that."

Cowboy. She should've put an end to the whole thing before it had even begun. Perhaps she'd agreed to this out of a sense of guilt for having bit him. What did he expect? A relationship? Impossible. The world, in its current state, wasn't equipped for such nonsense. Maybe in the future—if there was a future. It seemed insane to begin something that couldn't possibly last.

She did it for them—Rivers, Caroline, Cowboy—in order to bring a sense of normalcy back into an abnormal world. Everyone longed for a time before the outbreak of the plague. Even she longed for it. Courting. Boys. Dates. She might have been married by now, possibly with a baby or two.

She shook her head. They could playact at normal all they wanted, but they'd never achieve it, no matter how much they pretended.

Chapter 23 – Butterflies and Bats

Cowboy stood beneath one of the barren fruit trees wearing his best bib and tucker—gray striped vest, colonel tie, frontier pants, and black frock jacket. He looked more handsome than a man had a right to. When Red emerged from her room, he removed his hat and held it over his heart out of respect.

The grin on Cowboy's face was infectious, and Red smiled despite herself. She didn't mean to encourage him, but his grin widened even more. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that the whole thing was silly, she couldn't stop the nervous quake in her knees or stop wringing her hands.

The cream dress she wore didn't belong to her or Caroline—a frontier woman must have left it behind when she passed through. Unfortunately, the woman hadn't left any shoes, so Red had to wear her old, faded cowboy boots with the lacy dress. It was the best she could do under the circumstances.

Most of Cowboy's attire likely came from old trunks and armoires as well, but everything sure fit him something nice, as though it had all been made with him in mind.

Red's cheeks grew warm and she hoped it was only internal and didn't show crimson on the outside.

Kerosene lanterns hung from various tree limbs across the yard. The small flames flickered in the gentle evening breeze, casting playful shadows on the stone walls. A perfect night—the warm before the winter storm—and she intended to enjoy it.

Cowboy gave Fisher the go-ahead, and the little boy walked toward Red with great purpose. From behind his back, he produced a single yellow flower and held it up for her. It glowed in golden contrast to their gray surroundings.

She took the flower from his small hands, and he scampered back to Cowboy's side. Cowboy put his arm around the boy's small shoulders and bent down to whisper in his ear. Fisher smiled and skipped over to take his place next to the small crowd that watched and waited—for what, Red wasn't quite sure.

Ira sat in his designated chair with a crooked grin on his lopsided face and Lasso at his feet. Caroline pressed her hands together, and her eyes sparkled the look of a proud mama—though Caroline was a full year younger than Red. Wen stood behind her with his hands resting on Caroline's shoulders. She appeared more than comfortable with his touch. Rivers could barely contain her excitement and looked like she might burst. She held her little hands over her mouth, suppressing squeals, as she twisted from side to side.

Red felt like a show pony as all six pairs of eyes, seven if you included the dog, fell on her. The timid butterflies in her stomach morphed into wild, wing-flapping bats.

Cowboy took several steps toward her, locking his dark eyes on hers, and Red held her breath. "You look beautiful."

Red wanted to correct him, and tell him that he looked beautiful. He'd combed his hair back into a slick style she wasn't accustomed to, so she reached up and tousled his brown locks. They released and fell more naturally over his forehead, just the way she liked, and he didn't appear to mind her touch one bit.

Rivers' childish giggles rung out in the courtyard, and Red snatched her hand away.

Before it fell to her side, Cowboy lifted it to his lips, his warm breath cascading over the back of her hand. "You hungry?"

She looked up, dazed. "What?"

"Dinner. I made dinner myself"—he tipped his head to the side—"well, mostly myself."

She took a deep breath. Get it together.

As they walked past the little group, Lasso flattened his ears against his head and rose from his seated position to stand on all fours. He narrowed his eyes and growled behind his closed jaws.

The dog hadn't seen her in weeks, and she probably seemed like a stranger among familiar faces. "Hey, boy." She reached her hand toward him. "It's only me. It's okay."

When he bore his teeth and growled even louder, Cowboy pushed her behind him. "No! Bad dog!"

Lasso lowered his head, but continued to eye Red with a rumbling growl despite Cowboy's reprimands.

Wen grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and held him back. "Go on, I'll take care of him. He's just not used to seeing you around, is all."

Cowboy took her hand and led her away, but she glanced over her shoulder at Wen dragging the dog to one of the rooms and shutting him inside. Red knew Lasso was just doing his job—protecting the people he loved from someone he didn't recognize—but that didn't make it hurt any less.

"I'm so sorry," Cowboy said. "Don't know what got into that crazy mutt."

"It's a'right. I'll feed him some scraps of meat tomorrow and we'll be the best of friends by the end of the day." She smiled to ease his fears.

They reached a small table set for two and he pulled out a chair for her. Once she sat, he removed the cloth that covered her plate to reveal a heaping plate of pan-fried potatoes.

Red couldn't help but laugh. Potatoes. She'd taken potatoes from his saddlebags to make their first breakfast together, and then he'd refused to share them with her when she made the joke about changing his name to Jackass.

"Gravy?"

She nodded, and he poured a light drizzle over the mound.

"I can't possibly eat all of this." Two or three servings' worth of potatoes covered her plate. Besides, she had yet to regain her appetite after her three-week slumber. A few bites would probably fill her up.

"You're skin and bones, Red." He placed another covered plate in front of her. "You need to eat, put back on the weight you lost."

He was right. Her protruding rib cage and sunken features were proof. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds at this point.

The second plate revealed a thick slice of red meat, fresh and seared on both sides. When she cut into it, a thin line of blood ran to the edge of the plate. She dipped her fingers into it and brought the salty taste to her mouth.

"Applejack?" Cowboy presented a pitcher.

She nodded and he poured the lightning liquid into her mug. The beverage tasted like nectar, a far piece better than the same old boring water.

"Okay." Cowboy pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. "Ask me anything."

She cocked her head. "Ask you what?"

"Anything." He handed her a warm roll; no way had he made those. "What do ya wanna know about me?"

What do I want to know? It was such an open question with endless possibilities, and yet, she couldn't think of a single thing to ask. "I think I know everything I need to know about you."

He slumped in his chair. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

She sawed off a small piece of meat, placed it in her mouth, and shrugged. "Depends how you look at it."

"Well, how're you looking at it?" Cowboy leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

Red mirrored his movements. A lantern hanging in the tree above them swayed in the breeze. "If I didn't know the kind of man you are, I'd be asking all sorts of questions. But I know enough to have formed an opinion."

He considered that for a moment. "Okay, then, but what if I have questions for you?"

She smiled through her sigh and leaned back in her chair. "Then I'd be disappointed. That would mean that, after all this time together, you don't know me at all."

***

Ira picked a mean guitar. His crippled hands plucked away at the strings with precision and ease, transforming the rather silent night into a festive affair. The courtyard began to take on the feel of a dance hall.

Red watched the kids flitter about. Rivers held up the edge of her dress as she twirled around, and Fisher skipped between the couples and slapped his knee in time to the rhythm.

Wen led Caroline across the grassy surface, their feet in sync as they gracefully sashayed from one side of the compound to the other. Red would've liked to follow after them and kick up her heels, but she regulated herself to swaying side-to-side in Cowboy's gentle arms. He held onto her hips, taking care not to touch her back, and she placed her own hands on his upper arms, unable to reach up and wrap them around his neck.

"Thank you." She moved in closer and rested her head against his chest, feeling each breath he took. "Thank you for this."

"So have I convinced you I'm a good guy who shouldn't be bitten again?"

She inhaled his rugged scent—delicious. "You're a good guy, a'right, one of the better fellas I've come across. But I can't promise I won't still sink my teeth into you."

He laid his head on top of hers. "How 'bout you just slap me instead? Less damaging but still makes an effective point."

"Okay. A slap it is."

The music slowed in tempo and Red closed her eyes. The longer she held him, the more she gave into the tangible feeling of safety. She shouldn't desire such a thing. He could hold her for a while, but eventually he'd have to let go.

That moment came sooner than she expected when the sound of gunfire outside the fort walls brought her head upright and caused Ira to stop playing mid-melody. As rapid shots continued to blast and the moans of the zombies increased, they all stared at one another, dumbfounded.

Cowboy pulled away from her, gave a quick nod to Wen, and they both grabbed their rifles and scaled the ladders to the towers. Red joined Caroline and they stood together next to Ira. The children clung to them, their eyes wide with fear.

"It's gonna be okay." Red hugged Rivers close. "Everything's gonna be just fine."

No one could get inside the fort without one of them opening the gates. As far as she knew, no one planned to do that.

"Sounds like fireworks," Rivers said.

The booms came quickly, some in unison—three or four shots fired at once. No one had to tell Red there were several gunfighters out there.

This attack on the zombies should have come as a blessing, but Red knew that anyone who would approach a zombie-infested fort had to have an ulterior motive. The question was, were they friends or foes? The people outside the gate could kill all the walking dead they wished, but it didn't mean they should let them in.

"Can't tell how many are out there," Cowboy called to Wen. "Too dark to be certain. But they're sure slaughtering the zombies."

Red huddled with Caroline, Ira, and the kids, and waited out the storm of gunfire. It only went on for five minutes or so, but felt like hours. The assault stopped almost as quickly as it had begun, and with it the moans and gate-scratching they'd all grown accustomed to.

"All clear!" someone shouted from outside the walls. "Stand down!"

Red wished she were in better health, because she desperately wanted to climb the ladder and see for herself. Who was it? How many? This feeling of helplessness made her antsy.

"You there!" a man's voice called over the wall. "Are you aware that you're unlawfully occupying a piece of government property?"

"That so, huh?" Cowboy countered. "When a zombie's trying to bite my hind end, the last thing I'm thinking of is which law I'm breaking."

Red snickered. Even Fisher looked up at her and smiled his toothless grin.

"You shot all these here zombies so you could arrest me and my family for unlawful squatting?" Cowboy readjusted his rifle. "You taking us to jail or somethin'?"

"We have no plans to arrest anyone or remove you from the property. But since we're performing a government service, we ask that you let us in to replenish our supplies, rest our horses, and check out the telegraph system we know is employed inside."

"Mighty fancy talk you got there," Cowboy said. "So exactly what government service are you folks performing? Since most of the country has gone to hell with this outbreak, I assumed our government had, too."

"No, sir. We're trying to uphold whatever bit of civility we can, though it's been an uphill battle. We here consist of two U.S. Marshals, three Cavalry soldiers, a lieutenant, and a doctor."

"Sounds mighty impressive, but what's to stop you from taking everything we've got, hurting our women and children, or killing the lot of us once you get inside?"

"That's not what we're after. We also only ask for a night of rest within the walls of the fort, and whatever provisions you might have to spare. If nothing else, we just want access to the telegraph system."

Telegraph? Red scanned the fort and, sure enough, thin lines rising out over the stone walls came into view. A sense of optimism surged through her veins at the sight.

"Well, I can tell ya right now, it don't work," Cowboy said. "We've sent several messages out over the line ourselves and received no response."

As quickly as her optimism had risen, it plummeted. Of course it didn't work. That was the kind of world they lived in now—full of disappointment.

"We'd still like the opportunity to try," the man persisted. "We've taken care of your infestation problem, and the least you could do is give us that."

"Actually, you've made a big mess for us to clean up. We were doin' a'right before you came. Now we have to pile up those bodies and burn them before it stinks up the place."

"We'll take care of that for you—"

"Tell ya what," Cowboy interrupted. "We'll toss some bags of food down to you, and you can supply us with your names. I will personally see to it that your messages are sent over the wire. That's about all I can offer."

"I guess we'll have to settle for that. Biscuits, jerky and hard tack would be much appreciated. Whatever you can spare. As for our names, you need paper to write it down or something?"

"Nah." Cowboy pointed to his head. "I've got a real good memory. My partner here will help me remember."

Red couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. Sometimes she couldn't interpret his motives.

"We'd be grateful if you could send a message to the officials in charge and let them know our status. But I think I speak for the entire group when I say the message we most desire to send out is to our families. We're planning to head north to the camps in the Dakotas. If they receive the message, hopefully they can find us there."

Cowboy nodded. "Understandable. Go on with your names. I'll make sure the message gets out, but can't guarantee it'll be received. It's a long shot."

"A long shot is better than no shot at all." The man paused before offering up their names.

Red continued to watch Cowboy, who leaned on his rifle in silence.

"Cooper Randolf, Brigham Waldron, Hank Rodgers, Mark Hunter, Davis Story, Owen Wallace, and John Gatherum."

Red's hands began to shake. She recognized two of the seven names given.

One—the man who'd nearly killed her.

The other—her brother.

Chapter 24 – Don't Let Go

Trace took one look at Red and braced himself.

John Gatherum. Damn. Not good.

She teetered from side to side, fidgeting with her hands and glancing from one set of gates to the other. She was planning something, all right.

Just as he feared, she bolted for the east gates.

Damn it. Trace grabbed the sides of the ladder and slid down the rails without using a single rung. He caught up with her and clasped a firm hand over her mouth before she uttered any words. He risked getting bitten again, but hoped she'd stick to their compromise. Stick to the slap.

"Pull in your horns!" He pulled her wriggling body close to him and tightened his grip. "You're gonna get us all killed!"

She tossed her head back and arched her body in an effort to weaken his grip, but Trace anticipated her movements. She might've proved more of a challenge if she were healthy, but in her weakened state, she was completely harmless.

"You're hurting her!" Rivers cried. She tried to pull free from Caroline to come to Red's aid, but Caroline held her back.

"I'm doing this for her own good." That was all Trace offered by way of an explanation. "You have to trust me. All of you. Caroline, Wen, you two take Rivers and fill some burlap bags with supplies." He moved backward as he gave orders, dragging a defiant Red along with him. "Don't give them too much. Just enough. Then send them on their way."

Red continued to put up a fight, bucking and twisting, but he managed to carry her to her room. He deposited her on the bed with an unforgiving thud, but she sprung from the mattress like a cat in a water barrel. Trace grabbed her around the waist, threw her on the bed, and pinned her down with the length of his body. Her eyes bore into him.

"Shush." He whispered into her ear. "Settle down. This ain't the time to go out there shooting your guns. You're sick. You're weak. Think of Rivers and what it might do to her, to all of us."

She continued to wriggle under his weight.

He focused on her angry green eyes, trying to get through to her. "Come on, Red, if you kill John Gatherum with all his men watching, we'll have a mini war on our hands."

She shook her head and tried to force his hand from her mouth, but Trace refused to let go. He'd do what he must to ensure everyone's safety, including hers.

"I know you want to kill him. I get that. Hell, when I heard his name, I just about shot him myself. But Red, this ain't the time. We're in this together—you, me, Wen, Caroline, the kids, Ira. Even the smelly dog. We're a family here." He stared at her with a solemn expression and swallowed hard. "You guys are pretty much the only family I've ever known and... I don't want to lose any of you."

Red settled down some, but Trace didn't trust her enough to remove his hand. The door was closed and the walls were thick, but who knew how far her voice would carry.

"Do ya understand what I'm saying?"

She blinked her eyes and mumbled something under his hand. He took that as a yes.

"I need you"—he paused, his eyes tracking hers—"to trust me."

Red stopped struggling and her body relaxed beneath him. Her chest rose against his and the heat from her body seeped through her clothes. She appeared to have calmed down, and he could've removed his hands and let her go, but he needed to tell her one more thing. Might not be the best time, but it was the only time he had.

Trace leaned in close and took the biggest gamble of his life. "I'm fallin' for ya. I'm fallin' real hard."

He kept his hand clamped tight over her mouth, not quite ready for her response.

She blinked several times, watching him from behind her long lashes. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and traveled the length of her cheek, dripping onto his hand.

"I don't want to lose you." His own eyes began to well, but he refused to let the tears fall. "I'm pleading with ya not to go after him. Not yet. Stay here with me. With us."

As much as he would've liked to keep his hand over her mouth forever to avoid the possibility of being crushed, there was only one way to find out how she felt about him. He peeled his hand back from her mouth and waited.

Wen barged through the door. "They're gone. It's safe to—" He looked from one to the other before casting his gaze down at the ground. "I guess I'm interrupting, aren't I?"

"Get off me!" Red wiggled and began to buck all over again.

"Whoa! Wait till I leave." Wen started to shut the door.

"It's not like that." Trace shot a glare at Wen before turning his attention back to Red. "Knock it off, will ya! Settle down and I'll let ya go."

She whipped her head on the pillow and looked at Wen. "They're gone? Since when?"

He shrugged. "They went up over the ridge about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago."

"I need to borrow a horse."

Trace couldn't believe his ears. He'd risked everything and told her how he felt, begging her to stay with him and give up the pursuit of a crazy man who nearly killed her, but she wanted to go anyway. Her answer couldn't have been clearer.

He climbed off of her and sat on the edge of the bed, resting his forearms on his knees. "You can take mine."

Red gathered her skirts, scooted past him, and stood. She walked over to Wen. "I need supplies—food, water, bedding, guns. I need your help."

Wen cast his eyes to Trace in search of direction. Trace only shrugged.

"But you're not well." Wen tried to protest.

"Doesn't matter. I don't have a choice—"

"That's not true." Trace stood and looked at her for a moment. "You have a choice. You're just making the wrong one."

He pushed past her and walked out the door.

***

Trace adjusted the straps under the belly of his horse to secure the saddle in place. He checked the saddlebags again—enough food to last about a week, but after that, she'd be on her own. He tucked a few bills into the pouch. If she was lucky enough to make it to a town, she'd need it. He had his doubts, but no sense arguing with Red once she'd made up her mind.

He didn't plan to follow her, which she wouldn't want anyway. Her pig-headedness would get her killed, and he didn't want to be around when it did.

"It's all clear." Wen entered the stables with Red following behind. "Nothing on the horizon except dust and a brewing storm."

Trace noticed she'd given up the dress in favor of pants, a shirt, and a man's coat that drowned her with its dropping shoulder seam. The pants were also ill-fitting and tied about her waist with a bit of rope.

Wen's eyes expressed concern; his emotions were always close to the surface.

Red had likely picked up on it as well, but chose to ignore his fears. She ignored everyone.

"Here's another blanket." Caroline handed the rolled wool bedding to Trace.

He took it and secured it behind the saddle with the other one. Two blankets. With winter approaching, it wouldn't be enough. They all knew that, but a horse could only carry so much.

"I don't want ya to go." Rivers threw her arms around Red and hugged her.

Red winced with physical pain, though she must have suffered emotional pain as well. He could see it in her eyes.

How does she plan to ride a horse for days on end if she can't even handle a child's embrace?

"You need to find some sort of shelter by nightfall tomorrow." Trace avoided her eyes and rechecked her supplies once more. "Storm should be here by then. You don't want to be out in the open when it hits."

With such little fat and muscle on her tiny frame, the winter storm would freeze her solid in a manner of minutes. He couldn't think about it, so instead he tugged on the saddle to make sure it sat firm on the horse's back.

Red looped the reins over the horse's head, hooked it to the horn, and then grabbed onto the horse's thick mane for leverage. When she placed her foot in the stirrup to mount him, the horse neighed in protest and shifted his legs around. It was hard enough to mount a horse set against it, but add in Red's physical illness, and it became darn near impossible.

"Here, let me." Wen moved to help her, but Trace shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't help her," Trace said. "If she's gonna do this, she needs to get on the horse herself."

Red pressed her face against the horse's neck and tried to calm him. She put her booted foot back in the stirrup and managed to pull herself up halfway, straining to get into the saddle as the horse shifted his weight and neighed his displeasure.

Trace hated watching her lose the battle, but he refused to help—she wasn't the only stubborn person in the barn.

When her hands slipped, instinct kicked in and he caught her in his arms. No matter how angry, he'd never let her hit the floor.

"Is revenge worth all this?" He continued to hold her. "Is it? Come on, Red, don't do this."

"I'm not doing this because of John Gatherum." She pushed herself up out of his arms and stood in front of him with tears running down her cheeks. "I'm doing this for my brother."

Trace didn't know what to make out of that. "What?"

"Davis Story." She choked on her words. "He's in that group of men and he's my brother—my brother." The tears fell faster. "He's alive and he's with that evil man. I have to go"—she grabbed the horse's mane again—"I have to stop him."

The horse protested again—neighing, stomping, and shaking his head.

"What's wrong with your horse?" she asked.

Trace wondered the same thing himself. He'd never seen him act that way before, but he sure as hell didn't plan to stop him. The more problems the horse caused, the better.

Davis Story. It hadn't dawned on him that Red and Davis Story could be related. He knew Red's name—he'd seen it on the wanted poster—but it never even entered his mind.

Her third failed attempt to mount the horse nearly broke Trace's heart, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Red, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She slumped against him and buried her head in his chest, sobbing.

He placed his hand on the back of her head. "It's gonna be okay. He's gonna be okay. We'll find him, we will. But you've got to get healthy first. You're not gonna do him any favors going after him in this condition. You'll likely get him killed, along with yourself."

Her red curls bounced with the movement of her head. Trace couldn't believe it—she was actually agreeing with him. He held her a little tighter as she pressed her hands against his back, clinging to him.

Don't let go, he wanted to tell her, but he found contentment in just holding her, grateful she'd finally come to her senses. Watching her go would've been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

***

A fire crackled in the stone fireplace and cast the room in an orange glow. Snow silently fell in cotton clumps outside the window. Trace added another log to the fire and stirred the embers before slipping off his clothes and climbing into bed. He shivered against the coolness of the blankets and vowed to place a warming brick under the covers the next night to take away the chill.

Red had decided to stay, not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Trace knew someday, when she was well enough, she'd leave. She'd go after her brother and save him. Everything else was just temporary for her, unless he could find a way to convince her otherwise.

A soft knock at the door caused him to sit up, but before he could call out, the knob turned and the door opened just enough to allow a wispy figure to enter.

She quickly shut it behind her to keep out the cold, and leaned back against the wooden wall. Downy crystals glistened in her hair, catching the light of the fire before melting away. Tiny droplets fell from her curls onto her thinly covered shoulders, and he caught sight of goose bumps rippling across her skin.

He lifted the edge of his blankets for her, but she held up her hand. They watched one another from positions on opposite sides of the room.

"I'm falling for you, too." Red broke the stillness that had settled over the room.

Trace pulled himself into a sitting position. She'd said exactly what he wanted to hear, but something in her eyes and the way she held herself kept Trace from going to her.

"I'm scared." She bit her lip and hugged herself. "Loving you scares me."

Trace stood but didn't approach her. "Maybe we're supposed to be scared. Maybe it's just a part of loving someone."

"I'm afraid of losing you, too."

Trace took a step toward her. "I'm afraid of the same thing."

She reached up and pushed the damp curls out of her eyes, her lip trembling. "So what do we do?"

Trace took another step toward her, close enough now to touch her cheek, but he held back. "We hold onto each other for as long as we can." He wanted to pull her into his arms, but she needed to be the one to make the first move.

She blinked several times and then slowly released her breath in a satisfied sigh. "Okay."

"Okay?" He moved closer.

She smiled and touched his face, sliding the tips of her fingers along his jaw line. "Yeah," she said, her voice slightly above a whisper.

That was all Trace needed to hear. He cupped her face in his hands and drew her lips to his own. He kept the pressure on her tender lips light, determined to take it slow. But when she slipped her cool hands up the length of his arms and parted her lips, he pushed down on them, needing her more than he needed air. She responded with a desire that matched his own, welcoming his soft exploration. Trace could barely contain himself. He pulled her against his chest and relished the sensation of her warm breath mixing with his own. He wound his hands through her hair, still dripping from the snow, and drew her even closer.

Trace slipped her nightgown off one of her shoulders. He bent down and blew his warm breath over her chilled skin before kissing it. She shivered in response and tipped her head back, allowing a sound of pleasure to travel up her throat. When he reached for the material covering her other shoulder, Red put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him away.

"I don't believe in God," she said, her eyes searching his. "I haven't for quite some time. Not with the world the way it is. God can't possibly exist. He wouldn't have let all this happen."

Trace wasn't following, his mind caught up in other sensations, but he tried to give her his full attention.

"But my parents believed in God," she went on. "They loved Him, devoted their lives to Him."

He nodded, but he didn't understand what God had to do with anything right now.

"If we're going to do this, then we have to do it the right way, somehow." She looked down at the floor before raising her eyes to his. "I'm not like Wen. I'm not like those other women. I want this to mean something."

Trace understood what she asked for, and it was something he thought he'd never be able to give, but as he looked into her innocent, hopeful eyes, he knew what he must do.

"Don't move." He pulled away from her and scanned the room—for what exactly, he wasn't sure. He opened the little drawer in his bed stand and rummaged through the contents, but came up empty. The dresser proved no better, but a small wooden box he found on the corner of the desk provided him with what he needed. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

He crossed the room and dropped to one knee, holding out the small, golden cigar wrapper in his hand. "Red, let's do this the right way."

She stood in silence. A tear or melted snow from her hair—Trace didn't know which one—slid down her cheek. He took her hand in his to assure her that his words were true. They were perhaps the truest words he'd ever spoken in his nineteen years of existence.

"Elisabeth," she said finally. A smile crept over her lips and filled the room with far more warmth than the pitiful fireplace ever could. "My name is Elisabeth."

Chapter 25 – Snowmen and Swords

Red turned over on the pillow she shared with Trace and watched him sleep, his dark hair wild and unruly, with one bare arm thrown over her stomach. She raised her left hand and stared at the tiny golden piece of metal that encircled her finger. More than a cigar band, it was a promise they would be together for the rest of their lives, however long or short that might be. It felt foreign, yet comforting.

No one had witnessed their commitment—men of the cloth were hard to come by these days—but they'd made promises to one another. She wouldn't take those promises lightly.

Funny, she thought, he doesn't look much like a Trace. She didn't know anyone else by that name, but if she'd harbored a guess as to his name, Trace wouldn't have been in the running. He looked like a Cowboy, and no other name fit. Trace. It seemed so strange.

He'd accepted her name willingly, and whispered Elisabeth over and over, into her ear, along her cheek, and even mumbled it against her stomach. At first, it had been strange to hear her name spoken. No one had called her Elisabeth for so long that the name had simply ceased to exist. It belonged to another person, another time.

She tried to disengage from Trace's arms, but he pulled her closer, snuggling her against his chest and burying his face in her hair.

"Where do ya think you're going?" He kissed her earlobe, his breath warming her neck and traveling down her exposed spine.

"Breakfast," she said. "I should help Caroline get it started."

"Mmm, not yet. It's too early."

She folded back into his arms. He ran his fingers over the puckered wound on her shoulder—one mark among dozens. Red tensed beneath his touch and shifted her weight, but his hand lingered.

"Do you remember this one?"

She hesitated briefly and then nodded.

"Tell me."

"Trace, please." His name trickled over her tongue, tasting foreign. She adjusted the blankets, self-consciousness of her scars.

He reached forward, caught her eye, and drew the covers aside. "You're beautiful. You don't need to hide. Not from me." He lowered his head and kissed the healed wound on her shoulder. "Tell me."

"I... it... it was my brother, Peter." She managed to get the words out.

Trace feathered the tips of his fingers over several connecting scars on her lower back, and Red went rigid, her breath becoming more labored. "And these?"

Memories bubbled to the surface: the way her father looked at her before she killed him; the way Peter bit her like a crazed animal; John's cruel medical practices.

She didn't want to go there. "It was so long ago, I...."

She trailed off, hoping he'd just let it be, but he flattened his palm over her scars and pulled her closer. "Tell me."

After Peter had bit her, she'd laid on the damp ground, coming in and out of consciousness. How much time had passed, she never knew. When the fog lifted from her vision and the pain subsided, she went to John Gatherum for help and understanding. The plague destroyed her family—her father, her mother, her brothers. Only John remained, a trusted family friend and the town's physician. He'd delivered her and her brothers, set her broken bones, and stitched up her brothers. She had no reason to doubt him, or be afraid.

Not at first anyway.

He wanted to see the bite. It had started to heal over, so he opened it again with a scalpel and dipped numerous swabs into the festering wound. She tried not to cry. He told her she was a miracle, and that he wanted to study her in order to determine how she survived her brother's bite, and why the wounds had healed so quickly. Somewhere inside her, she wanted to know, too. He said she could help people, and she wanted to. His enthusiasm was contagious.

John promised to take care of her and keep her safe, if she helped him in return. One vial of blood equaled a slice of bread. Two, a glass of water. Six, he'd let her sit on the porch in the sun, though she never felt strong enough to enjoy it, and he didn't let her sit there for long. Nevertheless, she believed in John and didn't mind giving him her blood. He took care of her, and if she could make a difference, it seemed a reasonable price to pay.

One day, he dragged her out into the yard and tied her to an oak tree, despite her protests, pleas, and tearful cries. He climbed onto the roof of the house, sat with his rifle poised on his lap, and waited. It would only be a matter of time before they came.

An hour or two passed by. An eternity.

And they did come—three of them—newly turned, strong, and determined. The walkers filed out of the surrounding woods and crashed through the garden fence, coming for her.

She pushed at the ground with her bare feet and yanked at the ropes that bound her to the tree. The ropes burned into her wrists and waist, drawing blood, but John did nothing to help her. He simply watched as they clawed, bit, and devoured her.

She begged him to shoot the zombies, but he sat silently and watched her misery as the poison flowed through her body.

When it ended, he'd carried her back inside, cleaned her wounds, and drew more blood. She'd woken up on a mattress in the cellar with John hovering over her, apologetic and full of excuses about how he needed to see her effect on the zombies, and their effect on her, firsthand. He told her again what a miracle she was, complimented her bravery, and then asked how she felt.

When she said she was feeling better, he dragged her outside and did it all over again.

"Trace," Red said, wrapping up her story. "I saw him die. He tied me to the tree and before he could reach the roof, they dragged him down. I saw it. I know I did."

"Maybe he's like you and Rivers?"

"I thought about that, but if it's true, then why is he still looking for me? Why would I matter to him anymore?"

Trace wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to his chest. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. As long as we're together, no one will ever hurt you again."

"He has my brother, Trace."

"No. He doesn't have anyone. He's traveling with your brother. There's a difference. I'm pretty sure he's using your brother to draw you out, and you almost fell for it. Elisabeth, if your brother is anything like you, he'll know how to take care of himself."

She wanted to believe him. Even if the situation wasn't as horrible as she feared, a deep internal ache nagged at her. "How did my brother look? Was he okay?"

"He looked tired. But they all did."

Red slumped against him, the side of her face resting on his heart. "I don't know what to do."

He kissed her worried brow. "I know. For now, just stay with me. I think your brother would want you to be safe."

She closed her eyes, and tried to enjoy the rise and fall of his chest. Of course Davis would want this for her. He'd insist on it.

Even so, she couldn't help worrying about his safety with John Gatherum as a traveling companion. Coincidence hadn't thrown the two of them together; she'd be a fool to believe it occurred by happenstance. But for now, she had to believe she'd made the right choice by staying with Trace.

She just couldn't bring herself to believe anything less.

***

Snow crunched beneath Red's feet and her breath hung in the crisp morning air. She pulled Trace's jacket tighter around her shoulders. The sun barely peeked over the horizon, rising slowly along with the makeshift group inside the fort, who struggled to climb from their warm beds. She couldn't blame them. Until the fires roared with new life, the coffee pot brewed near completion, and breakfast sizzled in the pans, crawling out from under the warm covers to face the frigid morning seemed pointless.

Go on and sleep. I'm awake enough for all of us.

She entered the empty kitchen and found Lasso curled up on the floor next to the fireplace. She stayed near the open door, a bit nervous from her previous encounter with the animal, and watched the sleeping dog. It didn't take long before his nose twitched, his ears stood erect, and his eyes opened to assess the situation.

At the sight of her, he scrambled onto all fours, and a grumble of disdain worked its way up from the pit of his belly to rattle against his closed jaws. He didn't like her anymore, and she didn't understand why. A three-week absence shouldn't have caused that much hatred in the once loving dog.

"Hey, Lasso," she said. "It's a'right. I'm not gonna hurt ya."

He lowered his head, his dark gaze steady on her.

She looked around the room for some sort of treat to toss his way as a gesture of peace, but nothing stood readily available. Caroline appeared to be a meticulous cleaner. Damn her.

"Okay," she said, giving up. "I don't know what to do here, but I have to start cooking breakfast, so shoo. Go on now. Outside with ya."

She stepped to the side, pressed herself against the wall, and waited, but the mutt wouldn't budge. "Seriously, I don't have time for these games. Go on now."

He didn't bare his teeth, but the grumbling in his throat continued to grow.

She'd had enough. Maybe she couldn't regain his friendship, but she would earn his respect. She tipped her head to the side, eyed the dog, and allowed a deep moan of her own to crawl up her throat and rumble across the room.

Chills ran up her arms as she began to feel strangely warm, almost too warm beneath Trace's jacket. Heat swarmed her body and lapped her face—she even tasted fire on her tongue. For a passing moment, the room spun in slow circles, and she clung to a wooden cabinet at her side to steady herself.

The dog cowered and began to whimper, which made her feel worse than if the dog had chosen to come at her. She hadn't meant to scare him. What's wrong with me?

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She opened a cabinet door and found some stale bread wrapped in a cloth. With trembling fingers, she tossed it to Lasso. "Please, take it."

The dog sniffed it as if it were tainted and refused the gift. He slunk past with his eyes fixed on her, and skirted around Caroline just as she entered the kitchen.

"What's his problem?" Caroline removed the wrap from around her shoulders, shook off the excess snow, and hung it on the back of a chair.

"I don't know," Red lied, and turned to remove a bowl from the cabinet, needing a moment to compose herself before facing her friend.

"So," Caroline said with happy mischief in her voice, "Wen told me he saw you slip into Cowboy's room last night. Does that mean what I think it does?"

Red pushed away thoughts of her encounter with the dog, and glanced at Caroline. "Yes. No! I mean, it's more than just that."

"More?" Caroline giggled and her eyes widened as she caught sight of the little band encircling Red's finger. "Oh, Red!" She clapped her hands together before throwing her arms around Red. "I'm so happy for you."

Wen stepped into the room, stomped the snow off his boots, and then stopped mid-action when he caught sight of the two girls hugging. "What's going on?"

"Look!" Caroline grabbed Red's hand and raised it for Wen to see.

"Um, okay," he said. "I don't get it."

Caroline rolled her eyes. "Cowboy asked Red to marry him."

"And you said yes to a guy who gave you a cigar band?"

Caroline took a step toward him, and Wen put up his hands in defense. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He smiled and winked at Red. "It's about time you two got together. All that hemming and hawing sure got on my nerves."

***

Red watched the kids build several snowmen of various sizes and shapes all around the courtyard. Trace and Wen helped lift the large snow heads into place once the kids had the two larger body parts stacked on top of each other. Then the kids made more, as though it were a game.

It had stopped snowing several days before, but it was still below freezing outside, and she worried about Rivers' and Fisher's fingers and toes, not to mention their hatless heads. Old enough to know better, Trace and Wen could freeze their limbs off, if they wanted, but the kids needed guidance.

"Rivers, Fisher!" she called through the open kitchen door. "Come here, you two!"

They reluctantly left their latest half-built snowman behind and came to see what she wanted. Red ushered them inside and led them over to the fireplace so she could assess their little bodies.

"Oh, you're frozen!" She rubbed each of their pink cheeks and numb hands in turn. "You need hats and gloves." She had no idea if any existed within the fort walls, but she'd rustle around and find something useful.

"I feel fine," Rivers said. "Fisher does, too."

Fisher nodded and smiled even as tiny ice crystals clung to his eyelashes.

"Why are you two making so many snowmen out there, anyway? Wasn't one enough?"

"Wen's going to teach us all how to cut the heads off zombies!" Rivers' excitement took Red by surprise.

"What?"

"He said we all need to know how to cut off zombie heads. It's easier than shooting them, and faster too. Plus you never need to reload. He said if we build the snowmen, he'll show us how to lop off their heads with one swipe of a sword!"

They plan to arm the kids?

Red poured each of them a mug of coffee, scooped in a few spoonfuls of sugar, and sat them on the hearth.

"Stay here," she said. "Hold onto those mugs to warm your fingers. I'll be right back."

Before she slipped out, she topped off Ira's mug as well, and tucked the blanket in around his legs. "How're you doing? You need anything?"

Even though he couldn't answer back, Red filled the silence enough for both of them. She'd even worked out a bit of the "sign language" he used to communicate, but mostly he just nodded or shook his head to indicate his preferences. This time was no different—he shook his head and attempted to smile.

"Okay," she said. "I'm going to see what those boys are up to." What were they thinking?

Red shoved her hands into her coat pockets and walked across the yard to where Trace and Wen stood admiring their latest piece of work, packing snow in around the snowman's head. Their smiles faded as she approached, and they slouched over like two boys in trouble.

"You're gonna let them play with swords?" She folded her arms across her chest.

"No, of course not," Wen said. "No one's playin' nothin'. This is serious business, and I told them that. Why? Did they go an' tattle on me or somethin'?"

"Are you tryin' to shift blame onto two little kids?"

"We didn't do anything wrong here." Wen matched Red's folded arms by crossing his own, but when Red narrowed her eyes and took a step toward him, he dropped his arms to his sides.

"What's going on?" Caroline walked up with a basket of clothing balanced on her hip. "What'd they do now?"

"Jeez, why do you always assume we did something?" Trace threw his hands in the air. "We're doin' a good thing here. The kids need to know how to protect themselves."

Red turned to Caroline. "They want to teach the kids to chop off heads."

"Well, when you say it like that—" Trace began, but Red shot him a silencing look.

Caroline jutted out her hip and released her breath. "You're kidding, right?"

"No one was gonna get hurt," Wen insisted. "They promised they'd be careful—"

"They're only six and ten." Caroline shook her dark hair and readjusted the basket. "They'll end up chopping off their own hands, or someone else's. They're too young for that kind of thing."

"Then how do we reassure them?" Trace asked. "They're scared and want to know how to protect themselves. We thought a sword was much safer than handing them a gun."

"They're kids," Red said. "Tell them that we'll protect them. We'll shoot the guns and cut off heads. You don't hand them a weapon."

"How 'bout a small knife?"

"No!" Caroline snapped and slapped Wen's shoulder. "No knives. No guns. No swords. They're kids!"

"So what do we do with all the snowmen, then?" Wen gestured toward the populated courtyard. "That's just wasteful."

"Teach us." Red pointed at herself and Caroline. It could prove useful for them to learn how to wield a sword. "I've seen what you're capable of, so why don't you teach me and Caroline? The kids can learn by watching us and you can still have your fun."

Wen looked at Trace, who simply shrugged.

"A'right!" Wen rubbed his hands together and a grin spread across his face. "Let me get the swords."

***

"Now, of course, you're just learning the movement and feel of the sword in your hands." Wen stood at a safe distance, and swung two swords in unison around his body with such fluidity that Red didn't know whether to be amazed or terrified. He'd step to the left and stab an invisible foe on his right. Over and around his head and body, the blades sliced the air, a ting of metal whizzing and vibrating around them.

The kids stood with their tiny jaws open as they watched the precision and beauty of Wen's swordplay. They clapped at his tricks, which only encouraged him to be more daring than Red thought he should. She caught the concern in Caroline's eyes as she watched the man she loved waving the sharp blades around his body, coming within inches of his arms or legs. One small slip or miscalculation, and Wen could be seriously injured. Perhaps that's what made the display all the more intriguing, and why no one said anything to stop him. Even Ira pumped his fist in excitement to keep the show going—an overgrown kid himself.

"The snowmen are for accuracy and aim only," Wen said. "When you really try to sever a head from its body, you'll hit more resistance than you're gonna get here—bone, muscle, stuff like that. You need to make your slice go all the way through, no stopping in the middle. One clean cut."

To show what he meant, Wen twisted his body and leapt up into the air—overdoing it a little, Red thought—and sent the blade right on through the neck of the snowman, spraying the crowd with white crystals.

The kids jumped to their feet, clapping and shouting. Ira showed his approval by banging a crutch on the fort wall.

"Do it again!" Rivers bounced up and down, covered in snow from Wen's inanimate victim. "Another one!"

Wen sailed the sword through a second snowman, which garnished just as much excitement from the kids as the first head-lopping had.

"Okay, you two," he told the kids. "You're both on head duty. Go make two new heads for our snowmen here."

They knelt in the snow wearing makeshift mittens and hats, and gathered the snow into a good-sized ball. The kids became the "head makers" and Trace became the "head placer," setting the newly formed snow heads on top of the decapitated bodies.

"You want to give it a try?" Wen held a sword out to Caroline, who eyed it as though he'd thrown a coiled rattlesnake at her. "Come on, I'll help you."

Red didn't think it looked all that hard, and the fuss and bother Caroline made over the sword put Red off. She'd been a good friend, another woman to talk to, but as she watched Caroline act all meek and helpless while Wen placed his arms around her to help guide the sword, she rolled her eyes.

Without waiting for Wen's instruction or approval, Red took up the second sword, made sure no one stood nearby, and drew it over her head. The blade sliced through the thick neck of the nearest snowman. Clean. Crisp. Precise. The head fell off and rolled a short distance away. With adrenaline rushing through her veins, she twisted around and guided the metal blade through one head after another, scattering the snow, which hung in the air momentarily before falling to the ground.

In the time it took Caroline to dismember one snowman, with Wen's help, Red had destroyed five. If more had been built, she would've taken off their heads as well.

Trace smiled and tipped his thumb at her while addressing the stunned kids. "And that right there is why no one messes with Red."

She lowered the sword as Trace approached her, his grin growing wider with each step. He reached up and brushed the snow crystals from her cheeks and lips before lifting her chin. "You're scary, but I like it."

Chapter 26 – Not Like You

Stupid rooster. Red wanted to throttle its murderous neck. Bloodied, broken, and barely hanging onto life, the poor hen lay on the dirt floor while the cocky rooster pranced about, pecking incisively at it. As much as she wished to save the suffering creature, it was beyond hopeless. The best she could do was put it out of its misery and use the meat for a meal that could last them a few days.

Red kicked at the rooster and it shuffled away. She lifted the battered chicken in her hands and its head flopped sideways. It watched her with beady eyes as blood pumped from a gash on its neck and flowed slick and warm onto her hands.

She'd seen numerous animals butchered for meals while growing up on the farm, and helped her mother prepare most of them. The circle of life. But as she grabbed the chicken's neck and snapped it with one quick twist and pull, a vile sensation built and then ballooned in her throat. Her hands shook as an unnatural longing crawled up from the depths of her stomach and expanded her insides. She couldn't breathe—the smell of iron and copper overpowered her senses; she couldn't think of anything but the dead chicken, the bloody feathers, and the broken bones.

She choked down the urge to tear the chicken apart piece by piece, tendon by tendon, muscle by muscle. Animal instinct pushed up against her closed throat, begging for release, until she felt on the edge of passing out.

"You okay?" Caroline placed a basket of eggs on the ground and reached out to touch Red on the arm. "You don't look so good."

Red shoved the dead chicken into Caroline's hands and pushed past her without a word. She slipped out of sight behind one of the small buildings, and fell to her knees in the snow with her hands stretched out in front of her. She stared at the crimson color that covered her fingers and seeped beneath her nails. The chicken's blood began to dry and harden on her skin, and her heart pounded more insistently within her chest.

She used the snow to scrub her hands raw, turning the whiteness around her into a sickly pink. Though diluted, it was still blood. She knew it, and the darkness inside her knew it, too.

The animal instinct that came alive at the sight of blood and the sound of the chicken's neck breaking screamed for release, and couldn't be held back. It hurt to fight against it.

So she gave in and began to lick her fingers.

***

"Everything a'right?"

Red looked up and saw Trace standing there, watching her. There was nothing left for him to see—her hands appeared free from blood, and the surrounding snow with its once pink hue had all been consumed.

She relaxed her shoulders and climbed to her feet. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Caroline said you were sick."

"No, I'm good." She brushed her hands off on her pants, her fingers too numb to feel the fabric.

His eyes narrowed. "You sure?"

She nodded and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, just in case. "Don't worry about me. I'm okay." Once she'd licked and swallowed the blood, she felt better than she had in a long time—and it scared her.

"Then why you hiding back here?"

"I'm not hiding. I just needed a moment."

"Behind the smokehouse?"

He took a few steps toward her, but Red stepped back, afraid of what she might do. She didn't think she would hurt him, but after the new experience of licking blood from her fingertips, and liking it, better not to take a chance.

"Why not?" she said. "It's as good a place as any."

"You're acting awful strange." He tipped his head and assessed her. "Somethin' ain't right."

"You're the one acting weird." Why won't he stop looking at me? Can he tell? Does he sense something is different?

"You should go lie down for a bit. I'm sure Caroline can handle dinner."

"But I'm not sick."

"You look kind of pale to me."

Trace reached out to touch her forehead, and she sidestepped his hand. When she realized her error, Red smiled to ease his concern. She needed him not to worry, or suspect anything. More importantly, she needed him not to touch her.

"I always look pale. It comes with the color of my hair. It's a curse."

He appeared unconvinced. "If something was wrong, you'd tell me, right?"

Red smiled again. "Of course, I promise. Go let Caroline know I'll be there in a minute."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be too long."

***

Sleep wouldn't come. Instead of tossing and turning, Red simply lay motionless next to Trace.

She didn't want to sleep in the same room with him, let alone the same bed, but she couldn't come up with a convincing reason why she shouldn't. Trace wouldn't buy her lies anyway. She had no choice but to abide by the established sleeping arrangement and hope she wasn't making a mistake.

To ensure nothing happened, she kept her eyes open and her back to him, but felt every unconscious breath he took. Whenever he shifted, Red shifted as well, curving her body away from his.

The day before, she'd found a great deal of peace lying beside him with his breath on her neck and his arms enfolding her. Now, she battled fear.

Something was seriously wrong with her.

Trace rolled away from her in his sleep, and Red used the opportunity to steal unnoticed from the bed. She grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, slipped her arms into the sleeves, and lifted the collar to her nose to breathe in his woodsy smell. Then she pulled on her boots and inched the door open just enough to slip outside.

The sharp bite of midwinter snatched her breath away, and she drew the jacket even tighter. Millions of stars sparkled overhead and a full moon threw down its light, casting the snow at her feet in an otherworldly glow. With everyone asleep, the only sounds came from the moaning undead on the other side of the fort walls.

The zombies had trickled back in after her brother, John Gatherum, and their travelling companions killed a bunch off a few weeks before. Within a week of the slaughter, enough zombies had gathered outside the fort to fill a small town. The undead had smelled them from miles away, and trapped them inside once again.

She walked toward one of the lookout towers, wrapped her fingers around the rungs of the ladder, and climbed upward. Her breath floated in white puffs that quickly evaporated. At the top, Red shivered from the feeling of uncertainty that penetrated her very core.

As she gazed down, the dark, undead shadows barely moved. Most of the zombies swayed from side to side, since the frigid weather slowed their ability to walk or crawl. They just stood about and stared at the fort walls, too frozen to even claw at them. Once the sun rose, their activity would increase dramatically. The more decayed of the bunch struggled against the bitter cold. The more recently turned ones ambled around in small circles, bumping into one another.

Regardless of their state, all of them ignored her. Their moans of displeasure remained steady and unchanged by her presence.

Red slumped against the railing and squeezed her eyes closed.

The kids loved to climb the towers, but whenever they did, it caused the walking dead below to claw at the walls, pound on the doors, and groan so loudly that they'd banned the kids from climbing them again. The men only ascended the towers twice a day—after breakfast and right before dinner—since the havoc lasted for well over an hour each time. None of them could stand to listen to the noise any longer than necessary.

"Hey," she called down to the zombies. "Up here!"

Her eyes followed them for any hint that they'd heard her. Look at me.

Nothing.

"Do you see me?" She let Trace's jacket slip from her shoulders, baring her skin and scent. She raised her arms, pressed her waist against the railing, and leaned over the edge. "See me! I'm right here." Tears slipped from the outer corners of her eyes and curved under her chin. "I'm right here!"

No reaction. Not even a glance in her direction. The zombies were oblivious to her.

She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to keep from falling apart.

She left the jacket behind and clambered down the ladder. Once her feet hit the dirt, she ran across the courtyard straight to Wen's room. Before opening the door, she stood there with one hand on the knob, calming her breathing, so as not to wake him.

She didn't want to wake anyone.

With a twist of the knob, the door fell open without a sound. She waited, but the occupants of the double bed never stirred. The chill from outside swept through the tiny room, causing the flames in the fireplace to dance and flicker. Wen and Caroline still didn't budge.

Caroline's dark hair fell down her back and over the bare arm Wen had wrapped around her small shoulders. She pressed her face into the dip of his neck. The sleeping couple created a picture of peace and contentment.

Red swallowed the sob that threatened to burst out of her, and glanced around the room, aware of what she looked for, but unsure where it might be.

Her eyes fell on the sheathed blade tucked carefully away in the far corner, and she released her arrested breath. She calculated each step to the corner, then wrapped her fingers around the handle and drew the blade.

A silhouette of the weapon appeared on the wall, a shadow cast in the glow of the firelight as she held it out for inspection. She ran her thumb across the blade and a red line of blood rose to the surface of her skin.

Perfect.

She stepped outside the room and eased the door closed behind her. Wen and Caroline slept on, unaware of her intrusion, exactly as planned.

She quickened her footsteps to match the pace of her heartbeat, and gripped the sword as though it were a lifeline. The heavy gate fought against her, refusing to budge, and she nearly gave up. With a final angry pull, it opened just enough for her to squeeze out and yank it shut behind her. In order to get back within the safety of the walls, someone would have to let her in, but in that moment, she didn't care.

Time to settle a score.

***

The cold air pricked her skin and flowed through her flannel nightgown with ease. The heat of resentment and purpose encased every cell of her body, warming her better than any coat or blanket ever could.

The smell of rotting flesh enveloped her and clung to her skin, hair, and clothes. It didn't matter how many times she smelled a decaying body, the stench still churned her stomach. Whether or not she vomited, she'd continue on.

She expected a siege, —a mass assault from the collected undead. She was used to such, having lived through it numerous times.

With the sword poised above her head, she ground her feet into the soil and positioned herself for an attack.

But they didn't swarm her. They drifted around and absent-mindedly brushed their mangled limbs against her in passing. They didn't growl, moan, sniff, or bare their teeth. In fact, they barely noticed her at all.

Standing in the midst of the dead walkers, fully exposed, Red lowered the sword and guided her hand over her heart, to feel the repeated thumping. She bit her bottom lip to still its quaking. If they didn't see her as human, then what was she? A miracle? No, more like a mistake—a freak of nature that belonged nowhere.

She whipped the sword above her head again and swung it into place. She gritted her teeth so tightly, the fury inside her had no option but to escape through her nostrils in a flared snarl. With a twist of her hips, she sent the blade arcing through the air. With one fluid, circular movement, rotating on the balls of her feet, she swung her arms and sent the blade slicing through the necks of three zombies. Decapitated, the heads wavered for a moment before falling to the ground.

"I'm not one of you!"

She released the intense hatred for the demons that had made her a freak. Darkened blood, putrid and thick, sprayed across her arms, face, and clothing in her mission to destroy each and every one of the undead creatures.

The blade sung through the crisp air, lopping off heads with each swipe in a grotesque dance between her and the unassuming zombies. Her arms burned and ached, but her white-knuckled grip on the sword handle never wavered. Each rolling head increased her mental tally in her favor—a win in a game she'd thought already lost. She needed to feel the resistance as blade met bone and tendons, sending vibrations up the length of the sword to sting her strained muscles. She welcomed the pain.

How many zombies fell, she couldn't tell. She only saw the dozen or so that continued to stand, and if they still stood, she wasn't finished. Resolve surged through her veins and adrenalin pumped her heart.

"I'm not like you! I'll never be like you!"

Yet she wasn't like the people inside the fort either.

Chapter 27 – Hewn Down

Sleep weighed down Trace's lids. Without opening his eyes, he reached out to pull Red's warm body against his, but found her side of the bed empty, her pillow cool. She'd risen early and didn't want to disturb him. He would've done the same.

Without her body there to hold onto, he chose the next best thing and pulled her pillow toward him, breathing in the scent she'd left behind on the white fabric.

Oh, how I love her.

"Trace!"

Fear coated his name and cut through the morning silence. He bolted upright and wiped the balminess from his eyes, to remove the fog from his brain and to make sense of what was going on.

"Get out here, Trace! Now!"

Wen.

He pulled back the covers and fumbled with his boots, tugging them over his bare feet. The urgency in Wen's voice led Trace to forgo searching for trousers. He subconsciously reached for his jacket on the peg near the door, only to find it missing.

Long johns and boots would have to suffice. If something terrible happened, what would it matter anyway? He grabbed his rifle and opened the door to the bitter cold. It nipped through his drawers, and he took a quick intake of air.

"Damn," he said under his breath. If this was only the beginning of winter, he didn't look forward to the frigid months ahead.

Caroline stood in her bedroom doorway with a blanket wrapped tightly around her and over the shoulders of Fisher and Rivers, who flanked her on either side. They all stared at the west tower.

Trace couldn't see Red anywhere, but before he could ask after her, Wen yelled for him to get his hind end up the ladder.

Five rungs into his climb, a realization hit him, and he paused. No moans floated over the stone walls, and no broken fingers clawed against the gates in an effort to get inside. Just silence. The zombies were a constant background noise—a distant, off-putting hum everyone had grown accustomed to. Without it, the silence grew thick and heavy.

Wen's presence at the top of the tower should have sent the undead into a feeding frenzy, and knowing that, Trace climbed faster.

"What's going on?" He pulled himself onto the wooden platform, and his friend's expression relayed more information than his words ever could.

"It's Red." Wen lifted his hand and pointed below on the other side of the fort walls. "She's down there."

Trace scrambled to the railing. Red outside the walls? Impossible.

At first he didn't see her. The headless bodies littered the ground like a forest of hewn down trees. Mounds of zombie corpses were splayed in various directions with broken, mangled limbs. Decapitated heads stared upward with wide, milky eyes and jaws that hung from broken pivots in an eternal, silent moan. Thick, soupy blood poured from the necks of the severed bodies, merging into one giant lake of blackened red.

The stench pierced his nostrils, and Trace covered his nose with the crook of his arm to diffuse it. He couldn't imagine Red down there among the diseased, in the midst of the gagging smell. Wen had to be wrong.

"Where?" Trace scanned the bodies. His stomach constricted and balled up tight. He swept his eyes over the remains, and a different kind of fear began to tear at his soul. Why would she leave the fort and walk straight into a mob of undead?

"There!" Wen pointed, and Trace followed the extension of his arm.

No wonder he hadn't seen her before. She knelt on the ground amid the corpses, her thick locks matted and heavy with blood, obscuring her features. Her blood-soaked nightgown clung to her tiny frame like a second skin, as droplets ran down her arms and dripped from her elbows to pool at her side.

Red looked up, as though sensing his gaze on her, and the whites of her eyes ignited from behind her bloodied bangs—moons in a darkened sky.

"Red!" He pressed against the railing, baffled by what he was witnessing. What in the hell had happened? "We need to get her back inside the gates! We need to—"

Wen placed his hand on Trace's shoulder. "How can we be sure it's safe? How do we know she's safe?"

Trace shrugged Wen's hand away. "I'm not leaving her out there, so don't even suggest it."

"No, it's just—" Wen shook his head. "Look at her. Look at them! Come on, Trace, what am I supposed to think?"

Trace stepped face-to-face with Wen. "If it were Caroline, what would you do?"

Wen matched Trace's stance. "Who do you think I'm trying to protect?"

Friend and brother indeed.

"I'm going out to get her." Trace narrowed his eyes, refusing to back down. "And I'm bringing her inside. If you have a problem with that, then you better lock the gates behind me, because I'm either bringing her in with me, or I'm not coming back at all."

Without waiting for a response, he took hold of the ladder and started the climb down. He needed to get to Red, and had no time to argue with Wen.

"Trace, come on." Wen shook his head. "I'm worried, is all. You can't blame me for trying to keep us all safe."

Trace refused to look at him. "Do what you have to do, Wen. Just do it quick."

***

Trace pushed the heavy gate open and stepped beyond the safety of the fort into the grizzly battlefield of rotting corpses.

Damn, the smell is bad. It burned his nostrils and constricted his throat, which made it almost impossible for him to breathe. He pressed his nose into the crook of his arm.

Careful not to step on a mangled body part or slip in the bloody mess, he stepped over the various remains. The coagulated zombie blood sucked at his boots, making each step difficult as he maneuvered through the maze of arms, legs, and torsos.

Red just sat there with her head down, ignoring his approach. The sword, coated in so much blood the silver metal became lost, lay across her lap, and she clasped the handle with her sticky hands. The sun appeared over the eastern hills and cast a red glow across the sky, making the scene of slaughter appear even more gruesome.

"Red?" Trace stepped over one body and sidestepped another to stand before her.

She looked up, but said nothing.

So many questions ran through his mind, but faced with her sad expression, this wasn't the time to ask them. Later. Definitely later.

He knelt and reached out to push the matted hair from her face, then used his thumbs to wipe away the blood that coated her face. He only managed to smear it.

"Are you hurt? Bit?"

She shook her head.

He took her ice cold hands in his. How long has she been out here in the freezing weather? He looked her over for signs of frostbite, but with her body so slick with blood, he couldn't tell.

"Can you walk?"

She nodded. "I'm fine. Just leave me here. Leave me with them."

He slipped his arms under her, pulled her to his chest, and started the precarious journey back to the gates. She pressed her face into his neck and her tears warmed his skin. He would never leave her behind.

As he approached the gates, he wondered what Wen had decided to do. If he'd bolted the gates into place, Trace would carry Red as far as he was physically able. He also knew if Wen had shut them out, they'd be doomed to death. With no food, freezing cold temperatures, and only the barest of clothing, it wouldn't take long. They would have perhaps a few hours before death.

But the gate stood open, just as Trace had left it.

He carried her inside and Wen stood ready to push the gate closed behind them. He exchanged a look with Wen, but neither of them voiced their concerns, both content to let it go for now.

"She's not hurt or bit, but she's freezing." Trace carried her toward their room. "I need water. Lots of water."

Caroline took off for the kitchen. The kids said nothing as they followed with shell-shocked eyes. Lasso growled and snipped at the air, but Fisher wrapped his arms around the dog's neck to hold him back.

Trace kicked open the bedroom door with his foot and deposited Red on the hearth; the bricks were still warm and the fire continued to glow. He grabbed a blanket from their bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and tucked it in. He placed a few more logs on the fire and poked at the embers, enticing them to take hold of the fresh wood.

Wen carried in the old galvanized tub and set it before the fireplace without looking at Red. He stepped aside when Caroline entered and dumped two large pails of steaming water into the metal bathtub. Without a word, she took off again to gather more.

"I'll go help her," Wen said, and ducked out. He never came back.

After two more trips and four buckets of water, Caroline had nearly filled the tub. "Here," she said, placing a scrub brush and a bar of lye soap on the table. "Use this. I'll bring more water as soon as it heats up."

After the door closed behind her, Trace removed the blanket from Red's shoulders and eased her out of the ruined nightgown. There was no saving it, so he flung it into the fireplace and allowed the flames to consume it.

He took her hands, led her shivering frame to the water, and helped her climb inside the tub. She retracted a little, the warm water stinging her chilled skin, but eventually lowered herself completely without a word of protest. Trace knelt beside her with the brush in one hand and the bar of soap in the other, and began to scrub her blood-caked arms. He poured water over her shoulders to warm her, and as the water cooled, he called for Caroline to fetch another pail.

The blood washed off her skin well enough, but her hair proved more difficult. He ran his fingers through her thick curls, scrubbing and detangling the knots as he worked the red mess from her locks. When he finished, he poured pitcher after pitcher over her head, which turned the bath water a translucent, murky pink.

All the while, Red quietly stared into the flickering light of the fireplace, offering no resistance as Trace maneuvered her limp arms and legs. So many things plagued his mind, but now wasn't the time for questions. He resigned himself to the task of getting her clean—a rather large task, as it happened.

Caroline brought in two more buckets of warm water and placed them beside Trace, then pulled out a fresh gown and undergarments from the wardrobe cupboard and set them on the bed.

"Is there anything else I can do?" She draped a light blanket over a chair for Trace to use when Red climbed from the bath.

"No." Trace gave her an appreciative smile. "You've done plenty. Thanks."

Caroline shoved her hands in the pockets of her apron. "Just leave the bath water. I'll take care of it when you're done."

Trace nodded and Caroline left the two of them alone. He took Red's hand and helped her to stand. He lifted the fresh pails of water Caroline had brought in and poured each of them, in turn, over Red's shoulders for a final rinse.

"Here you go." He grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her, gently patting her dry. "How does that feel?"

"Fine."

"You warming up some?"

She nodded, although still shivering. He quickly dried her body and helped her into the clean clothes Caroline had laid out for her.

"Let's get you into bed." Trace pulled back the blankets and waited for her to lie down. Without any argument, Red crawled between the covers and Trace tucked them in around her. "I'll go get more blankets and be right back."

On his way out, he grabbed the first blanket he'd wrapped her in while she was still covered in blood, then the one he'd used to dry her with, and wadded them up. They'd have to be burned as well.

He gathered two fresh blankets from the adjoining rooms and carried them back to Red. Caroline dipped pails into the tub to be carried outside and emptied. When he entered, she put her finger to her lips and motioned to the bed.

Red slept in a fetal position, her chest rising and falling peacefully. He wanted to ask her so many things, but it appeared he would have to wait until later in the day.

He shook out the first blanket and spread it over her, then did the same with the second. He brushed the damp curls from her forehead and smoothed them aside, and pressed his lips to her brow.

Chapter 28 – A Line of Concern

"Not one bite. Not even a scratch." Wen placed his hands on his waist and stared down at the ground. After a brief pause, he raised his eyes and stared Trace square in the eye. "How do you explain that?"

Trace appeared just as dumbfounded as Wen—her skill, perhaps, although Red had only just learned to wield a sword. How could she have already developed the strength and expertise to destroy even a handful of walking dead, let alone decapitate over fifty in one go?

They would have swarmed her, made it impossible for her to raise her arms and gather enough leverage to swing the heavy sword. The zombies should have taken her down within minutes of stepping outside the gates.

Yet they hadn't.

"She's not dangerous," Trace said. "If that's what you're afraid of."

"She wasn't bit." Wen let his hands drop from his waist. "Something ain't right about that."

"What the hell are you saying, Wen? You telling me it would've been better if she'd been bitten?"

"No!" Wen shook his head, frustrated. "Damn it, Trace, open your eyes! Something's different with her."

"Of course something's different with her! We've known that from the beginning—"

"You know that's not what I'm talkin' about." Wen furrowed his brow.

Trace stepped up to him. "What are you talking about? What're you saying exactly?"

"Do you think I'd be standing here arguing with you if I knew exactly what was going on? I just know something's not quite right, whereas you're in some kind of denial."

"Denial? Wen, this is Red we're talkin' about. She'd never do anything to hurt us. In fact, she's saved both our lives on more than one occasion."

Wen pointed at the bolted gates. "She opened them, Trace! She got up in the night, removed the boards, and opened the gates knowing full well the uglies were on the other side. They could've slipped inside the fort and destroyed all of us. We were asleep and wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing to protect ourselves."

It was a foolish move on Red's part. Trace wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, but couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for her actions. Had she even considered the danger she'd placed them in? Maybe not, which was even more worrisome.

He needed to talk to her, but until he wrapped his head around the situation, his questions would only lead her to believe he doubted her. Once he stepped over that line, it would prove difficult to regain her trust.

"She's dangerous," Wen said. "Maybe not like the uglies, but she is. We can't afford to take chances with our lives, not with Caroline expecting a—" Wen paused and lifted his dark eyes to meet Trace's.

"With Caroline expecting what?" In his gut, Trace already knew the answer.

Wen swallowed, and Trace saw his eyes watering with emotion. "She's having a baby." There was no rejoicing or delight. Just fear. "She's pregnant."

Trace released his breath, removed his hat, and clasped it to his midsection. No wonder his friend reacted the way he did. A baby. Damn. At a time such as this, a baby wasn't anything to celebrate.

"We're gettin' low on food and supplies," Wen continued. "We only have a few months at best before we have to make some decisions, and I can't risk moving Caroline outside these walls. It just isn't safe." He slumped against the rock wall and stared at the dirt. "Red can't be taking chances like that. We can't afford it. Not now."

"I'll talk to her." Trace placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I don't know why she did it. I don't even know how she did it. But after I talk with her, I'm sure she'll never do it again."

A sense of despair and concern etched itself into Wen's features. "What're we gonna do? How we gonna get food and supplies? And how in the world are we gonna protect a baby?"

"We'll find a way," Trace said, nodding. "We will. I promise."

Caring for a baby couldn't be that much more difficult than caring for two kids and an infirm old man. Nonetheless, the prospect of a baby terrified Trace. Babies cried. Babies smelled. Babies would attract zombies en masse. The kids and the old man could at least fire guns. Babies were helpless and uncontrollable. The idea of that scared him the most.

Nope, it wasn't a good time to bring a baby into the world, providing Caroline even made it to full term in the first place. A pregnant woman brought a whole different set of problems. They didn't need that kind of liability, but Trace didn't say as much.

Instead, he gave Wen a firm pat on the shoulder before placing his hat back on his head. "It's gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be just fine."

***

Red overheard them talking. She couldn't make out their exact words, but the tone of their conversation traveled easily through the walls. No doubt their argument had everything to do with her and what she'd done, because really, what else could it be?

They wanted answers and they deserved them, but Red had none to give. The longer she lay there listening, the more she didn't want to talk at all. Not yet anyway.

She slipped from the bed and noticed that, despite Trace's considerable efforts to clean her body of the zombie blood, she'd left hints of red and pink on the bed linens.

The wardrobe stood empty except for a pair of pants, so she slipped them up and over her nightgown. It would be another matter all together to find her one pair of boots. One stood stoically drying out near the fireplace, still stained with blood. The other had vanished somewhere in the chaos she'd caused.

After checking around the room and coming up empty-handed, Red knelt next to the bed and reached into the darkness underneath. Her hand grazed the cracked leather, and as she clasped onto the boot to draw it out, the back of her hand brushed a set of papers tucked into the underside of the wooden frame of the bed she shared with Trace. Most likely a previous tenant had hid them, but curiosity got the better of her and she pulled the papers out.

She walked over to the fireplace—one boot on, one bare foot—and could just make out the words printed on the crinkled papers. It shouldn't have surprised her to see her own picture staring back up at her, but it did. John was capable of anything. But the knowledge that the wanted posters belonged to Trace, and that he'd hidden them from her, pained her most.

She kept looking at them—first one, then the other. The price on her head had increased dramatically with the second printing, doubling her worth. Then Red looked at the gold band on her finger and realized she'd been played for a fool once more.

Trace was no better than John.

***

"Any of you seen Red?" Trace stomped the freshly falling snow from his boots and brushed off his shoulders before stepping inside the kitchen.

"Isn't she in your room, sleeping?" Caroline turned from the steaming kettle hanging over the flames of the fireplace. "I figured I'd just let her be. Give her some time after last night."

"That's kind of you," he said. "But no, she wasn't there. I thought she might be here with you."

"I saw her earlier." Rivers looked up from where she and Fisher sat kneading dough and patting it out into small cakes. "She sat on the edge of the bed all quiet. I asked her if she needed anything, but she just shook her head."

Caroline struggled to her feet, and Trace went to her and offered his arm. Sure enough, a small belly bump pressed against her apron. How had he not noticed before? He hoped he wasn't the only man in the world oblivious to the most obvious of things.

Caroline glanced at Trace with fear in her eyes, knowing Wen must have told him their secret. "I'm sorry." She self-consciously tugged at her apron. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Don't be sorry," he said. "Like I told Wen, it'll be okay. I'll do everything in my power to ensure that you all stay safe. You have my word."

Caroline relaxed a little, but continued to grasp the apron in her fist. "Maybe Red's in the barn checking on the animals. Did you look there?"

"I'll do that now. If you need anything, let me know."

He slipped outside and shut the door behind him. The snow fell more heavily, dusting everything in white and making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. He flipped up the collar of his coat, pulled it tight against his neck, and tucked his hands inside his jacket. It was a good thing they'd picked all the remaining fruit off the trees and pulled the last of the carrots and potatoes out of the garden a few days before. They wouldn't have made it through the winter otherwise.

The animals paid him no mind when he entered the barn, but simply ate the handful of feed allotted to them. The small quantity of food wouldn't satisfy their hunger, but it would keep them alive. They all had to make do so their stores would last until spring. That was the hope, anyway.

Trace noticed boney ribs beginning to peek through the fur and hair on some of the animals, and wondered just how many they'd lose before then.

Red wasn't in the barn. Although the compound of the fort was rather sizable, one couldn't really become lost. With its central, open courtyard, he would've crossed paths with Red at some point. He checked Ira's room, thinking she might have decided to visit with him. The old man read a book by the fire, alone. He attempted to ask Ira whether he'd seen Red, but the old man's hands, though firing rapid messages, told him nothing. Trace still found it difficult to read his signs, though he tried.

He checked several outbuildings where Red might be, but she seemed to have just vanished. He stood in the middle of the courtyard, fighting a storm that brewed in intensity with each passing minute. It rolled over the plains and threatened to drown the fort with it.

"Red!" He heard the desperation in his own voice. "Red!"

No response. He cupped his hands around his mouth and tried again. "Elisabeth!"

Wen appeared next to him and pulled his hat down over his eyes to block out the snow. "What's going on?"

"Have you seen Red around?"

"No, not today."

Trace knew Wen had been avoiding her, so his answer was no surprise.

"I'll help you look," Wen offered. "You take the rooms on the south, and I'll go check everything on the north side. If I find her, I'll let her know you're lookin' for her."

Trace flung open door after door, continuing to call out her name. A horrible panic settled in his chest as each opened door offered nothing more than emptiness. Where the hell is she?

He entered their shared room, taking a moment of reprieve from the bitter wind and sleet to put some perspective on the situation. She must be there somewhere. Maybe Wen had better luck than he did.

He made for the door to look for Wen, when he saw it—the glimmer of light on metal. The firelight caught its smooth surface and set it shimmering in the darkened room.

In the center of the wooden table, deliberately positioned on top of the wrinkled wanted posters, sat the metal cigar band he'd slipped on her finger weeks before.

He spun on his heels and threw the wardrobe doors open, hoping he was wrong. Just as he feared, the wardrobe stood empty. His knapsack no longer hung from the wooden peg. His pistols and hunting knife had disappeared. She'd removed part of the bedding, a small blanket, and the kerosene lantern from the bedside table.

She'd taken whatever she could get her hands on, but Trace knew it wasn't nearly enough, not in this weather. Did she even take any food? Something to make a fire? The animals were all accounted for, so if she truly left, she'd done so on foot—a death walk.

She was going to die out there.

***

Red knew that continuing to walk the plains in the midst of a snowstorm would kill her. With nothing to shield herself from the fierce wind, she turned toward the mountains. Though equally dangerous, it was her only option as the snowfall turned violent.

She fought against the wind and snow one aching footstep at a time and scanned the horizon for a tree line—something to put a cross-break between her and the weather. Too much hung on the line to die now.

The wind blew horizontally and snow slapped her bare cheeks with frozen claws. A feeling of physical and emotional numbness took over. She pulled her scarf over her nose and lips in a pitiful attempt at protection, but left her eyes vulnerable to the stinging crystals that pierced her sight. Soon she'd be blind to everything around her.

Originally, she'd set out toward the north, but she no longer knew which direction her footsteps carried her. She could very well be walking in circles.

Going back wasn't an option—not with a large bounty on her head and a deceitful bounty hunter for a husband. So she kept moving forward. Much as she wanted to drop to her knees and close her eyes, if she even took a moment to rest, she'd die.

She held the lantern with her fingertips and it rocked back and forth. The flame clung to life behind its glass enclosure—hope in the form of a flicker. If it went out, she'd be lost in the dark, so she held it close to her chest.

A few trees rose from the earth like giants amid the sagebrush and low-lying bushes. Tired and numb, her hands shook in response to the cold creeping into her core. She reached forward, took hold of a branch, then another, and crawled near the trunk. With her back against the rough bark, she set the lantern aside and gathered her frozen fingers to her mouth. She blew warm air over them with shivering lips and rubbed them together. She felt nothing.

The tree didn't provide much protection from the elements. It certainly wouldn't be enough to tide her over until the storm ended. Even though she desperately wanted to rest, to sit beneath the tree and do nothing more, she forced herself to rise and continue moving. She snapped off some low hanging branches, thick with needles, and piled them on the ground near the base of the tree. Her frozen fingers bent and broke branch after branch. Satisfied, she began to scoop snow, creating a mound first on one side of the trunk, then on the other. She laid the branches across the top to bridge the mounds and create a roof—minimal and gaping. It would have to do.

She dragged herself inside the tiny shelter and drew the lantern in behind her. Without the blaring wind beating down on her, she turned the flame higher and pressed her hands to the glass. Warm them. Warm them.

Her teeth knocked against one another and her body shook. A fire would be impossible to build and maintain, so she didn't even try. The lantern would have to create the impression of warmth to see her through the long, cold night.

She took the quilt out of the knapsack, wrapped it around her shoulders, and tucked it beneath her to provide a barrier against the hard, frozen earth. Her body pleaded with her to close her eyes and give in to sleep, but she kept telling herself it would be over soon. At some point, every storm ended.

She just needed to hold on until then.

Chapter 29 – The Truth

"I'm goin' after her." Trace adjusted the saddle on his horse and cinched it into place. He gently rubbed the stallion's neck, knowing full well he would put both of their lives in danger, but he couldn't think of an alternative.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Wen argued. "The storm's at its worst right now, and who knows when it'll let up. Besides, you don't even know which way she's headed."

"She's heading north," Trace announced with certainty. He continued to prepare his horse, wasting no more time than was needed. "She's trying to get away from me, and she's goin' after her brother and John Gatherum. I can almost guarantee it."

"Trace." Wen placed his hand on the horse's back. "I can't let you go. I can't let you do this."

"You don't have a choice." Trace tied two bedrolls into place behind the saddle. "She's on foot, Wen. She can't have gone very far. I'll find her. I have to. I have to set things right."

"What if you can't?"

Trace's hand hovered momentarily over the saddlebags—a visual crack in his resolve. He pushed past the doubt and weaved the leather straps through the buckles. "I need you to open the gates and let me through." He took the reins and led the weary horse out of the stable. "I'll find her. And once I do, I'll bring her back." He looked at Wen. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."

"Damn it, Trace." Wen let out a frustrated breath. "Of course I want you both here. We're family and I need you here with the kids, Ira, Caroline—I can't do this on my own. You have to come back, or we ain't gonna make it. So you promise me you will."

Trace put his hand on Wen's shoulder and nodded. "You have my word."

"Then you go get her. Go find her and bring her back."

***

The storm hit him in the face, quick and painful. Each intake of breath stung his lungs as he bent his head against the blizzard. His horse did the same as ice crystals clung to its puffing nostrils. The animal struggled to keep its balance, stumbling more than once, and Trace knew they couldn't continue like that for long. The horse could fall, trapping him beneath the one-ton animal, killing them both.

He dismounted, held the reins in his gloved hands, and led the exhausted beast forward one agonizing lurch at a time.

With each step forward, the wind threatened to blow him back two. The storm refused to let up, and Trace could hardly see where he stepped. Finding Red under these conditions would be nearly impossible. She might be four feet to the right or four feet to the left, and he'd pass her by without even knowing it.

He called out her name, but the blaring wind and vicious howling engulfed the sound of his voice. It didn't stop him from cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling for her over and over, until his throat stung from the bitter cold and he became hoarse. Her name was nothing more than a whisper on his lips, but he refused to give up.

"Elisabeth!"

***

"Elisabeth." Trace's breath warmed her ear, her cheek. "Don't fall asleep."

His body pressed against her, and his arms and legs snaked around her own, shielding her from the fierce cold that caused her body to tremor. He brushed the snow from her face and hugged her to his chest.

"Don't sleep," he whispered again. "Not tonight."

"Okay." Her voice cracked, barely audible. He lay beside her in the makeshift structure. Nothing about it made sense, but in her delirium, she didn't care. Red clung to him regardless. If death wanted to play tricks, she'd gladly participate.

He felt real, and nothing else mattered. In this place between reality and fantasy, she forgot about his blatant lies and trickery.

"It's almost over," he said. "It's almost done."

The night. The storm. Her death. Which did he mean?

Death and sleep took turns pressing down on her. Each time she nearly succumbed, he shook her back to consciousness.

"Don't sleep."

She fluttered awake, disoriented, and then the cold settled in and she remembered her hopeless situation. Of all the ways to die, she preferred this one—wrapped in his arms, falling asleep never to wake again. She'd been dragged to hell numerous times, but this time she felt calm and at peace. No fear.

It was perfect.

"Let me go," she whispered. "Just let me go."

"Don't sleep."

"I'm too tired."

"It's almost over. It's almost done."

"Let me go."

"Not tonight."

The same words, repeated over and over without variation. She'd argue for release, and he'd say the same phrases again and again, his tone unchanging.

Red knew then he wasn't really there. He'd never been there, and as her mind rolled over the reality of it, his arms fell away and the length of his body disappeared. In its place, the sound of the howling wind increased. It filled her ears for persistent hours on end—humming and blowing that began to sound like a beautiful lullaby, as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Numbness crept over her limbs and sleep drew her eyelids down.

***

Red blinked her eyes, breaking the fine line of frost and sleep that sealed them. She stared up at the sky, mesmerized by the sudden change in the weather and the fact a new day welcomed her. The cold remained, but the meanness of the storm had vanished and been replaced by the peek-a-boo of blue sky and sunshine that trickled in through the gaps in the branches above her.

The sun shifted ever so slightly overhead and blinded her as its light danced across her face. She rolled her head to the side and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, not quite ready to leave the snow shelter and face another day of frigid weather and the long journey ahead. Another hour of rest wouldn't change anything. Besides, she needed a moment for her frozen body to get used to the idea of getting up and moving. So far, her limbs refused to budge.

As her hand moved across her vision, she flew to a sitting position, ignoring the physical protests of her body, and stared at the tiny gold band encircling the ring finger of her left hand. Transfixed by its presence, she found it hard to breathe. Why—how—was the tiny band on her finger? She raised her hand and turned her wrist first to the right, then to the left, to see if her mind continued to play tricks, but the band reflected the light, illuminating its existence.

Impossible.

She blinked, running the tips of her fingers over the tiny piece of metal. Smooth. Cool. Real.

The sound of crackling wood and the faint smell of smoke rose to meet her other senses. She found it impossible to comprehend the sight of the cigar band, the sound of the fire, and the smell of burning wood.

She pushed back the blankets. Blankets? First her quilt, and then two blankets she hadn't brought with her. She lifted the edge of the rough material to her nose, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scent she recognized all too well. A sob threatened to burst through her ribcage, but she held it back and choked it down. She released her grip on the blanket and scrambled on hands and knees to the opening of her rudimentary shelter.

A small fire sent plumes of lazy smoke into the clearing sky. Her fingers begged for the heat, but she couldn't move.

He looked up at her and smiled. "I was just about to wake you."

Red fell onto her backside, stunned. Her breath caught in her throat as he approached her and pressed a cup of warm liquid into her hands. She took it without question while her brain fought to catch up with her actions.

"Here, drink this. It'll help warm you up."

She just stared wide-eyed at Trace, incapable of anything more.

He wrapped his hands around hers and helped guide the cup to her lips. "Be careful, it's hot."

She hardly felt the coffee slide down her throat, her attention focused solely on him. How? Why?

She made to speak, but he pushed the cup to her lips once again. "Keep drinking. It's too darn cold not to." He draped the blankets across her shoulders and over her lap, tucking her in. "Feelin' any warmer?"

She narrowed her eyes, still focused on the unbelievable fact of his presence, and ignored his question. "You shouldn't be here."

Trace didn't answer right away, but made her sip from the mug a third time. "You're right, I shouldn't. Neither should you. But we're both here, aren't we?"

"No." She shoved the mug at him. "I don't want you here."

He stared into her eyes with a relentless expression.

Red refused to back down, and held the intense stare.

"I figured you wouldn't." He lifted her left hand to indicate the band. "But that's not how this marriage thing works. You make promises. Then you stick with one another for the long haul."

She jerked her hand free and slapped him across the face, shocking them both. The action stung her frozen fingers, but didn't keep her from slapping him again.

"I'm not interested in your promises." She kept her eyes on him and worked her way to her knees. Somewhere behind her in the makeshift shelter, her pistols waited. "You're nothing but a liar and a cheat, and if you think I'm gonna just follow you peacefully to the next town, you better think again."

"Do you really think I came looking for you, in the worst damn storm I've seen in all my life, just to make a profit on your head? You can't possibly believe that."

"I don't know what to believe anymore." She searched behind her and her fingers came upon the leather holsters encasing her guns. "I saw the posters hidden under your bed."

As she waited for him to defend himself and his actions, she slid her hand comfortably into place around the pistol and drew it forward, cocked and ready, aimed squarely at his chest.

He simply watched her and said nothing. He didn't even bother to draw his own gun, or put his hands up in an act of surrender. It seemed he'd accept the outcome, whatever she chose to do.

"Does Wen know about the posters?" She raised the gun slightly when he didn't speak. "Does he?"

"Yes," Trace said. "He does."

Her shoulders slumped as the weight of this knowledge bore down on her. She'd trusted them both. They'd lured her in, befriended her, pretended to care for her, and she'd foolishly let her guard down—something she swore she'd never do again. Not after what John had put her through.

Only this time it was worse—she'd actually fallen in love with the man who deceived her. It would be far more difficult to put the pieces back together this time. She didn't know if she could.

"And Caroline? Did you tell her? Was she in on it, too?"

He shook his head. "I figured she didn't need to know."

They stared at one another over the barrel of her gun, neither saying a word. He sat on his haunches, apparently resigned to the fact she might shoot him. Red didn't understand his behavior, but continued to hold the gun steady. Uncertainty kept her from actually pulling the trigger and being done with it.

"I don't want to have to kill you," she said, breaking the silence. "I really don't. I know how much Wen and the kids need you. Caroline, too. I think you should go back to them. Just pack up your things and leave before I change my mind."

"I'm not leaving without you."

She straightened her arms at his response and tipped her head to the side, eyeing him. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I've made that perfectly clear."

Trace inched himself closer to her, slow and cautious, while she kept her pistol trained on him. Her instincts told her to shoot, but her heart refused to pull the trigger. An internal tug-o-war pressed down upon her and left her vulnerable, despite the gun in her hand.

He came close enough to touch her, but instead he pressed his chest into the barrel, throwing her off guard. Point blank range. He held her captive with his gaze. It was unfair. She knew it and he knew it.

"Please," she whispered. "Just go. Don't do this."

"I'm not leaving here without you."

"Don't." She shook her head.

"Either you come back with me, or you put a bullet in me right now."

"I can't let you turn me in—"

"I'm not turning you over to anyone."

"But," she faltered. "What about the posters?"

He reached forward with his gloved hand and wiped away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. "You want the truth?"

She nodded as more tears began to well and flow.

Trace ran his thumb over her jaw line before dropping his arm to the side. He became more serious, and despite the emotional crack in her facade, she steadied herself and kept the gun pushed against his chest.

"The first time I officially met you wasn't by accident," he said. "Neither was the second."

She tensed under the weight of his words, though they didn't surprise her. The desert plains were simply too big to run into the same person twice by coincidence.

"I tracked you from Sundance with every intention of handing you over to the next federal marshal I found." He didn't blink, and neither did Red. "I intended to cash in the reward on your head and then continue doing what I'd always done—not taking much from the world, and not adding much to it either. Just existing for the sake of existence. That was the plan. And honestly, I didn't really think much beyond that." He shrugged. "Hell, I didn't even know anything beyond that existed."

"You could've done it." The words fell from her lips uncontained. "Back in that crazy town with the doctor. You and Wen could've been done with me then. So why didn't you? Why drag this out, lead me on? More money? Is that it?"

"No—"

"I saw the second poster, Cowboy." He flinched. "I know John raised the bounty. But I can tell you right now, he's not a rich man. Just a farm doctor who gets paid in chickens and eggs. He doesn't have that kind of money. I doubt you would've even seen a penny of it—"

"I don't want the money," he said, cutting her off. "For the last time, that's not why I'm here. Not now. Not for quite some time."

Her stomach twisted in on itself as a painful ache grew inside her. "Then why are you here?" It came out in a whisper.

"I think you already know. It's the exact same reason why you haven't shot me already."

She relaxed her hand and her finger fell away from the trigger.

In that instant of hesitation, Trace grabbed the pistol and tossed it to a safe distance. He cupped her upper arms before she could move away and pulled her against him, chest to chest. She held her breath, not yet willing to give in, even as he placed his forehead against hers.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. "Then why keep them?" She unconsciously slipped her hands around his waist. "The posters."

Trace tipped her chin up so their lips nearly touched, and wove his fingers through the hair at the base of her neck, drawing her closer still. "Because of your name."

"My name?"

"You wouldn't tell me your name. The posters did." He held her face just inches from his own. "Elisabeth, I'm not going anywhere. Not without you. Shoot me in both legs if you must, but I'm telling you right now, I'll find a way to crawl after you."

Chapter 30 – Dangerous

Red closed her eyes and tears trickled down her cheeks.

"I love you," he said. "Maybe it didn't start out that way, but that's why I'm here now, and why I'm not leaving without you."

She wanted to hear it, needed to hear it, but now leaving would be even more painful. To stay in his arms and feel his breath on her skin would've been the easy thing to do, but it also would've been wrong.

She angled her head away from him. "It's not safe for you to be with me."

"Don't I know it." He dragged his thumb along her cheek, her eyes, and her lips.

She looked up into his smiling face and knew he didn't understand the gravity of her words. "No, I'm dangerous. In here." She slipped her hand across her chest and pressed it against her beating heart. "I feel it, and... I think it's getting worse."

His smile faded. "What do you mean? How are you dangerous?"

There it was, the question she'd been avoiding.

"What's going on, Red? Talk to me." He held her at arm's length and searched her face for answers.

She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his gaze, unable to imagine speaking the words.

"Just tell me what's going on. Let me help."

She shook her head. "You can't."

"At least let me try."

"It's not something you can change or fix. It's me. It's done. I'm one of them and there's nothing anyone can do about it. I've become like the walkers."

"Whoa." He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "Wait a minute, what are you talking about?"

She swallowed. "The zombies, Trace. Can't you see it? I'm just like them." Saying the words made it feel more vile and, worst of all, concrete.

Trace pulled her close and placed his palm against her chest. "I can feel your breath. I can feel your heart beating beneath my hand. The undead can't do either of those things."

She pulled away from him and rose to her feet. He'd tethered his horse to a tree several yards away, but as she approached, the animal began to kick at the snow and pull against the rope in an attempt to free itself. Even though she expected the horse to behave that way, it hurt to see it played out. She didn't go any closer, not wanting to distress the horse any more than she already had.

"So why does every animal react this way to me now?"

Red turned around and waited for him to reply, but he didn't. His eyes danced from her to the horse and back again.

"Do you want to know how I killed them all? It was actually quite easy." A chill ran up the length of her back and she shivered. "I walked right into the middle of them. They brushed their rotting limbs against me as though I wasn't even there. I was within inches of them and they did nothing."

Trace stood and closed the distance between them. He took both her hands in his and led her away from the agitated horse. "You're telling me you walked among them and they didn't do anything?"

She nodded, hesitant. "I killed them, but I had no reason to. None at all. They didn't attack me. They didn't even notice me."

He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest. "You're not like them, Elisabeth. You wouldn't be holding me like this if you were."

She pressed her face into his jacket and sobbed. Her shoulders quaked and trembled, and he held her tight.

"Your heart beats. Your mind thinks. Your soul feels." He kissed the top of her head. "If you were like them, you'd be trying to eat me right now."

She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his hold.

"Whatever change occurred to make the walkers believe you aren't worth eating is more remarkable than you can imagine. I don't know how it happened, but Elisabeth"—he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes—"you have the ability to do something no one else can do. And that's pretty damn impressive."

"I don't want this. I don't even know if I can control it. Because, I feel it." She pointed toward her chest, to the spot where the monster lived. "I can feel it inside, pushing me to do things I don't want to do. If I stay, I might hurt you."

"You won't."

"Trace, you don't know that."

"Yes I do. I know you. You're not like the undead, no matter what you may think."

"But I also know I'm not like you, or Caroline, or Wen either. I'm different."

Trace released his breath with a slight chuckle. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that was true."

"I'm serious."

"I am, too." He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulled her body against his, and bent his mouth next to her ear. "I'm not leaving you. I can't do it. So don't bother asking me to."

"You're making a mistake—"

"This is not a mistake. Nothing has ever felt more right in my life."

His hand flattened against her back and she folded into him, inhaling his scent. "What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"How can you be certain?"

"Nothing is certain. That's the way life is, and what makes each day interesting." He cupped her face again. "I don't know what tomorrow's gonna bring, or the day after that. But right now, I'm asking you, Elisabeth Story Monroe, to choose me. I promise you that as long as we're together, everything else will work itself out."

"I want to believe you, but—"

"No. No buts. Just believe."

Trace kissed her forehead, then released her and took a step back. He held his hand outstretched, leaving her with a decision to make.

She didn't know if she could control the monster that lived inside her. It was so new, so foreign, and the idea of hurting the people she loved terrified her. Her mind whirled with indecision. No matter what choice she made, she'd hurt someone either way.

"It would be easier if you let me go."

"No, it wouldn't." He kept his hand stretched out between them. "It wouldn't be easy at all, and you know that."

She stood motionless. To take a step forward would require more bravery, more trust, than she could muster.

"Come on, Red." He lowered his arm just a little. "I can't do this without you, and I know you don't want to do this on your own—not when you have me. Just take my hand."

Red squeezed her eyes closed. Her heart begged her to take his hand, hold onto it, and never let go. She wanted to trust him, but how could she do that when she didn't even trust herself?

"I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"You sure about that?"

A hint of mockery met her ears, and she opened her eyes, desperate to understand how he could be so certain, when she felt as though she might implode.

He stood dangerously close to her, their chests nearly touching and their breath tangled up together. The space that had separated them just moments before no longer existed.

Trace smiled as he squeezed her hand. He hadn't moved an inch.

The only footprints in the snow belonged to her.

~~~THE END~~~

About the Author

I hear voices. Tiny fictional people sit on my shoulders and whisper their stories in my ear. Instead of medicating myself, I decided to pick up a pen, write down everything those voices tell me, and turn it into a book. I'm not crazy, I'm an author.

For the most part, I write contemporary Young Adult novels. However, through a writing exercise that spiraled out of control, I found myself writing about zombies terrorizing the Wild Wild West—and loving it. My zombies don't sparkle, and they definitely don't cuddle. At least, I wouldn't suggest it.

I live on the benches of the beautiful Wasatch Mountains with two lovely children, one teenager, and a very patient husband. I graduated from Utah State University with a B.A. degree in English, not because of my love for the written word, but because it was the only major that didn't require math. I can't spell, and grammar is my arch nemesis. But they gave me the degree, and there are no take-backs.

As a child, I never sucked on a pacifier; I chewed on a pencil. I've been writing for that long. For the past few years, I've pursued it professionally, forged relationships with other like-minded individuals, and determined to make a career out of it.

You can find me at my website (http://www.WhimsyWritingAndReading.weebly.com), where I blog obsessively about my writing process and post updates on my current works. I'm also on Twitter (@whimsywriting) and Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/AngelaScottWriter), but be forewarned—I tweet and post more than a normal person.

Coming Soon

This Upper YA/Women's Fiction adventure, a sequel to the critically-acclaimed Desert Rice, is coming from Evolved Publishing on January 15, 2013.

~~~~~

Bodies have a canny way of finding Samantha Jean Haggert—the first, the dead body of her mama; the second, a naked man in the middle of the Arizona desert. For Sam, dealing with one dead body in her lifetime was more than unfair. Two is downright cruel.

Seven years after running from West Virginia, Sam's now a young woman of nineteen, trying to put the pieces of her life together with the help of her family—Jacob, Boone, and Laura. But the naked man in the desert spirals her world out of control, resurrecting past hurts and revealing old secrets. It also pits against one another the two men who vie for her heart: Carson, her friend, her first kiss, and the one man who knows everything about her past and loves her despite it; and Turner, the stranger who knows nothing, but who excites and frustrates her all at once.

When bad choices made as a child lead to more bad choices as a young adult, Sam finds herself at a crossroads, forced to face her demons head-on if she plans to have any future at all—with Carson, with Turner, or with anyone. But fixing the wrongs of the past takes time, and learning to forgive one's self is damn near impossible.

Visit old friends in this harrowing sequel to Desert Rice, in which award-winning author Angela Scott brings back the characters so many readers have loved.

Also from Angela Scott

SURVIVOR ROUNDUP

Book 2 of the Zombie West Series

This Young Adult Romantic Zombie Western, a sequel to the award-winning Wanted: Dead or Undead, is now available at Amazon.

~~~~~

Red always knew she would have to face the man who nearly destroyed her. She just didn’t figure it would happen so soon....

With the plague sweeping across the nation, destroying many and turning others into walking corpses, survivors head West in search of a chosen land, a place designed to keep the infected out, while sealing survivors inside. In theory, the idea seems the only way to keep humanity alive. In practice, it doesn’t matter whether a person is on the inside or the out—there is no humanity.

...And even though John Gatherum hunted her down and instigated their reunion, Red’s no longer the passive girl he once manipulated. This time, she has a hidden agenda of her own.

Kill him. Save her family. Save herself.

~~~~~

SPECIAL PREVIEW: Chapter 1 – Spring Thaw

Moans and agitated cries intensified with the rising of the new sun. The walking dead grew more active as the day warmed their bones and thawed their warped brains. It had become so commonplace over the past several months, like the crowing of a rooster at dawn, that Red hardly noticed the difference—until the scratching and digging at the walls became more chaotic, more desperate.

"Something's wrong." She untangled herself from Trace's arms, waking him in the process, and climbed from bed. "Do you hear it? They're louder today."

Trace pushed himself into an upright position, and cocked his head to the side. "You're right. Something's up." He tossed back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

As he scrambled for his boots, Red yanked her shawl off a nearby chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Get Wen and find out what's going on. I'll check on the kids."

She opened the door and nearly stumbled into the man she had just mentioned. Wen's hand hung in the air as if about to knock.

"I was just coming to get you." Trace grabbed the rifle propped against the footboard. "Guess you heard it, too. We need to climb the towers and see what the ruckus is about."

Wen made no motion that indicated he heard Trace one way or the other. He didn't even lower his close-fisted hand, but kept it raised. His dark eyes were wide and flicked from Red to Trace and back again. An ashen color coated his natural olive skin.

"What is it?" Red asked. "What's going on?"

Wen shook his head and swallowed. "It's Caroline. The baby... it's time."

Red's hands fell heavy to her sides, releasing her hold on the shawl. "Are you sure?"

"The pain is getting worse."

She took two steps back, away from Wen, and cast her eyes at Trace. They all knew the baby would be born early spring, yet no one had discussed a plan for its birth.

"She wants you." Wen pointed at Red.

Dozens of nails continued to rake against the fort walls, filling the silence as both men looked to her. Red's hands trembled and she hid them away. The undead she could handle; birth terrified her.

"Why me?"

Trace shrugged. "Hell, Red, you're a girl. She's a girl. You probably know better than us how these things work."

"No, I don't." She once again tightened her hold on her shawl and pulled it closer. "Being a girl doesn't mean I know anything about delivering babies." Blood. There's bound to be lots of it.

"Please, Red—"

"I can't." She squeezed her eyes shut. I just... can't."

"Why are you doing this?" Wen stepped toward her.

Without opening her eyes, but feeling his presence, she moved back.

"Caroline needs you!"

"Come on, Red," Trace said. "You've killed hundreds of walkers all on your own. Delivering a baby will be nothing."

Red's eyes flew open and she locked her gaze on him. "If you think it's so easy then you do it!"

"Whoa! Wait a minute." He held his hands out in front of him. "You know it's different for a man. Guys shouldn't be anywhere... near there. It's not our place."

She turned hers eyes from one man to the other. "I love Caroline just like a sister. You both know I do, and I want to help her, but are you both out of your mind? Have you forgotten what I am?"

Trace placed his hands on her forearms and pulled her toward him. "You're not capable of hurting her or the baby. That's not who you are."

"We don't know that for certain," she said. "As much as you want to believe I'm fine, we all know that deep inside I'm not like you at all."

He shook his head. "Just because you can move among the dead walkers doesn't mean you're one of them. You are a living, breathing human being. They're not. You're not a monster, and you never will be."

Caroline's agonized cries crossed the courtyard, and a different fear wrapped itself around Red's heart. She wanted to go to her friend and help her, but her feet refused to move.

"Please!" Wen's eyes pleaded with her. "I wouldn't ask if I believed you could hurt her or the baby."

She was about to argue with him once more and tell him to go deliver his own baby, when a small voice interrupted.

"I know you can do it." The eleven-year-old girl stood just inside the door, her hair disheveled from sleep. "I'll even help you if you like."

Red smiled at Rivers and her offer. "I appreciate that, but—"

"I helped my ma when she had my baby sister. I fetched the water. I wiped her face and whispered kind words to her when it got tough." The girl ignored Red and faced Wen. "I can do that same thing for Caroline."

Besides the birth of a calf back on the farm where she lived as a child, Red had no other experience in these things. She had no idea when it was time to push, no idea how to cut a cord, or even if she should. And once the baby was out, then what?

"I don't know."

"It'll be okay," Rivers encouraged. "Caroline needs us and you're the bravest person I know."

"But what if—"

"It won't," Trace said.

"I might—"

"You'll be fine. I promise. I'll be right outside if you need me." He kissed her forehead.

Rivers wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand toward Red. "Come on. A new baby is always exciting."

Red wasn't so sure about that.

***

Wen ran his hands through his hair for what seemed the hundredth time, and Trace worried the man would end up prematurely bald before the baby was actually born. Wen paced the courtyard and rarely took a break from his nervous walking, only stopping once or twice to listen at the door to the room he shared with Caroline.

They could hear her struggles and painful cries; the closed door did nothing to muffle them. It ripped at Trace's heart, but he could only imagine the anguish Wen felt at hearing the woman he loved suffer.

Trace placed his hand on Wen's shoulder. "Hey, how about we check the gates once more?"

"I want to be here for Caroline." Wen stopped and listened at the door again. When one of Caroline's guttural cries rose from inside, his hands went straight to his hair and he continued with his pacing.

"Ira and Fisher can stand guard for a minute or two. They're capable." Trace glanced at the feeble old man, Caroline's father, and to the six-year-old boy.

Both sat on a bench nearby, listening to everything going on—Caroline's screams, Trace's attempts to distract Wen—but saying nothing. Ira couldn't speak; a fit had taken that ability away, along with his capacity to walk without aid of crutches or a gentle arm to lean on. Fisher, on the other hand, hadn't spoken a word in nearly a year—not since the last zombie attack that nearly killed Rivers and changed Red. At first they had tried to coax the boy to speak, but after many fruitless attempts, they accepted that Fisher would talk when he felt the need to say something. Until then, Ira and Fisher made a unique pair, their shared silence creating a bond between the two.

"Ain't that right, Fisher?" Trace smoothed the boy's downy hair. "You'll come get us when it's time?"

The boy nodded as he continued to stroke Lasso's fur. The dog had stopped running around the perimeter and barking at the gates hours before, and instead parked himself silently at Fisher's and Ira's feet.

Trace turned back to Wen. "See? Let's go check the gates again. We'll only be gone a minute. I promise."

Even as they approached the west gate, Wen glanced back over his shoulder.

"Everything's going to be just fine," Trace assured him. "Caroline's strong and Red's very capable."

"I know. I just feel helpless."

"I think we all do."

The hoard pressed in on the thick wooden gate, but everything appeared to be in good working order. The hinges held, the horizontal beam locked it all in place, and no cracks or buckling had appeared.

"Everything looks great!" Trace called to Wen over the incessant squawking of the dead and their clawing at the walls. "Let's make sure the other one's holding, too."

The gates were one foot thick, the stone walls four. The wayward group had held up inside the fort for months without any breach from the zombies, and Trace didn't expect that to change. But today, the undead were louder, more persistent. They wanted in, even if it meant sanding each of their boney fingers down to the nubs to do so.

Fortunately, the east gate looked just as capable of holding back the ravenous dead—no bowing, no bending. Exactly what Trace wanted to see.

"I'm worried." Wen didn't make eye contact, but kept his back to Trace while he double-checked the cross beam. "We're running low on supplies. There ain't but a couple pounds of flour left, and some cornmeal. But with Caroline and the baby, we're stuck in here. There's no way I can take them outside these walls. Not like this. The uglies will tear them apart." He placed his palm on the shaking gate and hung his head.

Trace understood Wen's worry; he'd had his own fair share of worry as well. With seven people to feed, food supplies dwindled far too quickly with no way to replenish them. What once was a safe haven would become their death trap if they didn't figure out how to get more food soon. Wen was right, though: moving Caroline and the baby was out of the question.

"Somehow we'll find a way to manage. We always do," Trace said. "Let's just concentrate on getting your baby here. The rest we'll figure out later."

***

With each push and painful cry, the zombie mass outside the fort walls grew louder. The growls became deafening as they mixed with the slapping of palms against the rock surface and the clawing at the large gates. Hour after hour it continued, and the noise wore on Red's already frazzled nerves.

"They want my baby," Caroline said, stating the obvious.

It made sense—the timing of the baby's birth and the stirring of the undead. It couldn't be coincidence. Still, Red couldn't comprehend how the undead knew of the baby.

"They can't get in." Rivers dabbed Caroline's face with the cool cloth. "Don't worry, we're safe."

Red forced a smile. "She's right. They're not getting in."

Even though she'd said it, she worried. In all the months they'd lived within the confines of the fort walls, the undead had never behaved this way. It was a whole new experience for all of them.

Pain flooded Caroline's features once more and she leaned forward, grabbed the back of her legs, and bore down.

"You're doing great," Red encouraged. "The baby's almost here."

"I wish they'd stop." Caroline closed her eyes. "It'd be easier if they'd just be quiet."

Red silently agreed. The continual din pricked at everyone's nerves.

Pain again washed over Caroline, and she sprang upward, pushing and grunting. Red looked at Rivers, worried this was more than the eleven-year-old could bear, but Rivers held Caroline's hand and whispered encouragement to her, while averting her tender eyes from the more delicate parts of the laboring woman.

"Come on, you're almost there." Red reached forward and grabbed Caroline's arm when she tried to settle back against the pillows. "No, don't stop now. You can do this."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. Your baby is almost here. Push a little more."

Caroline tipped her head back and cried toward the ceiling, but did as Red asked and bore down again through her agony.

"That's it, Caroline. That's it!"

The tiny scrunched-up face emerged and Red slipped her hands under the delicate little head, nervous yet amazed at the tiny miracle.

With another hefty push from Caroline, the rest of baby slid free into Red's waiting hands. For a moment, she stared at the baby—a real little person whose existence only moments before was hard to imagine.

Its brow crinkled and its tiny balled fists pumped at the air. The baby's miniature lips puckered in displeasure and a tiny howl filled the room.

The undead went crazy in response.

DESERT RICE

This Upper YA/Women's Fiction adventure is now available at Amazon.

~~~~~

Samantha Jean Haggert is a beautiful twelve-year-old girl, but no one knows it. All they see is an awkward boy in a baseball cap and baggy pants. Sam's not thrilled with the idea of hiding her identity, but it's all part of her brother's plan to keep Sam safe from male attention and hidden from the law. Fifteen-year-old Jacob will stop at nothing to protect his sister, including concealing the death of the one person who should have protected them in the first place--their mother.

Sam and Jacob try to outrun their past by stealing the family car and traveling from West Virginia to Arizona, but the adult world proves mighty difficult to navigate, especially for two kids on their own. Trusting adults has never been an option; no adult has ever given them a good reason. But when Sam meets "Jesus"--who smells an awful lot like a horse--in the park, life takes a different turn. He saved her once, and may be willing to save Sam and her brother again, if only they admit what took place that fateful day in West Virginia. The problem? Sam doesn't remember, and Jacob isn't talking.

~~~~~

Praise for Desert Rice:

"First, a disclosure: I was Angela's literary agent back in 2010/2011 and I was in love with this book. I knew it would be an almost impossible sell to publishers who were looking for the next big vampire or zombie book (which, as it turns out, Angela appears to have followed this one with). We got turned down for all the wrong reasons... and now, a smaller publisher has picked it up for all the right ones: #1 of which is, it's a damned good book." – A.B. at Amazon

"I'm a VERY difficult reader to please and this isn't a book I would typically read but I read it and boy was I blown away. This novel captivated me, not from the first page but from the very first sentence, where we are brought smack in the middle of the action. The voice of the innocent and mostly naïve narrator, Samantha, is honest and real as she navigates through two journeys; an inner journey of the issues surrounding becoming a teenager (nicely addresses some tween topics), and a journey of dealing with the world around her." – M. Charafeddine (Book Haven)

"There are books that are un-put-downable. I fall so deep into these books it's as if I am a living, breathing character involved in the chaos, heartache and adventures played out before my eyes. Desert Rice was no exception. The first page pulled me into a story full of heroism, plot thickening, and cliff hanging moments. A book is many things to one person. And to that one person, a book holds many chances for time travel, fast paced adventure and a bond with people you love and will never meet. To me, this book held a world I'd gladly ad to my shelf so I can visit often." – Nannette Pitts

More from Evolved Publishing:

CIRCLES
by Ruby Standing Deer

This critically acclaimed Native American Indian Historical Fiction novel is now available at Amazon.

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With much of the world still undiscovered, a small band of people live a peaceful life, until the dream vision of a young boy, Feather Floating In Water, changes everything. Only nine winters old, Feather's dreams turn his seemingly ordinary childhood into the journey of a lifetime. He must help his people face a terrifying destiny from which they cannot turn away. He must find a way to make his people listen.

Bright Sun Flower, the boy's grandmother, guides his beginnings, teaching him about the Circle of Life, and how without it, no life can exist. But he needs a bigger push, and gets it from a grey wolf and a Great Elder. The boy's journey leads him to discover that the Circle of Life involves all people, all living things, and not just the world he knows.

In the end, an ancient People guide the boy in his visions, toward an unexpected place hidden from outsiders.

This story is steeped in American Indian life, in their beliefs and humor, and in their love of family. It shows how we might benefit from the old ways today.

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Praise for Circles:

"This novel of historic fiction is a must for any fan of Native American history, or seeker of knowledge, or lover of life. It is expertly crafted with vivid imagery and characters that will become beloved. If you don't know what it means to sing someone home, prepare to swallow hard. It is heart warming and moving. Truly a thing of beauty." – T.W. Griffith

"Gorgeous language, an inspiring story, and unforgettable characters--Circles has it all. I fell for this book in the very first chapter when we're introduced to Feather Floating In Water, and I didn't fall out from under its spell even after I had read the final word. I found myself "thumbing" back through the pages to read particular passages just like I return to my favorite poems." – Yvonne Rupert

"From the first chapter, truly the first paragraph, I was transported into the lives of the characters, feeling their joys, pains, their lives. The gentle way in which the author writes, you feel deeply full-filled. Your soul expands as you read, you wish for it to continue forever." – Rosaleen MacQueen

"In today's age, where everything is delivered at a high speed pace, we have a book that slows us right down and allows us to take a breath as we follow the simple life of an American Indian people at the time of the conquistadores. If you want to read something that is not formulaic, but original and captivating, then this is your book." – Silby Grant

From one of the editors of Wanted: Dead or Undead:

FORGIVE ME, ALEX
by Lane Diamond

This Psychological Thriller novel is available at Amazon.

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Tony Hooper stands in shadow across the street, one amongst many in the crowd of curiosity-hounds gathered to watch a monster's release. Seventeen years after Mitchell Norton, the devil, terrorized Algonquin, Illinois on a spree of kidnapping, torture and murder, the authorities release the butcher from psychiatric prison.

Tony longs to charge across the street to destroy Norton—no remorse—as if stepping on a cockroach. Only sheer force of will prevents his doing so.

The devil walks the world again. What shall Tony do about it? Aye, what indeed.

After all, this is what Tony does. It's who he is. The devil himself long ago made Tony into this hunter of monsters. What a sweet twist of fate this is, that he may still, finally, administer justice.

Will FBI Special Agent Linda Monroe stop him? She owes him her life, so how can she possibly put an end to his?

Tony Hooper and Mitchell Norton battle for supremacy, with law enforcement always a step away, in this story of justice and vengeance, evil and redemption, fear and courage, love and loss.

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Praise for Forgive Me, Alex:

"Lane gets you into the head of the characters and you feel this bond with them urging you to read faster to find out what happens next. You know you are reading a great book when you need to stop reading but keep telling yourself just one more chapter, then one more leads to half the book. I felt so bad for Tony and all his loss. I wanted to murder Mitchell Norton myself. I wish I knew old Frank personally. I was caught off guard by the ending and can't wait for the next book! Well done!" – Jennifer @ Can't Put It Down Reviews

"...Lane's writing makes you really care about these people and what's going on. Lane excels in this area of sympathetic characters." – Tim C. Ward, Book Blogger & Podcaster

"I have actually read this story twice, yes twice! There are new things to discover each time you read it and I would encourage you to pick it up again, see what you can discover about Tony Hooper the second time around ... and see what you can maybe discover about yourself. I was able to understand my sick fascination with serial killers and horror gore a little better with the aide of "Forgive Me, Alex" - it is the only media representation of such a horrific character type that effectively goes beyond the curtain." – Marie Borthwick

"With a deeply attuned attention to the nature of humanity and psychosis, Diamond delves into the darkest corners of the human mind and pulls out nuggets of horror and absolution that will leave you wanting more. I look forward to more books from this amazing author. This is a book to rival any of the great thrillers you've ever read and is a definite must read!" – Kimberly Kinrade, Author of The Forbidden Trilogy

"I think what struck me the most about the story, and what I really enjoyed, was the way Diamond explored the depths of the main characters, Tony Hooper and Mitchell Norton. It would be easy in this type of story to get caught up in the action. But correctly, I think, Diamond recognizes that the strength of the book lies in the characters, and he does an excellent job of helping the reader understand the inner workings of their minds. ... That is not to say that the "action" scenes were not well done. In fact, I found myself drawn to the most disturbing scenes, which I think is a real compliment to the manner in which they were presented." – Rich V. at Amazon

FARSIGHTED

(Farsighted #1)

This romantic YA fantasy adventure is now available at Amazon.

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Multiple Award Winner, including:

Winner: Writer's Digest Self-Published* Novel Awards, Young Adult Category, 2012

(*Prior to signing with Evolved Publishing. This newly revised edition even better!)

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Alex Kosmitoras's life has never been easy. The only other student who will talk to him is the school bully, his parents are dead broke and insanely overprotective, and to complicate matters even more, he's blind. Just when he thinks he'll never have a shot at a normal life, an enticing new girl comes to their small Midwest town all the way from India. Simmi is smart, nice, and actually wants to be friends with Alex. Plus she smells like an Almond Joy bar. Sophomore year might not be so bad after all.

Unfortunately, Alex is in store for another new arrival--an unexpected and often embarrassing ability to "see" the future. Try as he may, Alex is unable to ignore his visions, especially when they suggest Simmi is in mortal danger. With the help of the mysterious psychic next door and friends who come bearing gifts of their own, Alex embarks on his journey to change the future.

THE SILVER SPHERE
by Michael Dadich

This Young Adult Fantasy/Sci-Fi novel, an extraordinary tale of two inter-connected planets fighting evil, is available at Amazon.

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Shelby Pardow never imagined she could kill someone. All she wants to do is hide from her troubled father... when she is teleported to awaiting soldiers on the planet Azimuth. Here she is not a child, but Kin to one of the six Aulic Assembly members whom Malefic Cacoethes has drugged and imprisoned. He seeks to become dictator of this world (and then Earth by proxy).

His father, Biskara, is an evil celestial entity, tracked by the Assembly with an armillary device, The Silver Sphere. With the Assembly now deposed, Biskara directs Malefic and the Nightlanders to their strategic targets. Unless....

Can Shelby find the other Kin, and develop courage and combat skills? Can the Kin reassemble in time to release or replace the Assembly, overthrowing Malefic and restraining Biskara?

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Praise for The Silver Sphere:

"The Silver Sphere is an excellent, epic fantasy novel. The creatures are truly amazing, one of my favorites being Baku the dream eater. The last few chapters had me rifling through the pages as the build up to the ending was well paced. This reminded me of LOTR meets The Hunger Games. I highly recommend it for fans of the genre!" – Z. Sklar

"I love how the author expertly mixes the fantasy and sci-fi elements together. I felt like I was reading Star Wars and Harry Potter all rolled into one. I hope this becomes a series of books because we are sad we finished it so fast." - Skaara

"A geek to the core, I surround myself with books in the Fantasy and Sci-Fi genres. A total Potter head, Hunger Games fanatic, Lord of the Rings fan-girl... These types of collections I must always have in hard cover. Give me extras!!! Collectors editions, maps, illustrations, posters, calendars, replicas.... I know, I know. What is the point of all this hubbub? My point is simply this... The Silver Sphere has made the ranks with some of my all time favorite books!" - Arrienne

"The Silver Sphere is a fast-paced, well written action adventure. I found the characters and creatures to be extraordinary. The plot is unique and revolves around Shelby and her fellow "Kin," six teenagers that unknowingly (at first) are called to battle against an ancient evil. I bought the kindle version after viewing the cool book trailer on the author's page on Amazon. The cover and artwork inside are well done, and the glossary was also very helpful. I think fans of The Hunger Games as well as Star Wars would enjoy this. My kids are reading it next. They can't wait based on how much I liked it. A definite Christmas present this year." - JRay

EULOGY
by D.T. Conklin

This dark, epic fantasy novel is available at Amazon.

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"They'll stand amongst the corpses of the beloved." That's what he said at the end, though I never considered myself one of the beloved, not at the beginning. I was simply a terrified woman then, but now... now I understand. Maybe I wish I didn't.

Void take me, this is so demon-damned hard.

In the beginning, he loved me. Irony, it twists and twirls like a lover's song, but this is hardly a lover's tale. It's one of blades and blood. I wish I could've seen it sooner, but that would've been too easy. I wouldn't have learned to love him.

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Praise for Eulogy:

"Conklin writes with a poet's flair, using minimal words to deliver maximum dramatic impact. Visceral, shocking, and deeply imaginative, Eulogy pushes to the edge . . . and then dives right over it. An unapologetic, no-holds-barred descent into madness--yet there is method in it. Readers with the fortitude to take the plunge stand to be rewarded with what may go down as one of the most ambitious, redefining forays into epic fantasy of all time." – Eldon Thompson, Author of The Divine Talisman

"Some epic fantasies are straightforward tales of magic and adventure, where a band of heroes fights and defeats an evil overlord. Eulogy is not such a tale. Conklin's book overflows with magic and adventure, but the book is a puzzle -- a maze of secrets and wonders, implications and hidden meanings. A treat for readers who love a challenge!" – Tom Crosshill, Nebula-nominated Author

"Conklin manages to write a book that is at once recognizable as fantasy but at the same time wholly his own. There are the escapists conventions: swords, battles, beautiful women, and magic, but it's this last one, magic, where the genre is subverted in the best way possible. In the world of Eulogy, the system of magic is reality-bending, and as such functions on a philosophical and psychological level, posing existential questions while swords flash in the foreground. I don't want to scare away readers who are in it for the adventure. There is always that, too, from personal quests to wars that sweep across the whole landscape. I just want to point out that there is something beyond the surface, and for readers like myself, who come to the fantasy genre only rarely, it's pleasant to find a book that successfully explores the deeper side of things while remaining thoroughly entertaining." – Zach Powers "wordist"

"Conklin has written one of those books that gets in to your brain and whispers to you anytime you aren't reading it. The adventure is very much your own for with his characters, Conklin draws from the reader the magic they didn't realize they were bringing with them. Like most stories the overarching battle is good against evil, the characters each must face the darkness and demons that lie inside the soul of anyone who loves, hates, strives, and suffers. Some win. Some lose." – MJ Kaufmann "~MAJK~"

DEAD RADIANCE

(A Valkyrie Novel – Book 1)

This YA Fantasy Romantic Adventure featuring Valkyries and Norse Gods is now available at Amazon.

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...That day I knew for sure. I'd lost control of my tears then. They fell in huge, mocking drops. I stared at Joshua through those bitter tears, my heart missing beats as I tried to remember to breathe.

I finally knew what the glow meant.

I was a freak and Joshua was going to die...."

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Bryn Halbrook had always seen the glow. But it is only when her best friend dies that she discovers the meaning of those beautiful golden auras—Death. Alone, lost in the foster system, she struggles to understand who she is and why she was cursed with the ability to see the soon-to-be-dead.

The new foster kid, Aidan, isn’t helping any. Mr. Perfect seems to fit in no matter what, making her feel even more pathetic. But when his affections turn to her, Bryn finds him hard to resist. Impossible, actually. A mystery himself, Aidan disappears, leaving behind a broken heart and a mysterious book that suggests Bryn might not be entirely human.

Bryn stands at the threshold of a journey of discovery. Will destiny help her find herself, find her purpose and her place in a world in which she’d never belonged?

EVOLUTION: VOL. 1 (A SHORT STORY COLLECTION)

From the 1st Evolved Publishing Short Story Contest

10 talented authors offer 10 terrific stories, including One Last Thought by Lane Diamond.

Edited by Lane Diamond and D.T. Conklin.

Now available as an eBook or a paperback at Amazon.

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EVOLUTION: VOL. 2 (A SHORT STORY COLLECTION)

From the 2nd Evolved Publishing Short Story Contest

10 talented authors offer 10 terrific stories, including Tunnel Vision by Lane Diamond.

Edited by Lane Diamond and D.T. Conklin.

Now available as an eBook or a paperback at Amazon.

Table of Contents

- Prologue – The Night Knew No Difference
- Chapter 1 – Marked
- Chapter 2 – Related to Zombies
- Chapter 3 – Zombies Hate Snow
- Chapter 4 – Bacon and Eggs
- Chapter 5 – The Makings of a Posse
- Chapter 6 – Lavender
- Chapter 7 – KilKenny Cats
- Chapter 8 – Miniature Rises and Valleys
- Chapter 9 – Uglies and Nutters
- Chapter 10 – Lonely Boys
- Chapter 11 – Trapped with a Madman
- Chapter 12 – Milk and Honey

- Chapter 13 – Can a Woman Forget Her Suckling Child?

- Chapter 14 – The Right Thing
- Chapter 15 – Damned
- Chapter 16 – Others
- Chapter 17 – Wanted
- Chapter 18 – Family
- Chapter 19 – Hand Gestures
- Chapter 20 – Wild Card
- Chapter 21 – Sticky
- Chapter 22 – Love You Forever
- Chapter 23 – Butterflies and Bats
- Chapter 24 – Don't Let Go
- Chapter 25 – Snowmen and Swords
- Chapter 26 – Not Like You
- Chapter 27 – Hewn Down
- Chapter 28 – A Line of Concern
- Chapter 29 – The Truth
- Chapter 30 – Dangerous
- About the Author
- Coming Soon: Desert Flower
- Also From Angela Scott
- More from Evolved Publishing