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“We made it,” she said.

“Of course.” He smiled back. “I never had any doubts.”

“None?”

“Not a one.”

Her face darkened a bit. “Was it just me, or did they sound closer last night?”

They were definitely closer, and they stayed longer than the other times
, he thought, but said, “Closer schmoser. It’s morning. Let’s go enjoy the sunlight.”

“My favorite part of every day!” she said, her voice purposefully loud, as if she had been holding the volume back all night—which, he guessed, was true.

He got up and moved around to get the blood flowing to all of his extremities again. The attic was big enough that he could stretch to his full six-one height with plenty of space to spare. Hannah, all five-three of her, never had to worry about cramming into a small corner. He always did his best to find them a hiding place with enough room for both of them to be comfortable, but that wasn’t always possible. This attic had been a godsend—not to mention all the supplies packed into the house’s pantries underneath it. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling it was a mistake to have stayed here for three straight nights. That was usually one night longer than he was comfortable with.

Stop it. You’re alive. Hannah’s alive. That’s all that matters…

Riley slung his shotgun and walked to the trapdoor. He crouched and eased it open before sticking his head forward and breathing in the fresh air.

“Smell good?” Hannah asked behind him.

“Like a nice Big Breakfast platter at Mickey D’s.”

“Taco Bell all the way, baby.”

“Pfft,” he said, exaggerating the smirk before pulling back the collapsible ladder and extending it below. “Ladies first.”

“Since when am I a lady?”

“Close enough. Now come on, down you go.”

She leaned over the opening and took a long look at the second floor hallway below, just the way they had practiced. The room was lit up by a pool of light that reflected off her slightly grimy face, and Riley wondered what he looked like at the moment. He hadn’t showered in…God, he couldn’t remember. It didn’t help that he had been wearing the same clothes for just as long. The only saving grace was that both he and Hannah had gone smell blind a long time ago.

“Clear?” he asked.

“Looks clear,” she said.

“Be certain.”

“I’m certain. Pretty certain.”

“Pretty certain or just certain?”

She snorted. “Pretty certain, certain.”

“Good enough.”

He watched the girl climb down, then heard the
thump
as she jumped the last few steps to the hallway below.

“Hey,” he called after her.

“What?” she said from below.

“Don’t wander off.”

“I’m just standing here waiting for you, dude. Can you please hurry it up already?”

He smiled. Hannah had called him
dude
for three weeks after they first met, before one day she started using
Riley
. Now it was back and forth between the two, depending on how annoyed she was with him, like she was now.

He had turned around to position himself on the stairs to follow her down when he heard footsteps below him. “Hannah,” he said, slightly alarmed.

“What?” she called back from below.

“Strength in numbers, remember?”

“I’m just going to get my stuff in the bedroom.”

“Hannah, wait for me.”

She didn’t answer, which prompted him to hop the last six feet down the ladder and land in a crouch. Riley had never been particularly athletic, but he’d since discovered some modicum of athleticism he didn’t know existed. He wasn’t going to take on Michael Jordan at the Y anytime soon, but he was doing things now he never thought he would—or could—do before the world decided to stop making sense.

He was straightening up, hands groping for the shotgun slung over his back, when he looked up the hallway and saw Hannah with one hand on the doorknob of the master bedroom. She had already pushed it open, and he glimpsed pitch darkness on the other side that immediately set alarms off inside his head because
it shouldn’t have been that dark in there.

“Hannah!” he shouted.

She stopped and looked back, and a smile flashed across her face. Even with all that dirt, he thought she looked cherubic—sweet and innocent. Hannah was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, and though Riley never had any siblings—

“Hannah—” he said again when he saw the shadows in the master bedroom, barely visible through the small slit in the ajar door,
move.

She must have either heard or smelled them, because she turned around at almost the exact same moment it reached out—
a deformed hand, bony fingers uncurling—
and grabbed her around the ankle. The acidic stench of searing flesh filled the hallway almost immediately as the exposed part of the creature’s skin turned to white ash against the sunlight, and Riley thought he might have heard something that sounded like a squeal of pain from inside the room, but all of that was lost against Hannah’s screaming. She might have started out trying to yell his name, but it quickly became lost in a long cry that filled the entire house.

Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus
blurred across his mind as a second hand reached out and long, bony fingers wrapped around Hannah’s other ankle. The flesh on the second hand burned off as it made contact with the sunlight, but even as clouds of white-gray ash filled the hallway, both hands tightened their grip around Hannah’s legs and the creatures
pulled her in—

“Hannah!”

It took him less than a couple of seconds to cross the second floor, but even as he launched himself into a run he knew—deep down, he just knew—that it was too late. She was already down, and they were pulling her along the wooden floor. The last he saw of her was Hannah, on her stomach, staring back at him with impossibly wide eyes as she tried in vain to grab the sides of the bedroom door. There was a look on her face, an expression he had first seen during that night when they found each other for the first time as the world died around them.

It had taken him weeks to figure out the story behind it because he didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to intrude on her innermost thoughts. Finally, one night, he saw it again—just a quick there-and-gone glimpse—but it was long enough for him to understand.

It was sadness.

Hannah was sad. For her loss. For his. For the world’s.

She had that same look on her face now as she lost her hold on the doorframe and—

She was gone.

He slid to a stop in front of the open door, sneakers squeaking loudly, but not enough to drown out the pounding in his chest or the constant refrain of
Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus
running through his head.

They were inside the master bedroom, so many that he couldn’t tell where they began and the walls and floor ended. They had covered the windows with bedsheets and blankets, and the small horde of creatures were focused in the very middle, far from the small streaks of sunlight that had managed to badger their way into the room anyway. Their backs were exposed to him, deformed spines prickling against films of flesh that barely resembled skin. The overwhelming stench, like vomit left to roast in the sun, made him gag and take a step back.

But he didn’t retreat far enough to avoid seeing one of her legs sticking out of the pile of feeding monsters. She had stopped moving, and the only sound aside from the crash of his runaway heartbeat was the unforgiving
slurp-slurp-slurp.

He fired the shotgun, racked it, and fired again.

One of them glanced back at him, its hollowed obsidian eyes surrounded by pruned flesh. It looked almost annoyed, the
clump-clump
of coagulated blood dripping out of the hole he had made in its right shoulder.

Then it turned back around and bent its head and resumed feeding.

He racked the shotgun and fired again, this time aiming for the head of the closest one. It flopped forward but picked itself up, moving unsteadily with the top of its head mostly gone. Unlike the previous one, this creature didn’t bother to cast him an annoying glance.

Riley stumbled back, back, every step like pedaling through quicksand, the
(Useless. It’s useless!)
weapon in his hands impossibly heavy. What good was a gun if it couldn’t kill these things? Why did he carry so many on him? Why did he spend so much time arguing with himself about letting her carry a small pistol—

Hannah.

Jesus, Hannah, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

He turned, groping the walls for support, and staggered his way down the length of the hallway. There was no railing, or he might have keeled over it and plummeted to his death below. Maybe that would have been the humane thing—the right thing—to do. At least it would prevent him from replaying the look on Hannah’s face—that odd expression of sadness—as she realized what was about to happen in the split second before it did.

He fumbled down the stairs, not sure how he was able to keep from falling—clutching to the banister with an iron grip probably helped—while dragging the shotgun behind him, the weapon
clacking
and
thumping
against every carpeted step, still connected to him by the long strap.

The first floor was covered in swaths of sunlight, the air so warm that when it hit him it was like moving through an inferno. There were signs everywhere that they had been inside the house while he and Hannah had hidden in the attic. It was in the air
(The smell. God, the smell!)
and the toppled furniture, the open door, and the broken windows. But they had been here the previous nights, too, and always left. So why didn’t they leave this time?

He was blaming them—the creatures—when he should be blaming himself. Because he should have known better than to spend three nights in a row in the same place. He should have known
better.

I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m sorry…

He was irresistibly drawn to the open door, crashing into furniture and knocking down a vase, though he didn’t hear it shatter. His ears rang with the shotgun clattering behind him as the weapon bounced off walls and the legs of a nightstand until it was finally scraping against the concrete driveway outside.

He blinked against the sun, unable to process why it was so bright this morning or why the always-welcoming heat was now trying to suffocate him. Breathing was difficult, and he had the sensation of drowning. He fell to his knees, so numbed that he didn’t even feel the impact. He kept blinking, trying to chase the last image of Hannah’s face out of his (memories) eyes…

“You okay, son?”

He opened his eyes back up. Someone was standing in front of him.

A man. Tall.

Or maybe not so tall, because Riley was on his knees and his perspective was skewed. The sun hung high behind the man, the flow of light bending around his broad shoulders as if it were afraid to touch him. The brown of his eyes as they looked up at the house, then back at him. There was sadness there, understanding. This was a man who knew what Riley had been through, who understood Riley’s pain.

“Your friend didn’t make it,” the man said quietly.

Riley shook his head, but when he tried to open his mouth, he only sucked in much-needed oxygen.

“Was she your wife?” the man asked.

He somehow managed to shake his head again.

“Friend,” the man said.

Riley nodded.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” the man said. “But you’re alive. You need to stay that way.”

He blinked up at the man. “Why?” he said, the single word coming out almost as a croak.

“Because we’re all that’s left,” the man said. “One of these days we’re going to take it all back, but until that day comes, we have to stay alive, whatever it takes.”

The man held out his hand. Riley looked at it, then at the man’s face. Fifties, at least, almost as old as his father had been when he passed.

“Time to get back up, son,” the man said.

Riley reached for the proffered hand and let himself be pulled up. He was very light on his feet for some reason. Either that, or the man was impossibly strong.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“Riley…”

“Good to meet you, Riley.”

The man looked behind him at three others standing on the sidewalk beyond the front yard of the house. Two men and one woman. They were cradling the kind of military rifles Riley had seen in some of the pawn shops around town while he and Hannah were scavenging, but that they’d always been too intimidated by to pick up. A beat-up white truck was parked in the road, the engine still churning.

How was it possible he hadn’t seen or heard these people until now? Where had they come from?

“Check the house,” the man said to the others. “Kill everything.”

The three didn’t hesitate. They jogged up the driveway, passing Riley and the man, and vanished into the house one by one. They moved as if they had been training for this one moment all their lives.

“It’s dangerous,” Riley said. He wasn’t sure if the man had heard him, though, because his own voice sounded lifeless to his own ears. “They’re in there. The creatures.”

“We know,” the man said. “We heard you shooting while we were down the street. Sound travels these days.”

“But they don’t die,” Riley said, trying to get the man to understand.
“They don’t die.”

Riley looked back and up at the second floor when he heard the gunshots. Rapid-fire, like how machine guns always sounded in the movies. He flinched when a bullet pierced one of the master-bedroom windows and sent glass plummeting to the driveway in front of him. More rounds punched through the walls and vanished across the street.

The man put a reassuring hand on Riley’s arm and led him back to the sidewalk. “Just in case.”

“They don’t die,” he said as he let himself be pulled back.

“There are ways to kill them. I’ll teach you.”

The shooting had stopped. In fact, it had ended a while ago, and he could hear the three coming back down the stairs. He expected to see just one or maybe two if they were lucky, but instead all three returned. Their eyes searched him out, and Riley saw that they were full of sympathy, especially the woman’s.