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The stories were so strange and often contradictory, and she had never once met anyone who’d been there who was also sane enough to give a story Rags could believe. Worse things than zombies, the survivors all told. Worse things . . . but exactly what these horrors were, the survivors either could not or would not tell her.
Even though Rags told Ghoulie that they were never, ever going to go to such a place, their path seemed to be drifting in that direction.
Pure accident, of course. Nothing intended.
She told the dog that a lot.
Ghoulie did not appear to believe her, but being a dog, was unable to say so.
Her self-respect was comforted by the fact that at least they were not heading toward that city with anything approaching haste. Rags did not believe in haste. She had no use for it except in crisis moments, and she was smart enough to avoid most threats. So, without hurrying, she wandered through the years of her life.
There was a door in the fence, and it stood ajar.
Another place that had been fortified against the dead and whose defenses had either been abandoned or had failed.
Moving with great caution, Rags passed through the gate and walked along the empty road toward the town. Ghoulie trotted beside her, looking right and left to study the overgrown foliage that flanked the road.
They stopped at an intersection and spent some time on the porch of an old hotel. The front corner of the hotel had been a Starbucks once, but now it was home to rats that made their nests among piles of bones.
The streets were quiet and empty. The sun hung low in the west, casting deep shadows across the street, bathing nearly everything in purple darkness. The crickets had begun their concert early tonight, anticipating the quick twilight of late autumn. Somewhere off to her left a bullfrog croaked in a pond created by collapsed sewer pipes and seasonal flooding. Farther along the side street, a doe and two fawns foraged among wild bushes that flourished in the cracked asphalt.
That was good. Deer were as good a warning system as birds and crickets for signaling the presence of danger. The deer fled and the natural noisemakers fell silent in the presence of the dead. Deer also hightailed it away from dog packs, wolf packs, and hunting packs of the big cats.
So far, there were no obvious threats.
Ghoulie nuzzled her hand, letting her know that he thought it was safe for them to eat. Or rather, for her to feed him. He was less involved in how and when she fed herself.
“Okay, okay, don’t nag,” she told him as she unslung her pack and fished in it for the rest of a rabbit she’d trapped and cooked that morning. She tore off a leg for herself and then cocked an eyebrow at Ghoulie, who immediately sat down and looked well behaved and attentive.
“Here you go,” said Rags, placing the rabbit onto the floor.
Ghoulie destroyed the rabbit, eating the meat and even crunching most of the bones. He kept his head down while he ate, reducing the noise.
They both had some water from a jug hung from Ghoulie’s saddlebags, and they settled down to watch the fall of night. Everything was calm, even peaceful.
Until it wasn’t.
Until a superhero walked out of the building across the street.
3
Then
New York City
“You decent?” yelled a voice. Male, deep, familiar.
Rachael felt her face go hot even though she was fully dressed and not—thanks to winning her inwardly directed battle of wills—flaunting anything. The zipper of her tunic was up to a level perhaps one inch above modesty. A bit of overcompensation. Even so, s
he felt suddenly naked as she opened the door to let Brett in.
If he noticed her burning face, he didn’t comment.
“Oh, good, you’re ready,” he said as he crossed the room and went into the bathroom.
“Um . . . hello?” she said to the door as it closed.
“Got to pee,” he called from inside.
