Page 11

Move, Clair.

My feet don’t listen.

The street folds over itself. Russ’s gun. Poppy screaming. Blood under my palms. My leg refusing to work. The helpless, awful weight of knowing someone else gets to decide if I live.

Leon’s boot scrapes against the pavement as he tries to shove the infected back.

Its mouth drops closer.

Lyla yells my name, but it sounds far away.

Then Leon looks at me.

Not panicked.

Not afraid.

Trusting.

That cuts through the freeze.

I run.

Not gracefully. Not bravely. I slam into the infected shoulder-first, and we roll off Leon into broken glass. Its elbow catches my ribs. Teeth snap near my cheek. I scream and shove the knife up because Lyla’s voice is in my head.

Soft spot.

Up.

Hard.

The blade slides under its jaw.

The infected jerks once, then goes heavy on top of me.

I lie there beneath it, trapped under dead weight and the smell of rot.

Then Leon is there, hauling the body off me.

Around us, the last corpse drops. Lyla rips her knife free. Trish lowers her gun. Joanie kicks the crawler’s hand one more time for good measure.

“Everybody intact?” Trish asks, breathless.

Joanie bends over, hands on her knees. “Please tell me we are not adding Leon brisket to today’s trauma buffet.”

Leon ignores her.

His hands hover over my face, my throat, my arms, my bad leg, like he wants to check every part of me at once and doesn’t trust himself to choose where to start.

I hate that he saw me freeze.

I hate more that some stupid, broken piece of me wants to lean into him anyway.

I push myself upright before he can help me and wince when my ribs protest.

“I’m fine.”

Lyla crouches beside the dead infected, her mouth flat. “No, you’re lucky.”