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Joanie whoops. “Science, bitch.”

Clair’s rifle cracks through camp, and an infected near Joanie drops mid-lunge, its skull snapping back so hard its body keeps moving for another step before crashing to the ground. Her next shot takes one closing in on Earl. The bullet punches through its forehead, and black blood spatters across the hood of his car and the glitter stickers Poppy stuck there two days ago. The third drops a woman in a torn blue dress reaching for Lyla’s back, the round hitting just above her brow and bursting her head open at the crown.

Every shot is precise.

Fast.

Deadly.

Clair from a distance is terrifying.

Clair from a distance is art.

I almost smile.

Then a scream cuts through the noise.

Poppy.

My head snaps toward the ER van.

An infected has slammed against the side, fingers clawing at the metal, nails ripping backward as it tries to climb. Its jaw snaps over and over, teeth clacking inches below the roofline. Poppy stands above it, trying to angle her bow down. She shoots, and the arrow sinks into its shoulder.

The thing stretches higher.

One hand catches the edge.

No.

I move before the thought finishes.

Arrow up. Draw. Release.

The arrow burrows through its eye. The infected drops, ripping one loose flower sticker down with it. Its body hits the ground hard, skull bouncing once before going still.

Poppy’s face appears over the edge, pale but whole.

Trish yells something I can’t hear over the gunfire.

Probably a thank-you.

Probably an insult for scaring ten years off her life.

I reach for another arrow.

Too late, sprinting steps pound behind me.

Fast. Wrong. Close.

I turn halfway, but there’s no time to draw. No time to lift the bow. No time for the hatchet at my thigh.

The infected barrels toward me with its mouth wide open, bloody fingers reaching for my face. Its lips are gone. Its teeth shine wet and black.

A rifle cracks.

Its head snaps back.

Black blood sprays across my cheek, sticky and foul. The body collapses at my feet, momentum carrying it close enough that one dead hand brushes my boot.