Anticipation sat heavy in my chest as I paced the narrow stretch of dirt behind the tents, the gun a solid weight in my back pocket. Just over a dozen infected. That was the number.
It didn't feel like it.
It felt like a wave.
The fact that they were coming with intent—not wandering, not drifting—made everything worse. My mind betrayed me with flashes I didn't ask for: twitching limbs dragging through brush, red-rimmed eyes reflecting firelight, blood slicking the ground where people had been standing seconds before.
Cold sweat slid down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and kept moving.
Numbers didn't scare me. Neither did the idea that one of them was armed.
It was the dark.
The not knowing where they'd come from. How fast. Who would panic first. What would go wrong.
I told myself I was done running.
That was the line I kept repeating, like a prayer. My plan had to work. It would work. People were already in position. We—
