37 days after the fall of the farm house…

Anna pressed herself into the seat, the buckle digging into her side. Her body shivered as she rubbed at her face, nudging the cloth over her eyes. The back of the car only provided so much protection from the winter elements. Her muscles ached and she was constantly fighting a battle with her lungs. But being sick was the least of her worries.

The car door opened, letting in a rush of frigid air. She scrambled backwards, blindly grabbing at the driver's seat to pull herself up, her back hitting the other door.

"Don't be like that Annie," cooed a man, his fingers brushing against her shin.

Her heart plummeted at the sound of his voice. She felt the car dip under Isaac's weight as he climbed into the back seat beside her, the door shutting them inside the broken-down car.

"I just want to talk," he assured, resting his hand on her knee. "You aren't still mad about yesterday, are you?"

Mad as if they had merely gotten into a lovers-spat over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Mad like he hadn't taken her own knife and dragged the tip of the blade through her skin, then smeared the blood over her face like some sort of death mask.

"Take it off," he ordered, his voice deceptively gentle. "So, I can see you."

Anna hastily lowered the blindfold, her hands trembling as she clutched the fabric hanging loose around her neck. She forced her eyes to stay open as he brushed his thumb along the lower edge of the fresh gash running from her right temple to the top of her cheekbone.

"I hope you understand why I had to," Isaac sighed. "You do understand, right?

"Yes."

"Tell me why."

"I wouldn't listen."

"That's right. But you will listen from now on, won't you?"

"Yes."

She sucked in a breath, flinching as he grabbed her chin. Hot tears escaped down her cheeks. She let out a shuddering exhale—she could see it in the air between them.

Isaac was a beautiful man. His jaw was perfectly chiseled underneath his stubble and freckles spattered across his sculpted nose. His bright hazel eyes were mesmerizing. He looked like something out of an airbrushed magazine.

"That's a good girl," he grinned. "And you know what good girls get?"

Anna tensed as he reached into his pocket.

"They get rewarded." He held out his hand, his smile widening. "Give me your hand."

She held up her left hand, visibly shaking as she waited, staring at his face. Anna didn't think she'd ever forget it.

Cold metal wrapped around her wrist and she looked down to see Isaac adjusting the silver bracelet so that she could see the engraved plate.

May you live all the days of your life. – Jonathan Swift

Anna's chest constricted at the sight of it. It had been thirty-seven days since he'd taken it from her.

"Well?" Isaac asked. "What do we say?"

Anna licked her cracked lips, prepared to let the lie roll off of her tongue.

"Th—"

"Isaac!"

Isaac groaned and shoved the door open. "I'll be right back." He shut the car door behind him.

Anna turned in her seat to look out the back window and saw a group of five armed soldiers standing at the edge of camp. Isaac and the soldier at the front of the group began speaking back and forth, their voices a mere mumble through the windows. Isaac had several of his own men around him—enough to outnumber the strangers, but not enough to give away just how many people he had on his side. There were more in the surrounding woods.

She watched as people on both sides casually hefted their weapons. She imagined screaming for help, imagined throwing the car door open and running towards the soldiers. But instead, she rested her head on the back of the seat. All she could bring herself to hope for was a few more minutes alone.

Anna closed her eyes and took a strained inhale of cold air. She was just so tired.

POP!

She jumped at the rifle fire, and instinctively threw herself to the floor and covered her head. She heard glass break and shouting as bullets flew back and forth.

The car shook as someone fell against it, and then the door was flung open. She looked up to see a young man, panic on his face. He was the man who brought her food the past 37 days.

"Come on!" He hissed, holding out his hand for her. "Come on!"

Anna didn't move. The man looked over his shoulder before reaching into the car and yanking her from the floor. She struggled to get her feet under herself, and tried to pull her arm from his grip. She looked around the camp and saw the scramble for safety as the soldiers and her captors fired on each other.

And then she saw him. Isaac was sprawled out on the ground, the side of his jacket blooming with blood. He lay still, and she couldn't see steam rising from his lips.

"Come on!" The man snapped, pulling her behind him as they ran into the woods.

Their boots crunched over the dead leaves and branches as they ran between the trees, the gunfire fading in the distance until it stopped altogether. Anna's entire body protested against the effort until she finally collapsed to the ground.

"Get up!" The man ordered, pulling her to her feet.

"I can't—" she gasped. "I can't—breathe," she choked out, her chest and throat tightening.

He quickly reached into his pocket, fumbling inside until he pulled out a blue inhaler and pushed it into her hands.

Anna wasted no time in bringing it to her lips, pushing down on it twice, and holding her breath, feeling the medicine settle into her lungs before she exhaled. She took several slow breaths, waiting for her airways to open up as much as they could.

"Why?" She croaked, narrowing her eyes at the man.

She'd only seen him when he brought her food and she never learned his name. But now he was making a run for it—with her.

He shook his head, "We need to keep moving—there's a neighborhood not too far from here."

He started walking, this time not bothering to drag Anna behind him. Reluctantly, she followed him, tucking the inhaler into her pocket.

As they walked, she noticed the way he struggled to keep upright, pushing himself up against trees every once in a while. In the distance, she could see rooftops past the dead trees. Finally, he stopped and leaned against a tree.

"Just need a second," he said.

"Why?" Anna asked again.

"Why what?" He huffed, scanning the direction they'd come. "Why do I need to rest? Or why did I come back for you?"

Anna said nothing as she looked at her feet where a jagged rock rested, roughly a little bigger than her hand.

"I had to. I couldn't just leave you behind," he said.

"Why?" Anna asked once more, looking back at him. His eyes were closed.

"They would have killed you. Those soldiers—" he took a shuddering breath and shook his head. His face was drained of color and he could barely keep his eyes open.

Anna knelt down and took the rock in her hands, feeling the jagged edges against her skin. The stone was cool to the touch and she couldn't help but stare in amazement at it. She couldn't remember the last time she'd touched a piece of the Earth.

"Can you take a look at this?" The young man asked.

She looked to him as he pulled up his jacket and shirt to reveal a bullet hole in his side.

"Shit," he hissed, letting himself slide to the ground.

Anna approached and crouched in front of him. He was the same age as her brother—if he was still alive. She looked to the bullet wound, then to his face.

"Why?" She asked, her voice quiet. He looked to her, confused.

"I—"

"Why didn't you stop them?"

He stared at her for a moment before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the tree. His lip began to tremble.

"I couldn't," he whispered. "I couldn't. They—" he let out a sob. "They would have killed me. But—" He took a deep breath. "I helped you. I saved you. You're alive. That's got to count for some—"

Anna slammed the rock into the center of his face, cutting him off. Blood spurted out of his nose. She pulled back and slammed it into his face again, the back of his head cracking against the tree. He grabbed at her wrist before falling over.

She didn't let up, yanking her wrist from his grasp and clutching the rock with both hands as she brought it down on him over and over again. Blindly, he tried to push her away from him and crawl back, but she sat on him, pressing her knee into his stomach and continuing her flurry of blows.

Finally, he fell limp, and she dropped the rock one last time against his forehead. Panting and aching, she stared at his bloodied face.

"It doesn't count for shit," she hissed.

A snarl from the left called her attention as a small crowd of the undead shambled through the trees. She got to her feet and backed away. There were too many for her to handle in her weakened state. All she could do was run.

Anna Wycoff was perhaps the last person anyone would think to find in the middle of Georgia on a crisp winter day, running down the street of an abandoned neighborhood that resembled what was probably once a delightful place to live. But there she was, forcing her way into a two-story, cookie-cutter house with a herd of the undead following the scent of her icy sweat and the sounds of her thumping heart and huffing breaths.