Page 1 of Romancing in Rot

PROLOGUE - Z DAY

CLAIR

Before. . .

Main Street is a nightmare wearing my hometown’s face.

Gunshots crack through the air, sharp and relentless, bouncing off brick storefronts, parked cars, and the old courthouse clock tower. Screams follow. Then come the sounds that will haunt me forever.

Tearing. Chewing. Bones breaking.

The scent of blood hangs thick in the heat, metallic enough to taste. Smoke curls from overturned cars and smears the blue sky gray. Somewhere nearby, gasoline burns hot and sharp, mixing with the stink of sweat, rot, and panic.

People I’ve known my whole life are on the ground, ripped open on the pavement while others lean over them and tear into flesh like starving animals.

No.

Not others.

Us.

Neighbors. Teachers. Parents from school pickup.

Teeth buried in other people’s throats.

“Don’t look,” I snap, squeezing Poppy’s hand tighter.

Too late.

Her fingers go stiff in mine.

Frank the mailman crouches in the street, chewing on a severed arm like it’s a turkey leg at the county fair. His bag hangs open, letters drifting around him. One lands in a puddle of blood and turns pink.

Keep moving.

Russ runs ahead of us, revolver raised, firing at anything that gets too close. Each shot echoes down the street and rattles through my bones. He’s moving faster than us, faster than Poppy’s short legs can handle, but he doesn’t slow down.

“She just had to do this after-school program at the library,” he spits over his shoulder. “We could be on our way to my parents in Chicago right now, but no.”

Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I should have anticipated the world ending two months ago when I signed Poppy up for reading buddies and papier-mâché planets.

I don’t say that.

I’ve learned quiet is safer.

Another shot cracks.

I yank Poppy closer and swing the crowbar at Deputy Birch. His name tag is still pinned to his uniform, crooked and smeared with blood. The first hit caves in the side of his skull, but he keeps clawing forward, fingers scraping over the pavement.

Russ lines up another shot. “Not like she needed another after-school activity.”

I swing the crowbar again into Birch’s head.

Crunch.

I’m sorry I wanted our daughter to have fun.

Crunch.