Page 147 of Romancing in Rot

A branch snaps somewhere beyond the trees.

My head lifts.

So does Lyla’s across the clearing.

Jacob stops writing. The camp goes still in pieces. One conversation dies, then another. Even Poppy pauses on top of the van with a roll of gauze in her hand, her other hand already reaching for the bow and arrows beside her.

The wind moves through the trees.

Then comes the thin metallic clatter of cans.

A moan follows.

Low. Hungry. Wet.

Answered by another.

And another.

Shit.

Lyla’s hand goes up. “Positions.”

Camp explodes into motion.

No panic.

Not anymore.

Panic wastes seconds, and seconds get people killed.

Trish grabs Poppy and Luis and shoves them farther back onto the ER van roof. “Stay flat unless you’re shooting.”

“I don’t have a gun,” Luis says.

“Then stay flat with attitude.”

Joanie bolts toward Max, yanking a blade from her belt. Jacob runs to my side and shoulders his shotgun. Mom moves to Edith without being told. Earl grabs the bat from the hood of his car. Wesker plants himself beside Carlos, who already has a handgun raised next to Lyla.

Clair looks at me.

One second.

That’s all we get.

Her eyes are wide, but not empty.

Not frozen.

Ready.

I jerk my chin toward the big oak near the center of camp, the one with low branches and a clear sightline over the vehicles.

She understands immediately.

Rifle in hand, she runs.

The first infected breaks through the trees before she reaches the oak. Its jaw hangs crooked, one cheek torn open so wide black teeth show through the side of its face. Three more stumble after it.