You stand behind the door, bottom lip pressed firmly between your teeth while you're contemplating. Then-

What's wrong with me? you think, feeling scummy. Those are people out there. Living, breathing people.

Immediately, you set your weapon to the side, shove the couch out of the way, and open the door. The force of bodies nearly knocks you down, but at least they're alive. You shut the door back, then lock the handle, even though you know very well that the undead can't work a knob anyway.

There are now three new people, covered in grime, standing on your mom's clean carpet. A brief flash of your mom yelling at you for tracking in mud crosses your mind, and you decide that you'd much rather be in that situation. But instead, here you are. And there they are. And there were their foot prints, a gruesome mixture of mud, blood, and some other things you didn't want to think about.

One of your new comrades is woman, who looks to be in her early twenties. She's sweaty and filthy, but her skin is firm and supple. A man wearing a Patriots football jersey accompanies her. Between them, they are supporting the third person - another man, looking as though he'd just been dug out of rubble from a crumbled building. Except for the parts of him covered in sweat, he's caked in dried mud and blood.

"W-what happened to him?" you ask.

"Had a wreck back there. It was bad," the Patriot fan says. The other guy just pants and grimaces.

"Thanks for letting us in," the woman says, her eyes shining bright green. "We've been looking for somewhere with people. How many you got here?"

You look around, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable. "Erm... just me," you say.

"No kidding?" she says, surprised.

You nod pathetically, a little sad that you can't produce more people for her out of thin air.

The man in the middle groans and slips a bit, jogging you into action.

"Please, have a seat," you say, motioning toward the couch. Jersey guy obliges, tugging the guy forward. The woman slips from under the man's arm and stays put.

"We were five when we started. Summer camping trip. You know how great the hiking trails are around here?" She's talking fast, and she's still trying to catch her breath. The words come out in breaks and rasps. "Anyway, I'm Carla. That's Wade there," she points to the Patriots fan, "that's Tom," she indicates the wounded fellow.

You nod, but don't offer your name. Wade eases Tom into the soft couch. To be honest, Tom is making you more than a bit nervous. His breathing has picked up, he sucks in sharp, painful breaths.

"How did he get hurt again?" you ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

"We got surrounded a few streets over. The bastards tipped our ride. We barely got away," Wade says.

Carla goes to Tom, kneeling at his side. A loud riiiip cuts the silence as she tears open the leg of his pants, revealing a nasty open wound. Tom howls as though she had just yanked off his leg. Yellowish-pink puss oozes from the sore, and you almost gag at the sight.

"Do you have a first aid kit?" she says.

"Yes," you gasp, reluctant to breath in the rancid scent of the puss that seemed to have filled the room.

Your head is starting to pound from the lack of air. You dash from the room, happy to breath again. But breathing sends fresh oxygen to your brain, and with it, the gears start to turn overtime. New thoughts begin to develop, bringing a nagging alertness to what was already uneasiness.

"How long ago did you say the accident was?" you call into the living room, while you stretch to the top shelf in the linen closet, where your mom keeps the first aid kit safely stashed.

"About ten minutes ago. Why?" Wade says behind you.

You jump just as the first aid kit comes crashing down on your head. Luckily, you're fine. You bend and pick it up quickly, spinning toward Wade suspiciously.

"You startled me," you say. You hold the kit close to your chest as though it forms a protective barrier.

"Uh-huh." He's staring back at you in an equally skeptical way.

"Wade! Wade, come quick!" Carla's panicked voice cries.

Without missing a beat, Wade runs toward the call. For a moment, you consider running away from it, but against your better judgement, you find yourself peeking around the corner to see what's happening.

On the couch, Tom is thrashing and a frothy mess is spilling from his lips. Carla is trying her best to hold him down, but she jerks violently with his every movement. Wade joins the effort, pressing Tom's shoulders firmly into the couch. Finally he is still.

"Tom!" Carla calls to him.

His eyes are open, but unfocused.

"Tom!" she screams, then she shakes him as though she's trying to mix margaritas in his body cavity.

The kit slips out of your hands and bangs against the floor, and your fingers cover your lips. Wide eyed, you watch with bated breath as Tom continues to lie still as a boulder.

"No," Carla cries. "No, no, no. Tom! Tom, wake up!" Then she speaks to Wade frantically. "How is this happening? He was just fine fifteen minutes ago! Its just a flesh wound!" She seems to be trying to convince the universe that this shouldn't be happening.

Slowly, Wade is backing up. "Carla?" he says cautiously. "Carla, we need to get out, now. NOW!"

CONTINUED ON CHAPTER 14