The gun shop looks locked up tight, but having weapons and bars, it looks like a pretty solid hideout. You feel like you have a decent chance of making it in, because surely the owner or some workers would go there to hole up. Someone has to be there.

You hope . . .

You take one last look at the library.

What am I going to do, throw books at the zombies? you think. No way.

In a flash, you grab hold of your bag of essentials, a yipping Rocky, and make a run for it.

You know the ravenous undead are right behind you, you can hear their groans and their rapid footfalls. It's a thousand wonders you can even run, you're so afraid. Fighting to keep your legs pumping, you just keep thinking, please, please, because it's the only logical words you can form in your mind at the moment.

It smells like the city itself is rotting, the essence of undead is so thick in the air. You labor your breathing and try to run faster. In your haste, you trip on the sidewalk. Your bag spills some contents and Rocky goes flying. He lands in the grass beside the gun shop and quickly regains footing.

You're scrambling up, trying to scoop the contents back in your bag as you keep pushing forward. Meanwhile, Rocky is barking urgently, running circles around you, as though he's coaching you to hurry. You oblige, even though your lungs are burning something fierce.

At top speed, you hit the barred door, jarring the steel as well as your own bones.

"Help! Please, help, they're going to get me!" you shout while rapidly knocking on the door.

But there's silence and no movement inside. You get a horrible feeling in your gut - the way it feels when you miss a step while walking downstairs. There's no one there. You've made the wrong choice.

"Oh, God," you utter, because you know how close they are. Your throat closes up and you freeze, unable to budge a single muscle.

Then Rocky barks his wildest fit yet, and he takes off in the other direction.

Miraculously, the undead take immediate notice of direction the noise moved to. As they shift their course to follow Rocky, you realize what's happening.

The little wiener dog is saving your life.

You start to react, to run for the library where you saw the girl and coax Rocky to run back to you and not mess around until he gets ate by a group of disgusting monsters. As you move off of the door bars, they break open and someone on the other side pulls you in.

You hit the icy, hard floor. Still panting and lungs stinging from your run, there's now a new sore knot on your head -- but it beats being devoured by zombies.

Someone grabs your shoulders and slides you across the linoleum. A figure in a thick camouflage jacket and camouflage toboggan secures the door bars back in place, then shuts the thick glass door and locks it for good measure. You're not sure, but from the strength of the one dragging you and the shape of the one at the door, they're both male.

The figure at the door turns. It is a man; he's looking very hostile. He has green eyes with thick brows narrowed above them. His mouth is set in a scowl.

"You almost led them right to us!" he says in a loud whisper.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I needed help."

"Help?" he says angrily. "We don't even know you-"

"Lawrence, take it easy," the other person, another male judging by the baritone, says.

He lets go of you, then the light, honey brown of his eyes swim before you. "Are you okay, kid?" he asks. "You hit like a sack of sand."

You prop yourself on your elbows. "I-I think I'm okay, but m-my dog . . . ."

"Dog's fine. Saw him give them the slip 'n dive into the library with Some human lady," Lawrence says reluctantly, shooting a quick glance at his partner as if to say, "There. Happy?"

You send up a silent prayer of thanks, glad that Rocky didn't die at the bloody, rotting hands of the undead.

The friendly guy, who's also dressed in camouflage, holds out his hand. You take it and he pulls you up saying, "Name's Marcus Quintrell. Friends call me Quinn. This here's my buddy, Jack Lawrence, you can call him Lawrence."

They watch you, waiting for your name. Something doesn't feel right about them, though. Your conscience tells you to lie, so you do - sort of.

"Just call me Alex," you say. Not a direct lie, because you didn't technically say it was your name. Maybe you'll give them your real name later, but for now, you'll go by Alex.

"Alex," Lawrence says. "I sure hope you can shoot better than you run."

"Shoot?" you say.

"When we load up, we're going back to the sewers," Quinn explains. "They're scarce there, but you will see one from time to time."

You almost gulp dramatically. The prospect of coming face to face with undead things, of actually running toward them, was insane . . . .

"See, Quinn?" Lawrence says. "Just dead weight."

You're shocked when you realize he's referring to you. Will they throw you back out to the undead?

"No, no, I-I can shoot," you say defensively.

Quinn smiles wide, his white teeth made all the more white in contrast with his dark skin. "Nice," he says, and he passes you a gun.

"Know what that is, kid?" Lawrence asks.

"Erm, a Beretta?" you say.

"No. It's your f%^*ing freedom," he says.

"Let's loot," Quinn says.

"You're just going to leave your store unguarded?" you ask.

Lawrence scoffs. "It's not our store."

"But-" you say pathetically.

Now that you know it's not their store they're looting, it's no wonder you felt you needed to lie to them. Could you even trust them? Will they toss you to the undead first chance in order to save their own butts? Or will they teach you how to survive?

CONTINUE TO CHAPTER 16