Zocopalypse (Death Fields 1)

“What? No! We’ve got this!” I shout.

“Get in,” he grunts. He left the door open, and when I get close enough he shoves me in. I tumble down the stairs, landing hard on my side. The door shuts with a slam, as the Eater’s bang against it from the outside. I scramble to my feet, convinced they’ll get inside but I hear the bolts sliding across the door with a loud snap.

“What the hell?” I say. “We could have taken them.”

“That should keep them out,” Wyatt says. Sweat drips off his forehead and when he tosses his pack to the floor I see the front of his shirt is soaked too.

“Yeah,” I say. “But how do we get out of here? That’s the only exit.”

He shakes his head and says, “This gives us time to figure out a plan, I couldn’t hold them off.”

That’s when I notice how pale his face is and that the stain on the front of his shirt isn’t water but blood. “You’re hurt.” I stiffen—a familiar dread bubbles to the surface.

Wyatt lifts the hem of his shirt reveling a long cut. Blood drips down his side, soaking into the top of his cargo pants. “It’s not from them. I ran into something on the side of the boat.”

“Lie down,” I order and he complies, crawling on his hands and feet to the leather couch. He sprawls across the cushion with a groan.

“Can I look?”

He nods, jaw tight. I kneel next to him and look at the wound. It’s ugly—red and bleeding. I run to the small kitchen and find a towel hanging near the sink—grabbing a bottle of alcohol at the same time. Soaking the towel, I press it against the cut and watch his nose wrinkle in pain.

“Does it need stitches?” he asks.

“I have no idea.” I admit.

“Can I see that for a second?”

I hand him the bottle, filled halfway to the top with clear liquid. Wyatt lifts his body and takes two long pulls before dropping on his back.

“Better?”

He laughs. “A little.”

The cries from outside have subsided a little bit. Maybe they’ll lose interest and go away. I don’t know. That’s the problem with this whole new world. Too many new rules and I don’t understand any of them.

I sit on the floor next to Wyatt, keeping pressure on his wound, careful not to lift it and stop the clotting. I guess we’ll know soon enough if he needs stitches, I just hope he doesn’t bleed out before then.

“Hey, Alex,” he says, his voice soft.

“What?”

“Guess you were right about that whole never separate thing.” He graces me with a smile, a real one, and it almost knocks me back. I blush at the compliment, which is dumb, but it makes me wonder is he flirting with me? Do I want him to flirt?

No. I don’t. I just want to get to Atlanta in one piece and this guy will help me get there.

I realize then that there’s something else I’m not prepared for. Dealing with men in the apocalypse.

Chapter Twenty-Four

~Before~

Six Weeks Earlier

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My mother and I wait. There’s little else to do. The state is on quarantine. Emergency shelters are filling up and new ones are created daily. If you don’t have enough food or water or need assistance the television and auto-calls tell you where to go. How to cover your mouth and nose and wait for the shuttle to pick you up. Everyone remain calm. That’s the key. Keep calm and cover your mouth. The meme for the end of the world.

We don’t leave for the shelter—even though it’s shifting from voluntary to mandatory. We probably have another week before it’s enforced. Hopefully my father will be back by then.