Chapter 1

Hours later, Heather cautiously made her way through the hallways and rooms she had come to know so well during these past two years. Everywhere was the sign of bodies, ravaged and torn apart, blood flecking walls and floors and even ceilings. And that silence, that terrible, terrible silence that buzzed in Heather's ears and made her hands shake. It meant she was safe, but how many others had died? Did anyone survive?

She tried not to look at the bodies as she passed them, afraid to see the faces of her friends, of the people she knew. But she had to look down, had to pick her path through the forest of wayward limbs and torn flesh. It was terrible, and Heather (who generally prided herself on being a strong, no-nonsense kind of woman) had to fight down a sob as she stepped on the crushed fingers of Sam. That broken, bloody shoe: that was Kathleen's, and she saw a ripped tie with Bobby's trademark hummingbird print. Heather bit her lip to keep from crying, focusing all of her being on that physical pain so she could keep the emotional agony at bay. She bit hard enough to draw blood, but that was kind of a relief. With those droplets of blood beading on her lip, she felt all the misery of the past eight hours flow out of her too.

Shit. Heather froze at the sound of shuffling feet and gurgling breath. She knew the virus could even infect recently-dead bodies, but she'd figured all those who had been here were destroyed so thoroughly there was no way they could function. Clearly she was wrong, or one of them was trapped, or ... oh god it was coming closer. Her hands were shaking, her ankles trembling ... oh god she was going to die. She felt the impending doom of death weight down on her like a sack of bricks and nearly closed her eyes before her inner sensible self took control. She had a weapon (of sorts... ) and the thing was most likely injured, so surely it wouldn't take too much to disconnect it's brainstem from its spine. Or something. Anything.

The gurgling, whistling breath drew closer, and the movement paused just around the corner. Could it smell her? She didn't know all the effects of the virus, after all ... oh crap.

Heather saw the creature and screamed. Ashley Mackenzie, they'd been making the rounds of the clubs just last week. They'd been so carefree, laughing, joking ... oh god. And the worst thing was that her red lipstick-slash mouth was hanging slack now, the bottom jaw dislocated and pooling with blood that splashed onto her light grey skirt. There was a light in her eyes, feral and insane, something that was no longer human. And then the creature saw Heather and lunged, claw-like fingers with the nails half ripped out, hanging by shreds of skin. Heather shrieked again, swinging out with a white-knuckled grip on the shiny tap. The curved tap head lodged in the side of Ashley's skull, caving in the bone and oozing out grey jelly from the sides of the wound. Heather watched in shock as Ashley stumbled around, angered, trying to get the tap out of her head, but only succeeding in pushing it further in.

It was disgusting. Heather somehow managed to stay the urge to vomit, her hands drawn up to her mouth to avoid making any sound. Eventually Ashley turned around and began making her wobbly way back down the corridor, horrible keening groans escaping from that dark hole of her throat. Heather turned too, and ran, choking on dry, ragged sobs that tore her apart inside and blinded her, until she slipped on a slick red puddle and collapsed, her calves covered in blood. The stain crept up her white stockings, stark against their pale material. Heather screamed and cried and wept. And she thought that before now she had never known the meaning of despair.