When a deadly plague spreads like wildfire, 17-year-old Bren Watts is trapped at Ground Zero of a global pandemic.
----
Bren and his classmates are stranded in New York City, now filled with thousands of murderous infected and desperate survivors. F...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Three Weeks Later
——
Day 85: July 2nd, Friday
Twelve Weeks since Ground Zero
"I think it's safe to say," Logan started, taking a bite out of his apple, juice running down the side of his lips. "—that the Alphas are all gone."
I looked at the man under my boot, close to my age, frowning, blood pooling beneath his head, a small, red-smeared hole at the bridge of his nose. I put Betty back in my holster. "Seems that way," I said. I scanned the living room; three dead bodies lay around us. Not a bad day.
"Well, in this town, at least," Logan corrected himself. "You reckon there's more of them?"
"One is too many already."
"Ah." Logan takes another bite. "Shame, that is."
"That's the last of them here in Colby. I doubt they'll return."
Logan chuckled. "After what we did? Yeah. I don't think they will."
"We haven't found those prisoners that escaped. Do you think the Alphas killed them all?"
"Yeah. That Elijah guy, right?"
I nodded. "Maybe they all left town that night."
"Pretty smart move. Only crazy idiots stay here." Logan gave me a knowing smile.
"Yeah. Only crazy idiots do." A week ago, we had checked the lakeside resort upon the mountains again, thinking that's where Elijah and the rest of the prisoners had gone to, but it was empty as I found it for the first time. As long as they are far away from here, I'm glad. I hope they make it safe to Pittsburgh.
I tightened my lip when I felt a slight pang of pain on my shoulder, thinking I had pulled another muscle there. My left arm was sore, could still feel that bullet weeks ago burrowing, then the itch and the excruciating sting of open flesh like being roasted in an open fire. I massaged the spot, healed now, but the scars remained.
"Still hurt?" Logan asked, concerned.
A small smile crept on my lips. "I'm not a baby, you know."
"Technically, I'm older than you, so you are a baby."
"I'm turning eighteen next month."
"My point exactly. And I'll be nineteen three months after that. See? Older."
Grumbling, I stomped back into the living room, though I tried not to. Logan noticed. "Yeah, but I'm more mature," I mumbled.
"Ah, come on, you big baby. Here. Peace offering." Logan handed me his spare apple from his pocket, almost tripping over one of the bodies. He's taking it in casually, like a day in a spa, I thought. But that was Logan. He tried to play off anything remotely serious, like hunting humans.
