"One more step." The man at the front had both hands on his rifle and neither of them was steady. The barrel trembled in small, continuous movements under the hard yellow of the street light. "You take one more step and I put you down."
Every one of them was masked. Cloth over the lower half of the face, tied at the back, all seven of them the same, as though the infection were something you could breathe in and a strip of fabric would decide it. The cloth was dark, sweat-stained, the knots uneven. Their eyes above the masks were wide and tired and locked on the bag.
I stood still and took Venna's hand, the bag hanging from my other one. Her fingers closed around mine, warm and tight. The street light laid our shadows long and thin across the asphalt between us and the guns.
None of you understand a single thing about surviving.
"Those two are zombies." A girl's voice from the back of the group. Young. Sharp. The rifle in her hands came up a fraction higher.
