Page 1 of Glitter Rose
ONE
PARIS
Four hundred and six days since I’ve spoken to another living person, but the streets below still offer their daily theater.
Most performances star the stumbling dead. Predictable, repetitive, and boring as fuck. But today brings an encore from my favorite recurring character.
Dangerous Hot Guy.
He is back for his monthly appearance in my little apocalypse play, coming around the corner with a backpack slung over broad shoulders.
I press myself closer to the window, adjusting the focus of my binoculars, zeroing in on his hands as he checks what looks like a hunting knife. “This is what, the third time we’ve seen him? Fourth?”
Telly doesn’t answer. Rude.
“Fine, I’ll check the calendar.” I don’t move from my spot.
From here, I have clear sight lines to the neighborhood’s main approach road and to Hot Guy. His hair is short on the sides in a military undercut with a bit of length on top to show the chocolate brown color catching the late afternoon sun when he turns to scan his surroundings, giving me a clearerview of his face. Strong jawline, several days of stubble, and eyes constantly moving.
My fingertips tingle against the binoculars. What would that stubble feel like under my touch? Rough, probably. Everything about him screams rough.
He’s leaner than the last time I spotted him, but still solid muscle under that tactical gear.
A zombie, mid-forties male in what was once called business casual, lurches from between two abandoned luxury cars, drawn by the promise of food.
Hot Guy waits, knife held low against his thigh. Relaxed. Not even a hint of fear.
“Oh, he’s good. Look at that stance, Telly.” I glance at the telescope set up beside me. “Bet you twenty bucks he goes for the eye.”
Hot Guy lets the zombie get within arm’s reach before lunging forward. His knife drives up through the creature’s jaw and into its brain. Clean. Efficient. Nothing wasted.
“Shit. You win.”
Blood sprays across the asphalt as he withdraws his blade, letting the corpse collapse. He wipes the knife on the zombie’s shirt before sheathing it and continuing his cautious progress down the street.
“What’s your story, stranger?” I whisper, fogging the window. “Lone wolf? Part of a group? Just passing through?”
My heart beats faster. Would it be so terrible to make contact? To speak to another human being who isn’t my reflection in the mirror? I step back from the window, suddenly aware of how exposed I am despite being twelve stories up.
My penthouse fortress, perched atop Hillcrest’s most exclusive address, remains invisible to survivors and zombies alike. Just how I like it.
“Fuck that.” I bite my lower lip. “You know what happenswhen you trust people, Paris. And you have Telly. Yes, I don’t need some random stranger bringing trouble to my doorstep.”
And yet…
I hurry to the southern windows for a better angle, nearly knocking over a stack of medical journals I’ve been studying. “He’s probably a murderer.” I adjust my binoculars. “Or worse, boring conversation.”
The man pauses in the middle of the street, scanning rooftops. I duck instinctively. Does he know someone’s watching?
I count to thirty before daring to peek. He’s moving, heading west…
Away from my building.
I sigh. He’s not looking for me. “Why should he, right Telly?” I lower the binoculars, letting them hang around my neck. “One less thing to worry about.”
People like him—capable, dangerous, alive—they have communities. Groups. Places to belong. They don’t need spoiled rich girls whose only survival skills are fencing lessons and an encyclopedic knowledge of designer labels.
Not even my own brother came looking for me. So why should a stranger?
