Page 3 of Glitter Rose
That came from outside. Close. Too close.
I kill the camp stove flame with one quick motion, plunging the kitchen into darkness save for the single candle.
Silence.
Vehicle Accident? Thunder? Anything but those relentless and creepy Wolf-zombies!
My pet name for the most terrifying mutation of the virus. Regular zombies are predictable, slow, stupid, and easy to avoid if you’re careful. But the Wolves? They hunt in packs at night, because why wouldn’t they? They communicate, and they’re fast as hell.
I walk over the Persian rugs to grab Bino, my binoculars from the windowsill, and lift them to my eyes, scanning the street below.
The first time I saw a Wolf-Zombie was three months after everything fell apart. I was on a supply run to the pharmacy four blocks over when I heard it—not the usual mindless moaning, but something closer to coordinated yipping. Then I saw them: five former humans moving together, heads tilted at identical angles, communicating through a series of clicks and growls. Sometimes they walk on all fours.
And unlike regular zombies with their cloudy eyes and random movements, Wolves have a terrible clarity in their gaze, which is super creepy. I decided in that moment to never go out in the dark.
Nothing moves in my field of vision. No shambling zombies drawn by the noise. No sign of what caused it.
No Wolf-zombies. Those would have howled by now.
“Telly. Talk to me.” I check nearby buildings, rooftops, fire escapes?—
Fire escape!
Myfire escape.
“Shit.”
The one I deliberately sabotaged months ago, loosening screws so it couldn’t be used to access my penthouse but would still serve as my emergency exit if needed.
I dash to the sliding doors that lead to the balcony. The frigid night air cuts across my face as I step outside, turning the anxiety slithering through my veins into full-body goosebumps. My ears strain for any sounds like groans of the undead, voices, anything.
Nothing.
I edge toward the corner of the balcony. The metal staircase zigzags down the side of the building. Twelve stories is a long way down, but the moon provides enough illumination to reveal the crumpled form on the pavement. Beside it, the last fire escape ladder lies twisted and mangled, torn completely free from its anchor at the first level.
Looks like someone tested my handiwork. And it worked! Take that, apocalypse.
I use my binoculars to scan the debris. “No fucking way.”
Hot Guy lies sprawled on the concrete. Blood pools beneath his head, black in the moonlight.
I grip the balcony railing, leaning forward for a better look. It’s definitely him. “Who tries to climb a random fire escape in the apocalypse? That’s just poor survival instinct. Is he…”
Guilt bubbles up, acid and insistent.
Was he looking for safety, maybe? Or supplies. Or other survivors.
Looking for me?
His arm twitches, then his head turns slightly. A painedgroan drifts up to my hiding spot, carried on the evening breeze. He’s conscious, at least partially.
Conscious and suffering.
I-I should go inside. Lock the door. Pretend I never saw him. By morning, he’ll either be dead from his injuries or zombie food. Not my problem. Not my responsibility.
I lean farther over the edge, squinting to see better. He’s trying to sit up, failing miserably. Even in the darkness, I recognize the same dirty jacket, the same broad shoulders I’d watched through my binoculars. The knife he’d used on the zombie lies beyond his outstretched fingers.
“Not my problem.” I back away from the railing, fingers twisted in the hem of my top. “Not my responsibility. He shouldn’t have been climbing that fire escape.”
