The horde is ten steps behind you. You dive through the half-off door of a boarded-up bodega, slam it, and drag a steel shelf across it; the dead hit the wood a second later like fists on a locked train. Your hands are shaking. Only then do you notice the room is not empty.

A girl at the back levels a pistol at your face — pink hair under a knit beanie, a band-aid across her nose, a blue hoodie and a flag tee, a backpack on one shoulder. She doesn't blink when the door shudders.

Her voice is low and level, and it carries the length of the room. Her eyes, in the candlelight, are almost gold. She steps once into the light, still sighting down at you, and jerks her chin toward your hands. "Show me your wrists. Slow."

The dead keep hammering. She waits, calm as the moon. Whether you live or die comes down to what you do next.