“Anything new?” I asked.

“Not much. Most everything within fifty miles west of the Mississippi has been evacuated, but we already knew that. California is a clusterfuck, riots everywhere. Wildfires spreading from East Texas west to Baja and north to Colorado and Kansas. Been a dry year. Bad time for fires to break out.”

“I heard something about Canada.”

“The Canadian government closed the border. Nobody allowed in or out.”

I digested that for a moment. “Anything about … you know. The infected.”

Mike turned and looked at me in the gloom, exhaustion etched in the lines of his face. “Yeah. Looks like those guys your dad knew were right. There’s only one way to kill ‘em.”

“How’s that?”

Mike switched the radio back on, turned the dial a few times, and pushed it over to me. “Listen,” he said.

I held my ear down close to the speaker. “…not to be treated as living people. Repeat, those infected with the revenant virus are not to be treated as living people. Once an infected person reaches the reanimation stage of infection, they will exhibit psychotic, cannibalistic behavior, and will attack anyone who comes into contact with them, including friends and family. If a member of your family becomes infected, report them to the authorities immediately. If there are no authorities available, be advised the only way to stop an infected person past the reanimation stage from attacking is to destroy their brain or sever their brain stem. Anyone bitten by an infected person will also become infected. Do not attempt to physically restrain or subdue an infected person, as this may result in bites, which will cause further spread of the contagion. This is a joint safety advisory from the Department of Defense, Federal Emergency Management Agency, and the Centers for Disease Control. Be advised, infected persons are not to be treated as living people. Repeat, those infected with the revenant virus are not to be treated-”

The transmission stopped abruptly as Mike turned it off. “Long story short,” he said, “shoot ‘em in the fuckin’ head.”

I tried unsuccessfully to repress a shudder. “This can’t be real, Mike,” I said. “Dead people don’t come back to life.”

“Listen, son,” he said. “We don’t know what the hell is going on with these people. Even the government hasn’t figured it out yet. Maybe they’re dead people, maybe they’re not. Who knows? Bottom line is this: they’re dangerous, and if you see one, don’t hesitate to put a bullet in its head. Got it?”

I nodded quietly. Mike gave my shoulder a squeeze before standing up and stretching. “You been here before, right?”

“Yeah, ‘bout every year. Why?”

“Dale keep any hooch around this place?”

I pointed to the cupboard above the stove. “Couple bottles up there. Bourbon, I think.”

Mike walked over, opened the cabinet, and after a moment’s consideration, took down a bottle of Buffalo Trace. “Sorry, Dale,” he muttered. “Pay you back if I live.”

“Glasses are over there,” I said, pointing. Mike selected two tumblers, sat down next to me, and poured a couple of fingers in each glass. He pushed one in front of me.

“Drink it,” he said.

I hesitated, frowning.

“What’s the matter? Never had a drink before?”

“Couple times. Didn’t care for it.”

“What’d you have?”

“Vodka, once. Beer another time.”

Mike made a disgusted noise. “Vodka is for sorority girls and beer is for pussies. Whiskey is a man’s drink. Give it a try.”

I picked up the glass and sniffed at it. “God, this shit smells like turpentine.”

Mike laughed, his deep voice rattling in his chest. “Just don’t gulp it. Little sips.” He held out his glass.

I clinked mine against it, then allowed a little of the amber liquid past my lips. The flavor was surprisingly sweet, at least until I swallowed it. Then a golden burn started in the back of my throat and tore its way up through my nose and eyes. Mike chuckled as I snorted and coughed.

“Fuck,” I sputtered. “It burns.”

“That’s how you know it’s working.” Mike tossed his drink back in a single gulp, then breathed deeply through his nose. Even though the room was dark, I could see his eyes water. A waft of alcohol-scented air blew toward me as he breathed out.

“Mmm. That’s good stuff.” He poured another drink.

We sat there for a while, the two of us, him putting his booze away in heavy gulps and me nursing my tumbler until it was empty. By the time I had finished, the burn didn’t bother me so bad anymore and I found I actually liked the flavor. A slow, steady buzz relaxed the tension in my shoulders and back, making my eyelids droopy with weariness.

“Have another?” Mike asked, holding up the half-empty bottle.

“No, I’m good. Think I’ll go lay down now.”

“Okay. Get some sleep, kid. Gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

I nodded as I trudged toward the stairs.

One of the guest bedrooms had a set of bunk beds on one side of the room and a single bed on the other. I doubted any of the others would want the top bunk, so I headed that way. Just beyond the doorway, I heard the sound of gentle snoring and stopped. Looking down to my right, I saw Sophia curled under the blanket in the single bed, eyes closed, mouth partially open. The sneering expression of contempt from earlier was gone, replace by the smooth, guileless innocence of sleep. It was an effort of will not to step closer and run a finger along the soft line of her cheek. I resisted, though, and took off my boots before climbing into the top bunk. It occurred to me Sophia might be angry I chose to sleep in the same room as her, but right then, I was too exhausted to care.

I managed to lever myself into the middle of the bed before the waves took me under.

*****

One of the perks of Dale’s cabin was both the water heater and the stove ran off a rather large propane tank. According to an invoice on the table in the foyer, the propane supplier had been out less than two weeks ago to fill it up. As Tyrel and I made breakfast for the group, I thought longingly of the hot shower I planned to take that afternoon.

Another interesting development was Sophia’s markedly increased appetite. The few other times I had broken bread with her she had eaten like a very small rabbit with severe food allergies. The next morning, however, she filled her bowl with two heaping scoops of rice and beans, grabbed a handful of tortillas, and carried her food into the living room where she plopped down on the sofa and ate alone, sullen gaze directed at the television’s blank screen.

The rest of us were equally ravenous, each one sitting at either the island or the dining room table and scarfing our breakfast wordlessly. We had discovered earlier, to our pleasant surprise, the cabin still had running water. When I asked how that was possible without electricity, Blake solved the mystery. “Gravity fed,” he remarked. “Gotta be a water tower nearby. Better enjoy it while we can; that tower runs empty, we’re drinking lake water.”

I decided to move up my timetable on the shower.

Lauren and I washed and dried the dishes after breakfast, both of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. Everyone else looked equally worried, eyes distant and puffy around the edges, hands clasped on tabletops or fidgeting absently. I got the feeling we were all waiting for someone to speak up, but no one was quite willing to be the first to do it. Finally, Dad stood up, leaned against the kitchen counter where everyone could see him, and cleared his throat.

“First thing we need to do is gather supplies,” he said. I watched Blake and Tyrel nod silently while Mike merely grunted.

“From where?” Sophia asked. It was the first thing she had said all morning.

“The other houses around here,” Dad replied. “The empty ones, anyway. We also need to see who our neighbors are, figure out if they’re friendly or not.”