“What about me?” Sophia asked.

“Stay here,” Mike said. “Stay out of sight and keep your rifle handy. If you spot trouble, drive out of here as fast as you can. If possible, pick us up along the way. If not, just run.”

Sophia laughed. “Yeah, sure, that’s what I’ll do. Just leave you here. Great thinking, Dad. Except hell no, that’s not gonna happen.”

He scowled in her direction, then climbed out of the vehicle. I followed him to the back of the Humvee and waited while he opened the hatch. Inside was the majority of the ammo, weapons, and medical supplies we had taken with us upon leaving the convoy. There were also two five-gallon gerry cans of fuel, one of fresh water, and a few days’ worth of food. More if we rationed.

Behind the cases of ammunition and cardboard boxes lay three ghillie suits, neatly rolled and tied, one for me, one for Mike, and one for my father. Blake’s had been in his Jeep.

I had kept my father, as well as Lauren and Blake, out of mind as much as possible over the last few of weeks. But seeing Dad’s old camouflage caused a bolt of grief to lance through me, twisting my stomach and cutting with renewed pain. Mike didn’t notice and reached inside to retrieve the suits, making me grateful for the sullen, ambient grayness of the morning.

“That field over there is tall enough to hide us,” Mike said. “We’ll go straight at it, then turn west and work our way back to the Humvee.”

I cleared my throat. “Works for me.”

“You okay?”

“Not really, but let’s do this anyway.”

Mike studied me a few seconds, then handed me my ghillie suit without a word. We both attached suppressors to our rifles, grabbed a couple of grenades each, and swapped out our red-dot sights for VCOG scopes. Once outfitted, we made our way up the hill in a crouch, going to our bellies near the summit. From there it was a question of moving slowly, not allowing ourselves to rush, and being careful not to disturb the grass around us. A few minutes in, a strong wind picked up from the east allowing us to move more quickly.

Just as the sun cleared the horizon, we stopped behind a thicket of vines covering an old, slowly rotting wooden fence. I made my way to Mike’s position and spoke to him in whispers. “Now what?”

“We move in,” he said. “The sun is at our backs; it’ll make us harder to see. Stay low and follow my lead.”

The two of us crawled to the edge of the field where we came to a dirt-and-rock-strewn clearing patched with clusters of short brown grass. Although it was still early morning, the sun seared down from a cloudless sky, raising sweat on my back and warming my rifle under my hands.

Tin roofs of low buildings shimmered in the near distance, waves of undulating heat rising and dissipating, the pop and creak of expanding metal on plywood audible from where I lay. The two of us peered through our scopes, scanning. Minutes ticked by, but we saw no movement, no indication of occupants.

“I think it’s safe to approach,” Mike said. “But keep your eyes open.”

We stood up and moved swiftly across the clearing, intent on the nearest building. Once there, we put our backs against the bricks and moved to opposite corners. Peeking around, I saw low walls with empty space above them, four-by-four columns supporting a slanted roof, and narrow doors permitting entry into wide, dirt-floored stalls. The entrances were too small for horses. Sheep maybe?

To the north, barbed wire fence surrounded about ten acres of corral. Beyond where I stood were five more mini-barns of identical construction, a shack the size of a small camper, and two open-air sheds with rusted tools dangling from wall hooks. Past these were a few livestock trailers.

Looking more closely, I saw the tires on the trailers were inflated and showed no signs of dry rot. The wire comprising the corral was well tended, and the water trough by the gate was full but not scummy. By all appearances, the ranch had been, until recently, an active operation. Whoever owned this place had not abandoned it very long ago.

Rocks crunched softly under Mike’s boots as he moved closer. “Looks clear on my side.”

“Same here.”

“Let’s split up. I’ll take the buildings this way, you search over there.”

“Got it.”

Mike leap-frogged around me while I swept the stalls closest to us. Finding them empty, I moved on to the next building, wincing at the noise my steps made in the loose, omnipresent gravel. The vegetation immediately around the stables had been worn away by hundreds of trampling hooves, with some of the prints still visible in the hard-packed dirt.

Definitely sheep.

The door to every stall was open. I spotted a line of old, washed out tracks heading westward, indicating whoever owned this place had let the animals go free. I admired his or her decision; if I had been in their place, and all hope was lost, I would have done the same thing. Better to let the critters take their chances in the wild than doom them to starvation or death at the hands of the infected. Maybe years from now people would be hunting wild sheep and raising them for wool. It was an interesting thought.

Just as I turned to walk to the shed at edge of the field, Mike let out a startled curse and I heard the muted crack of his carbine.

Then came the moans.

It started as one, then four or five, and then I lost count as more groaning answered, coming from a stable to my left. A pair of gray hands knocked aside the door of the shed I approached, followed by a gore-streaked old man in ragged clothes. He stumbled into the brightness of early morning, head swinging side to side, ears tilted toward the sky. More infected lurched out after him, also swiveling their heads.

In the space of seconds, where there had been peaceful silence, more than a dozen undead had appeared. In the field ahead of me, I saw more emerge from the tall growth, standing up unsteadily, looking dazed as if they had been sleeping. The sound of Mike’s rifle went from a slow trickle to a frenetic barrage.

“Caleb, fall back!”

I raised my rifle and fired without thinking, dropping the five infected closest to me. There was a grating, shuffling sound behind me, and I turned just in time for a ghoul to seize my arm and lunge at me. I let out a terrified yelp and pulled away, but the creature had a grip like steel. Its teeth snapped shut less than an inch from my bicep. With no time for a plan, I raised the barrel of my rifle and shoved it sideways into the ghoul’s mouth. It bit down on the hardened steel, teeth chipping and cracking from the pressure.

I let go of the gun just in time for the creature to start shaking its head back and forth like a dog and crack me across the temple with the stock. Stars danced in my vision as I dropped to one knee, drew my pistol, and fired a shot upward through its throat. Red and black mist erupted from the back of its head, the painful grip on my arm releasing instantly as the ghoul slumped to the ground.

I stood up and turned a quick circle, gun at the ready, legs rubbery from the blow to my head. Another ghoul had made it within four feet of me, arms outstretched, hissing like a pissed-off cobra. My first shot missed. Cursing, I backed up a few steps, centered my aim, and fired again. This time, it went down.

Boots pounded the dirt behind me, growing closer. I looked over my shoulder to see Mike sprinting toward me, rifle slung across his back, a short, slotted metal fencepost in his hands. At the end of the post was a rough, heavy-looking cylinder of dirt-crusted concrete.

Where the hell did he get that?

As I watched, he angled toward one of the undead closing in on me, raised the improvised weapon, screwed his heels into the ground, and swung it like a baseball bat. The concrete cylinder burst the walker’s skull open like a ripe melon, bone and brain fragments flying in one direction while the corpse fell in another.