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Miranda's eyes opened. Hair tickled her face, blinding her. She brushed it aside.
The air was dry and hot. She lay on the stained black road, halfway onto her belly, while the sun beat down upon her back and shoulder, her cheek pressed into the slow-roasting asphalt. The residue of sleep still clouded her mind. Her thoughts, hazy. Nothing made sense. Where was she?
She rolled onto her back, squinting into daylight. Was it well past noon or well before it? Was it even the same day? How long had she been out? What had happened to her? How-?
Everything came rushing back.
Her heart lurched.
She was dead! Miranda was-
She felt her chest. There was crusted blood over everything but no sign of a wound. Her shirt had been reduced to a tatter that clung to her right arm. Only her underwear provided the most minimal decency, and that had gotten stretched and no longer fit right. She still had most of her pants. She sat up in a daze to inspect herself. No sign of any wounds. No-
She was sitting in the middle of the same roadway, in the exact spot she had originally fallen. Bodies lay strewn all around her, the aftermath of her earlier struggle, but the crowd had moved on. There was no sign of the bus, no sign of her comrades. They must have gotten away.
Still, she wasn't alone.
A woman stood a few yards away. She had brown, bushy hair, dark eyes, and a light-blue button-down shirt with shoulder bars and multiple pockets. She was training a gun on Miranda.
Miranda sighed.
“Not again. . .”
Well, she was a zombie now, after all.
The woman lowered her gun a few inches.
“. . . What did you say?” the woman asked.
No, that was stupid, Miranda realized. She couldn't be a zombie: the woman looked completely unappetizing. How could this be? According to what Dr. Barton had said, Miranda should be a goner. Had the doctor's speculation been wrong, or was there something else at play here, something Miranda had forgotten? Maybe she just misunderstood what the zombie experience was like. She did feel very, very hungry.
“Uh, I said, 'Don't shoot,'” Miranda corrected herself.
The woman lowered her gun a bit further.
“Oh. Alright,” she said. Her posture relaxed. “Sorry, you looked like- Well. You feeling okay? You look like you've had quite a time.”
Miranda snorted. She could imagine how she must look. “Quite a time” didn't begin to describe it.
“Hungry,” she said. “I don't feel like eating people though.”
The woman nodded.
“Yeah, you seem sane enough,” she said. “I suppose they got you, huh? Chewed you up and left you here.”
Miranda looked down. She was hesitant to admit they had. This woman still might change her mind and shoot her, and even if she didn't. . .
“I don't know,” she lied, “It's all a bit fuzzy. My friends and I were attacked. Something must've knocked me out.”
The gun lowered the rest of the way, and the woman holstered it at her belt.
“Don't worry about it too much,” the woman said, “You'd be the second I've met now, who got chewed over and came up sane. What happened to your friends?”
The woman approached, offering Miranda her hand. Miranda hesitated to take it. Part of her still feared that madness might be lurking somewhere in the back of her tired mind. Taking this woman's hand could be just short step from biting into it. The idea repulsed her, though: shouldn't that be evidence enough that she was clean?
“I think they got away,” Miranda said, after a long moment. She accepted the hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. The asphalt burned beneath her bare soles, but she bore it. It was only pain. Parts of Miranda still tingled, as she got to her feet, but the feeling was fading.
“Thanks.” The woman seemed nice. She was about Miranda's own age, maybe just a tad younger and shorter.
“Don't mention it,” the woman said. “It's not safe to wander around this place on your own though. Maybe you should come along with me, at least until we find your friends again.”
“That'd be nice,” Miranda said, hiding her terror with a forced smile. She didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all someone nice. The idea of traveling with somebody else right now. . . but at the same time, she was frightened to go through this alone. “I think my friends are long gone by now, but some company would be appreciated.”
The woman returned a smile that was softer and more genuine.
“Great,” she said. “Come on then. We'll get you cleaned up and find you some new clothes, then there's some people I'd like you to meet.”
More people, Miranda thought. More possible victims. She followed the woman anyway, wondering if there was still time to back out of this after she'd gotten a shower. Something on the ground caught her eye. She bent down to pick it up.
Mortimer's handgun. Her fingers closed around the grip, and she lifted it to examine more closely.
“Oh,” the woman said, “Is that yours?”
Miranda shook her head.
“A friend's,” she explained. She looked around. Mortimer's pack was nowhere to be seen, but a few of its contents were nearby, scattered around and broken. She might find some ammunition though, at the very least, maybe even some kind of melee weapon. The woman was watching her.
She still remembered when she'd first met Mortimer. The attack on the street, his timely rescue, his accidental shooting of the girl. They had begun fighting from the first words they ever exchanged. She'd been so mad at him that it had taken them meeting Dr. Barton before they'd even learned one another's-
Miranda's head shot up in realization.
“Oh! Uh,” she stammered awkwardly, “My name's Miranda, by the way.”
“Mary,” the woman replied with a smile, “But you should probably get used to calling me 'Maggs.' Come on, I'll help you get this stuff picked up.”

* * * END BOOK ONE * * *

Description
Miranda's eyes opened. Hair tickled her face, blinding her. She brushed it aside.
The air was dry and hot. She lay on the stained black road, halfway onto her belly, while the sun beat down upon her back and shoulder, her cheek pressed into the slow-roasting asphalt. The residue of sleep still clouded her mind. Her thoughts, hazy. Nothing made sense. Where was she?
She rolled onto her back, squinting into daylight. Was it well past noon or well before it? Was it even the same day? How long had she been out? What had happened to her? How-?
Everything came rushing back.
Her heart lurched.
She was dead! Miranda was-
She felt her chest. There was crusted blood over everything but no sign of a wound. Her shirt had been reduced to a tatter that clung to her right arm. Only her underwear provided the most minimal decency, and that had gotten stretched and no longer fit right. She still had most of her pants. She sat up in a daze to inspect herself. No sign of any wounds. No-
She was sitting in the middle of the same roadway, in the exact spot she had originally fallen. Bodies lay strewn all around her, the aftermath of her earlier struggle, but the crowd had moved on. There was no sign of the bus, no sign of her comrades. They must have gotten away.
Still, she wasn't alone.
A woman stood a few yards away. She had brown, bushy hair, dark eyes, and a light-blue button-down shirt with shoulder bars and multiple pockets. She was training a gun on Miranda.
Miranda sighed.
“Not again. . .”
Well, she was a zombie now, after all.
The woman lowered her gun a few inches.
“. . . What did you say?” the woman asked.
No, that was stupid, Miranda realized. She couldn't be a zombie: the woman looked completely unappetizing. How could this be? According to what Dr. Barton had said, Miranda should be a goner. Had the doctor's speculation been wrong, or was there something else at play here, something Miranda had forgotten? Maybe she just misunderstood what the zombie experience was like. She did feel very, very hungry.
“Uh, I said, 'Don't shoot,'” Miranda corrected herself.
The woman lowered her gun a bit further.
“Oh. Alright,” she said. Her posture relaxed. “Sorry, you looked like- Well. You feeling okay? You look like you've had quite a time.”
Miranda snorted. She could imagine how she must look. “Quite a time” didn't begin to describe it.
“Hungry,” she said. “I don't feel like eating people though.”
The woman nodded.
“Yeah, you seem sane enough,” she said. “I suppose they got you, huh? Chewed you up and left you here.”
Miranda looked down. She was hesitant to admit they had. This woman still might change her mind and shoot her, and even if she didn't. . .
“I don't know,” she lied, “It's all a bit fuzzy. My friends and I were attacked. Something must've knocked me out.”
The gun lowered the rest of the way, and the woman holstered it at her belt.
“Don't worry about it too much,” the woman said, “You'd be the second I've met now, who got chewed over and came up sane. What happened to your friends?”
The woman approached, offering Miranda her hand. Miranda hesitated to take it. Part of her still feared that madness might be lurking somewhere in the back of her tired mind. Taking this woman's hand could be just short step from biting into it. The idea repulsed her, though: shouldn't that be evidence enough that she was clean?
“I think they got away,” Miranda said, after a long moment. She accepted the hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. The asphalt burned beneath her bare soles, but she bore it. It was only pain. Parts of Miranda still tingled, as she got to her feet, but the feeling was fading.
“Thanks.” The woman seemed nice. She was about Miranda's own age, maybe just a tad younger and shorter.
“Don't mention it,” the woman said. “It's not safe to wander around this place on your own though. Maybe you should come along with me, at least until we find your friends again.”
“That'd be nice,” Miranda said, hiding her terror with a forced smile. She didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all someone nice. The idea of traveling with somebody else right now. . . but at the same time, she was frightened to go through this alone. “I think my friends are long gone by now, but some company would be appreciated.”
The woman returned a smile that was softer and more genuine.
“Great,” she said. “Come on then. We'll get you cleaned up and find you some new clothes, then there's some people I'd like you to meet.”
More people, Miranda thought. More possible victims. She followed the woman anyway, wondering if there was still time to back out of this after she'd gotten a shower. Something on the ground caught her eye. She bent down to pick it up.
Mortimer's handgun. Her fingers closed around the grip, and she lifted it to examine more closely.
“Oh,” the woman said, “Is that yours?”
Miranda shook her head.
“A friend's,” she explained. She looked around. Mortimer's pack was nowhere to be seen, but a few of its contents were nearby, scattered around and broken. She might find some ammunition though, at the very least, maybe even some kind of melee weapon. The woman was watching her.
She still remembered when she'd first met Mortimer. The attack on the street, his timely rescue, his accidental shooting of the girl. They had begun fighting from the first words they ever exchanged. She'd been so mad at him that it had taken them meeting Dr. Barton before they'd even learned one another's-
Miranda's head shot up in realization.
“Oh! Uh,” she stammered awkwardly, “My name's Miranda, by the way.”
“Mary,” the woman replied with a smile, “But you should probably get used to calling me 'Maggs.' Come on, I'll help you get this stuff picked up.”

* * * END BOOK ONE * * *