Page 3 of Ghosts of the Dead

I round another corner and skid to a halt when I hear the unmistakable chorus of groans punctuated by the wet sound of bones dragging and feet scraping against pavement.

Shit. I’ve traded one problem for another.

A cluster of rotters stumbles out from behind a wrecked bus, their broken bodies jerking at the sound of my boots. One’s missing an arm, with ragged flesh hanging from the socket. Another’s jaw dangles sideways, held together by strips of gray skin. They’re slow, but their milky eyes burn with that endless, insatiable hunger.

Panic spikes through me like ice water in my veins. The tightness I’ve been fighting claws up my throat, making each breath shallower than the last. My airway clamps down. Panic rises, sharp and suffocating, until each breath is a fight I’m losing. My chances against bullets are better than facing rotters in the cramped streets of the city. I need to get somewhere safe. Now.

I spin around and bolt in the opposite direction, the wrecked pavement blurring beneath my feet. My sense of direction vanishes, replaced by pure survival instinct, and I no longer have any idea where I am. I round the next corner at full speed and slam hard into something solid. A wall. No, not a wall. It’s warmer than that, and breathing. Walls don’t breathe.

The impact knocks the air from my lungs and I stagger back, dizzy and gasping for air. Strong hands catch me before I can fall.

“Hey, easy,” a low voice says. It’s unfamiliar and rough. The hands help balance me before pulling me against a broad chest.

Still fighting for breath, I look up into eyes so dark they’re like staring into twin abysses. He’s impossibly calm for someone surrounded by death and danger. His presenceis simultaneously alarming and oddly reassuring. “You’re either my guardian angel or the grim reaper. Which is it today?” I manage to joke, despite the vise tightening around my chest and the shuffling of hungry undead not far behind.

A smirk twitches at one corner of his mouth. “Haven’t decided yet.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the growing chorus of moans cuts off any clever comeback I might have wasted precious seconds forming.

The man’s grip slides from my arm down to my hand. His fingers wrap around mine and he tugs. “Guess I’ll have to let you know later. We gotta go now.”

We run together, dodging rotters that reach out with gray, decaying fingers when we pass. One catches the hem of my shirt, but I tear free with a sharp jerk. We push through an open doorway, slam through a half-broken door, and take the stairs two at a time. The building groans in protest around us. Dust rains from the ceiling with every impact of our boots.

We hit the roof right as the first rotters stumble up the stairwell below. The mystery man slams the metal door shut behind us, and the boom of dead bodies piling against it reverberates through the air. My chest heaves. I lean against the door, struggling to pull in enough oxygen. The sunlight is harsh up here, but it does nothing to warm the cold fear sinking into my spine.

“Seems like I keep finding myself at dead ends,” I say between ragged breaths, attempting to mask my growing desperation. It comes out as a pant, thin and ragged as a dying animal.

The man turns to look at me, and he nearly shadows the sun. He’s taller than I realized, muscular, and has black hair that’s as dark as his eyes. “Dead ends or just detours?”

I shoot him a look that’s equal parts gratitude and frustration. I’m too exhausted for cryptic exchanges. “Look, ifyou know something about my sister, now’s a good time to stop talking in circles.”

His eyebrows draw together and humor vanishes from his face, replaced by genuine confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Right. So he knows nothing. Of course not. That would be too easy.

This is a waste of precious time. I push away from the door, ready to find another route and move on, but my chest seizes again, reminding me my body is still in revolt. My airway constricts, as if invisible hands are tightening around my throat. My vision swims and the edges darken.

No, not now.

I claw for air.

The wheezing startslow and sharp, like a whistle buried somewhere inside my chest. My throat constricts and my ribs feel like a cage shrinking inward, crushing everything vital beneath them.

“No, no, no. Come on.” Panic claws its way up my throat and my vision narrows with darkness creeping in from the edges. The seconds slip away.

I drop to my knees. The irony isn’t lost on me. After everything I’ve survived, all the bullets, rotters, starvation, every horror I’ve fought tooth and nail to overcome, I’m going to suffocate in the middle of nothing, with all the air available. Taken out by the same useless lungs I’ve been dragging around since the dead rose a year ago and the panic attacks began.

“Hey,” the man says when he drops beside me. His voice is sharp now and stripped of all sarcasm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I try to speak, but my voice has abandoned me. Myhands flail uselessly, and my fingers tremble when I attempt to communicate. All I manage to do is slap the air with desperate, humiliating helplessness.

Summer always knew what to do when this happened, but now she’s gone.

The stranger surprises me. Something shifts in his dark eyes with recognition and understanding. “Panic attack?”

I give a barely perceptible nod, and he moves with startling efficiency. The uncertainty vanishes from his face even as my world spirals further into chaos. Everything about him snaps into focus like someone flipped a switch.

The darkness pushing at the edges of my vision creeps closer. I’m blinking against it, chest heaving and ribs seizing, when I hear two words that somehow cut through the storm. “Got you.” He settles beside me and steadies my trembling shoulders with both hands. “You’re okay. You’re not alone. Look at me. You’re safe.”

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