---Em---

     "You feeling better today?" Gail places a hand on my shoulder as we trek through the sewers. I massage my temples. I must've slept, what, three or four hours? Not nearly enough, that's for sure. I shirk away, unable to stomach the pity in her eyes. My weak side's not something I'm comfortable letting her see. But I haven't exactly done a bang-up job of hiding it lately, what with the spasms and all.

     "I'm fine," I mutter, quickening my pace. I fall into step with Mya, who gives me a look. The kind of look that says what the hell are we doing? Had Rainer been alive, he probably would've curb-stomped this Topher guy as a sign of good faith to whatever faction of survivors he belonged to. As in: "Have it in good faith that we'll bust your skulls if you ever show your face around here again."

     Still, the way Topher worded his proposal didn't make it sound like his people meant us any harm. I wonder if I made the right choice. Gail takes my hand. I know what she'd say. I'm in charge now, so any choice I make is the right choice, and if anyone's got a problem with that, they can answer to her.

     "Want to run this by me one more time?" asks the girl whose name I'd forgotten. Turns out her name is Natasha. Wait... or is it Patricia?

     Topher grunts. "What are we, characters in a movie who have to repeat a conversation that occurred off-screen for the benefit of the audience?"

     Natasha, or possibly Patricia, narrows her eyes. "No, I genuinely forgot the plan."

     "Just follow our lead, sweety," says Tristan, chewing a stick of peppermint gum. If there's one good thing that came out of the zombie apocalypse, it's all the free gum. Gail makes a point of trying out a new flavour everyday; today, her kisses taste like spicy cinnamon.

     Trevor and Florence—from Squads C and D respectively—flank the newcomer on either side. Probably under orders to dispatch him, should that prove necessary. Necessary, in this case, meaning as soon as the mission's complete.

     We reach a dead end. An iron hatch, rusted and covered in sewer slime, protrudes from the wall. "This is our stop," Topher announces, rapping his knuckles against the hatch.

     Tristan snorts. "You're telling me your people have been hiding out down here all this time, and somehow we've never noticed?"

     "Don't be ridiculous," says Topher. "Why would I give away the location of our base? This just happens to be the spot we designated for making the trade."

     "And your boss," says Gail, stepping in front of me. "She'll really just let us have this draugr brain-scrambler? Sounds too good to be true."

     "You sure took your sweet time voicing that concern," Topher points out. "We're already here."

     "Maybe I'm having second thoughts."

     "Maybe you should keep your second thoughts to yourself."

     "Maybe I don't like you."

     "Maybe the feeling's mutual." Topher glances at me. "So? What'll it be?"

     I hesitate. "You're certain all she wants is to speak with me?"

     "Affirmative," Topher says, chewing on a stick of citrus twist. "Just wants to pick your brain a little, that's all. Better her than a horde of zombies, no?"

     I don't pretend to understand any of this. This Topher guy shows up in the middle of the night, claiming to know me. Then he tells us his people have developed a brain-scrambling device that disrupts a draugr's psychic transmissions. Ergo, no more hive-mind. And they're willing to give it to us, in exchange for my having a little chat with their boss-lady. Apparently, she's a former acquaintance of mine. From before the outbreak, most likely.

     One look at Gail tells me all I need to know. We can't go on, not like this. If there's even the smallest chance we can gain the upper hand in this miserable battle, we've got to take it. I'll do whatever it takes to increase her chances of survival, even if that means decreasing my own.

     "I'll go alone." I accepted the escort only to appease the council. Squad A's supposed to be the best of the best, and now I'm its leader. Losing two leaders in a row wouldn't reflect well, I wager.

     "No can do," says Florence from Squad D. Council dog, more like. She makes a big show out of drawing her revolver. Trevor does likewise.

     "Gail." I look her in the eyes. "You stay here."

     "Excuse me?"

     "This might be dangerous."

     She crosses her arms. "Your point being?"

     "Your point being irrelevant," says Topher, stepping between us. "The boss would like to speak with her as well."

     What?

     "That wasn't part of the deal," I say. Mya goes for her brass knuckles, ready to back me up if things go south. Trevor and Florence cock the hammers on their revolvers. Only the barrels are aimed at me. Tristan just chuckles and crosses his arms.

     Gail draws her machete. "What the hell do y'all think you're doin'?"

     "We're under strict orders," says Tristan, hiding behind Trevor and Florence like the coward he is. "Get that brain-scrambler by any means necessary. So we can't have you getting cold feet. If it's Gail they want, then that's exactly what they're going to get."

     Great. I don't mind if they gun me down, but the thought that they might put a bullet through Gail's head if we back out of the deal makes my insides rot. I glance at Topher. I'm not sure why, but I trust him more than I do Tristan. Which isn't saying much, but it'll have to do.

     "All right." I nod at Gail. "You can come."

     Topher smirks. "Mya as well."

     "You can't just keep changing the—"

     "It's fine," says Mya, holding up a hand to cut me off.

     "Wonderful," says Topher. He slides open a steel panel embedded in the hatch to reveal a keypad. After he punches in a pass code, the hatch swings open. "Après vous."

     "I don't speak heathen," says Gail, shoving past him. Mya and I follow her into the gaping mouth of blackness that lies through the hatch. Topher ducks through the hatch after us. And then it slams shut, sealing our exit.

     "What's—"

     Whatever Gail was about to say is drowned out by gunfire, coming from the other side of the hatch. Four shots. No screams. A quick, tidy execution.

     The lights flicker on. Mya pounds on the hatch, but it won't open. I'm choking on my heartbeat until I see Gail, composed as usual. She sheathes her machete—smart move. Best not provoke them to any further violence. I've always admired her ability to think rationally at times when most people would panic. Her confidence calms my nerves.

     I take a deep breath and size up our surroundings. The walls are rusted and splintered. The ceiling looks ready to cave in at any moment. The room's much wider than I would've thought from the other side. Three rounded metal platforms lay before us.

     Realizing that the hatch won't give, Mya spins around and prepares to lunge at Topher. I grab her arm and shake my head. This isn't the time to retaliate. We don't know where they've got people hiding out, ready to put us down like they did Tristan and the others.

     "I apologize for the deception," says Topher, folding his hands behind his back. "Rest assured I had no part in any of this. I'm just following orders. And if you know what's best for you, you'll follow mine. Step onto the platforms."

     "Do as he says," I mutter. Gail nods and steps onto the platform on the left. Mya gives me a look but boards the platform on the right just the same. Sighing, I walk onto the middle platform.

     As soon as we're all aboard, the platforms begin to rise through hatches that open up in the ceiling. Stepping off the platform onto a dusty wooden floor, I find myself alone in a room the size of a squash court, with a single door facing me. But my loneliness doesn't last for long; a platform descends from the ceiling, lowering a zombie into the room. No, not just a zombie, I realize. A draugr.

     Before the platform has even settled into place, the draugr flashes across the room and reappears behind me. I only notice thanks to its hot breath brushing against the back of my neck. I dive forward, avoiding the clawed fist that would've punctured my chest.

     I dodge a second strike, but a third clips my arm, clawing off a decent-sized chunk of flesh. When I go to clutch my wound, the draugr lands a spin-kick and shatters my kneecap. This time I know better than to react; instead, I swerve to the left to avoid the next punch and slam my fist into the draugr's rotted jaw.

     The bone cracks and splinters. The draugr's jaw falls open, and its yellowed teeth and mushy tongue spill onto the floor. But the undead don't feel pain. I've barely executed my attack before the draugr retaliates.

     The draugr's elbow connects with my left temple, knocking me to the ground. If it weren't for my pre-emptive strike, it probably could've put enough force behind the blow to fracture my skull. I get away with a slight concussion.

     But the blow to my brain alters my perceptions, slows the flow of time. I'm hit with a wave of clarity. Something tugs at my insides, like a magnet. It's foreign and familiar at the same time. Something inside the draugr resonates with me.

     I don't bother to avoid the next attack; the draugr crushes my throat. But I give as good as I get. My fist punches through the soggy flesh. My grip tightens around something at the draugr's core. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that isn't even physical. I feel it start to come loose.

     I rip.

     The draugr explodes into a cloud of dust, its link to this plain of existence having been obliterated. I choke, struggling to suck in air through my collapsed windpipe. I crumple onto the ground. And then the door opens.

     As I blink in and out of consciousness, my existence sputtering out, I see a pair of hazel eyes staring back at me. Auburn curls. Slight dimples. The scent of peppermint fills my nostrils. My throat relaxes, and I suck in a huge mouthful of air. I cough and spit as my vitality—and along with it, intense agony—comes rushing back to me. But the fact that I'm still alive isn't even the biggest shocker. I stare at the girl, who smiles as she runs her fingers through my hair. A name crawls its way up my throat and spills over my lips.

     Olivia.

Author's Note:

Olivia? What's she doing here? All right, I've got a would-you-rather for you this time: zombie apocalypse or glowdark apocalypse?

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