Owen howled and clutched at his junk, gun forgotten in his agony. Ali skipped aside and shoved the prick with all her might while he was still doubled over. Balance gone, Owen stumbled into the waiting clutches of his infected girlfriend.

Rachel fell upon him with malevolent glee. The infected woman had a good grip on her prey, fingers gouging into his flesh as she tore at the side of Owen’s neck with her teeth. Owen’s gun slid behind Rachel, out of Ali’s reach. The man screamed, and Andy ran toward the couple, caught in their morbid embrace.

The still sobbing boy started yelling something, but Ali didn’t stop to listen. Hel no. She made straight for the stairs. Her shoulder throbbed and her bruised leg dragged behind her in her haste.

Shards of wood hit her bare feet and the noise of Andy’s gun firing echoed through the concrete room, bouncing off the wall at top volume. The sound made her ears sing.

No stopping. Again and again, he fired wildly.

Owen screamed.

The top of the stairs was so close, if she could only reach the door. There were no footsteps behind her, only Rachel’s snarls and Owen’s wailing.

Andy didn’t follow her.

Ali hauled herself up onto the small landing, threw herself through the door and slammed it shut. There was no lock, and the heavy christening font would need two good arms to shift it. She had to keep going.

Down the red carpet and through the shadowy church. She bumped off the ends of pews like a pinball. Her choppy breathing and the muffled yel s from below were the only noise.

The side door was unlocked and she threw herself through it, emerging out into the open air.

Thank f**k.

Her body ached but she couldn’t stop yet. Ali hustled her ass into the pick-up, the key stil helpfully sitting in the ignition. It wasn’t like people stole cars anymore. She pushed in the clutch and shoved the gear stick into neutral, turned the key. Every movement was awkward and slow with her one good hand all over the place. The engine didn’t care, it roared to life.

Lift-off.

Ali threw it into reverse and the pick-up truck shot backward like a rocket, taking out a panel of the wire fencing. A bullet cracked the front windscreen and her foot slipped.

The engine stal ed.

Andy started walking toward her, tear tracks lining his face.

She swore, threw it into first and turned the key, wincing at the stabbing pain and keeping her head down, lest Andy’s aim improved.

The truck took flight again and she was off. Bullets slammed into the side door as she careened past the little prick, almost clipping him along with another section of fencing. Her foot nearly slipped again when she jumped the curb but no, no way.

Ali roared down the quiet street.

Things were happening in her rearview mirror. People wandered out onto the footpaths, weapons in hand, alerted by the shooting.

Final y.

Andy took off at a run, disappearing into the darkness behind her. She wasn’t alone. The little prick was not going to get to kill her.

Not today. A noise came from low in her throat, relief and anxiety and fear.

“Fuck, f**k, f**k.” Ali eased up on the pedal, turned the corner one-handed in a great arc of a circle and headed back toward Main Street.

The group on the corner had grown. There was help. The pick-up slowed to a crawl, seemingly of its own volition. Strength seemed to be seeping straight out of her as the adrenalin eased.

It was Santa who threw the truck door open, surprise and concern dragging at his face. His mouth hung open. “Ali? What the …”

“Finn’s shot. Back at the apartment.”

“What?” His bushy brows met. “Who?”

“Owen,” she said. The big man scrunched his face up at her and she lost it, yel ing at him. “Owen shot him and took me to the church.

He and Andy have got Rachel there, she’s infected. Do something for once, would you?”

“I’ll check on Finn.” Erin said from behind him and took off at a run.

“Good.” Ali rubbed gingerly at her shoulder, tried to catch her breath. “That’s good.”

Santa gave her a dubious sidelong glance and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt, pushed the button. “Tom, anything happening at the front gate?”

“Nuh —” was all the man got out before the sound of more shots came from exactly that direction.

One. Two. Three shots. Then an almighty tempest of gunfire. Andy had lost it, too.

“Give me a gun.” She crawled out of the pick-up and shoved her good hand at Santa.

“You’re hurt. Stay out of the way.”

At the sound of shots, the people he had been standing with had started back down Main Street, running toward the gate. Santa followed at his heftier pace.

Ali followed the path Erin had taken and hobbled toward home, her arm nursed against her chest. Finn was propped against their downstairs front door, a gun in each hand. His skin was pasty and covered in streaks of blood.

Erin slipped out of the doorway beside him and sprinted toward the front gate.

Ali burst into violent tears, startling herself. They ran down her face unchecked while she crossed the distance between them. “You’re alive.”

“Course I’m alive. He only got me in the shoulder.” Finn gave her a lingering kiss, eyes squeezed tight. When they opened, he had his game face on. “Where’s Owen?”

“Dead, I think. And Andy’s at the front gate.”

“That’s where Dan headed to get help looking for you. What’s wrong with your arm?”