Chapter 3: Skye

7 years later

Some call them Primitives, people who see them as once being relatives and friends. I call them zombies, because until a cure is developed the only real cure is my blade. They aren't human, they are the walking dead.

I don't know what wakes me up but over the past several years I've learned to trust my instincts. I tense, slowly reaching one hand for my revolver and the other for my long deadly knife. Both items are resting on the seat next to me and easily reachable. I barely breathe, a weapon in each hand, as I listen intently for whatever woke me up.

Along with several members of my team I'm sheltering inside a downed passenger airplane. Two of my men are supposed to be outside the airplane patrolling, watching for Primitives.

As I blink the sleep from my eyes, I realize the airplane is filled with some kind of smoke. It takes me a couple of heart stopping seconds to realize that it's not smoke from a fire but mist. The plane had gone down near the Rio Grande river, around the time of the Great Fall, and it's a particularly humid evening, creating an atmosphere of fog.

I reach an arm out, using the edge of my knife to tap the man sprawled out in the seat across the aisle. He wakes up with a start, his hand immediately going to the holster at his side. Consciousness comes to him quickly, and he looks silently over at me, his brow furrowing. I lift a finger to my lips indicating that he shouldn't speak. My entire team is trained to keep as silent as possible. Primitives are attracted to noise, which means humans have had to become wraiths when working and moving in a world dominated by the diseased.

"We're not alone," I whisper to Deacon, my second-in-command for this mission.

Like me, Deacon slowly reaches for his weapons, hefting them in his hands and squinting through the fog. The gaping hole on the top right side of the airplane allows the outside atmosphere in. The hole is high enough up that it should keep out any lurking Primitives, but that won't stop them from surrounding the airplane or attacking my lookouts.

I don't know how and I don't know why, but I know to the marrow of my bones that they're out there. I always know. Like a sixth sense. I was born with it. It developed over the years, particularly after the death of my husband, Silas. Survival has become my single objective.

Deacon doesn't question me. He's learned that I'm always right when I predict a zombie attack. I point my knife toward the back of the airplane indicating that he should move to the rear, wake up the rest of our team.

To their credit, the team is completely noiseless as each one is woken up from a deep sleep. They've had to learn the hard way, with the loss of several of our team close to the beginning of the mission. Primitive attacks can be sudden, brutal and are often predicated by how much noise we make.

We've been travelling this region for weeks with little to no sleep. It's a barren desert region that shouldn't have been a breeding ground for Primitives. They should be closer to the cities, where they can find food. I don't know why they're all the way out here, but they are.

My core mission is to take a vaccination that was created in the New Tucson Sanctuary and spread it as far and as wide as I can. The mission hasn't been an easy one, given the scarcity of working vehicles and fuel. But so far, over the past eight months of travelling, we've managed to take the vaccination to half a dozen Sanctuaries, hitting all of the major West Coast cities. Now, we're making our way east.

As my team wakes, they move into formation, each member taking their place. I use hand signals to inform them that they'll be leaving the airplane at various exits.

I whisper just loud enough for all of them to hear, "Attack first, kill them all, no mercy, no remorse."

This has become our battle mantra over the long months of travelling. We can't show pity, though the Primitives could easily be our friends or family. We can't hesitate, even if the vaccination has shown some signs of reversing the virus. We have a mission and we can't allow compassion to get in the way.

Each member of my team nods back, their eyes grave. Though they've all been vaccinated, they could still be killed if the Primitives get hold of them. Even if they can no longer turn, they can still die by dismemberment or being eaten alive.

They are loyal to me and every member of my team will follow me into hell. I've built this team, earned their trust and fought by their sides. Each member knows that I would fight to the death for them if necessary.

With the fluidity of a well-oiled machine we split up into teams, hitting each of the exits. Two in the rear, two in the front and two at each of the emergency exits in the middle of the plane. I wrap my hand around the emergency exit pull on the right side of the plane. This is the most dangerous exit. Deacon and I will be alone on this side of the airplane, fighting whatever enemy is outside.

I look back at him, my eyes burning hatred in the darkness. I remind myself that these are the creatures that destroyed almost all of my family and killed my husband. I want them all dead.

Deacon nods, silently telling me that he has my back.

"Attack!" I yell.

All of the exits are opened at once, Deacon and I jump out onto the wing of the airplane. As soon as my feet hit, I begin to slide because the airplane is tilted with the end of the wing resting on the ground. My knees buckle and I lie flat on the wing, allowing gravity to take me down to the ground. The second my feet touch I swing my blade out into the foggy darkness, making contact.