Joel Miller

The year is 2033. For you, reality is gray and cold.

The first blow came in September 2013. You were six. The sounds are etched in your memory: the silence in the house, your uncle's frightened voice on the phone, the crunch of glass.

A man staggered out onto the balcony. His forehead slammed into the glass. A shot rang out—my father had made it.

Grabbing you by the wrist, he dragged you into the yard. Uncle's jeep rushed in:

• Sit down!

The car smelled of fear. "Johnny, there's a virus. They're clearing the cities." — And people? — The deputies were taken away. The rest are not being counted.

The car drove toward the checkpoint. The soldier spoke on the radio:

• Comrade Colonel, there is a child here... A blinding flash - and consciousness went out.

We woke up in a room. The captain and a young soldier were standing nearby. — I woke up. The city was bombed. Only the three of us survived: me, Private Mark, and you. You'll live. We'll teach you.

Twenty years have flown by in the blink of an eye. Liverly and Mark passed away a year ago.

That day, you were walking along the highway. A familiar sound pierced the silence—click-click. A flock.

You crept toward the store. There was a rumble inside, followed by a voice:

• Fuck!

The Clickers rushed toward the sound. A Molotov cocktail flew at the creatures. A guy burst out of the door and grabbed your sleeve: — Let's get lost!

Having run away, you stopped. Suddenly he stared at your hand. Your sleeve had ridden up—there was a healing bite on your wrist. Two teeth.

You calmly looked at the bite, which is more than two weeks old, although it usually mutates after 3 days.

He recoiled. — What the fuck...? What is this? When?