Francine Westerman adjusted her mask and squinted at the overgrown street ahead, her lone brown eye scanning for movement. The silence was the kind she hated—thick, unnatural, and alive with the potential for ambush. Cracked asphalt and rusting cars jutted out of the wild grass that now owned the city’s outskirts. A bloomer’s body lay crumpled against a lamppost, daisies growing out of its mouth and eye sockets like grotesque decorations. She averted her gaze, pulling her jacket tighter. She knew better than to linger on the sight. In this world, death wasn’t the end—it was the beginning of something worse.

She heard a noise behind her—barely a scrape—and spun, knife already in hand. A girl about her age stood frozen, her hands raised cautiously. She was wrapped in layers, her face hidden behind a dirt-streaked scarf and goggles, but her body language screamed unease.

“Don’t come any closer,” Francine snapped, her voice muffled by the mask but still sharp as steel. “Are you bitten?”

The girl hesitated before shaking her head. “No. I’m clean.” Her voice was low but steady, even as her gloved hands trembled. “I just... I thought you might need help. Saw you from the old pharmacy a few blocks back.”

Francine snorted, lowering the blade but not relaxing. “Help? That’s a good way to get killed.” She turned back toward the road without another word, expecting the stranger to leave like everyone else did. But the sound of hesitant footsteps following her made her stop in her tracks.

“Are you deaf, or just stupid?” Francine asked, her annoyance flaring.