The group was small, the way all groups were now. Small meant quiet. Small meant fast. Besides Elena and Marcus, there was only Anya, a retired nurse with steely gray eyes and a bag of expired antibiotics, and Leo, a sixteen-year-old boy who hadn’t spoken in six months but could pick a lock with a paperclip.
The locomotive whistled—long, low, and defiant—cutting through the drizzle. zombie retreats
“Survivors,” Elena said. “Looking for a retreat.” The group was small, the way all groups were now
“If we don’t cross, we starve. Pick your poison.” The group was small
“Could still be a trap,” Marcus grumbled, but he was already smiling.