R E B E C C A

I snap out of my reverie when Peregrine runs into mine and Hawk's arms. After giving her a squeeze, I pull away from her and run, without a weapon, to Dylan's aid. I'm almost to him when I see a zombie tear a bite out of his bandage-wrapped shoulder.

He cries out, clutching his shoulder and falling to his knees.

I twist on one foot, using the other to round-kick the attacking zombie into the shipping container, killing it.

The other zombies are slow, drained from their long stay in the shipping container without food. I make quick work of them, slamming them into things and kicking their heads in.

When I'm done, I help Dylan to his feet, looking at all the bites on his arms, plus the large chunk missing from his shoulder, which is bleeding heavily.

"Oh, gosh," I groan. "This is not good."

Dylan slumps downward, almost pulling me to the ground. He's heavier than he looks, and I just killed half a dozen zombies with my bare hands.

"Hawk, help," I call.

I can see him, still hugging Peregrine, who seems to have recovered.
"Hawk, go help Guns, I'm fine," she says, motioning towards me. He reluctantly releases her and loops one of Dylan's arms over his neck, taking some of his weight off of me.

"Peregrine, go find out how he got out of his container. And find Knives. And this guy's companion."

She throws her hands up. "How many things do you expect someone who almost just died to do?" She asks in exasperation.
I give her a pointed look, and she trots off in the direction Dylan came from.

Hawk and I drag Dylan to the MedBay, which is a large white shipping container with a few mattresses/sheet covered pallets, two metal lockers, and a very inexperienced staff, which is us.

"Get him one a bed," Hawk grunts.
We lower the unconscious boy onto a mattress and use a pair of scissors to remove his shirt.
Bloody scratches and zombie bites dot his torso, oozing blood. My main concern is his shoulder, which is still bleeding fairly heavily, and has stained my neck and shirt crimson.

"Get some flour and paprika in that big bite," I say. "And keep pressure on it. He's unconscious; you're not going to hurt more than he already is."

Hawk applies a hefty portion of our homemade blood-clotting mixture and uses a rag to press the wound. "What about the zombie bites? He's gonna turn."

I pause for a second, holding a stitching kit in my hand. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," I reply.

F R E A S H A

I hear the distinct snarl of zombies, and various people screaming.
Then there's a sharp whistle, running footsteps, and another shout.
Something is repeatedly slammed into my shipping container, then I hear a pained cry. More slamming of my wall, and then a muffled voice calls for a hawk.

I step back from the door, confused.

"Hey, what's going on out there?!" I shout. No one replies.

"Hey!! I'm still in here!"
Silence.

"Yep. Yeah, uh huh. Totally. Just ignore the prisoner in the weird shipping container who would really like a drink, by the way!"

Nothing.
I give up, assuming the people have left.

"Does anyone know I'm here, besides that odd child?" I ask the darkness.

"I've been listening to you scream for the past five minutes. How have you not deafened yourself in there?" A familiar voice says.

I walk forward until I touch the door, then bang it a few times with my fist.
"Open this door!" I demand.

A few seconds later, the door swings open, the light momentarily blinding me.

When my eyes adjust, I see the girl who knocked me out standing in front of me, with her hands on her hips.

"Well?" She asks, yellow eyes glaring. "It's open."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.
"How long have I been in there?"

The girl shrugs. "Eh. A few hours."

I cross my arms angrily. "Where's my dog?"

The girl shrugs indifferently. "I dunno. Guns-"

"Let me guess," I growl. "Guns took her?"

The girl smirks. "I see Peregrine did not obey the orders to not talk to you. Typical. So what's your name?"

"Freasha."

"Owl."

"Hm. Peregrine, Owl, Guns... Who else is here, Scary? Bloody?"

Owl rolls her eyes. "Hawk. And Knives."

I scoff. "Is everyone here named something odd?"

The girl grumbles under her breath and magically produces a length of rope.
"C'mon. Hands. We're going to see Guns."

I remain still.

"Hands."

I smirk at her, enjoying making her frustrated.

Instead she sighs.
"Okay, I respect you. You're stubborn. I can always punch you again. That was fun. Up to you."

Reluctantly, I hold my hands out.

She smiles and ties my wrists together securely.

"Let's go. Guns can be as grumpy as me when she wants to."

We walk away from my container, which is a bright, ugly orange.

"Where are we?" I ask.

Owl sighs. "You're in our camp, which is the exact same place you stole food from. Shipping yard on the coast. Guns will give you more details if she wants to."

After about five minutes of walking, we come across the girl, Peregrine, talking with a shirtless boy. He has fairly large muscles, I notice, and longish black hair.
"... Just died, Knives. Show some sympathy, will ya?"

The boy runs a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not trying to insensitive, but Dylan was bit. Multiple times. And Darius is missing. Owl couldn't find him. That's saying something, as you know very well."

Peregrine looks down at her boots and silently pulls up the leggings on her right leg. There's a red, oozing bite below her knee.

"I got bit, too," she whispers. "So it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Owl abandons me and runs to the younger girl.
"Peregrine, when did this happen?" She pants, skidding to stop on her knees in front of her little sister.

Peregrine pulls her legging back down. "An hour ago. The big, red container fell. It was full of zombies. There must have been a dozen, as least.
I was positive I was going to die, but then... That new boy, Dylan, plowed right into them, not even trying to avoid bites. I'm alive because of him. He's in the MedBay, with Guns and Hawk."

I edge away from the trio, moving quietly to the nearest stake of crates.
Since I'm moving backwards, it startles me when I run into a short, scruffy-haired girl with angry brown eyes. Her hands are resting on two pistols, which are strapped to her hips.
"Well, hello, there," she says with a grin. "And who might you be?"