Plague

killed it, too. Hunter had seen him once, his tail flicking, his whiskered jaw juddering, quivering with anticipation as Old Lion watched a stray dog.
    Old Lion had exploded out of cover and crossed one hundred feet in about one second. Like a bullet out of a gun. His big paws had caught the dog before the dog could even flinch. Long, curved claws, fur, blood, a desperate whine from the dog and then, almost leisurely, taking his time, Old Lion had delivered the killing bite to the back of the dog’s neck.
    Old Lion was already a hunter back when Hunter was just a regular kid sitting in class, raising his hand to answer questions and reading and understanding and being smart.
    Old Lion knew all about hunting. But he didn’t know that Hunter was coming after him.
    Hunter smelled the cat. He was close. He smelled of dead meat. Dried blood.
    Hunter was below a tall boulder. He froze, realizing suddenly that Old Lion was right above him. He wanted to run, but he knew that if he backed up, the cat would drop on him. He was safer closer to the rock. Old Lion couldn’t drop straight down.
    Hunter pressed his back against the rock. He stilled his own breathing and heard the big cat’s instead. But Old Lion wasn’t fooled. Old Lion could probably hear the heart pounding in Hunter’s chest.
    The thing on Hunter’s shoulder squirmed. It was growing. Moving. Hunter glanced and could see it move beneath the fabric of his shirt. It seemed almost to be trying to chew a hole through Hunter’s shirt.
    Hunter had no word for the thing. It had grown over the last day. It had started out as a bump, a swelling. But then the skin had split apart and gnashing insect mouthparts had been revealed. Like a spider. Or a bug. Like the bugs that crawled on Hunter as he slept.
    But this thing on his shoulder wasn’t a regular bug. It was too big for that. And it had grown right where the flying snake, the greenie, had dropped its goo on him.
    Hunter strained to think of the word for the thing. It was a word he used to know. Like worms on a dead animal. What was the word? He leaned forward, hands to his head, so mad at himself for not being able to find the word.
    He had lost focus for just a few seconds but it was enough for Old Lion.
    The cat dropped like mercury, liquid.
    Hunter was knocked to the ground. His head banged against the rock. Old Lion had missed his grip, though, and he had to scramble in the narrow space. The cat spun, bared his yellow teeth and leaped, claws outstretched.
    Hunter dodged, but not fast enough. One big paw hit him in the chest and knocked him back against the rock, knocked the wind from him.
    Old Lion was on him, claws on his shoulders, snarling face just inches from Hunter’s vulnerable neck.
    Then, suddenly, the mountain lion hissed and leaped back, like it had landed on a hot stove.
    The lion shook its paw and flung droplets of blood. One claw toe had been badly bitten. It hung by a thread.
    The thing on Hunter’s shoulder had bitten Old Lion.
    Hunter didn’t hesitate. He raised his hands and aimed.
    There was no light. The heat that came from Hunter’s hands was invisible. But instantly the temperature in Old Lion’s head doubled, tripled, and Old Lion, his brain cooked in his skull, fell dead.
    Hunter pulled his shirt back from the shoulder. The insect mouthparts gnashed, chewing on a bloody chunk of the lion.

Chapter Three
72 HOURS, 3 MINUTES

    ASTRID HAD FED Little Pete.
    She read a little, perched beside the window, book held at an uncomfortable angle to try and take advantage of the faint moonlight.
    It was slow going.
    It wasn’t a book she’d ever have read back in the old days. She wouldn’t have been caught dead reading some silly teen romance. Back then she’d have read a classic, or some work of great literary merit. Or history.
    Now she needed escape. Now she needed not to be in this world, this terrible world of the FAYZ. Books were the only way out.
    After just a few minutes Astrid set the book aside. Her hands were trembling. Attempt to escape into the book: failed. Attempt to forget her fear: failed. It was all right there, still, right there in front of every other thought.
    Outside, a breeze caused tree branches to scrape the side of the house. A corner of Astrid’s mind noticed, and wondered, but set it aside for more pressing concerns.
    She wondered where Sam was. What he was doing. Whether he was longing for her as she longed for him.
    Yes, yes, she wanted him. She wanted