How many of them were there? At least two but the smoke could have hid multitudes. The fear forced him to breathe deep, to fill his lungs before he fought or fled. That was a bad mistake. The smoke surged into his body and it cringed at the poisonous stink of it, the stale, asphyxiating death smell of it. He doubled up heaving, coughing and puking at once, his eyes streaming, snot falling out of his nose.

Behind him the can crumpled again. It must have gotten stuck on the drooler’s shoe. He heard it again, a little closer.

Were they even aware of him? He couldn’t smell their yeasty breath, so how could they smell him? He couldn’t see them—how could they find him in the dark?

He heard the corduroy shuffle closer. If nothing else they were coming toward each other, maybe just to pass in the smoke, maybe to inspect one another for the proper viral credentials. Either way they would pass right by him, close enough for one or the other to notice him standing there leaning over from the waist.

He had to run. He straightened himself up, forced himself to take slow, shallow breaths through the damp fabric of his shirt. He waited a second longer—and then he started sprinting forward, baseball bat clutched tight in his hands.

Behind him the tin can scratched on the pavement. The drooler back there had heard him, he knew it. It was coming for him. He dashed forward, desperately afraid of finding the other one waiting with open arms. He turned to the side, ran perpendicular to where he thought the drooler waited.

A third one came out of the smoke then, a shadow as big as a man, barely shuffling forward.

Tim hadn’t hit a human being since a few fistfights in primary school. He’d shot some droolers, sure, and he’d thrown a baseball at one. This was different. The bat became an extension of his arms and it swung forward through the darkness with pure lethal intent. It connected with flesh and bone with a jolt that made the bones in his forearms vibrate. His momentum carried him forward another half step and he saw what he’d done. The drooler had been a woman, once, just about Karen’s age. She wore a print dress and a necklace of turquoise and silver. Her skull, just above the line of her eyes, was caved in, a nasty dent in her forehead the width of his bat. Her eyes were still blinking and she stood there looking mostly confused. Her chin and lips were dry and clean.

Terror rushed through him as he studied her face. What if she had been a survivor like Sandi Carron? What if, impossible as it seemed, she hadn’t been infected? What if she had heard him coming and thought that finally, after so long, someone was coming to help her?

Then a line of black spit pulsed out of her mouth, flecked with bright bubbles. She had been a drooler after all.

That made it okay that he had just caved in her head. Maybe it didn’t feel okay. That didn’t matter. Feelings were for later, for when he wasn’t fighting for his life. He watched her fall down and didn’t try to catch her.

Behind him in the smoke he heard the swishing sound of corduroy pants again. It was very close, though he still couldn’t see the drooler making that noise.

So he ran. He couldn’t see any street signs, didn’t know what direction he was facing. He just ran and hoped for the best.

His feet took over and pushed him through the smoke. He was gasping for breath, bright spots bursting and exploding in front of his eyes. His muscles felt loose and weak as if he would collapse at any second. He could see nothing through the tears, couldn’t read street signs, couldn’t find his way even if he’d known where he was going.

He ran right into the drooler in the corduroy pants.

Before the Flu came along, the drooler had been a big man. Tim could see it in the thing’s jowelly face, in the way its skin hung from its arms and belly like a poncho. It was naked from the waist up, and its swishing pants were down around its thighs, held up barely by a leather belt that had worn white where it had once strained around its buckle.

In the days since the infection spread, the drooler had lost a lot of weight. It was almost skinny now. Its multiple chins wagged back and forth as it looked down at Tim where he’d fallen at its feet.

It did not smile or make any sound of excitement as it leaned down to get a bite of him. It didn’t look hungry or disappointed or joyful or afraid or even resigned to its fate. It looked like a man made out of rubber, a clockwork toy designed for one purpose alone.

Tim wondered what his own face showed. His mouth was open wide behind the mask of the shirt around his face. His body was uncoordinated, his limbs tangled in a meaningless heap. Did he look like a puppet with cut strings?

He yelled at his arms to lift the bat, to fight. His arms failed to respond to his pleas. As the drooler’s empty face came closer and closer Tim barely twitched on the ground. He had so little energy left, his body was so abused and wracked by pain and anoxia that he wondered if he would even feel it when the drooler got him.