A Game of Firsts (The Forest of Hands and Teeth) by Carrie Ryan Page B

completely incapable of using the word sex in my brother’s presence— “was at the lake.”
    “Oh, God, ew. I don’t want to hear this,” Danny protests, but I fling my elbow in the general direction of his shoulder and he shuts up.
    We’ve been playing this game of firsts for too long to give up now. Already it’s begun to carry an air of significance, as if we both know one of us might not make it out of here and the other will have to bear the burden of memory.
    “It was Micah,” I say, my mouth starting to twist into a grin because I know what his response will be.
    As if I’d choreographed it myself, Danny begins making choking sounds. “Ewwww! Why?”
    He can’t see my expression, the smoke from the burning city blocks out the moon and makes the air acrid and dry. “He was nice,” is all I manage to say.
    A T FIRST IT FELT like maybe we’d be okay. We lived in a gated community, and I guessed that maybe someone had barricaded the entrance at some point because during those first three days, we didn’t see any of the zombies.
    The neighborhood took on this sort of hesitant feel to it, almost as if we were all holding our breaths as one, waiting. The newsman flashed pictures of military bases, their razor wire fences clogged with writhing bodies. I tried to look beyond, wanting to see soldiers amassing rescue efforts, but it was impossible to see past the zombie hordes.
    “Maybe we’ll be okay,” Danny whispered that second night. We’d both been pretending to sleep for hours, but in reality neither one of us had slept since that first morning.
    I slid my hand over the blanket I’d spread across the plywood floor, finding wood to rap my knuckles against. “Maybe,” I whispered back, but I had this bizarre impulse to cross my fingers like we did when we were kids so our parents couldn’t catch us in a lie.
    “ T HE FIRST TIME I saw a naked woman it was Mackenzie from next door.” Danny’s grin is sly and obviously proud.
    “You peeping tom!” I chide, slapping at his shoulder, but not hard enough to matter.
    “What? She was home from college and you could tell she wanted people to see,” he explains. “She never closed her blinds—not once the entire summer. It got to be so regular, I’d sell tickets.”
    I choke on a swallow of water. “Oh my God, that’s how you could afford those new speakers? I always wondered.” His eyes twinkle with mischief as he grins and nods his head.
    I GUESS WE STARTED to take for granted the idea that we might be safe because we got used to sneaking back into the house for various things, like the toilet, or grabbing another pillow, or finding a marker to write “Alive Inside” on a sheet we draped over the garage roof.
    It was stupid to become so lackadaisical, but we were tired and headachy and bored. On the news they started sounding hopeful, and perhaps we let that hope sink in, filling us in a way food and wine hadn’t.
    When I slipped into the house on that fourth morning, I saw the glass scattered on the floor and my first thought was looters, not zombies. It wasn’t until the woman came shuddering into the kitchen that I fully understood.
    What she’d been doing in our house I have no idea—there was no one living there anymore, no scent of uninfected people to draw her in. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that my mind went blank. My hand clutching a long, heavy flashlight went limp, letting my only weapon crash to the ground.
    She lunged at me, her movements like someone trapped underwater, slow and sluggish. Her mouth twisted open, dried lips cracking and splitting almost down to her chin. Her shirt was ripped half from her body, a black lace bra showing through the tears, and I remember thinking, “I tried that on at Victoria’s Secret last week,” and for some reason that’s the thought that hit me hardest.
    Only a week ago life had been so normal. I’d stood in the dressing room staring at my body, worried about whether