Survivor by James Phelan Page A

said as he led the way downstairs. “You know, stories of zombies came from Voodoo. A bunch of stuff happened in Haiti way back in the day—”
    â€œBut these aren’t zombies.”
    â€œZombie-vampire hybrids, whatever. This is some kind of killer virus, though,” he said as we descended the stairs into the bookstore. He scanned around with his beanbag shotgun, listened until he was satisfied the coast was clear. “And they might as well be un-dead. But anyway, there’s even this book written by a Harvard professor—yeah, one of those smug crimson guys—who went to Haiti and studied the toxins they used to transform people—”
    â€œI really don’t want to know,” I said. “Listen, Caleb, that food down there—I’ve got to get it to Rach.”
    â€œIn the park?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWith the thousands of infected hanging around the ponds and whatnot.”
    â€œIt’s where Rachel is.”
    â€œAnd you’ve got to deliver that food.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œCome on, then,” Caleb said, getting his snow gear on. “I’ll walk you to the corner of the park. Don’t want you getting attacked outside my place so I gotta see your sorry ass all frozen there until some rat king carries you off.”

18
    I descended the stone stairs to the zoo, dragging one bag at a time down the slippery surface. Caleb had walked me to the corner of the park as he’d promised and then disappeared. He’d said he’d not been to the zoo since his parents took him when he was a kid. He’d trailed off and looked longingly to the northeast, turned, and walked away.
    Maybe he didn’t want to meet Rachel. That’d have to change fast if I stood any chance of getting the pair of them to try leaving Manhattan with me.
    If he wanted space, I understood that: we all still needed our space, however lonely we’d become. In just two nights I’d grown used to that concept. At home it had always been that way for me; I was an only child who had moved around a bit, changing school a few times, and had always somehow adapted, always found my own center. I learned I could survive anywhere, that I’d be accepted as myself wherever we landed. I saw that possibility in New York, as though we all belonged there, wherever we were from, but didn’t get the time to live it that way.
    Looking up at the Arsenal’s front doors my world changed again: the glass in the doors was broken, there was blood on the doorframes, blood down the handrail.
    At the top of the stairs I shook the doors—they were still locked shut. That was a good sign. The break-in had cracked every pane of the laminated glass and there was a hole big enough to put my head through, dried blood coating the shards and staining the snow at my feet. I knocked hard on the brass frame, waited and listened, knocked again. All was quiet. I looked through the glass, cupping my hands against my face as I had done before. It was dark in there, I could see no movement.
    â€œRachel!” I called, as loudly as I dared.
    My voice echoed inside the building and rattled around. Still no answer. I looked up to street level. Nothing sinister. The tiny thought at the back of my brain crept forward and developed into: maybe I should leave, go back to Caleb, forget about this place? I didn’t want to find Rachel gone or worse . . . I paced the courtyard. The building, the street, the trees around me, everything was bare and barren. I heard the bark or yelp of an animal, a sea lion maybe. I had to see, I had to know.
    I climbed a side fence, repeating my entry of the zoo from the other day. Everything seemed the same, although there had been a fresh coat of snow overnight. I scanned it for footprints. Nothing. That was good. I hoped that was good. The back doors were locked. That was definitely good.
    I looked around the grounds, did a lap around the central pool, then ran