The four of us rushed to the front of the house. Hattie looked through the kitchen window at the driveway only to report that there were at least five between us and the truck. A glance down the short hallway showed us that there was no other way out as the greyskins tore into the living room through the windows. Their moaning and hissing reached my ears and their stench violated my nostrils. Lucas held his gun ready and swung the front door open. He stopped for just a moment to take aim at a greyskin that noticed him and shot it in the head. I shot two down, and Hattie shot the other two as Charles fumbled for his keys and got into the front of the truck. Hattie yelled for Lucas and me to hop into the back as she got into the passenger side. The greyskins from the other side of the house were coming after us, but Charles was already tearing out of the driveway.

Without food, without shelter, and with limited ammunition, we hurried away from another home.

It was afternoon of the next day when we realized that Charles needed more than stitches. He needed a cure for the greyskin virus.

“But I don’t know how it happened,” he said through labored breaths as he sat in the bed of the truck. Sweat poured from his brow and cheeks. His eyes that had been watering were now discharging thick mucous and turning a darker shade. He was turning into one of them.

“Don’t try to talk sweetie,” Hattie said as she squeezed his hand.

“Don’t try to stop me,” he said through clenched teeth.

I looked at Lucas who sat on the edge of the bed, looking down and showing little emotion. He stared with wide eyes and an open mouth as if what he saw before him wasn’t real. I wished that it wasn’t. I wished that all of this was just some horrible nightmare.

“Could the scratches have done it?” Charles asked. He held up his arms and revealed several long, deep cuts running from his elbows to his wrists. “I thought they had to bite you.”

Hattie shook her head as she stroked Charles’ hair.

“You three have to get out of here,” Charles said, dropping his hands. He pushed himself upward so he could sit up straighter. “Somebody give me a gun.”

“What?”

“I’m not about to turn into one of those things, Hattie,” he said. “You’ve seen the news. There’s no cure. If I wait it out I’ll be one of those things by tonight. Give me a gun.”