Pepe grabbed her and shoved her toward a pair of paint-soaked plates hung on wires. Skye set her jaw, leaped at them and tore them down, bearing both to the ground so Pepe could run past her and get clear.

Dying are either a burden or an ally to the living. One of Church’s many combat sayings. If a soldier was injured during a really intense firefight, then helping him would draw resources from the battle. A medic and stretcher bearers. Two to three soldiers. If the team was badly outnumbered and the injured person could somehow fight, then Church said they were obliged by honor to do so. The concept was horrific and made Dahlia sick to her stomach, but she knew that Church was right. Anyone bitten would become a zombie, sooner or later. There was no cure and no hope, so what was actually the most humane choice? To endanger others or save them?

She recited another of the sayings in her head as she moved deeper into the circle. The war is the war.

Awful, but true. And this was war.

Two branches suddenly broke free of their tethers and slashed at her, but Dahlia stepped into them, bashing one down with her left forearm so that the paint spattered the ground; and catching the other with her right hand and shoving it backward. She twisted it and broke the branch. Broke its neck. It sagged down and she moved. She had paint droplets on her, but not an impact splash. Not a bite.

“On your six,” yelled Church, and Dahlia whirled to see three Pack members in white boiler suits come rushing out of the woods. This was new. They reached for her with hands that dripped with fresh paint. The attackers looked weird, too big, and she realized that they were wearing padding under their clothes.

Dahlia darted to the right so that she was on the outside of the line rather than letting them all come at her like a wave. She slap-parried a reaching arm and then stepped in and shoved the outside attacker with all of her considerable weight. Although she wasn’t as heavy as she used to be, Dahlia carried a lot of mass, and beneath the fat there were newly trained and very tough muscles. The outside “zombie” crashed into the others and they all went down. As they fell she spotted a wrapped bundle on the ground. Not the prize, but a tool. She dove for it, rolled with a measure of grace, ignored the thump of her shoulder on the ground, and came up with the prize, whipping off the rags as she did so. Inside there was a plastic water pistol but it was nearly empty. How many squirts? Two? Three?