Ember plunged into the darkness. Instead of hitting the ground, her flailing hand slammed against a cold surface and grabbed something sharp. It was a sticking piece of bar, rusted and thin. She hung there, suspended in the air, her knuckles scraped raw against the metal.

  A large, heavy chunk of concrete dislodged from the bridge edge above her and crashed into the dry riverbed below.

  Silence, then voices.

  “Did you hit her?” came Ratty’s voice, sounding slightly breathless and nervous.

  “Hit her. Heard the fall. And the concrete,” Carlos replied, his voice calm and professional. “Listen. Can you hear the dead ones moving?”

  Ember carefully lowered her eyes. The bottom of the ravine was already deep in shadow. She saw moving shapes down there, a lot of them, drawn by the sound of the gunshot and the falling debris. The walkers. They heard the noise.

  “She was alive, she’d be screaming now,” Ratty insisted, sounding relieved. “She’s dead weight now.” The two voices faded slightly as they started walking away from the edge of the bridge. They were laughing.

  Ember listened, the cold rage replacing the fear.

  They mocked her desperate plea and laughed about the tin box. The voices died away. The only sound left was the dry shifting of the walkers in the dark ravine below, patiently waiting for anything to fall.

  Ember hung there for another minute, letting her anger cool into a hard, solid block inside her chest. The metal was cutting into her skin, and her muscles were screaming from the strain.

  She had to move. The sun was setting, and she was hanging above a pit of the dead.

  With a great, shuddering effort, she began to pull herself up. The movement was agonizing, made worse by the slippery sweat and dirt on her bare skin.

  She hooked one boot onto the protruding bar, testing the rusted metal. It groaned under her weight but held. She pulled her torso up, reaching for the next handhold—a shallow crack in the bridge support. Her fingers scrabbled but found purchase.

  She stretched her leg, searching blindly for a stable foothold.

  Her foot slipped on a slick patch of algae and dust. Her body swung out into the open air above the ravine. Panic flared again, primal and sharp.

  She gritted her teeth, using sheer upper-body strength to haul herself back in towards the concrete. Her scraped back rasped painfully against the rough support beam.

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  One more push.

  She focused only on the next inch. She found a jagged edge and pushed up, climbing onto the cracked decking of the bridge. She collapsed onto the concrete, shaking violently. She was naked, bruised, and trembling, but alive.

  She looked around. The only things left were the dirty shoe-box sized dent where the backpack landed and her heavy combat boots she still wore.

  Ember spotted a large, jagged piece of concrete that had broken loose during the gunfight. It was the only available weapon. She crawled to it and picked it up.

  Its rough, unfamiliar weight settled in her hand. It offered no comfort in its familiarity, but it was solid, and it was something.

  Without a weapon in the wasteland, you don't survive, she thought, testing the balance. It will have to do.

  She stood for a moment, completely exposed, framed by the setting sun. The feeling of utter abandonment was complete.

  Survival now.

  Ember walked through the dark, her bare skin cold under the night wind. Her body felt weak, empty, and bruised. Her hands were shaking from exhaustion, but she still held the heavy piece of concrete. It was the only weapon she had left.

  She tried not to think, but the thoughts forced their way in.

  What do I tell Zed? How do I face him?

  She owed him everything he gave her that morning: the knife, the backpack, the jumpsuit, the food, the water, the map, the firestarter. All gone. Stolen.

  And if she said she was robbed? Who would believe her?

  Carlos was a respected guard. Ratty was loud, popular, always surrounded by people. Ember was… a dancer. A girl people looked at but never listened to.

  She felt a wave of desperation rise in her chest.

  Where will I sleep tomorrow? How will I work? How will I even walk into the settlement like this?

  Her breathing grew fast and uneven. Then she heard it—a weak groan.

  A lone walker stepped out from behind a broken car. Its legs dragged. Its face hung low, jaws clicking softly.

  Ember didn’t run. She didn’t even step back. She was too tired to feel fear. She lifted the concrete shard with both hands.

  “Come,” she whispered.

  The walker reached for her shoulder.

  She stepped in and swung the concrete with all the strength she had left.

  The blow crushed the side of its head. The body fell at her feet, kicking once before going still.

  Ember stood over it, breathing hard, her arms trembling.

  “I’m still here,” she said through her teeth. She didn’t touch the walker, didn’t wipe the shard. She simply turned and kept moving.

  The darkness grew thicker. The moon was hidden behind clouds. Her bare skin felt colder with every minute.

  She reached the small house much later, long after the sun had vanished. Ember crouched low, remembering the day’s lessons. Never walk in blind. Never again. She listened.

  At first, nothing but the wind. Then—voices. Two people. Close. Inside the house. One voice low. Another higher, nervous.

  She froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Someone had taken the place she wanted to sleep in. She tightened her grip on the concrete shard.

  Her shelter was no longer safe.