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the house, and Remy stiffened. It was followed by a loud crack like a gunshot and then a crash. Remy rushed forward and nearly let the flashlight fall from her teeth. With a solid kick, she knocked the kitchen chair from its improvised barricade. She would be damned if she cowered behind a flimsy door. She was stronger than that.
    Remy looked at the door that led to the back yard and the theoretical safety beyond. She could easily slip out the door while the infected were at the front, and they would be none the wiser. But that wasn’t Remy. She was no coward.
    Besides, Remy wanted to kill these infected. They deserved to die, every last one of them, for what they’d done to her and her family and friends. Every single one of them should be forced to pay the price for the blood that stained their hands, for the lives they destroyed. If Remy had to be the one to deal out their fates, so be it. She would face the task gladly.
    Footsteps thudded rapidly through the living room. They were searching for her. The knowledge wasn’t scary—it was almost exhilarating. Remy drew in a deep breath and nearly choked on a lungful of stale air and gas. She struggled not to cough, not to give away her position too soon. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
    The kitchen door flew open, banging against the wall. Remy clenched her teeth harder on the keychain flashlight and swung the shotgun up to her shoulder. She opened fire on the infected woman that stumbled into the room.
    The bathrobed woman fell back under the spray of buckshot that erupted from the shotgun’s barrel. Remy smirked and stepped to the side, aligning herself with the door and moving in full view of the infected. She lifted the shotgun again and focused her aim on the man who moved up to take the woman’s place. Remy stepped closer and squeezed the trigger, emptying the shotgun’s second barrel directly into the man’s face. He collapsed into a heap and didn’t move again.
    The woman slowly dragged herself from the floor. None of the shot had broken through to her brain. Remy growled as she realized she’d wasted the shot and swung the rifle, slamming it into the woman’s temple. The impact jarred the weapon from her hands. Remy gritted her teeth and pulled her bolo knife free from its sheath again and followed with her handgun, holding both up defensively. The remaining infected swept past the woman on the floor, trampling her into the linoleum, flooding the kitchen and coming straight at Remy.
    Remy swore and squeezed the handgun’s trigger rapidly, shifting the barrel from one infected to the next. She fired the bullets she had left, dropping first one of the infected and then another. She breathed shallowly, in short gasps, as she tried to not take in too much of the gas that was building up in the room.
    The four shots went quickly. Too quickly. The slide locked to signal an empty chamber. Remy swallowed hard and shoved the gun back into the waistband of her jeans. If she managed to escape and returned to the group’s hideout without the gun, Cade would skin her alive. Guns were sparse enough now as it was. Cade wouldn’t mind the shotgun’s loss—they didn’t have much ammunition for it anyway, and what they had was too bulky to transport easily—but the loss of the handgun would be unforgiveable.
    Remy turned to the last weapon she had in her arsenal: her bolo knife. She’d clung to the weapon since the Michaluk Virus wreaked its havoc on the world. It had belonged to her grandmother, and had ensured her survival more than once. Remy smirked and looked upon the group of remaining infected gathered in the room. They sized each other up, their many eyes upon Remy’s slender form. Anyone who saw the scene would not be placing any bets on Remy.
    Remy pressed back into the counters, feeling the cold granite bite into her lower back. She touched the box of matches in her pocket for reassurance. She was sure she could get to them in plenty of time. She