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mile to get fuel. Only at the gun store had a dozen heavily-armed clerks maintained order despite hundreds of people waiting to arm themselves against the zombies, including the head of the local chapter of the Brady Center.
    Getting out of Portland had been next to impossible. Route 95 north had been gridlocked with traffic, so David had headed for the coast road. They had joined a slow-moving line of traffic heading north, traveling less than ten miles in three hours, when everything suddenly ground to a halt. Swarmers had overrun the road ahead, stopping traffic and trapping the cars behind it. They had made their way down the line of vehicles, feeding on those not quick enough to escape, David among them. She had watched him hold off three of the living dead just long enough for her to stumble down the embankment of an underpass and escape along a county road. She was still haunted by his screams as the swarmers ripped him apart.
    Not familiar with the area, Natalie had headed south toward the only place she thought might offer safety – Portsmouth Navy Yard. She had walked for a full day before finding an abandoned SUV with a quarter of a tank of gas, and then had wound her way along the back roads until eventually running dry just north of York Beach. Natalie had abandoned the SUV and continued on foot until she reached the center of town, fortunately long since deserted. She had raided the local convenience store and stocked up, mostly on soda and junk food, which were the only things left, and then had broken into one of the summer rental condos. She had held up there for five days planning her next move when Robson’s raiding party came through town looking for supplies. Her fear of being left alone had overrode her uncertainty of what would happen if she joined up with this group. Thankfully, she had ventured out and flagged them down.
    Natalie stopped where the wall veered south and paralleled the ocean. Crouching down, she dropped her legs over the side and sat on the edge, looking out over the water. She always thought it ironic that in a world gone completely to shit anyone could call themselves lucky, but she definitely fell into that category. She still could not think of David without tearing up and experiencing that emptiness that tore a void in her heart. What made Natalie one of the lucky ones was making it here without having been brutalized.
    The collapse of society had been accompanied by a breakdown in humanity. Much of it could be attributed to people doing whatever they had to in order to survive, which was understandable given the situation. More than half of the camp members had been robbed of food, weapons, or a vehicle. Several had been turned away from another sanctuary because they would have been a drain on already-strained resources. Daytona had narrowly avoided being executed by a New Hampshire sheriff who mistook a cut on his forearm for a bite mark. Survivalist instincts had replaced compassion.
    A small but significant segment of the population had taken advantage of the collapse to prey on the weak. In the first few weeks after the outbreak, hunting parties had roamed the countryside shooting everything in sight, living or living dead. Several camp members had related harrowing stories about their own encounters with these groups, or what they had seen done to others. They related stories of families who had survived the outbreak only to be robbed by gangs, then murdered or shot and left for dead. Of one gang that had captured outsiders and tied them to posts surrounding their perimeter to serve as a human early warning system for approaching rotters. Of other gangs that had commandeered the women and let the men go on their way. Three of the girls in her unit had joined up with such parties, trading sex for safety until they could escape and set out on their own. One of her girls, Josephine, had been the plaything of a roving rape gang from upstate New York, having been debased nightly