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it spots its own tail.
    The man was a living infected, and the first one of that kind that Brewster and Trev had spotted in nearly two weeks. Through his veins coursed the Morningstar strain—by now the virus had erased anything human that remained in his wrecked shell. He now existed only to spread the infection. He was, body and soul, the Enemy.
    Though Brewster and Trev were well armed and able to finish him off if they wished, they remained behind cover. A shot would bring more infected out of hiding to their location—possibly even other sprinters.
    “Sprinters” were what the survivors had taken to calling the living infected. They were still human, physiologically speaking, with all the advantages and disadvantages that entailed. One of those advantages was their namesake. They could run down a clean, uninfected human with little trouble . . . they didn’t know pain, or fatigue, or fear. Escaping a group of them was one of the most harrowing experiences the postpandemic world offered. They also drew breath, and had working vocal cords, which made their howling a much larger threat than a mere gunshot. When an infected managed to spot a survivor, it would let out an unearthly, angry wail, bringing any other infected that were within earshot down on the survivors’ heads.
    It was that howling that was worrying Brewster and Trev more than anything else.
    “Plan?” whispered Trev, pulling a lock of grown-out brown hair away from his eyes and glancing around the corner of the stoop at the infected.
    “I don’t know, man,” Brewster said, an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. “How far is the Fac?”
    “We’re about five blocks out,” Trev replied in the same low whisper. “Too far to run if there are any other sprinters around.”
    Brewster thought on this a moment, then reached up a hand to the battered and chipped radio that was clipped to the collar of his shirt. He turned the volume down to a nearly imperceptible level and switched it on.
    “Krueger, come in,” Brewster whispered into the radio. “Krueger! Wake the fuck up and answer your radio.”
    Across the way, the infected turned its head in the direction of the hidden survivors and took a quick step forward, studying the stoop they were kneeling behind. Trev spotted the movement, pushed himself tighter against the concrete, and slapped Brewster’s shoulder, his eyes alone speaking volumes. Brewster slowly released his hold on the radio and grasped his rifle. If the infected discovered them, they would be forced to run and gun.
    Suddenly, Brewster’s radio squawked softly. “Brewster, Krueger. Go ahead.”
    “Shit!” Brewster was quick to reply. “Krueger! We’re pinned four blocks out on Meadows Parkway. Think you can work some magic?”
    “Give me a minute,” came Krueger’s response.
    “I don’t know if we have a minute,” said Trev, peeking around the stoop once more to check on the infected.
    It had left the steps entirely, and was now standing on the street, much closer than it had been just moments earlier.
    “I think it can hear us,” added Trev, furrowing his brow.
    “That would be our luck,” said Brewster. “Krueger? Come on, man.”
    “Almost in position, over,” came Krueger’s disembodied voice. Brewster and Trev could hear the sound of footsteps ringing on metal rungs and Krueger’s heavy breathing through the radio. He was climbing.
    “Tell me why, again, we don’t have headsets?” Brewster moaned softly. “Next time we hit the streets, I’m raiding a goddamn Radio Shack.”
    The infected took a few more quick, lurching steps toward the survivors’ hiding spot, head tilted to the side like a dog, still rasping with every fast, shallow breath. Its mouth drifted farther open, saliva slipping between rotted teeth faster with each step.
    “All right. In position. Where on Meadows are you, over?” came Krueger’s voice again.
    “The apartment buildings adjacent to the highway, far side from your