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“Don’t go near her ever again.” He turned his back on Rowan and started for the building.
    Rowan knew that Mia was the root of her father’s anger. He’d never wanted his only daughter tied to the worthless boy that cost him his wife. Rowan realized he was about to lose everything he’d ever known. He balled his fists and screamed at the top of his lungs.
    “You can’t leave me out here to die.”
    Arkin reached the entryway and paused. He never looked back, already considering the matter over and done.
    “You’re already dead.”

 
    5
     
    Rowan was alone. He’d felt alone every moment since his parents died, but this was different. He had no tribe; he had no one looking out for him. Most important, he’d lost Mia.
    He spent the remainder of the day wandering the city streets. He settled into a pattern, never letting the top of the tribe’s buildings out of view. The sun began its descent and took with it the last of the warmth. Rowan wasn’t prepared for the cold, he wasn’t prepared for anything. The increasing grumble from his stomach told him that the cold wouldn’t be the worst of his concerns.
    Darkness set in and the fading light brought with it sporadic firelight along the roof tops. Rowan decided he would have to get to higher ground if he expected to survive the night. He settled on a five-story building close to the tribe, one he and Darian had explored many times. The top floor had become a hideout for a number of the tribe’s youth when they were still too young to be of any real use.
    The entrance was pitch-black and the soundless first floor produced a chilling fear. Rowan slipped his bow over his shoulder and drew his knife. His hands were covered in dried blood. The sight of it caused a stir in his gut and it took him a moment to remember the blood was not his own. 
    He stepped between the broken glass doors and into the interior of the building. He froze in the opening trying to calm himself. Under normal circumstances, he’d never enter a building by himself; he’d always had Darian to watch his back. One wrong move could leave him trapped. It was uncommon to run into the infected deep in the city, but from everything he’d seen in the last few days, there was no telling what he could expect. The tribe used hunting parties to rid the surrounding areas of the dead, but there were always a few of the walking corpses that managed to stay hidden.
    The difference between the dead and the infected was something taught to every member of the tribe from the moment they began to speak. Rowan always figured it was the same process for every tribe. The season of the plague was the name given to the event. It came without warning during the height of human existence. They said it began with a single child, growing with such viciousness that the entire world was overcome with infection in less than a year.
    No one really died. Death meant you would rise as a biter, the undead who longed for the taste of living flesh. Those who were attacked by the infected would transform, rising again, still alive, but infected with a lust for blood. This was the fate of all humanity, and Rowan, like every member of the Cheyenne Tribe, knew it well. It was his fate too.
    He gathered his courage and forced himself to move. He knew the interior of the building well and calculated that his safest bet was the stairwell on the far end of the main hall. From there, he could get to the top floor and into the rooms he’d visited many times in his youth. The relative safety would let him put his guard down long enough to shut his eyes and get some much needed rest. He would then have the time to consider everything that happened and what, if anything, he could do about it.
    The five-story climb took longer than expected. A hole in the roof provided the only light, and the glow of the moon left shadows lingering along every turn. Rowan reached the top floor with frayed nerves. Only his shattered heart matched his weary