My bag, for the first time in my life, is ready to leave this house for more than a few hours. "Tristin" had said we're only allowed one bag because of space restrictions and that food and clothing are provided. In my backpack are sentimental items. The fairy lights my mom loved, but had to take down before I was born, when the electricity plants stopped producing. The football player cards that my dad had collected, ever since he was a kid. A few of their clothes. A cup of dirt from their graves. The brush my Mom used. Simple things that mean an odd bit of importance to me.

My eyes wander to the pantry. In the past two days since the broadcast, I've been too excited and nervous to eat anything without puking. I debate taking the leftover half of a can of beans, eighth of a jar of peach preserves and slice of bread, but I shake my head and take out a pen and paper. I write out a small note: For a survivor, take the remains of my food supply and place it out on the steps neatly. If nothing else, it'll feed some of the animals that are on the streets. Or a "Host", as he had called them, will eat it. I don't really care. I'm going to be guaranteed to be fed, anyway.

I try on the bag for the hundredth time, fidgeting with the straps again to make them fit despite them being old and worn. I'm failing miserably again. It's been this way ever since I found it. The straps repeatedly fall off my shoulders no matter how much I try to adjust them. I eventually give up and check the time. 1:03 PM. I have seven minutes. I double-check the house for anything else I might want or need. When there's nothing, I walk out into the backyard, where my parents' graves lie. I had dug them myself all those years ago, before I would try to talk to them silently, like a prayer.

Now, I tell them what I need to say out loud.

"Hey, Mom. Dad." My voice, like when I had said "Tristin" before, is raspy from a lack of use. "I'm going to be leaving now. I found out that there are other people out there. THey helped me find my voice again. They're taking people in. I love you both." I wipe tears away from my cheeks when I realize that I'm crying. "Take care of yourselves while I'm gone, okay?" I get up. "Goodbye."

After fidgeting with the bag straps one last time, I bolt out onto the street. My grip on them tightens as I run. Don't think, I tell myself. Don't think about them. Just run. My shoes' soles are worn enough for the heat of the road to seep into the bottoms of my feet, a relief from the bitter cold. Despite my best efforts, thoughts swirl about my brain, making me light-headed.

Didn't I just abandon Mom and Dad for a mystery voice that might not exist?

No. They left you first. Stop thinking. Run.

What about their graves? No one will be there to tend to them while I'm gone.

It doesn't matter. Run.

But, what if "Tristin" really isn't real? If I'm chasing after ghosts?

He's real. He has to be. Run, Maya, run.

My feet are moving on their own. I don't care about the odds; "Tristin" is real. If he's not, I don't have anything left. I'll be alone again. I'm not sure if I could take that. I'm not ready for hope to be stripped away again. I arrive at Sedgwick Park about five minutes early. No one's here yet. I take out a water bottle filled with watered-down crimson liquid. Infected blood. It's what has kept me alive all these years. I rub a bit onto my arms and neck. As long as I don't get it into a cut or my eyes and mouth, I don't get the virus. It only masks me from those monsters. If I smell like them, they think I'm one of them. That's what I need. I force down bile as it fills my throat from the horrible smell (a combination of metallic scents and the smell of rot) and scrub the diluted blood from my hands with the bottle of fresh water I brought along. I gag one more time before getting up, lightheaded. No matter how many times I do this, it still smells disgusting. I find a bench and sit and wait.

Soon enough, people begin to file into the area of the field. First, five people walk up from the direction of the school, four adults and a girl who looks about fifteen years old, my age. Her hands remain tensed over a dagger at her side. Two of the adults are women and two are men. One of the adults, a man, I know the name of before he even opens his mouth.

Tristin.

"You're early," he says flatly with a deep scowl. I can't help but flinch at his cold expression. He looks as though he would kill someone for being too close and then walk along without a single glance. It's, honestly, terrifying to me.

"Dios, Tristin, you're going to scare her away," a woman with bronze skin sighs.

"That sounds rich coming from someone nicknamed 'Demon', Nina."

The girl looks me up and down with a glare, making me squirm. Her attention is like a laser beam. As she sizes me up, she seems to see through me into my soul. My weak-ass soul. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "She's just a scared kid." This comment makes my face hot with anger and embarrassment.

"I -- you're a kid, too!" I sputter with nothing better to say. She bares her teeth at me. I dislike her already, but something else flashes in the back of my mind that I try to ignore.

"Don't compare me to you as if we're on the same level --"

"Nicole. Shut the hell up before I punch you," another woman with short, light brown hair says. She seems younger than Tristin or Nina.

"Beth, I'd beat the crap out of --" Nicole stops when she sees something behind me. I turn and my heart sinks. I see hundreds of the monsters in human flesh.

It's an army.