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She comes at sunset. The crickets go quiet at her approach and the long grass withers under her bare feet. She watches from just outside the light of the campfire, and my brother and sister huddle close. Her eyes are pools of dark oil, her hair a tangle of twigs and blood. She is angry, lost, hungry, but we all are these days. The virus took the grown ups first. There is no one left to explain the world to us. She will die if she doesn't go back to the city, where the other infected have made their colonies. Still, she stands there, accusing. We don't know if memories survive the change, but I don't think she could forget. The case had three needles. There were four of us. Maybe tomorrow we will try to lead her down the interstate, past the corpses and lanes of abandoned cars to her new home. For now, we try to enjoy one last night with our sister.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
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