Michael Reid's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Michael Reid had spent three days tying red rags to swamp branches. Each rag marked the path back to the other survivors he wanted to gather. The plague had scattered them across Keltner Swamp, and Michael meant to lead them all to one safe house before winter. But the fog rolled in at dawn and swallowed every marker. Now he stood knee-deep in black water, and he could not see ten feet ahead. His dog pressed against his leg. The German Shepherd was scarred and mean to strangers, but it never left Michael's side. Michael checked his pack. Two days of food. Less water. If he walked in circles out here, he would die before he reunited anyone. "Which way, boy?" he whispered. The dog lifted its head and sniffed. It stared into the gray fog, ears sharp. Then it growled, low and steady, and pulled toward the left. Michael hesitated. His instinct said right. But the dog had tracked him through worse than this. He followed. The dog led him past drowned trees and mud that sucked at his boots. Michael kept one hand on the animal's back. He could not see the path, but the dog moved like it smelled something familiar. After an hour, the ground rose. The water fell away to Michael's ankles, then his soles. Solid earth. The dog stopped and barked twice. Ahead, the fog thinned. A shape rose out of it. Concrete walls, cracked and gray, wrapped in coils of barbed wire. A heavy steel door sat shut in the center. Michael knew this place. It was the shelter he had chosen for the survivors. The dog had led him home. Michael laughed once, sharp with relief. Then he heard a click. "Stop right there." A woman stepped from behind the door. Black hair hung around a face marked with dark eyeliner. Her jacket was torn, her boots caked in mud. She held a crossbow level with Michael's chest, and her hands did not shake. "This is my shelter now. Turn around." The dog snarled and lowered its head. Michael grabbed its collar. "Easy," he said. "I'm not here to fight. I built this place. I've been leading people here." "People." She spat the word. "I found it empty. Finders keepers." But her eyes flicked to the dog, then back to Michael. "Call off the animal." "He listens to me. So you should too." Michael held her stare. "There's a plague out here killing everyone alone. I'm gathering the ones who are left. You can point that thing at me, or you can be one of them." For a long moment she said nothing. The crossbow stayed up. Then she lowered it an inch. "Lillith," she said. "And this is still my door." Michael had found his shelter and his first survivor at once. Now he had to convince a woman with a crossbow to trust him.