Survivors

She's a Maneater

I put on a dance show for as long as the pianist can play, for as long as the audience cares. My legs won't tire any time soon with Craig and Lina's blood fueling me.

I'm trained in as many styles as I could fit into my long existence so far. Ballroom, Latin, ballet, jazz, street. I perform whatever feels like it fits the music, and the music is whatever the pianist feels like, or what he can remember, or whatever sheet music is at hand. It's a lot of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Jersey Boys must have played here before the outbreak.

The crowd sings along to what they know. It's rough, discordant noise filling the room. It's something. It's better than nothing: The hollow clicking and thumping of my feet, the cold empty space hanging over the pianist, pressing in, swallowing us up. It is more noise and more people than I've been around in a long time.

No one volunteers to take the stage with me. Not like they did with Lina. No one else wants to get bitten.

Dancing takes me away from everything else. I shove all my thoughts into the wings and let my professionalism carry me away. It's all muscle-memory, deeply-ingrained training. I'm being possessed by the spirit of showmanship. Only instead of letting the ghost fight back stage fright, it's fighting back anguish and hatred.

But soon the pianist does tire, and either no one else can play or nobody feels like it. He sags on the bench, breathing heavily, after the last song.

One last twirl and bow from me. I look to Mike in the front seat. He nods and gestures for me to leave. I stride away without a second glance. I make my way to the men's dressing room and put on new shoes. I've gathered up a change of clothes in my arms by the time Mike comes to tell me it's time to get going.

"Lotta usable clothes here," I say. "Can I pack spares?"

"Only if you bring one of those little showgirl outfits too."

"Fine."

I throw clothes into a suitcase from props. Men's, women's, whatever. It doesn't really matter. I just want some control over what goes on my body.

The gang is packed up to head out by afternoon, following their own tracks back up the street. The most heavily-armed soldiers form a barrier around the outside. Everyone else on the inside. Two carry Lina on a stretcher.

I squint in the light, going painfully snowblind without my shades. I didn't just wear them to look cool (though in my last getup I looked more like the Unabomber). When vampirism leeched the pigment out of my eyes in exchange for needle-sharp night vision, it made them extra-sensitive to any bright light. Probably where the sunlight-weakness myths come from.

The earlier cacophony makes the silence of our movements starker. Beyond the safety of the walls, everyone here is cautious, hurried, watchful. We pass by dead zombies in the parking lot. Walking ones could be anywhere in the village.

A few turn up between us and our destination. Mike designates a couple shooters, then tells them to wait.

He turns to me. "Sic 'em."

"You didn't let me bring my weapon."

"Use that strong body of yours, doll."

Damn. No hope of getting my rebar then.

I wade through the crowd, shoving my suitcase into the empty arms of someone without a weapon. I'm not the only one Mike doesn't trust enough. Some of these guys don't even get knives.

I look around for anything to arm myself with, but it's impossible to pick out enough details under the thick layer of untouched snow that flanks our path. Bare hands it is.