The garage door was still rising when I reached my bedroom.
I pulled off the clothes I was wearing and dropped them onto the floor, although the jacket was probably beyond saving. One sleeve had been burned, the front was covered in zombie handprints, and something had torn through the pocket where I normally kept snacks.
That was just rude.
I pulled on clean cargo pants and a black shirt, then checked my arms. The green light beneath my skin was harder to see through the darker fabric, which solved absolutely nothing but made me feel better anyway.
The bite in my leg gave a dull throb when I bent to put on my boots.
Scared, smart people lived a lot longer than dumb, brave ones. And while my mother might not have actually raised me, I definitely wasn't dumb.
I tightened the laces and stood.
