The first mutant Oliver ever saw was on television: a grainy recording from a civilian's personal device. A man stumbled weakly through a panicked crowd, trapped in some tiled yellow and white underground station, clutching his head as he hurled black bile down his chest. White splintered protrusions jutted from his sputtering jaw and he jerked towards the crowd. A robot swung in from offscreen—heroic, gleaming —busting the mutant's skull open before the change could finish. The footage ended moments before the monster hit the ground.

  While she was too young to understand exactly what she saw, Oliver knew that it was something dangerous by her mother's reaction. She pulled Oliver close, pressing her head to her chest, ribs trembling with each breath.

  From that moment on, the world changed.

  The next week was a blur of evacuations—families herded into federally sanctioned camps -- Oliver and her mother were assigned to Containment Sector Three.

  When the vaccine was finally produced, cheers erupted—"No more mutants!" It was a celebration that didn't last more than three days.

  A scavenger from Containment Sector Two found a bloated mutant carcass, its stomach torn open from the inside. Soon after, the camps were swarmed. Cannibalistic mutant offspring—small enough to slither under barriers—devoured nearly an entire sector overnight. Oliver's camp took in the refugees. Their stories were horrible. It didn't take much to realize that when the mutants' bastard kids reached maturity, they would become unstoppable.

  It seemed like every time the fragile sprouts of normalcy pushed through the mutagen outbreak's concrete flowerbed, something even worse poisoned the progress.

  Three times, Oliver had heard Commander Bratkov address the camp with some variation of, "A new terror has plagued our civilization." And three times, she had stood there—polite, still, serious—listening to his motivational speeches that brought breeders to tears, children proudly to their feet, and scouts to attention.

  She would never admit this to another person—because the one time she did, that person spit in her canteen for a straight month—but Oliver welcomed changes to the daily routine. Sure, they were unsettling, gruesome, depressing. But they were also exciting.

  Not that Oliver enjoyed fighting for survival; she was just really good at it.

  The older residents in camp referred to her teenage years "The New World," as if it was some grand, historic shift - never taking into consideration that it was, to those Oliver's age and younger, really just life. She barely remembered the old world—only some blocky, textured children's books about farm animals whose names she only ever used to insult people. While others in camp scrambled to survive, Oliver figured it out fast: be useful.

  In training, she was a beast. Unstoppable. She became a Swiss Army knife, a walking encyclopedia of Government Sanctioned Camp terminology, the most statistically successful scavenger, and a damn good shot.

  And she was the one Commander Bratkov always turned to when things got bad.

  Which is why none of this made sense.

  See, the mission was meant to last one full day. A three hour drive into the heart of the city- taking a peak at the landscape to see if any non-Government encampments had popped up, determining if it would be useful for there to be another camp erected near the former city-center, where it could be used as kind of a beacon for unaffiliated wonderers - and reporting back to camp with the details.

  She had been sitting there for twenty minutes, staring at the bag of rations tied up in the back of the truck. Four scouts. Four rations. Simple math.

  She counted. Again.

  One. Two. Three.

  She could hear the two men in the front—one being the hottest medic Oliver had ever seen, the other a hulking brute she was pretty sure had been railing the agricultural manager for extra food—loudly laughing about something apparently hilarious.

  She tuned them out.

  One. Two. Three.

  Now that she thought about it, everything had been off today. Slightly. Subtly. Just enough that she wouldn't have noticed if not for the rations.

  The mission lead had been unusually quiet. His orders brief. Rushed.

  They left camp before morning prayer.

  No gear check.

  No pin of their destination on the communal map.

  Then there was the new transfer.

  Oliver glanced at her. Seated rigidly across from her in the back of the truck, one hand resting on the firearm at her hip, the other curled into a fist against her knee. She wasn't looking at Oliver—her gaze was just over her shoulder, stiff, like she was focusing too hard on seeming normal.

  The truck jolted over a patch of dismantled road. The girl flinched—just barely—but Oliver caught it. The way her fingers twitched, like she wanted to grab onto something but couldn't let go of her firearm.

  That was interesting.

  Oliver leaned forward slightly, "So," she broke the silence.

  The girl's head snapped in her direction so fast it gave Oliver pause.

  Oliver hesitated before continuing. "You're new, right? Moved from Containment Sector Three."

  The girl stared. Blankly. Then nodded.

  "Quite the upgrade," Oliver whistled. "You must've put in some good work. Didn't they cannibalize one another there for a minute?"

  "That never happened," the girl snapped, anger flashing in her face. "Bad rumor."

  "Then what did you guys eat during that month we stopped sending food? Shit? That's another bad rumor that went around about you guys."

  The girl's face twisted. "That's disgusting—"

  "One more disgusting than the other. You either ate your elders or your own shit. Which was it?"

  "Neither!"

  "Okay, calm down." Oliver measured, holding her hands up. Then, "What are you planning on doing with my dead body?"

  The girl whipped back for a moment. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. Her eerily blank expression told Oliver all that she needed to know.

  The truck rolled to a stop outside the barren city. The buildings loomed ahead, shielding them from the blazing sun, though the air—now stalled—felt thicker. Suffocating.

  Oliver felt sweat travel from her temple to her chin as the the truck doors popped open and slammed closed. When she pushed herself up, she jabbed a finger in the girl's face.

  "You think real hard before you say a damn word, shit-breath." Oliver didn't break eye contact as she hopped down from the truck. Her boots hit the ground with a dull thud. The city stretched ahead—hollowed-out buildings, skeletal infrastructure, a wasteland of crumbling concrete and shattered glass.

  Oliver took stock of her surroundings. The road ahead was littered with abandoned vehicles, their rusted frames sun-bleached and warped. There was cover. Not much, but enough.

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  Hot medic was a few paces behind the big bad biceps, triple-b looking like he had something rehearsed to say. Something that he and hottie had a whole three-hour ride to perfect. Just as he opened his mouth to casually spew a lie or two, Oliver said "What's the plan? Are we sweeping east or west?"

  The mission lead looked at the medic before he responded. He took a slow, measured breath, then finally turned. "West," he said.

  West.

  Away from the main roads. Away from any independent encampments that they were apparently searching for. Away from places that actually made sense.

  She let out a low hum. "Right," she said, popping her neck, her feet suddenly heavy. "So, how about me and the new girl head—"

  A sharp voice cut through from behind. "She knows—ACK!"

  Oliver's elbow smashed into the girl's throat. A sharp, ugly choke followed—then a gunshot. The girl's weapon fired wildly into the air as she staggered back, gasping. Oliver took the opening and drove her fist into the woman's face. A crack sounded, but when she pulled back, there was no blood.

  A sharp pain exploded at the base of her skull. She lurched forward, barely keeping her balance before a sudden jab to the stomach knocked the wind from her.

  She barely had a second to process the dual hit before she found herself staring down the barrels of three guns.

  "Drop your weapon and step back!" the big guy barked.

  Oliver clenched her jaw as she complied. With a sharp exhale, she raised both of her hands in surrender.

  The girl coughed, rubbing at her neck, her face twisted in pain. She flinched when Oliver spoke. "What is this about?"

  "Nuh-uh, no. You don't get to ask questions." The big guy's face was red. "I was going to make this easy for all of us. Nice and simple. But you had to ruin it and now you don't get to ask shit."

  Oliver narrowed her eyes. "If you're waiting for me to beg, you're-"

  "Shut up!" he snapped, turning sharply toward the medic, who flushed and looked away. "You lead us in, I'll watch her back. And you"—he glared at the new girl—"don't fuck up again."

  Oliver followed the shuffling medic, slowly, not so much an act of defiance but fear. They were walking further into the city - the formerly rather heavily populated city - an area which was infested with mutated lifeforms. The forest of mamoth buildings that made up the area created a shaddowy labyrinth that was impossible to get out of without a good understanding of the area. When she was first allowed to leave camp, around eighteen, she had gotten lost there—chasing a fabled stash of narcotics said to be hidden in an old pharmacy no one had been able to retrieve after the mutagen. She almost lost a limb.

  "Keep moving!" The guy behind Oliver shouted, slamming his fist between her shoulder blades. The force jolted her forward, but something about it—paired with the medic's sluggish movements and the new girl's nervous glances—made her stop altogether.

  She turned slightly, voice flat. "Are you sure now isn't the time for questions? Because I have a feeling I won't be around much longer to ask them."

  "I don't want to hear you anymore, I just want you dead." Roid rage seethed, gesturing at Oliver with the the barrel of his gun in punctuation. "Now move!"

  But Oliver didn't move. She kept her hands in the air and eyes locked on the seething dude's bulging baby blues, figuring that was probably good execution edicate. The guy holding Oliver's life in his hands shook. His teeth tightly grit, nose flaring, he looked like he was going to explode. What was wrong with this guy?

  "Are you on something?" Asked Oliver, sincerely.

  The guy blinked, and in an instant that anger that seemed to be bringing the guy's blood to a boil dissapeared. Replaced with a far more mellow hatred, one just did more than out between the lips of his half-cocked smile "What's his name?" He jabbed a finger at the medic.

  Oliver was thrown by the question. "Huh?"

  His grin widened, lips twisting. "What about mine, sweetheart? Know my name? 'Cause we've worked together plenty of times. I saved your ass from a mutant two years ago. Took it down while it had you pinned, seconds away from cracking your skull open and slurping the brain matter right out of your head. I saved your life, and there's not a day that goes by I don't regret it."

  Oliver didn't respond.

  The guy laughed. "Tell you what—if you can name just one of us, I won't put a bullet in you. How's that?"

  The new girl jolted and swung around, "Did you hear something?"

  "Motherfucker, keep your aim on her!" He screamed at the newbie, then snapped his glare back to Oliver, cocking his gun in the same motion. "Names. Now!"

  Oliver blinked. "Well, umm..." Her eyes flicked from face to face, desperately. She lingered on the medic, then scoffed. "This is ridiculous, since when did everyone start caring about names?" Oliver said, and she didn't dodge the fist flying at her face fast enough. Her cheekbone felt like it was on fire. She felt her jaw pop and her brain rattle inside of her skull. "Shit."

  He huffed, shaking his head. "This is too good. It's funny. I mean, not funny-funny, but I gotta laugh. I've spent so long hating you, but you have no idea what you've done. What you do."

  His grip tightened around his weapon. "I don't want to kill you, I have to. Otherwise, this whole thing just keeps going." His lips twisted into a grin so wide she caught a glimpse of his missing back teeth. "Alright, maybe I do want to. Real fucking bad."

  A lot happened in the next minute—so fast Oliver barely had time to process it.

  First came the distinct, wet slosh of intestines hitting hot concrete. The newbie convulsed on the ground, choking on her own blood as a human-shaped creature tore into her stomach, stuffing handfuls of fat into its mouth. Her gun fired wildly, hitting nothing.

  Then came the gunfire. More mutants. More blood. A few headshots—didn't matter. Too many of them. The hot medic doubled over, puking, before another mutant jumped on his back and bit a crater into his screaming skull. The newbie tried crawling away, her fingers slick with her own insides, but another mutant grabbed her by the ankle and ripped.

  At some point, the guy holding her hostage went down on his ass, his pistol skidding out of reach. Oliver didn't stay and watch, she just grabbed the pistol and bolted - heart hammering. She heard him being torn apart —screams, snarling, the wet snap of tendons twisting and breaking.

  Behind her, at least four of them crashed over the stalled-out cars littering the road, their guttural growls closing in. She pushed harder, but she knew she couldn't keep this pace forever. You can't outrun a mutant horde, your only chance of survival is to outsmart them.

  When Oliver saw the giant brick wall with the words Welcome to Vancouver written in loud rusting metal against the side, she felt like a fly diving headfirst into a spider's web. The air was thick, sweet, and rotten—the stench of mass death still clinging to the city. Abandoned buildings concealed the skyline, hiding their dangerous residents deep within the city's roots.

  Common sense told even unaffiliated scavengers to stay the hell away from Vancouver. But the creatures snarling behind Oliver weren't giving her that choice.

  She sprinted past an old movie theater, a gutted grocery store, and row after row of ravaged apartment buildings. Broken glass, dried blood, fuzzy dead bodies. The deeper she went, the worse it became.

  A mutant in a grimy t-shirt launched headfirst from a third-story window. Its head twisted into a demented, eyeless grin, arms severed at the elbows to reveal smooth ivory knives. Oliver fired before it hit the ground. One shot blew the creature's skull apart, painting the pavement red.

  And just like that, Oliver was screwed.

  That shot was loud. Too loud. She was instantly surrounded.

  She whipped around and fired into the leg of a laughing creep—small victory—until knives-for-hands pushed itself up from the crater it'd made in the pavement, lunging after her like a gaping hole wasn't carved between its eyes.

  The monster's mouth unhinged and a muscular tongue shot out from it, oozing acid onto the asphalt. Oliver barely ducked behind a building before he scooped up a mouthful of concrete, reared back, and projectile vomited corrosive waste across the street.

  Shit.

  She nearly tripped on the melting cement as she reloaded. The noxious heat stung her eyes. This wasn't sustainable. She needed somewhere to hide, fast.

  That's when she saw it.

  A chain-link fence surrounding a rundown building, nearly identical to the rest of the city—except it was untouched. No busted windows. No clawed-up walls. Safe.

  Oliver forced her battered body forward, full speed.

  Jump. Grab. Climb.

  She was an arm's length away when something slammed into the back of her skull, whipping her head forward—face-first into the fence.

  Pain detonated in her nose. Blood streamed down her face. Then, the burning started.

  Acid.

  Her clothes sizzled, her skin tightened, and pain blossomed down her back. Panic surged, but she kept moving. Slowing down meant death.

  She climbed.

  Brainless mutants clawed at her boots. One swiped, slicing a clean, stinging gash into her leg. Oliver barely felt it. She swung her blistered, bloated foot over the fence and dropped.

  Pain.

  She hit the ground hard, tailbone smashing against unforgiving earth. Gravel bit into her seared, disintegrating back. She choked down a scream and rolled to her feet.

  The sloshing acidic creature tilted his massive head, his gaping mouth scooping up another heaping bite of pavement. Oliver scrambled to the sliding glass doors. Her fingers jammed into the seam—no budge. She fired a shot through the thin window above, shielding her face as glass rained down.

  She hauled herself inside, her raw back slamming onto the floor.

  SPLAT.

  Acid sprayed across the building just as she hit the ground.

  Safety.

  Mutants gurgled outside in frustration. Over time, even the smartest ones lost interest in prey they couldn't see. Oliver grinned against her split, chapped lips.

  Now, finally, her mind had a chance to catch up to her body.

  Pain crashed into her.

  Every nerve seized. Her back—exposed tissue screaming, an unbearable, pulsing reminder of what she'd ignored in the adrenaline rush. It was hell.

  Jaw clenched, she dug two fingers into the small pocket sewn into her bra, fished out two pills, and shoved them past her lips. They sat on her tongue, soaking up saliva before she built up enough spit to swallow.

  She stared up at the impossibly high silver ceiling while the painkillers worked their magic, too slowly.

  Her mind drifted.

  Sole survivor.

  She should've laughed. Didn't have it in her.

  Just as she started to think about the hot medic, how she didn't even get the chance to have fun with the guy before he died, Oliver rolled onto her right side—the proceeding agony a welcome reprieve from the fact that, even if he were alive, the guy seemed to have wanted her dead anyway.

  She bit her tongue hard, the metallic taste of fresh blood flooding her mouth.

  Her muscles seized. Spine curled into a tight C. Legs rigid.

  Her brain, mercifully, checked out.

  And for a moment, it was perfect.

  Because she wasn't thinking.

  Finally.

  Rest.

  Of course, had she known what was watching her from the shadows, she would have found the scene a little less perfect and a lot more horrific.