I remembered people complimenting my appearance, or my outfit of the day.
"God, Heather, you're gorgeous. Super jealous," they'd say.

This is...me, and all that I am known for; or was known for anyway. I lived an egotistical lifestyle, and my livelihood for the last 6 months depended on how I looked.

It was the start of a hot summer in Druid Hills, a well-to-do suburb near Atlanta, and I had just graduated from Emory University with a BA in Human Services. I modeled on the side, praying and hoping for the right person to notice me, which eventually did happen, and I've been working my ass off to raise money for disability awareness; specifically for my younger brother Logan, who struggled with high functioning autism and manic depression. Because of my looks alone, 42K was raised for research, from two photo shoots, and one commercial for Rimmel.

Even with the best of intentions, things can go wrong, and what could happen to me, did happen.

-Flashback-
"Mom? Logan? Come down here, I have something to show you!"

My family had been struggling with the bills for Logan's therapist and recent stay in the hospital after Logan tried to take his own life.

"We're up here, honey. Quiet, he's sleeping. First time all day," my mother whispered hoarsely down the stairs.

I tiptoed up the stairs as quietly as I could, painfully aware of Logan's current state.

"Hi mom," I said quietly and kissed Mom on the forehead, receiving only an empty look from solemn eyes. I handed her the envelope, and watched in anticipation as she tore it open.

Then she saw it; what I had been waiting for.

"But how, Heather? How did you manage this?" And I saw briefly the once so familiar gleam in my mom's eyes.

"A commercial for a skin toner and a couple of photo spreads with a company out of New York. We're going to get there, mom, I hope you never thought I wasn't going to do what I could to help."

"Baby," Mother said quietly, happily, putting a hand to her mouth in disbelief.

"Love you," I said, with a grin and quick hug.

"He's not good, Heather." The attention panned back to Logan.

"I know," I replied simply, tugging on a lock of my platinum hair.

At that moment, Logan began to seize: twisting and flailing his arms around, his back spasming and contorting violently.

"Oh my god, mom what do I do?" I screamed, and wiped away the tears that already stung my eyes.

"Call 911! He's bleeding out through the bandages," My mother tried to hold his wrists down to ease the loss of blood.

I dialed 911 shakily, and listened as an automated voice blared through the other line.

"Stay calm. Stay away from the infected. Help is on its way."

On repeat.

Mom wailed from over Logan as I came to the realization that it was too late. The blood from Logan's wrists ran bright red, pooling on the crisp white sheets, and his eyes rolled back into his head, choking on a last violent seizure.

"No one's answering mom, it's just a recording. No one. It says to stay calm, and stay away from the infected...what do they mean?" a feeling of dread set in.

I abandoned my questioning when my mother did not answer. We stood together over Logan's seemingly sleeping body; but there was no rise and fall of his chest, no peaceful fluttering of his eyelids. He was gone, and there was nothing else that could be done.

Suddenly, Logan's eyes flew open and he drew in a raspy, distorted breath. I backed up, a fear and instinct telling me to do so.

"Logan, honey?" My mother asked, placing pressure on the wrists once again.

Then I heard it. Distinctly, but so faintly at first: Logan began to breathe, but it was raspy and desperate. His mouth, bloodied from biting his own tongue during the seizures, opened slightly, showing that his gums had blackened. His eyes squinted up at Mom, and I saw them: swollen and jaundiced, with rings of red around the iris.

It all happened too fast for me to understand. He sat up with such force that Mom would have flown to the ground, yet he grabbed her wrists and pulled her towards him.

"Oh sweety," I heard my mother whisper, and she reached to put an arm around her son. That's when I heard it. The sound of flesh tearing, and the piercing scream of Mom as Logan sunk his teeth into her neck. Arterial spray hit the walls of the otherwise white room, and she gurgled for breath, gasping and crying.

Logan was eating her.

I rushed forward, not knowing exactly what to do, but I pulled my mother away, still breathing but barely. Logan's other worldly moans increased, and he stood up, following me, whose only protection now was my mother's dying body. I dragged her with some adrenaline induced strength, slammed the door to Logan's room, and toppled down the stairs,never letting go of Mom, through the front door and onto the front lawn.

"Mom? Mom! Please no, please, I need you. Please don't leave me here," I sobbed into my bloodstained hands, gasping for air, and watching my mother do the same.

"I love you so much, my girl," she said, each breath a struggle.

"Please no. Don't go," My windpipe seemed to close as the sobs racked my body. "PLEASE!"

She was gone. Lifeless, pale green eyes staring at nothing.

"Mom. Mom? No. This can't be happening. No!" I shook her shoulders and finally fell back in the grass. The mid morning heat was increasing by the second, and caused me to become sticky with sweat.

I heard the door handle jiggling, and watched in horror as the walking corpse of Logan managed to yank open the door and drag his feet over the threshold.

"No...oh my god, no!" I tried drag Mom's body, but the strength I had possessed before had dissipated into fear, and I ran; ran as fast as I could, and looked back only once, to see Logan feasting on our mother's body.

-present day-
I bit into a browned and soft apple that I'd found on a recent raid in an elementary school on the outskirts of Atlanta. The pethy flesh left a bad taste in my mouth. It had been 30 days since the infection hit, and I'd been on my own ever since. Two days in, I narrowly escaped an attack by locking myself in a Toyota Prius: to my amazement, the keys were still stuck in the slot on the dash.

"Thank god for this hybrid," I said out loud, smiling at the first positive thing to happen in what felt like years, and I drove away as silently as could be, running over the stray bag of bones with a loud clunk. "Bastard," I said, and backed over him again for good measure.

I would go into Atlanta. For what, I didn't know. Supplies? Shelter? To end it all?

It was true, I wanted to die, but for some reason, I pushed on, still unaware and numb to the whole situation. Only my instinctual need to survive remained.

Being on my own highlighted one thing: I am desperately alone, and while I was uncomfortable, there was a certain peace about finally hearing nothing but my own thoughts.

As I turned onto the abandoned junction into the city, I noticed a swarm of the undead feeding on something large that had gone down next to one of the army's tanks. I stopped the car, hoping that I hadn't been seen. Then I saw him; another person, alive and well...maybe not so well, but alive in the least. I would take alive any day over these freaks.

He looked like a small town sheriff, and my thoughts were confirmed when I saw a brown hat with the gold sheriffs badge pinned to the front laying on the ground by the swarm. He was trapped now, under the tank,and just when I was going to try to help him, static interference blare through the stereo and a man's voice made my ears pulsate and ring. I had left the radio on and attached a wireless antenna on top of the car, hoping to pull in police scanner messages, cell phone calls...anything.

"Don't you dare get out of that car. You've got 20 geeks on your back. Drive as fast as you can down the alley to your left, the make a sharp right. Block that alley with the car and run. There's a gray metal door; someone will be waiting for you," the voice said.

Deafening static.