For eighteen-year-old Aurora Mayfield, the lethal pandemic was just the beginning.

After an unknown virus sweeps across the globe, Aurora and two other survivors seek out safety in a bomb shelter with enough supplies to last a few years. Just as she starts to adapt to her new way of life, she is suddenly abducted by those responsible for introducing the disease, and is taken farther from home than she’s ever been before.

She doesn't know what they want from her, but she soon discovers the truth: about her captors, the universe, and who she really is--a reality that leaves her breathless.

"Get away from...me!" I pant as I sprint, my throat scorched from a severe lack of water.

The man behind me will never free me from this chase as long as the virus is coursing through his body. Among the many symptoms, mania arises and the brain is manipulated into thinking one's stamina is neverending. I so desperately wish I could stop and catch my breath, but I can't because physical contact alone is enough for the infection to spread.

Breathe.

As I press on, I take in my new surroundings. The building-filled city I'd passed while running has transformed into a spacious country wasteland, allowing the midday sun to beat directly down on to my back. Scattered trees and dead grass fill the area. I'm careful not to slip as my feet pound into the dirt road.

I peer over my shoulder to check if the man has slowed—he hasn't. In fact, it seems as though his pace has doubled. His legs and arms flex as he bolts after me, revealing the engorged muscles beneath his filthy skin. Dark, hungry eyes fix on me as if I've instantly become delectable. It's only a matter of time before he'll catch up. Push on, Aurora, I tell myself. It's do or die.

Up ahead, I spot a busted water tower and a deteriorating shack beside it, showing no sign of any human existence. Maybe I can get inside, lock the man in, and escape out the back.

Before I spring into action, I feel a tug on my backpack and tumble backward onto the ground with a hard thud, the fine dirt billowing around me like a cloud. My breath is lost in an instant and my hands rush to block my face, anticipating the man's fight.

He gnashes his teeth above me like an infuriated wolf, spit flying at my face. I use my knee to nail him in the stomach, distracting him just long enough for me to unsheathe my knife from the loop in my belt and slash away at him in aimless directions. I strike air all but once.

The knife slices into his forehead and I clench my mouth shut as his blood splats onto my skin. This is the end, I tell myself. Blood to skin contact is more than enough to infect me. Merely touching me has done the job.

After being caught off guard for a few moments from the cut, the man continues to thrash about, grunting and whispering things I can't understand. With any luck, the knife will cause him to get off of me for good.

So far, it's not showing much promise.

"Get off me!" I gurgle beneath his unrelenting, bony fingers as they press down harder and harder, narrowing my passage of air. His fingernails dig into my neck, pinching and squeezing my tender skin. His sunken eyes show me it's not his fault; it's the deadly infection coursing through him doing the dirty work.

My right arm is seized by one of his hands, preventing the knife from nearing his throat. With my left hand, I jab my fist into his tough abdomen and hear a crack—I've struck his ribs. He may have strong muscles, but brittle bones. My brain tells me to fight harder, to go for the kill shot, but when I see his eyes wince in pain from the blow, my hand trembles with guilt.

I can't do this. I can't kill this innocent man, diseased or not. I'm not a murderer.

I shove my knife into his shoulder to force him off me. It works. He lets out an agonized groan and grabs his shoulder to pressurize the wound. Thinking he's distracted, I stumble to my feet and bolt.

It's not long before I once again hear rippling growls behind me, followed by thunderous footsteps. He's after me again. Damn it.

I attempt to time my breathing so that I don't wear myself out, but that rapidly ends when I trip on a tree root sprouting up through the road, and I topple onto my hands and knees. As I scramble to get up, the man knocks me onto my stomach. The side of my face grinds into the fragmented stones on the street, surely cutting through my top layer of skin. I'm now blind and defenseless.

"No!" I scream into the ground as I thrash beneath him. I try my hardest to flip over, but he has me pinned down good.

I hold in a large breath and prepare myself for the pain soon to come, when an earsplitting sound explodes through the air. Suddenly, the raging man turns limp and rolls right off me. I spin onto my side and spot a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He's been shot.

Huffing wildly, I take a second and crash onto my back, relieved. However, my anxiety doesn't subside as I rise to my feet. Someone has been watching me. Uncertain of where the gunshot came from, I snatch the knife from the dead man's hand as if it will magically be able to protect me from gunfire.

My eyes dart around, assessing the area, but there isn't much to look at. Then I eye the old shack again. Shaking with dread, I ease my way over to it but duck behind a random tree before I get too close. I need to stay as hidden as possible in order to get an advantage on the shooter.

"Stop trying to hide. I can see you."

I flinch at the abrupt sound of a man's rough voice. If this guy is clean, he'll be the first regular human I've seen since the day my parents left—like anyone is actually regular anymore.

"Drop the knife and step out," he commands. "Or I'll shoot you too."

With my cover blown, I see no choice but to spread open my palm. The gleaming, bloody knife drops to the ground with a clang as it pings against a rock, and I can't but compare the weapon to my own throat; they both burn with disease. Now, it's only a matter of time for me to feel the initial symptoms. First comes fever, I think automatically.

Using my shirt as a rag, I brush the evidence off of my neck and cautiously inch out from the large oak tree. Once I get a clear view of the mangy shack, I search for him and his gun but come up empty. Where could he have fled so quickly? Then in a blink, out he pops from behind a metal barrel with a yellow and black radioactive symbol inlaid upon it. The area must be ridden with toxic air. Without a doubt, he's breathing it all in--like I am.

None of that matters now; I'm infected. I'm infected, after coming this far. Disappointment overrides any up-and-coming sadness.

Instinctively, I think to run. But I should just let him shoot me, right? I'm dead no matter what. But I can't give in that easy. Not after all I've done to survive this far. So instead, I innocently raise my arms up as the light-blond haired man edges my way, aiming down the sight of a large camouflaged rifle. He's locked in position, fully prepared to take my head off if I make any sudden movements.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice level and firm, expressing no sign of fear.

Rather than choosing to answer, I merely swallow, not letting any information go to this stranger.

"I said, who are you!" he shouts, his eyes widening a bit behind the scope of his gun. "Tell me or I'll blow the brains right out of your goddamn head."

I inhale a quick, shaky breath at the threat. Before giving him a reply, I clear my throat. "My name is Jane," I lie. "Doe."

The guy lowers his gun a few degrees, seemingly stunned by my remark. His face turns to an angry smirk as my fib sinks in. "Funny. Where'd you come from?"

I cross my arms as I near him. Does he see the blood all over me? Can't he tell I'm done for? "None of your business."

Offended, he raises his gun again and I cringe at the barrel. He must sense that I'm not here to hurt him though. Otherwise, I'm sure my head would no longer be sitting atop my shoulders.

In one fluid movement, he slings the gun around to his back and saunters over to pat me down. First, along my sides. Then, up my legs. I quickly get uncomfortable, but I am too afraid to move. He then yanks my near-empty bag off my arm and peers inside it. There's nothing but a set of keys and a practically dead, battery-operated water filter.

"Search all you want."

He chucks my backpack back at me hard, apparently discovering nothing of interest. As he turns to head into the shack, he stops to ask, "What's that on your shoulder?"

I hesitate. We both know what it is. Diseased blood that has plagued my skin from chin to collarbone. He may not know all that though. It depends on how well I wiped it off.

"Come with me," he says.

My eyes bug. Is he crazy? I'm infected. He knows I'm infected.

"You know, I'd rather just leave you alone and get out of here." I reject his idiotic offer to come inside and steer the other direction.

Without an ounce of humor, he chuckles. "I don't believe I gave you a choice."