I have to get out of here, Emily thought frantically. But the front door wasn’t safe –there was practically a parade of zombies marching down the street, and any one of them could catch her. Could transform her into –into– into–one of them.
By the time the police arrived, there were three of us left. Three originals. Three best friends. Architects of what was once a secret society.
The difference between leaders and initiates was evident. We designed it that way, dictated that initiates wore the white of sacrificial lambs and us bloody red. No confusion over who appeared to be in charge.