One morning near the end of October not long before the cycle of day and night had become an oscillation of jet black to blood red (the billionaires crashed and burned in their attempted escape, triggering the Kessler syndrome which in turn resulted in blue light mostly scattering away on account of the earthly mist of space junk rendering the heavens at daytime a doomsday red), Ralph woke to hear sirens.

The perimeters of the Mall of America were closely guarded by a group of octogenarian bird watchers who had all given their last fucks a long time ago in this world with no more birds, led by the venerable William Moore who commanded the respect of the rest of them for being the only one among them who had ever seen the long-tailed Stresemann's Bristlefront—this army of incontinent sentinels worshipped at the alter of Moore.

Ralph entered the hall of computer mirrors, the security HQ, covering his ears and shouting indistinctively at the cucumber-calm Moore who sipped his root beer while keeping his eyes fixed on one screen in particular.

The sight itself was absurd, unthinkable—one woman alone slashed her way through the horde of zombies and she did it with a pixellated smile on her face. On the greenish-gray monitor she parkoured her way through the parking garage in a bulbing-thick parka. With a flick, Moore turned off the alarm and he looked up at Ralph with an expression that could only be described as heartfelt Stoicism. "She's all yours, Henderson," said the King of the Birds. "Get down there. Help her out. Find out if she's been bitten." He paused for a few seconds, then said grimly, "You know the protocol."

Ralph knew the protocol. A small cut on your inner thigh was enough to get you exterminated, and it didn't matter if you had a perfectly good explanation of how you got it that didn't involve any zombies—the MO of the MOA was radical risk management. It was how they'd prevented an internal outbreak, how they'd been able to stay alive for such a long time, and the raptorial cabal had made Ralph their henchman in such affairs though he personally couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the gut-wrenching horror of butchering those who had risked their lives to make it to the compound on account of miniature scratches behind ears, down the nape of their necks, under a crooked toe.

The barricade had stood unmoved for weeks, even months—Ralph had started to suspect there weren't any more survivors out there, only legions of undead on their drunkard's walk towards gray matter tartare, cerebrospinal juice; synaptic sushi and dendritic spaghetti. Clearing a path would be hours of work and Ralph steeled himself for the task ahead. That was when the woman broke through of her own accord.

Her Kool-Aid crash made him jump back in panic. She grinned. In her hand she held a long serrated blade, dripping with dark-red blood. A necrotic hand, severed at the wrist, clutched her left foot. "So this is the mall, is it?" she said, sheathing her blade. Blood spurted from the sudden pressure as she hadn't even bothered to wipe it off first. Ralph nearly fled. Nearly put a bullet between the woman's green eyes.

"Stand down," said Ralph. He pulled out his handgun and took aim at the stranger. "Remove your clothes. All of them."

She laughed. "Who are you? The TSA?"

The woman took off her parka, underneath which was a long-sleeve satin pajama top, cream white with faint dots of pink hearts. "As you can tell, I came to the mall to get a fresh outfit. The apocalypse took place while I was still in bed, you see, and I've been on the move ever since." She held out her hand. "I'm Bobby."

"All of them," Ralph repeated. He tightened his grip on the gun, tightened his lips.

Bobby looked down. Her pajama bottoms were shorts but there were no traces of either wounds nor bruises down her smooth legs, waxed with the precision of Mr. Miyagi. She noticed the hand holding on to her leg. She shook it off and it flopped along the floor, then it started moving like some pentapedal freak of nature.

Ralph took a step back. "That's a contaminant!" he cried, pointing his gun at the digital spider.

"I prefer a more hands-on approach," said Bobby. She walked over to the hand and to Ralph's horror, she picked it up as if it were a housecat and she flung it out the way she'd entered. She put a finger to her lip. "Or is this more hands-off?"

This stranger was unlike any other Ralph had ever met, and that included the Burmese world champion archer who spent most her days in the Barnes & Noble. Bobby allowed him to inspect her and to his great disgust she seemed to take pleasure in it. Afterward, they put the barricade back together again and Bobby's strength took Ralph by storm—she carried cinder blocks as if they were matches and with her assistance it took no more than fifteen minutes to get it all back together again.

He escorted her up to the HQ. Every other minute or so, she dragged him into an abandoned store. "You're not here to go shopping," Ralph grumbled.

She laughed. "Oh, but I told you that was why I came. I needed a new outfit."

Eventually they made their way up to the security room, past the guards armed to their dentures, and Ralph introduced Bobby to the legend himself—William Moore.

The King of the Birds took one look at her and gave a great sigh. "Oh, wonderful," he said. "You've killed us all, Ralph."

Ralph didn't understand. "Huh?"

"I guess I never told you explicitly. I told you not to let any zombies inside, but I never said the same about vampires."

"... Vampires?"

Bobby grinned, baring her fangs.