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She was always the one with the plan.  The maps from up north.  She joked that they were all just city kids but they each had their own skills.  The red head new horses, the little mousy brunette could cook anything over an open fire.  And he carried a knife, which in the long run was just enough.  She was the one with plans, the last one they joked about getting eaten.
Sadly, they were wrong.
It was a slow and unfortunate turn, the sort of thing that creeps up on you like a disease.  It started as a bad cough that made them all convince her to stop smoking with them.  Turned into a hack, with blood to boot and soon it was a low moan that didn't make any sense and her chasing them all down the long hallways of the dorm screaming for flesh.  They couldn't kill her, they told themselves, it was against everything in the friendship contract.  She would get better, or she would find herself a horde and live on in that form.  They were gonna get the fuck out.
The red head made the slow, quiet trek back into the apartment for the maps.  The smell of blood was sharp in the hallway and she sent up a silent prayer that the smart little doctor to be had died quickly.  But there was no time for remorse.  The backpack was heavy and she mostly dragged it down the stairs, lighter in one hand, hunting knife in the other.  They must have moved on, it seemed, now that the horde had redecorated the building the broken glass and blood.
The maps led north.  They found horses and water and a fresh supply of food every few towns.  They didn't run into trouble often, but they were smart and always kept moving.  It wasn't until they reached the middle of their journey that they realized they were being followed.  The maniacal cackle that had once been cute became a haunting cry.  The mousy brunette took it the hardest, laying awake a night, serenaded by the lone sounds of her once dear friend.
It seemed almost fair to the others that she would be the first to go, out alone gathering wood for the fire.  They imagined the two friends meeting, the little brunette smiling and baring her throat.  She didn't have much left to live for now, and it was poetic justice that she would feed her friend.
They made it across the border into the land of lakes, watching their back constantly.  It had  been a forced march for almost a week now and they were all tired.  The laughter had left them alone for so long now that a day of rest seemed safe.  They knew the last stretch by heart now, each had the little blue line leading to safety fresh in their minds.  The night wore on slowly and they spoke of times when it was easier.
The silence encased them and the low breathing of something horrible nearby cut off any nostalgia left in them.  The Norwegian stood, hunting blade in hand but it was the shine of the weapon that brought the final slaughter on.  The two watched as one friend devoured the other before she turned on them.  The smile that had once been a mainstay of life with her now turned on them with a mindless fury behind it.
She didn't rip their throats open, didn't attempt to remove their brains forcibly from their heads.  No, she did the more horrible thing and bit them each once on the arm.  It was a slow turn, but she remained around, watching, cooing at them softly until they all three spoke the same language.  And all they could think of was the blue line to safety.
So they took it.
He had been waiting for them.  Had gotten the call week before, the sad news putting him down for a long time.  But they had the maps and they needed a safe place and she had loved them so he would help them.  Canada hadn't been hit yet and if they were lucky they could make it to Alaska before full winter set in.  He waited out each day on the porch, watching the road for signs of travelers.  The shot gun sat on his lap no longer for coyotes but for wayward neighbors lost in time and anger.  It had all been as he had thought.  The plans fell into place so very perfectly.  He watched the forms mount the walk that morning in the fog and smiled to himself that he had been vindicated.  HE had been right.
But the loping, off kilter walk of the three figures was all wrong.  He cocked the gun but couldn't bring himself to shoot.  He had to know.
First out of the fog was the boy, tall and bearded and blank eyes.  The shot rang out and he dropped as though thankful to return to the soil.  Tired.  The other two moved together, slowly, almost as though linked by their arms.  The fog drew back and the gun dropped to his side.  The eyes were gone, lost in some violent thought but the face was the same, framed by dirty auburn hair.  A tear trickled down the side of his face and he pulled the gun around, letting the friends share the bullet that would take them down.
He buried them all in the back, wondering silently what had happened to the others.  The graves when unmarked, no need for people to know what was resting here.  But every day he waited out, on the back porch, to see if they would rise.