I was nine years old when it happened. Somehow, it was different from the horror comics I loved . . . there was no neat explanation, no reason at all why the dead would not stay buried.

Isolated from the cities as we were, we had not been much exposed to the menace. We had burned our cemeteries, but the forests were still home to the shambling undead.

I don't know why we believed the traveling man. My parents took me to the mall, along with much of the rest of the town's population. A slightly wild-eyed showman in a dirty doctor's coat was going to reveal to us something he'd discovered, some kind of zombie repellent, some way to keep them from finding us. I remember thinking that he looked like a young Judd Nelson, from the movies they used to show on the television before the signals stopped. He was standing on a platform atop a huge tank of murky fluid, beads of liquid leaking out the hastily-soldered seams. I cried when the first dead face pressed against the glass . . . I'd never been so close to one before.

It went hideously wrong, of course (zombies floating like a slow ballet, reminiscent of Berni Wrightson's water vampires). Perhaps his formula was a little off. Perhaps the presence of all those people overrode the repellent, caused them to frenzy. There was blood in the water. They converged.

When the walls of the tank shattered, the contagion spread through the fleeing crowd like wildfire . . . those who were bitten or scratched transformed quickly, the rot blossoming on their skin, their faces turning feral, turning on their neighbors. Those trampled underfoot soon arose, snapping indiscriminately at ankles, their clutching hands like deadly snares. My father didn't make it out.

Something broke inside my mother that night . . . she stopped leaving the house, stopped leaving the bed except to wash occasionally. Somehow, the men of the town knew . . . they were drawn to her like flies to rotting meat. They left gifts of food and trinkets (I devoured the books, but the toys gathered dust). I learned to hunt small game from a visitor who took pity on me, seeing how hollow my eyes had become. I would crawl through the window of an abandoned house and board it up behind me, so that I could skin and gut my game without the blood-scent attracting the dead.

After a while, her belly grew big, and the visits from the men became less frequent.

When my mother started screaming, I went for the doctor. He midwifed the baby, muttering under his breath at the smell of the room. He told me how to take care of her, since my mother's eyes were empty and her hair was snarled. Every day, I brought her to my mother's seeping breasts. I named her Rosalia, after a character in a book I'd read once. She was so beautiful.

I took her with me everywhere. When the man in the black priest's robe came, and gathered the adults of the town, I crept into the shadows of the tent with her in her sling. He told them about his plan, to gather materials from the empty houses, to create a Store that would serve the community in exchange for labor credits. The adults were so happy to have someone to tell them what to do again. Work began immediately.

Six years passed. The fields were plowed, and a couple of expeditions had been made to neighboring towns (one a burned-out shell, the other guarded by shotgun-wielding farmers) to bring back a few skinny cows and horses. Our town was becoming prosperous, the people re-learning the ways of the land, keeping a vigilant eye out for the dead that lurked in the forests. The first dead had been reduced to twitching skeletons with rags for flesh, but there were always new ones, drawn by some unerring compass to the existence of life.

They had a particular fondness for young girls, or so it seemed . . . it became a custom that children traveled in pairs, preferably with an adult along. Still, a number of little girls went missing. Rosalia was walking by then, of course, and she held my hand everywhere we went.

She was almost supernaturally lovely. Each day, she bloomed a bit more -- wavy redgold hair, doll-like cheeks. I had outgrown dolls, was rangy and flinty-eyed, with short-cropped hair and a figure that didn't invite second glances. I lavished all of my forgotten girlishness on my sister . . . she was always immaculate in one of the stash of pretty dresses that I'd found in an empty house on the outskirts of town, while I was often dusty and patched at the knees. I brought our mother food out of habit, and she devoured it without leaving her nest of musty blankets.

Little Sister had a favorite pillow that she carried with her everywhere -- almost like a security blanket, and she would take naps on it while I set out my traps. I think that the comfort mattered more than anything . . . she had known no other world than this, and the pillow offered her more softness than the one parent she knew. I did my best to make up for it, of course, but she was still attached to our mother despite her continued retreat from reality.

One day, in the woods, while checking my traplines, we heard branches breaking as something large stumbled through the thickets. The snuffling sound, followed by a low moan, told us that it was one of the dead . . . and the stench was growing closer, rank and sickly-sweet. Before I could react, it was upon us -- it had been a man, once, and its wormy jaws gaped eagerly in its sagging face. A formerly-white shirt strained around its maggot-ridden flesh.

I froze, trying not to move or breathe, but Rosalia's shocked gasp drew its attention. I threw myself in its path as it snatched at her with rotting, greedy hands.

Gathering Rosalia in my arms, I ran, for my life and hers, until my breath was ragged and a burning stitch formed in my side. It felt like her weight had doubled by the time my steps finally faltered and Rosalia's screaming stopped.

Thankfully, the dead are slow, so I had soon outpaced it. Rosalia's pillow, however, had been left behind in the clearing . . . and I couldn't risk going back, not with the dead probably still pawing at the traps. Little Sister was inconsolable.

Most of the houses had been stripped of their contents by now -- searchers for the Store had broken into the locked ones, boarding shut the doors and windows so that they didn't become havens for the dead.

I had no labor credits, because my hunting and gathering couldn't even keep us fed (the infrequent gifts from the men who almost never came now were the only thing that allowed us to keep going). Those who looked twice at me, instead of my now-gaunt mother, were sent packing with a knife-edged smile and a threat to their manhood. I swore that I would never be touched by anyone, and I touched no one but Rosalia.

I hoped, though, that the priest would take mercy on us, and perhaps trade for some uncured hides or bits and pieces found in our foraging. I would do anything to stop Little Sister from crying.

Inside the Store, vacant-eyed women wandered the aisles, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over fancy clothes and gaudy trinkets. They had kept up their routine of shopping as recreation, even though they never bought anything anymore. It was a piece of normalcy that they clung to tenaciously, although I couldn't understand why they'd want to be reminded of the world that once was.

The Store was still pretty well-stocked with household items, since not too many people wanted ceramic bowls and leather luggage these days, at least not enough to trade labor credits for them. We found the bedding section, and Little Sister fell in love with a set of beautiful persimmon-printed sheets and pillowcases.

The priest walked into the room just in time to overhear the tail-end of my argument with the man serving as a clerk, my reckless promises. In a kindly voice, he told the clerk to holster his weapon, that he knew that Little Sister and I had no one to care for us, and that we deserved to have some charity from the community. He asked about our food supplies, and applauded the way I'd taken care of Rosalia.

A buried warning tried to struggle to the surface, something about the avid way in which he looked at her . . . but I pushed it down. After all, he was a priest, and the Father of our community.

The priest began visiting our house, always taking time to bring a boiled sweet or a toy for Little Sister. His eyes were always focused on her, and he warned me never to leave her alone, because of the dangers that little girls faced in this world.

He never touched our mother.

The priest told us stories . . . (Eve's temptation and fall, the book of Revelations and the End Times that are now upon us, the curse that was laid upon women, the blood that will evidence that shame). He warned me that, should the curse come upon me, I must send Rosalia to him, to keep her safe while I bled. He said that the dead would be able to smell me if I went outside the house during the time of uncleanliness.

The first time it happened to me, I thought I was dying. Knifed with pain, I kissed Little Sister on the forehead, wrapped her tight in my arms, reassured her through my own fright. I sent her to him. God help me, I sent her to him.

I hid in the top floor of the house, rigid with fear. Every sound seemed like one of the dead, attracted by the scent of a woman's sin. When the slow, dragging footsteps resounded on the floorboards, I waited, tensed, for the pawing at the door to start. Instead, I heard whimpering . . . a breath with a desperate catch, a broken-hearted sob. The dead don't cry.

I ventured downstairs slowly, the drumming of my panicked heart drowning out the sound of the chill November rain. A sodden heap of clothing lay just inside the open front door. It shuddered and keened. It was Rosalia. She was wearing new red shoes.

I ran to her, taking her face in my hands. I couldn't comprehend her white lips, her shellshocked eyes. There was blood on her, too. The words fell over themselves, tripping out of my mouth, but Rosalia was beyond understanding. She shivered despite my arms around her, and her lips moved with only a murmur of sound.

I carried her upstairs. Despite her size, she was deceptively light . . . as if her soul had flown from within her body. I lay her down on the bed and peeled her wet clothes off, and I saw what he'd done to her.

She flinched and tried to cover herself, and the first coherent sentence escaped her . . . "Mustn't tell. He showed me what he did to the girls who told . . . mustn't mustn't mustn't tell. I don't want to be one of them. I don't want him to hurt you. How can he live with them like that? I can't . . . can't . . ." Her eyelids fluttered closed.

Frantically, I added logs to the fire and water to the cookpot. I had to warm her before she slipped away entirely. I washed her body, washed away the evidence of his depravity. Still, I couldn't get her truly clean. Despite the waste, I drained the bathtub . . . I couldn't bear to immerse myself in that same water. Her skin had warmed a bit, but she was still clammy and far too pale.

I piled every blanket in the house atop her, even snatching a few from our mother's clawlike grip. Little Sister's eyes moved beneath her lids, and her lashes parted, but she couldn't see me. Her vision seemed focused on some dark place inside, and my words only reached her through a haze of distance.

"I promise, Rosalia. He will never touch you again. I swear it with my life."

Telling our mother to care for her was worse than useless, so I placed food within her easy reach, and a pitcher of water. I took the longest knife from the kitchen rack, and stropped it razor-sharp. In too much of a hurry to let the water get properly hot, I sloshed the cookpot into the tub and clambered in. I must wash away the taint. My foot slipped as I hastily climbed in, and my head hit the back of the tub with a jaw-smashing thud.

How had I ever thought that this was warm? It's cold, so very cold, and the rain through the window is turning red . . .

I struggle back to consciousness. I am lying in the cold tub, my eyes open. A plume of blood is in the water. Mechanically, I wash myself, trying to remove the thick coppery smell clinging to my skin. I cannot let the dead find me, not now.

Rosalia is still sleeping in the bedroom. She shudders when I kiss her cheek, and her eyelashes part. I vow to her, rusty-voiced, that she will be safe. Her eyes drift closed again. Some of the color has returned to her face.

The rain seems to have caused the dead to retreat to shelter, their rotting flesh no match for the driving needles of water falling from the sky. I weep soundlessly as I walk, the tears and the rain indistinguishable. My skin is cold and clammy, nipples hard, hair in trailing snakes. Nothing accosts me, despite my state.

Wet clothes clinging to my body, I enter the priest's dwelling. He is waiting for me.

He has anticipated the knife, wresting it easily from my grasp. I have never fought with anything larger than a rabbit, and my half-grown muscles are no match for his experience and strength. Despite my purpose and my fury, he overpowers me. An anguished sound escapes my lips.

The knife against my throat holds no fear for me, but my arms are viciously twisted behind my back and no amount of struggling gets me free. He drags me into his workroom. There are strands of my sister's hair on the table.

Against the walls, small figures struggle to rise. Some are too far gone to do more than jerk convulsively, others are close to fresh. Their naked skins are mummified or cadaver-green, their mouths and withered rosebud lips obscured behind metal grilles screwed into their flesh. They grab weakly at the air, peeled-back nails and ivory fingerbones reaching for our struggling bodies. On the walls are macabre decorations made from human skins, some adult-sized . . . perhaps those who were told, and came to confront the priest as I had done.

Jackknifing my torso, I try to drag the priest into their avaricious hands, but he easily evades them, shoving me into the table hard enough to double me over. Blackness fills my vision, the stuttering fireworks of neurons burning out behind my eyes. While I am still reeling, he pushes me towards the apparatus he must use to create his automata, a cross nailed to the wall with cuffs and straps affixed to it, the wood so saturated with blood and fluids that its original color is indistinguishable. Securing my waist with a leather belt, vicious words froth from his lips, telling me what he'll make of my body, and what plans he has for my sister.

My near-adult body is too tall for the manacles, and he struggles for a moment to secure my left wrist, my body twisted and my right hand, for a moment, free. There is a low table next to the torture frame, filled with shining blades. I grab for them, but he kicks the stand aside. Wailing and gnashing my teeth, I snap at him, but he dodges the bite adroitly, laughing cruelly. He bends down to pick up a piece of rope from the stained tile floor.

There is a syringe still within reach . . . I stab it into my chest, a moment's pain well-worth his look of horror as he straightens to see it filling with my now-black blood ("If you prick me, do I not bleed?") Before he can react, I jam it into his shoulder and press the plunger. His eyes glaze over in seconds, and his lips peel back.

The children whine to see the spark of life taken from their eager grasp. I fumble with the catches on the manacles with fingers grown stiff and clumsy. The priest staggers towards the door.

I had fallen, in that bathtub, and hit my head. The blood in the water had been the end of my life. But I will protect my sister from this man, if it's the last thing I do.