The Decaying World Saga (Book 1): Tribes of Decay by Michael W. Garza Page A

the first accounts of the infected forming in groups, focused on a common purpose. It wasn’t an army by any means, but the infected came in waves. They drew the last of the living from one side of their fortification to the other. Smaller groups herded the dead into the openings left behind in the chaos. Once the infected got inside, the town was done for. Some believe the few people who escaped the fight were the original members of the Cheyenne Tribe.
    “Are you sure there’s enough time?” Mia asked.
    Rowan peeked around the corner of the building, leaning out as far as he could without taking a step. “Come here,” he said. “Look.” Mia slid out behind him and followed his hand to the edge of a structure a few streets away. The side of the water tower was nearly hidden between a pair of high-rises. “He’ll either be there or he won’t.”
    The water tower stood out on the horizon like a beacon the moment they crossed the street. They were a block away before Rowan finally came to stop. The entire base of the tower was comprised of a series of long, metal beams. The four structural beams were littered with decaying, dismembered bodies. The ground was burnt and blackened. Rowan’s eyes ran along the beams, finding the ladder entrance in shambles mid-way up the side. It appeared as if the door on top of the container had been torn apart. A smear of bloodstains around the entryway left little hope for survivors.
    “It doesn’t surprise me,” Mia said. “I can’t believe he’d survive up there very long by himself.”
    “Who knows how long he’s been coming here.”
    “Someone’s had to have seen him get in and out of there,” she said. “There’s more than the dead and infected to worry about around here.”
    Her warning was an important reminder. The Cheyenne Tribe got its moniker from the long dead city, but they were far from the only living people claiming ownership of the land. Cheyenne was littered with small clans, most of which lived as scavengers, but others were as nefarious as the walking dead or the infected. Rowan started toward the base of the tower and Mia grabbed his shirt.
    “What are you doing?”
    “We have to check and see if he’s up there.”
    “No we don’t.” Her eyes ran up the side of the closest beam and settled on the top section. “We’ll have to figure out another way.” She shook her head. 
    “It won’t take me very long, wait here and—”
    The sound was low, but out of place. Growing up in and around the decaying city had taught every member of the tribe how to listen for danger. The expanding size of Mia’s eyes validated the sudden pounding of Rowan’s heart. She already had her knife drawn and her legs spread for balance.
    They poured out into the street from a darkened doorway of a building adjacent to the water tower. Rowan counted half a dozen before he turned to run. He kept Mia in front of him, pressing on her back with one hand, trying to get her to move faster. It only took a few strides before the nimbler of the two started to pull away.
    The trailing group yelled at them in a perverse mix of dead-speak and animal calls, a telltale sign of the countless clans throughout the city that viewed the tribe as an enemy. Rowan had seen enough to know they weren’t infected and they were too fast to count among the undead. Several arrows whizzed by Rowan, missing their mark by a few inches. The growing roar of the pursuers told him they weren’t going to be able to outrun them.
    “We need to get inside one of those buildings,” he called out.
    “Which one?”
    “Any one!”
    Mia turned so fast Rowan nearly sprained his ankles trying to follow her. She dashed through a tall, broken window before he could reach her. Rowan leapt into a ground floor littered with debris. It took him a moment to find Mia; she was already heading up a wide staircase in the center of the building. He bound up the steps, four at a time, turning one floor up as the