Free Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga by Michael Cairns

thanks to the large man in the too-small t-shirt beside her.  
    What was he doing out, anyway? It was seven in the morning and there was no way he was going to work, so why was he even here? She sniffed, wrinkled and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. It came away with a hint of foundation and she sighed again.  
    'Cheer up, love, can't all be bad.'
    He was speaking to her, with one of those smiles that says 'I'm talking to you but I'm thinking about your breasts.' She tried to imagine him undressed, but all she could picture was bulging white skin covered in hairs and spots and she clamped her lips together and swallowed.  
    'Really, I mean, think about it? What have you got to be grateful for?'
    God, he was still trying. Actually, that was a good question. The doctor had told her to think about that when she had moments like this. She looked anew at the man in the t-shirt. Had he had cancer? Maybe he still had it. She opened her mouth and closed it again.  
    Stupid. Of course he didn't, he just lucked on the question. It was still a good one though. What was she grateful for? She was grateful for Mum and Dad. She was grateful for having her job and how nice they'd been about it all. She was grateful she no longer noticed the absence on the other side of the bed.  
    Getting rid of the photos had helped. Having her there, staring at her every time she walked in the door was the height of stupidity, but she hadn't been able to just cut her out of her life. Even if Tanya had tried her best to do exactly that.  
    But the space was just space now. It wasn't a Tanya-shaped space; nor was it a lack on her part, some fictional issue she had that drove other women away. Now it was just space. So she was grateful for that.  
    She blinked. The big man was staring at her, nodding and smiling. 'There's something, isn't there?'
    She nodded and flushed, putting her hand to her throat. Maybe he had got it, or had it. Maybe it didn't matter. The therapist said it might have come from her anger. She'd laughed at him, in his posh shirt and tight jeans. He looked like a therapist as much as she did, but he was deadly serious.  
    'Our diseases come from somewhere, Samantha. Often we cause them ourselves. You carry a lot of anger, too much, I fear. What are you so angry about?'
    She hadn't been able to tell him. It was only the second appointment and she was in pieces, waking up five times a night to prowl around the flat and read websites on the C word. Four months later, she still couldn't tell him. How do you explain to someone that you've always been angry?  
    She didn't know where it came from, or why it came, but the world was flawed and no one else seemed to realise. No one else saw the hurt and rudeness and destruction and crappiness that went on every day, so no one else got angry about it.  
    The tube rolled into Embankment and she got off. She managed to flash the big man a grateful smile and he gave a little wave, the kind big men who should be smaller give. His face followed her all the way to the office. She should have said something. She should have said what she was grateful for, and that right then, she was grateful for him.  
    She stopped her lip from curling into a sneer as she crossed reception.  
    'Good morning, Miss Frane.'
    She raised a hand as she made for the lift. She had meetings today, but she was exhausted. She'd stopped sleeping again. The doctor said the chemo would do that, but for all his warnings, she wasn't ready for it. It was like she ran a marathon in her sleep, and when she woke up she just wanted to go back to bed.  
    She could manage the first hour or so. Habit, and the determination to not give in got her out of the house. Then it hit and she staggered to the tube. The rest on the way gave her enough energy to get into her office but now she could hardly stand. She checked her schedule. Meeting after meeting after meeting. The pad was wet and with a sniff of realisation, she