Nate sighed and looked away, making me wonder why he was avoiding me—until I realized that he was listening into the night, making sure that it was only the two of us here. When he focused back on me, his expression was a different kind of bland, speaking of underlying anger, tightly leashed until it was time to let it all out. “Someone betrayed your rescue mission and warned the Chemist. Since we have no idea who, we can’t be sure they won’t do so again.”
“You think it’s someone who’s along with us?” With everything going on, I’d almost forgotten about that.
Nate shrugged. “No idea. Maybe not. Maybe their only job was to rat us out. They can continue to do that without a high chance of getting eaten.”
“They?” I echoed. “You think it could be a woman? Not that many choices.” My knee-jerk reaction was very focused on a single possible suspect, but I refused to believe that was true. “Do you really think Rita would betray you?” Just because she wouldn’t help us didn’t mean she’d sell us out.
I didn’t like how dispassionate Nate looked when he responded. “Deliberately? No. But if this clusterfuck of a situation that we are in has reminded me of anything, it’s that often good people end up in situations where they are forced to do not-so-good things.” He paused, but then shook his head. “No, I don’t think it’s her. She wouldn’t have needed to risk her hide leaving Dispatch to betray us. But as you keep reminding everyone and their mother, it’s often a fatal mistake people make when they assume you’re just a pretty face. I won’t make that mistake.” Another pause. “But no, I don’t think it’s a woman. Sadly, that only barely limits the pool of possible suspects. But it’s another reason why I’m glad I can hand you off to Richards and his men. Then both of us can concentrate on something else other than looking after each other and getting killed because we’re distracted.”
I had to admit, I was glad that he pretty much confirmed that he still trusted Richards with his—and now, more pressingly, my—life. The fact that Red had felt the need for a detour before joining us again hadn’t sat completely right with me, but he had explained that they had been on a mission before and likely had to get that underway before they could help us. And they had shown up, with backup and extra gear, and the second half of his group was now dutifully running wherever Zilinsky pointed. Or they were embedded where on their own they could never have gotten, in the perfect spot to tattle on us.
Why was I even concerned about the millions of zombies that, come tomorrow, would do their best to eat us? They sounded like the easier and way more predictable enemy for sure.
“Bree, I need you to promise me something as well.” Nate’s words made me frown at him, which was enough for him to go on. “I know you know this, and I know you’ve excelled in the past at ignoring this, but now I need you to promise me that you won’t play the hero. I mean it. Everyone knows that your friends are your biggest weakness. I can’t lose you because that’s what you are to me—my weakness. If worse comes to worst, I need you to let someone else die for you so you can get away. So you can fight another day. And if that means that you’re the only one of all of us who gets away, even if you have to walk from Texas to California or Utah, I need you to do that. Promise me.” I already had my mouth open—to say what, I wasn’t quite sure, but certainly not to agree—when Nate grabbed my arms, looking ready to shake some sense into me if need be. “Promise me!”
A million denials ran through my mind, starting with the point that it was unfair to expect anyone to die for me, and whether I’d even get the choice, but that was before the panic in his eyes registered. It was that small detail that fell into place like the last piece of the puzzle, and suddenly, his behavior since we’d taken over the camp took on a different meaning. The near-constant cold-and-warm behavior; how he could both seemingly ignore me and give me way more space than I needed, then turn around and give me concessions that surprised me because they almost went against his usual MO; the fact that he knew that I was highly competent and could take care of myself, but looked ready to beg me to wrap myself in layers of protective material so nothing could get close to me. I’d chalked some of that up to him dealing with all the shit that had happened to him and simply not having the mental capacity to factor in all my needs as well. Now I realized that I had been wrong: Nate was, indeed, factoring in my needs, likely prioritizing me way higher than was good for either of us—because he was scared shitless. Scared shitless of losing me; probably more of someone using me against him than me simply dying, but that was a very real possibility as well. Most other men would have been afraid for their own lives and sanities after what had been done to him, but if not quite taking that in stride, Nate was dealing with it in typical Nate fashion: accept that it happened and move on. Yet for whatever reason, something about that experience had turned his usually appropriate level of care and protectiveness for me into a manic bordering on hysteric need—and while I would have loved to shake it off as paranoia, I had the sinking feeling that the reason for that was that he was convinced that I was in real danger, and he couldn’t live in a reality where what he was afraid might happen to me would come to pass. Considering both our rap sheets, that made a shudder run down my spine that had nothing to do with the—thankfully lessening—withdrawal symptoms.
Considering all that, it was easy to give my answer—and mean it. “I promise.”
There was no relief on Nate’s face, hammering down just how serious this was for him. A mere token promise of mine not to get myself deliberately killed wouldn’t have done the trick. The fear clawing at the back of my throat was back, but now it had nothing to do with the danger we would be walking into come tomorrow. I didn’t say anything because I knew there were no words in the universe that could bring relief. I also didn’t try to jump his bones in an attempt to make myself forget, if only for the next twenty minutes or so. Nothing like feeling very small and oh so very mortal to act like a bucket of ice-cold water on my libido.
We could always catch up once this was over—if we were still alive.
“We should both try to catch what little sleep we still can,” I proposed, grinning at the irony of me of all people saying that. Then again, I wasn’t sure how many hours Nate had slept tonight, if at all. His wry smile told me he agreed—at least with the fact that me acting all mature was a novelty, and quite strange. Oh well. I was sure that, sooner or later, I’d get a chance to prove that was all just pretense.
“We should,” he replied, but made no move to return to the campsite. A few moments passed, making me wonder if I’d read the situation wrong and he was looking to score, but then he signaled me to turn around as he stepped closer. I couldn’t help but relax just a little as his arms wrapped around me from behind. We both stared up into the night where the Milky Way stretched, impossibly bright, across the dark sky above us. I couldn’t count the many evenings we’d spent together, staring at the spectacle up there, and for a second, it was easy to pretend that the past two months hadn’t happened, and we were still at our tree house, or maybe at the lake, or back at the caves, or one of our many other hideouts.
But that time was gone, and if I was honest, I was glad about that. Sure, it had been downright idyllic—but we’d always known that it wasn’t for forever, and things would get way worse way faster than we could anticipate. That had turned out to be terribly true—but we were still here, still standing; still fighting. And I would be damned if I let anything in the world change that.
Chapter 9
The mood in the car was, frankly put, subdued going on graveyard, but I didn’t find it within me to try to change it. I knew it was more than just bad practice not to sleep the night before what would be one awful tour de force, but at least the drugs had finally worn off, and most of the withdrawal symptoms were gone, too. I felt more like myself than in what seemed like months rather than the realistic week that it had been—which was great, seeing as being myself would be all the better if I got torn apart by the Dallas resident unde
ad population. Red was driving while I was riding shotgun, poor Gallager again exiled to the jump seat in the middle of the back row. The soldiers seemed more somber than depressed, as if staring their own mortality in the face was business as usual. In many ways, it probably was. For me? Not so much.
We had our gear ready to leave the car on a moment’s notice, but as it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. Twenty miles outside of our designated drop-off zone we ambled onto the highway to start the agonizing and slow trek toward Dallas. Even that far outside the city, the road was jam-packed with car wrecks, and no clean-up effort had even started, let alone shown progress over the past years. I’d been aware of how much the trade routes had been prepped, but only after seeing the stark difference here did it hit home how much work and man hours had been put into keeping traffic up across the country. In a sense, that made me hopeful for the future, but it also underlined just how devastatingly destructive the events of the past years had been. Our country was fighting, tooth and nail, but with the chokehold of insanity slowly but steadily killing progress. If I hadn’t had reasons aplenty for this mission, that realization would have been enough to make me dare the hike into Dallas ten times over.
Progress ground down to barely faster than walking speed, and we spaced out the cars farther and farther with every mile southwest, both out of necessity but also to attract the least amount of attention possible. The wrecks were abandoned for the most part but a few shamblers popped out of them whenever metal scraped on something, forcing us to mostly use the middle strip between the strips of tarmac, or the shoulders wherever not packed with mangled cars. There were traces of fires raging across the road and tornadoes hurling cars this way and that, which helped as much as hindered our progress. I thought the first few miles were bad, until we reached what I realized would be our final stopping point five miles outside what we’d hoped would be our drop-off, where a giant heap of metal blocked the entirety of the road. What seemed to have started out as a roadblock probably enacted by FEMA had turned into a barrier that nature had smashed cars on cars into, erecting a now permanent wall. Sure, we could have found a way around it and progressed forward, but it was too obvious a waypoint to ignore it. Even the smartest shamblers would have trouble overcoming that barrier while retreating humans could find ample cover. If we’d planned it, we couldn’t have produced a better fallback point.
Nate’s voice was clipped as he sent a brief command over the coms. “This is it.”
Because we had the time and opportunity, the drivers arranged their vehicles in a pattern set for a quick sortie that would let them peel off should we come back with seconds to spare to get away from snapping jaws and grabbing claws. I waited until Richards shut off the engine before I got out, the heat of the sun immediately sending rivers of sweat down my body. No, I hadn’t protested when I’d found out this morning that the assholes hadn’t cut their AC out, but had taken the short reprieve for what it was. My watch showed that it was just after ten in the morning, so the heat would get massively more awful still. Nothing I could do about that, so I made sure my shades and ball cap were covering as much of my face as possible, leaving the scarf loose around my neck for now. Even out here, the stench was eye-watering, and I’d soon be glad to have something to cover my mouth and nose—but until I absolutely had to, I would leave the bottom half of my face bare.
Everyone knew what they had to do, and setting out turned into a surprisingly orderly procession. Like the cars before, we spaced out the fireteams to ensure that there was enough distance between us that if one group drew unwanted attention, not everyone else would die the very next second. Nate, Hamilton, and the rest of my people went first, with Scott’s marines next. We were the second-to-last group, and by that time, Nate had turned into little more than a spec down the road, a good mile ahead of us. I’d been afraid that we would have over forty-five miles of duck-and-dash in front of us, but at least for now, as long as we went as silently as possible, we could walk, until someone roused a shambler out of its heat-and-sunlight-hours stupor. I’d debated for hours which main weapon to take with me and had finally settled on my shotgun, figuring that I was fucked anyway if I had to use it, but then close-quarter damage might buy me a few more seconds. I also had two handguns, and ammo for assault rifles, which, should I need it, I could likely pick up from someone else who couldn’t use his any longer. The shotgun was on its sling now and my tomahawks were in my sweaty hands. I was praying that, like in the past, I would be able to use them moderately silently and efficiently.
I had the distinct feeling that, should I be wrong, I’d have very little time to regret my decisions.
Hours passed, the heat of the day getting worse and worse—and with the slowly dwindling distance to the city, the stench increased exponentially, soon making breathing difficult even when I covered my nose and mouth with the scarf. I’d expected it to get bad, but it was much worse than that. The tornado that must have created the roadblock where we’d left the cars must have done more cleanup than had been apparent, because once we traipsed into relatively undisturbed territory, I soon felt like we were trudging through a garbage dump. It wasn’t even the stench of the dead so much as everything else and the terrible mixture that cacophony of stench created. More than one of our merry band ended up hunched over, retching as stealthily as possible. The heat and latent dehydration only added to that.
In short, before long, getting ripped apart by zombies didn’t sound that horrible anymore. At least then I’d be rid of this misery.
During the worst of the afternoon heat, we hid wherever we found shade for brief intervals. As much as the hot daytime hours were safest for us from a getting-eaten perspective, none of that would help if we ended up dying of heatstroke instead. While feeling miserable, I was happy to realize I was doing moderately well, as were the other girls. One of Scott’s marines collapsed mid-stride, forcing that team to take a somewhat longer break—which was easily facilitated by shuffling them to the very end of our procession, buying that poor guy another twenty minutes extra from that alone. Since we were making relatively good progress, Nate ordered everyone to keep hydrating, but to make sure not to end up puking from too much hot water sloshing in our stomachs. Even if we ran out and couldn’t find a moderately clean source to replenish, we stood a good chance of running on fumes for a good two more days after the last drop was spent, but collapsing for good before that would be a death sentence—Scott’s guy was a good warning for that. He was still looking queasy but was able to resume the journey after that little extra respite.
At least for the first ten miles, things looked moderately doable. A few times one of the teams met with some sluggish, rotten-down-to-the-skeleton opposition but overall, the highway was blissfully free of shamblers. The area surrounding the highway was more rural than I expected, with lots of free space. Beyond, homes and single-story stores started to cluster closer together—and I had no doubt that the ever-thickening maze of buildings was home to critters, particularly of the two-legged kind—but our route was, if not clear, passable on foot. Enough obstacles were piled up or haphazardly strewn across the lanes and surrounding area to make walking in a straight line for a minute or longer impossible, but there was no need to climb over or squeeze under anything. It was impossible not to notice that looting had virtually not taken place, making me guess that the outbreak had hit the city hard and fast, the only wave of looters present becoming food for the first zombies to spring back to life. Of the few doors we could see, most had been busted open—or were next to broken windows—typical of escaping undead ready to go foraging after devouring everything they’d been able to find wherever they had been locked in. While I was sure they had in the years since then scoured every inch of the city for edible things, there must be tons and tons of other things left that enterprising assholes like us could have put to good use. Maybe in a decade or two from now enough of the undead would have been killed or wandered off to reclaim some of those treasures
.
Staying alert got hard past the six-hour mark, and impossible at eight. The sun was still blasting down on us, the hottest hours of the day just about over but leaving us no less miserable for it. Ahead, I could see an interconnected web of roads rise up at an intersection—that of the turnpike crossing our highway. A light level of trepidation started up at the back of my mind—shamblers loved tunnels—but as we drew closer, I realized that while there was inviting shade, little of it was permanent. I was so fucking glad to realize that Nate called for a stop once they reached the middle of the first overpass that I could have whooped, and almost did until my mind cut down on my accidental, suicidal impulsiveness. Right.
Scott’s group behind us reached the rest just a minute after we arrived. I was honestly surprised that we were still at full strength, but our trip had, so far, turned out rather anticlimactic. I sure hoped it would continue like that, but doubted that would happen. Nate—having spent the twenty-five-minute rest wisely that he got until we caught up with them—was already on his feet while most others lounged on the dried-up grass or against a car wreck. Vain little me expected him to at least give me a smile but he went straight over to Cole, the two of them conversing in hushed tones. Cole looked less than happy from whatever he was told, but after stalling for a second he dropped his pack and, using slow and deliberate motions, extricated something from the very top of it. A small drone, I realized—what must have been one of the last still in existence. Or not; for all I knew, the army had bunkers full of them stashed away somewhere. They must have had that one along when they met up with us to storm the camp, but the terrible weather kept it from being useful. Now, in the heat without any noticeable wind blowing, it was much better suited for reconnaissance.
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