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His gaze drops to the floor, shadowed and hollow.
“He said if we stopped helping people, then we were worse than the undead.”
The words hit too close. Some part of me still believes helping is the line between surviving and becoming something ugly. I don’t know what it says about us if the safest choice is leaving a screaming man to die.
I step closer before I can overthink it and rest my hand on Carlos’s arm. The muscle there is rigid, coiled, holding him together by force.
“Thank you, Carlos. For warning us.”
His attention flicks to my hand.
He doesn’t pull away.
A small miracle.
Then his shoulders square, his expression hardens, and whatever door cracked open gets shoved closed.
Hard.
“We need to get the supplies,” he says, voice steadier now. “Clothes, food, whatever you need. Then we leave. The longer you stay, the more likely they’ll find you.”
Jacob nods. “Then we won’t waste time.”
Everyone starts moving at once. Straps get yanked tight. Zippers rasp. Metal clicks as weapons are checked and rechecked. Jacob drops into a crouch over the maps, dragging a finger across a route while Carlos leans in, correcting him with a quick shake of his head and a quieter path through side streets. Trish counts under her breath as she reloads, snapping the magazine into place with practiced ease. Lyla adjusts the knife at her thigh, then checks the weight of her pack like she’s already calculating how fast she can move with it.
Joanie doesn’t move. She stands there, arms crossed, staring at Carlos like she’s deciding whether to punch him again or say something dangerously close to kind.
Finally, she exhales. “Well, fuck.”
We all glance at her.
She doesn’t look away from him. “This makes me hate you a little less, Peaches.”
Carlos huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, one hand dragging down his face. “Give it time. I’ll fix that.”
She tilts her head, slow, a sharp smile pulling at her mouth. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
We pack the rest quickly. My hands move on autopilot. Ammo into the side pocket. Water secured. Med kit tucked where I can grab it without looking. The motions are familiar. Steady. A tiny thread of control in a world that keeps yanking the floor out from under me.
I’m stuffing a roll of bandages into my pack when my hand closes around something that doesn’t belong with cans and batteries.
A dull gray block wrapped in plastic.
I lift it carefully between two fingers. “Is this what I think it is?”
Lyla turns.
So does Trish.
Jacob’s eyebrows rise. “Please tell me you’re holding weird modeling clay.”
I stare at the block in my hand. “Unless someone stamped their arts and crafts supplies C-4, no.”
The room goes very quiet.
Trish looks at Carlos. “How do you have C-4?”
Carlos shrugs, already shouldering his pack. “Police station. They had some wild things locked up.”
