The World Without a Future
Date: 2013-11-29 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Zombies; Dystopia; Post Apocalyptic; Horror; New Adult; Science Fiction; Romance; Thriller; Paranormal; Young Adult
Description: She was born the day the world ended… Nurrin has lived her entire life with zombies—trapped behind walls meant to keep them safe. She’s mostly happy there. But when a zombie horde breach the walls of her Haven, she has to trust her brother, Collin, and his best friend to keep her alive. He just wants his past to die… Finn O’Malley has given up on voicing warnings that are ignored. No one cares that the zombies are changing. Now all that matters is keeping Collin and Nurrin safe from what’s outside the walls of a Haven. But when Nurrin’s best friend picks up a contact infection, he agrees to ge
Publisher: A&A Literary

The World Without End

By

Nazarea Andrews

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products.

The World Without a Future © 2013

The Horde Without End © 2014

The Future Without Hope © 2014

The Ruin of the World © 2015

Dinner in the Haven, The Road Less Travelled, The Girl Who Fought the East, Claiming the East, Excerpt The Blood Scion © 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Nazarea Andrews

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by A&A Literary

1. Zombies 2. Romance 3. New Adult 4. Post Apocalyptic

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, address Nazarea Andrews @ NazareaFYI@gmail.com
www.nazareaandrews.com

Edited by Brianna Shrum

Cover design by Mel Stevens of the Illustrated Author

Cover art copyright©: Nazarea Andrews

The World Without a Future

The World Without End, book 1

Nazarea Andrews

Part 1

The Girl Without a Birthday

*

We know we're getting old when the only thing we want for our birthday is not to be reminded of it.

~Author Unknown

**

The children born the Day of Death will be the key to our salvation.

Their death will bring new life to our world.

From The Writings of the High Priest

Chapter 1

Phantoms of a Dead World

I was born the day the world died.

Sometimes, when my brother—he’s all I have left—talks about that time, I wish I had been alive for it. I wish I had seen it—shopping malls, grocery stores, even playgrounds without razor wire fencing and armed guards.

Then again, I don’t always believe him. Who the hell goes somewhere open and exposed without some visible protection?

I think the ones who were born after the change were lucky. We don’t know enough to miss the old life. We didn’t lose anything. We’ve always had the infects, the razor wire and guns, the drills.

We’ve always lived behind walls.

Sometimes, I’ll see Collin watching the horizon, watching the clouds scuttling over the walls, and I know he misses it—the freedom of travel, of life without our fences. And I’ll pity him, a little. Because he is old enough to know exactly what was lost twenty years ago.

The day that I was born.

Chapter 2

Early Mornings in Hellspawn

I wake up to warmth, an arm thrown over my hips, pulling me into him. I smile, a happy little movement. It's still new, this thing between Dustin and me. New enough that waking up next to him is a little bit thrilling. I snuggle closer to him and feel his lips curve against my neck. "You’re awake," he says, drawing me to him. He shifts, so I'm pinned under him as he grins down at me.

Dustin. The best friend I've known my whole life—or long enough that nothing else matters. He came to the Hive when his parents were relocated to Hellspawn—Haven 8, to the rest of the world.

Walked with me to and from our daily classes. Protected me from the bullies and new Walkers looking to make an impression.

He was the big brother whenever Collin wasn't around. He was with me when Collin Walked the wall for the first time.

And he kept me safe, kept my name and what I was quiet.

He leans down and kisses me, and I arch up to meet it. It still shocks me, the first brush of soft lips, the intensity that builds up beneath it, the fact that the hands that have cradled and helped me are holding me again, differently. Warming and gentle as he strokes over my arm and eases my sleep top down. Outside the tiny window, I can hear the low clang of the church bell.

"Stop," I murmur, catching his hand as it slips under my shirt. "Collin is on his way."

Resignation flickers across his face, and he nods. "I should get dressed."

I prop myself up and watch as he crawls from bed, his smooth, unscarred chest rippling with motion. I grin, and he smirks at me. "See something you like?"

I shrug. "Maybe."

He laughs and leans down to kiss me. Beyond the thin cloth barrier, I hear keys in the front door and the tumble of the locks being slid back. Dustin winks and slides out of my tiny room.

There's a frozen moment as the door opens and my brother and Dustin face off. Then, a low, softly accented voice mutters, "Get out of the way, Collin."

My lips curl in disgust. Of course he's here. He seems attached at the bloody hip to Collin these days. My brother's voice, deep and steady and reminiscent of everything safe, fills the small apartment. "You should head home, Finn."

The air goes still, and I hold my breath. Danger changes the way the air feels, the way it moves around you. It feels charged, somehow. I feel it during a breech, when zombies swarm sections of the Haven. I feel it again, now.

Then I hear heavy footsteps and Dustin releasing the breath he's been holding.

"Is she asleep?" Collin asks.

"Yes."

"I like you, Dustin. You've been good to Ren— protected her as much as you can and been a solid friend."

"Thank you, sir. I try."

“How long has this been going on?”

Dustin shifts, clears his throat. I grin—he’s intimidated by my tall, quiet brother. Always has been. “Long enough.”

I hear Collin sigh and drop his bag on the table, the blades inside clattering noisily. “I can’t stop this—and don’t even want to. But have a little discretion, huh? She’s my baby sister.”

I flush, but lie quiet and still. Dustin mumbles something, and Collin steps over to the door. “She’ll meet you downstairs for work duty. Go on.”

The door clangs shut, and Collin sighs again. I should have told him about this—about the night at the track three weeks ago, when Becks said something nasty and rude to me and Dustin pulled me back before I punched her. About him dragging me down the beaten dirt path and calming me down, and me leaning up and kissing him, a kiss fueled by aggression and liquor and the simmering attraction that had been getting harder and harder to ignore.

I didn’t though, because Collin didn’t have anyone—hadn’t had a woman in his life since before he Walked the wall. The only people who mattered to Collin were me and his best friend.

I step out of my curtained bedroom when Collin calls me for the fifth time. He’s glaring at his watch and points abruptly at my breakfast. A mushy apple and a piece of stale toast. Ration day is still two days away, and we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. Because Collin gave the orphans next door some of our rations. Again. I toss the apple at him wordlessly, grab my bag off the floor, and head for the door.

“Where’s your gun?” Collin calls out.

I stop, lifting my work shirt to expose the snubnose revolver tucked into a holster on my hip. It’s my favorite, because Collin gave it to me, when I turned ten. That was the year Mom died. “And I have my 9mm in my bag. And my knife in my boot,” I say.

That’s his rule. Three weapons any time I leave the house. And four back up rounds of ammo.

We haven’t had a breach in Haven 8 in six months. The last one was in sector four, down by the tracks. Completely other side of Hellspawn. But Collin never lets up—every morning when he stumbles in from Walking, before I leave for work, he checks my weapons.

I guess if I watched everyone I knew die, I’d be super careful with my baby sister too.

Collin follows me to the door, leaning against the wall as I begin to undo the locks. “What do you want for your birthday?”

It’s that time of year again, and I bite my tongue on my answer. A party. A real one, with cake and laughing, music and dancing, presents. A party where people aren’t looking morose and crying and talking about that day twenty years ago, when everything changed. A party not tainted by mourning, incense, and the screams from the Order’s victims.

I don’t say that, because a party isn’t possible— not for me. Not on Day One. So I shrug and try to look like it’s not a big deal, even though Collin sees through me, and always has. “A new bag would be good—this one is getting ratty,” I say, holding up the bag I’ve been carrying since he handed it down to me.

His eyes narrow, assessing me, and I grin at him. He’s not buying it, but I just need to get out the door. By tonight, he’ll be too tired to ask me about my birthday. Or Dustin. We’re both pretending that didn’t happen, which I’m perfectly okay with.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I step out, yelling, “Bye, stay safe!” I let the door slam shut on his words and dart into the wide open hallway.

Collin hates living in the complex. He says that during the change, they were deathtraps, whole floors being changed and spilling out on the next until the entire complex was one hungry infection. Narrow hallways and no way out made for a chute of death that left no one alive.

That was at first. It took a while, once the change hit, for the survivors to learn how to fight back. How to survive.

“Nurrin!”

My name ringing through the hallway jerks me from my musings, and I whip around to glare at Dustin. “What the hell did I say about that name?”

He grins at me, wrapping a thick arm around my shoulders and squeezing me into his side. “Sorry, Ren. But you weren’t answering.” He frowns down at me, and I flush. “You okay?”

I pull away, adjusting my bag, and nod. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Dustin opens his mouth. And closes it again. Smart boy, he is. Then again, he’s been with me long enough that he should know when not to push.

I slam out of the Hive, and I’m immediately stopped, a tiny red laser dot painted on my chest. “Slow the fuck down, Ren,” Billy growls. I flip him the bird as Dustin drags me away.

“Biters, girl, what the hell is wrong with you?” he mutters as I amble after him in the street. It’s clogged with workers headed to the orchards, parents to the factory, soldiers coming off shift on the wall. All of us moving at a glacial pace because moving too fast would be distressing. “Are you upset about Collin catching us this morning?”

I don’t want to answer him—he’s annoyed enough, and if I do answer, he’ll just think I’m being moody. I chew on my lip and ignore the question. “No. I’m just tired—and hungry. Rations are low.”

Dustin changes the subject. “Do you think we’ll be in the apples today?”

I shake my head. “Cherries. Kelly said they finished the apples last week.”

Everyone in Hellspawn works the orchards or fields, twice a week. It keeps us fed without devoting half the Haven’s population to it. It’s boring work, and I would rather be on the wall, but I have another year before I’m allowed to even apply for training.

Even then, I have to have a secured sponsor. Collin works the wall, but he’d never go for me up there. The only friend he has on it is Finn.

And I’d rather walk naked and unarmed a mile from the wall than ask Finn O’Malley for a damn thing.

Chapter 3

The Bells Toll

I was right. We work the cherry trees, which puts me at the top of a tree, picking fruit from the fragile branches and praying I don’t fall, while Dustin stands on a ladder, filling buckets from the lower, thick branches and laughing with the girls who come to take our crop.

I swallow another curse as I hear Becks Lawson laughing at something Dustin says. I zip my pouch full of cherries closed and swing down, so quick I almost lose my grip a few times, scurrying faster than a squirrel.

“Biters, Ren,” Dustin says, when I’m a few branches above him. “You need to be careful.”

I throw the pouch at him. “Hurry up.”

He unzips the bag, and, even from here, I can see him pale. His head snaps up as he drops it like it’s on fire. Becks screams, a little, and I’m suddenly conscious of the blood on my palms and the speed I’m moving at.

Both signs of infection.

Dustin whips around, clamping a hand over Becks mouth before she can scream it, and I’m so relieved I’m dizzy. I’m not infected—I can’t be, I haven’t been exposed to an infect in over six months. Not since before the last breach. I’m clean, dammit.

“She’s clean,” he’s whispering, “There’s not a damn thing wrong. Do you want to spend a week in

Q because she scraped her hand on the tree?”

Becks looks at me, her eyes wild above his hand, and I slide down the tree. Dustin glances back at me, and I slow my movements, making them exaggeratedly slow. I hold up my hand—it’s raw, but bark is stuck in it. “I’m clean,” I say, my voice deliberately loud and clear.

At the third sign, Becks sags with relief, and a choked sob breaks from her. As soon as Dustin lets her go, she snatches up the cherries and gets away from us as fast as she can without arousing suspicion.

Three signs—the trinity of infects that we were taught in pre-school. Before the change, kids learned their colors, their letters, and how to draw circles. Now no one gives a damn about color except that it draws the attention of infects. Letters are still important, and so are circles— hitting one dead center. After the change, we learned that infects move fast—almost inhumanly fast. They are constantly bleeding, a byproduct of the infection and the decay of their own bodies.

And they can’t speak—not clearly.

It’s why open wounds are taboo, why everyone over-enunciates, and why running in Hellspawn is prohibited anywhere but the three mile track on the east side.

I drop to my knees, suddenly dizzy and weak with relief. Dustin crouches next to me, a hand on my shoulder steadying me. “Change above, Ren, you have to be careful,” he admonishes, his voice low and angry.

I look up, miserable. “It’s almost my birthday, Dustin.”

He rocks back on his heels, and understanding flickers in his eyes for a second. “That’s why you’re so jumpy.”

I look away. Open my mouth to say something—I’m not sure what. And above us, the alarm begins, the screaming bells. All the blood rushes from my face, and I jerk to my feet.

“It’s a breach.”

Chapter 4

The Hive

“You can’t,” Dustin snaps at me as I push through the throng of students headed for the nearby Hatch. I ignore him. Only one thought consumes me—there’s a breach, and Collin is alone.

Nothing else matters—not the infects that will kill me if they catch me, not the rules saying I should be headed to the orchard Hatch, not even Dustin steadily cursing as he follows me. Just my brother.

Collin sleeps to music—he always has. And that will drown out the bells tolling through Hellspawn. Terror grips me as I think about that, about Collin alone and unaware of the threat. I break into a sprint, and around me, my peers scatter, screaming. I almost expect to be shot, but someone appears at my side, keeping pace with alarming ease.

I want to tell him to go away, but I don’t have the breath to bother, and I’m more interested in getting to Collin. Besides, Finn never does what I tell him to. And no one will shoot at me, not with a Wall Walker racing along at my side, in full uniform and heavily armed.

“How many rounds do you have?” he demands.

“Four. Two guns. A knife,” I snap out and push on more speed as the bells scream out their warning. Where the hell are they?

From the corner of my eye, I see one. It’s racing through the orchard, skin flapping behind it. Its mouth is gaping open, teeth bloody. A girl—a little blonde—darts from behind a tree, and the zombie screeches, tackling her. I gag, forcing myself to move faster. Finn is cursing, and I’m suddenly aware that I’ve lost Dustin, and then the Hive appears, and there’s no one near it. No infects, no guards, nothing. It’s a massive, steel and stone structure that seems impossibly untouched. I sob, staggering, and Finn catches me, jerking me through the stairs door.

I’m up the stairs and fumbling for my keys, my ears ringing from the continuous noise. Finn almost vibrates with impatience. He snatches the keys from me, quickly unlocking the door, and we tumble into the apartment.

“Get whatever you need. We won’t be back,” Finn orders as he strides to Collin’s bedroom, yanking the curtain open. I look away quickly— Collin sleeps naked, and that’s more brother than I have any desire to see.

“Get up,” Finn orders, yanking the ear buds from Collin’s ear. He jerks awake with a suddenness that makes me nervous, a gun appearing in his hand. Finn knocks it aside.

“There’s been a breach.”

“How many?” Collin demands, reaching for a pair of pants. I relax when I hear the button snap.

“A horde. I’ve never seen that many infects in one place,” Finn says, his voice low and grim. “Ren!” Collin shouts, and I jerk, wondering how he knew I’d be here. Finn is in the kitchen, shoving what little food we have left into a bag when I emerge.

“What?” I snap, and the sirens go silent. As scared as I was before, it’s nothing compared to the silence. I look nervously at my brother and his best friend. “What happened?”

“You ready to go?” Collin asks instead, and I shake my head. “Where are we going?”

Finn is suddenly in front of me, his eyes hard, and I flinch away from them, and his words. “Hellspawn is falling, Ren. A horde of roughly five hundred zombies just overwhelmed the east wall. If the siren is off, there’s no one left alive over there. We’re about to be overrun. We need to get out. Now.”

I send a terrified glance to Collin, but he doesn’t say anything to dispute it. His expression is resigned. I close my eyes and nod. “Five minutes.” “One.” Finn answers, and I move.

Chapter 5

The Horde

It hits me when we’re on the stairs, and I come to a complete stop. “I can’t leave Dustin,” I say, my voice a whisper, but my words vehement. Finn glances up at me then shakes his head, letting Collin handle this. My grip tightens a little on my gun, and I want to point it at Finn’s head and pull the trigger. Stupid ass.

“Where did you last see him?”

“He was following me. I was in the orchard, and I had to get back here. Finn found me, and I lost him.”  For the first time, I wonder what the hell Finn had been doing—he walks the south wall, the most dangerous perimeter. What was he doing in the orchards?

“If we see him, we’ll take him with us,” Collin says, and I hear Finn’s soft snort of disgust ahead of us in the darkness. I aim a kick at his leg, and he moves lithely away. “Stop it, both of you.” Collin’s voice is tight and angry, laced with worry.

It makes both of us stop immediately. “The horde was on the east wall,” Finn says.

“So we head west.” I say, reasonably, and Finn gives me a look I can’t decipher.

“I have two vehicles on the west side.”

Something in his voice makes me look at him. “You won’t like them,” he says, quietly, to my brother.

I mutter a curse, and Collin snaps his fingers in front of my face. We’re at the exit to the Hive. There’s no noise outside, nothing that hints at any horde—nothing that hints at life. “You ready?” my brother asks, and I nod. There’s not really a choice. “Stay between us. We’ll cover you.,” he says, and Finn steps up to flank me. I don’t trust him, but Collin does, and that counts for something.

Then Collin eases the door open, and Finn bursts through it. In the distance, I can hear screams. For a heartbeat, they root me in place. Then Collin shoves me, and I break into a sprint, chasing Finn.

We’re two blocks from the Hive when I hear the first footsteps behind us, and I dart a glance over my shoulder. Three infects, racing after us. Before the change, people assumed zombies were slow. I’ve seen the videos, the movies about the shambling dead. But something about ERI-Milan gave them a surplus of adrenaline and speed that a human can’t match. We can beat them at a sprint, but an uninfected human gets tired. The adrenaline wears off. Now the zombies race through Hellspawn, and evidence of the breach is everywhere. The screams, the scent of blood and decay thick in the air, the blood beginning to spread on the stone pathway.

“Collin!” I shout. He nods, and Finn flips around, running backward as he pulls his small crossbow. I hear a soft whir and a body falling. The snarls are louder, closer, and Finn fires again, quickly.

Then he’s turned back and catches my arm— when did I slow down?—pulling me up alongside Collin.

“WAIT!”

The voice stops me cold, skidding around to stare in hopeful disbelief as Dustin breaks from a little shop. He’s covered in blood and is limping. “Dustin!” I shout, taking a half step toward him.

Finn grabs me and jerks me to a stop.

“Collin, five coming at you,” Finn says, his voice urgent. My brother shoots, but I can barely see anything but my best friend limping toward me. I grab him, pulling him into me, searching him frantically for bites. He’s bloody, and his face is twisted in pain. But he isn’t bitten. That’s the most important thing.

“How?” I start, but Finn is pulling me on, and Dustin struggles to keep up, limping as he does. “Question him later. Did you miss the part where a horde invaded Haven? We need to get the fuck out. NOW.”

I hate that he’s right. “We aren’t moving fast enough,” Collin pants, and I look around. Zombies are headed toward us at full speed, and we’ve slowed down to accommodate Dustin’s limping gait.

Finn looks around, and I glance at him. “Will we make it?” I ask, my voice low enough that Dustin won’t hear me. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are angry.

“Go. Collin, you know where. Get her safe.” He’s stopped, unclipping his guns. I look at him, stunned, and then to Collin.

“No. No freaking way. You can’t hold an entire horde off.”

Finn flashes me a dangerous smile, one that screams confidence and disdain. “Didn’t think you gave a damn.”

“I don’t,” I snap, flushing. Unfreakingbelivable.

I’m embarrassed in the middle of a breach.

Finn reaches for me, and I jerk back, startled. His fingers graze my hair, and something fills his eyes for a heartbeat. “Go. It’s not far. I can hold them long enough.”

Collin doesn’t hesitate—he yanks me back into motion, and I’m too stunned to protest when we round a corner and Finn disappears.

Chapter 6

Buying Time

He was right. The cramped storage unit where his cars are isn’t far—four blocks away from where we abandoned Finn. Collin isn’t saying anything, but I can see his hands shaking as he yanks the door open with a rattle. The noise echoes, and Dustin flinches. “Get in,” Collin orders, and I help Dustin into the sleek little car nestled under the blue tarp. As I peer into it, I go very still then straighten.

“Collin. This car only seats two.”

“I know,” he says. “Finn planned for this. You and I were supposed to be in the car, and he’d ride the bike to cover us.”

The bike he reveals is tiny, sleek, and, instinctively, I know it’s fast. And a thought occurs to me. “Collin, you drive Dustin. I won’t be able to avoid the infects in that—I can dodge better on the bike.”

My brother pauses in the middle of gathering weapons and looks at me. “You can’t go back for him.”

I laugh out loud. “What on earth makes you think I want to go back for Finn O’Malley?”

Collin stares at me for a moment longer, and I meet his gaze head on. And then he nods. “Ok.

Come on, let’s get you in some gear.”

Five minutes later, I’m dressed in skin-tight, bite-resistant armor, a gun in the top of both my boots and several knives attached to the bike itself. I feel like a walking armory. Collin looks at me. “Was Dustin bitten?”

I look at my boyfriend. He’s tense—his whole body taut and anxious—but his eyes are closed, as if he’s sleeping. “No. I think he got caught up in the crowd—and I think the ankle is broken.”

Collin nods. We can hear the sound of gunfire, footsteps and screams, drawing closer. He kisses me quickly on the forehead. “Stay safe. And close. We’ll need to move fast when we get past the walls.”

I nod and, Collin’s gaze darts past me. Finn still hasn’t appeared. And we’re out of time.

Chapter 7

Escape from Haven 8

The Porsche 911 is quiet—almost soundless—as it prowls onto the eerily empty street, and I follow with the soft purr of the crotch rocket.

I can hear the screams, the sound of fighting, and the wet rip of flesh as zombies feast—the citizens of Hellspawn are buying us time. The zombies are too intent on feeding to notice us slipping away two streets down. Collin steers quickly, toward the west wall, toward the promise of open roads to escape the horde. I watch him from behind my helmet. It’s coming up, the tight little alley I saw. He won’t be able to turn around there. My whole body is tight with nerves and anticipation. He turns, and the Porsche eases down the alley. I hit the gas, the bike jumping forward.

Leaving my brother behind.

Finding Finn shouldn’t be hard—all I have to do is follow the trail of dead infects. And leaving him…I shake my head. Even as much as I dislike Finn, I can’t abandon him to a horde. No one deserves that.

I ease the bike up to a corner and peer around. The trail of dead led here. A lone shot rings out, and a body falls. The other infects are snarling, a vicious song of hunger and hatred as they dart back and forth.

I peek around the corner and see them. Ten infects gathered around a low overhang. Finn’s perched there. As I watch, he lines up another shot, and his gaze lands on mine.

Shock and something else—hope?—fills his eyes for an instant before anger flares, taking over.

He would be furious.

I push that thought aside—along with the strange emotions I keep seeing—and aim. All I have to do is clear a path.

I get three shots off before the infects realize I’m there. As they turn, Finn shouts, and four quick shots ring. Three more bodies drop, but the remaining four are converging on me. I shoot two, and the others are on me. I can hear the pound of feet, and it occurs to me as one of the biters snaps at my arm, this was a stupid idea, and then blood sprays, and I swallow a scream as the zombie’s head goes spinning. Finn is glaring at me over the bloody steel of his sword, and I manage to swallow as he demands, “Did it bite you?”

“No.”

“Scoot back, Ren. I’m not riding bitch on my own bike.”

He shoves me a little, and I slide back, letting him swing onto the bike. It rumbles under him, and he shouts, “Hang on,” and I plaster myself to him.

And then we’re racing through the streets, and if the infects realize we’re here, they don’t have a chance in hell of catching us. I can see the west wall, rising a hundred feet up, twenty feet thick, and I wonder where his exit is. In a breach, all the gates will be locked down.

He swings us to the south, and I can see the Porsche skidding through blood and gore—how the hell did the infects get this far into Haven so quickly?

Finn curses and gives the bike a little more speed. I stifle a scream as we lurch forward. A grate—low and dark—is open, and he angles for it. Collin flashes his lights twice, and Finn waves back. Then we’re swallowed up by darkness.

Chapter 8

The Wide Open

We burst out of the tunnel into light so brilliant, I’m not sure how Finn can see. He’s still cursing, a soft, steady stream of noise that rings in my ears.

Behind us, Collin keeps pace in the Porsche.

And that’s when it hits me and I pull away from Finn a little, shock slamming into me. His hand clamps down on my wrist, jerking me back against him. I know what he’d say, if I could hear him. Keep your shit together, Ren.

But how? We’re in the freakin’ Wide Open, the massive stretches of unsettled land that belong to the infection, the stretches between Havens that are teaming with zombies. The only thing that kept us safe was the walls around our cities, and we’re not behind them anymore—and even if we were, the zombies are there as well. A scream bubbles in my throat, aching for an escape.

Strangely, it's Finn who steadies me.

I've hated Finn since I met him, three years ago. It was a week after Collin was sponsored to the wall, and I came home from school to find my brother and Finn sitting on the couch, bags of melting ice on their faces. I knew who he was— Hellspawn wasn't so big that I could miss Finn O'Malley. But I'd never spoken to him.

Finn was different. He came to Haven instead of being born here, and he was an orphan—but then, many of us were. But where Dustin and Becca and others bonded with me and Collin, forming loose families within the Hive, Finn wanted none of it. He seemed to enjoy the distance and solitude.

I'd never heard of the wealthy orphan having friends. Until that day he punched my brother and got both of them sentenced to extra walks for a month—and docked rations.

After that day, he never left. Not really. And I hated him, for sharing something with Collin that I couldn't, and for hitting my brother, and for thinking he was too good for the rest of Haven. The girls in the Hive fluttered like idiots when he dropped by, something Finn was very aware of.

I couldn't stand him, and the dislike was reciprocated. That I had saved his life—well, that had everything to do with him saving all of ours.

"Nurrin, infects are coming," he shouts, over the roar of the wind

I glance back and see them—three older infects. The females are oozing blood, hideously disfigured in their semi-naked state. One’s arm is twisted back at an unnatural angle that hurts just to look at. The male lopes along behind them, his jaw unhinged and hanging open.

“Take my gun,” Finn orders, and I obey, pulling it from between us. He slows down, and I fight the terror that grips me as I realize he’s letting them gain on us. I push that thought aside—he thinks I can do this. And Finn isn’t so self-sacrificing he’d risk his life twice.

The thought clears my head, and I squeeze the trigger. The first infect drops, blood spraying up in the face of her pack mates. Three more squeezes and the others are dead.

Truly dead, not the half-there sate they’d been suspended in. Killing isn’t fun—but there’s something soothing about giving them that final shot, the final bit of rest.

And if I didn’t, they’d just tail us back to— where the hell are we going?

I tuck the gun into Finn’s holster and lean closer to ask, but he revs the engine, and we race across the Wide Open in a roar of wind that steals all conversation.

Chapter 9

Suicide Wish

Darkness has begun to fall when I feel the bike slow. The Porsche prowls behind me. We haven’t stopped today, except for once, refueling the vehicles from a cache of gasoline Finn had hidden in a graveyard.

The bike cuts off, and I shiver in the soundless twilight. We’re near the edge of a cliff—the Grand Canyon. I almost fall off the bike, and Finn catches me, righting me with barely restrained violence. I pull away from him as Collin explodes from the car. It’s the first time I’ve seen him—he didn’t get out of the car when we stopped for fuel. Finn’s orders, and it was incredibly chafing that my brother listened to him.

“Ren, are you okay?” he demands, sweeping me into a hug. It’s a stupid question. If I had been bitten back in Haven, risking my ass for Finn, I’d have changed hours ago. But his concern is touching, mostly because it means he’s not pissed.

Not pissed is good.

“I’m fine, Collin,” I say, pulling away. He lets me go and frowns at me, then over at Finn.

“You’re a fucking idiot, is what you are,” Finn snarls, and I flinch away from the venom in his voice and the words themselves.

Then anger fills me, and I shove him. “I saved your ass, you bastard!”

“You exposed yourself in a breach. You were unarmed, with no means of escape and on even ground. I know Collin’s taught you better, so tell me, Nurrin, do you have a death wish?”

“I was armed, and I saved you!” I scream.

“You took an unneeded risk!”

I open my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, and behind us, Dustin shouts, “Will someone get me out of here? I have to pee and I’d like to be part of this yell-at-Ren moment.”

Finn’s eyes flick past me, and disgust fills his expression for a heartbeat. His gaze skates to Collin. “He’s her baggage. I’m not taking care of it.”

Collin’s lips compress a little, but that’s the only sign of his irritation. Finn turns away from me, and I grab his arm, still spoiling for a fight. He gives me a bored look. “I’d like to get to the Hole before the infects show up, Nurrin. Do you mind?”

“Take care of Dustin,” Collin asks. “It’ll be a few minutes before we’re ready.”

Fuming, I turn to help my friend out of his seat. Blood loss has turned his skin clammy and pale, and I freeze for a moment, not wanting to touch him. Years of being told bleeding is a sign of infection makes approaching him now difficult— bordering on impossible.

He summons a weak smile. “Help me up, Ren. I really do have to piss.”

I roll my eyes and reach for him, avoiding the blood on his sleeve. “You should have headed to the Hatch, idiot.”

“And then what? When we thought it was safe and came out—what then?”

I go still, staring at him with wide eyes. His gaze is bitter and filled with grief, and it hits me suddenly—I fall to my knees with a low cry. Finn catches me, jerking me away from Dustin, crushing me to his chest. I feel his tension, and I know he’s drawn a gun on my best friend, and I can’t hold back the wail of grief building in my throat.

“Did he hurt you?” Finn demands, his voice harsh. I shake my head against his chest, and some of the tension eases out of him as he pulls me away to look into my eyes. His gaze softens, just a little.

“The Haven?”

I nod, hating that he’s seeing me this weak. Finn’s eyes shutter, and he releases me. “Go. Fall apart when we’re safe.”

Dustin catches me as I stumble away, and we lean against each other as we follow Collin and Finn toward the edge of the cliff. For a moment, staring off the cliff, I wonder where the hell we're going. Finn looks at Collin. "Take point. Dustin behind you, then Nurrin. I'll bring up the rear."

Collin glances at me then nods, scooping a bag off the pebbly, hard ground. Then he steps forward. The path—if it can be called that, and really, it shouldn't—is so narrow, I'm not sure how he finds footing on it.

I have no idea how Dustin will. He hesitates for a moment, and from behind me comes Finn’s voice, sharp in my ear. “You go down, or stay here, but get the fuck out of the way, dude.”

I turn to glare at him, but he’s staring at Dustin, his expression bleak. Dustin grinds his teeth audibly behind me and follows my brother down the cliff side.

“Take this,” Finn says, handing me the bag. It takes me a moment to adjust to the weight of it, and I can feel Finn’s gaze on me, avid and assessing. I straighten and turn away, stepping onto the path.

And ignore the half smirk that turns Finn’s lips.

Chapter 10

The Hole

“What is this place?” I ask, my awe apparent in my voice. Finn steps past me, his body brushing against my arm. I step away, quickly, moving to Dustin.

“I call it the Hole. My parents set it up a few years after the fall. It was always a safe place for us to fall back.”

It’s the most revealing thing Finn has ever said, and I look at Collin—he doesn’t seem surprised. He doesn’t seem even startled by the electricity pumping through the cave; the comfortable, if dusty looking furniture; and the little kitchen in the back, open cabinets stocked with MREs and canned goods.

He’s been here before. Finn has shared this with him, and Collin never mentioned it. Anger flares in me, and I turn to Dustin, kneeling in front of him on the couch and yanking at his boot. He screams, the noise filling the Hole, echoing around us. Finn whips around, his eyes wide and furious as he slams the butt of his pistol against Dustin’s temple.

I gape at him, and all the anger in me bubbles up. His gaze swings to me, unrepentant. “Take care of him, while he can’t bring every infect in miles to us.”

He throws me a first aid kit, and I catch it, even in my daze. Collin crouches next to me and helps me wrestle Dustin’s boot off his swollen foot. I prod it, but the truth is I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

“Just wrap it tight,” Collin says, and I latch on to his instructions. As I wind the bandage around Dustin’s foot, Collin shoves a pillow under his head—I guess neither of the boys wants to move him. Can’t blame them much. Dustin is solid. “What the fuck are we doing?” I demand in a harsh whisper. He gives me a curious look, and I glance over at Finn. “He’s not stable, Collin. He’s violent.”

“He saved our lives,” Collin answers. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“You didn’t need to know, and Finn asked me not to.” Collin’s voice is reasonable and calm, and I want to scream and shake him. I’m anything but reasonable and calm.

“Ren, I know how you feel about Finn. I get it— you hate him. But can you just put that aside for a few days? We’re not in normal circumstances, and you sniping at him every few minutes isn’t going to help any of us.” Collin says.

I stare at him, seeing the exhaustion and fear in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. I reach for him, squeeze his hand. “Go sleep,” I tell him, and he shakes his head.

“She’s right. You haven’t had more than thirty minutes in almost two days. Go. I’ll take first watch,” Finn says from behind me, and I force myself not to react, schooling my expression to impassivity. Collin looks between us, uncertain, and then he nods.

The silence that fills the Hole after Collin collapses is almost deafening. Finn moves around, comfortable in his own space, unpacking bags and setting out weapons. I feel, suddenly, the itchy sensation of dried sweat, and I’m anxious to get out of my restrictive clothing.

“Is there somewhere I can change?” I ask, and Finn pauses, looking at me, one eyebrow arched in question. Something flickers in his gaze, shut down too quickly for me to follow.

“The back—past the kitchen is a tunnel. Change there. Should be some water to rinse, if you want.”

I start to say thanks, but he’s already turned away. Asshat.

I strip quickly, in almost complete darkness, and shiver—it’s cool back here, surprisingly so. I dip my hands into the chilly water and scrub the dust of the day from my skin. It’s not enough to get rid of the dirty feeling, but it helps a little. I shiver and dress quickly in a long pair of sweats and a loose shirt, leaving my bra and zom gear in a pile on the stone. Then I pad back out into the main area of the cave and scoop up my knives and guns. The latter go on the table with Finn and Collin’s for cleaning, and then I go to stand near Finn. He’s at the entrance of the cave, staring into the night.

“Thanks,” I say, abruptly, and his gaze darts to me. “For getting Collin out.”

He gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Not for yourself?”

I look away, into the night, and ask the question that’s been at the back of my mind all day. “What were you doing in the orchards?”

Finn is so quiet and still, I look over and check on him—seeing him startles me.

“Collin and I have always had a plan, in case of a major breach. Getting you was part of the plan.”

I nod and look back into the darkness. “What happens next?”

“You go to bed.”

His voice is different, subtly shut off, and I push myself to my feet. I don’t particularly want to be sitting here having a conversation with Finn O’Malley anyway.

As I turn away, his voice stops me. “What you did back there—Nurrin, that was stupid.”

“You could say thank you.”

He moves, catching my bare ankle in a vicelike grip. “I won’t thank you for putting yourself in danger.” Finn’s voice is low, a soft accent rounding his words. His thumb moves over my ankle, and my pulse jumps—I wonder if he’s even aware of the caress and what game he’s playing if he is.

“Why do you call me that?” I demand, instead. His finger stills, and he releases me, rising in one smooth, almost inhuman move. He crowds me, and I step back until I bump into the side of the cave wall. His presence is choking the air in my lungs, consuming everything around me, and I want to shove him away, but the look in his dark eyes stops me—there’s something there I’ve never seen before. Something I don’t want to think about. I tilt my chin up, glaring, and Finn smiles, a faint twitch of his lips.

And steps away from me. “Ren is the name of a little girl avoiding who she is. What she was born to. Nurrin—that’s the name of a woman who risks her life because she’s got more courage than sense and was born to epic times and deeds.”

I gape at him as he turns away, and I know he’s aware of me staring, questions burning on the tip of my tongue. But he doesn’t turn back to me, and his voice is remote and disdainful as he says, “Get some sleep, Nurrin. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

I retreat to the couch, cuddling into Dustin and pulling a blanket up over us. He curls around me, an arm snaking over my waist, and I smile, kissing his hair.

When I look up, I’m stunned to find Finn staring at us, his eyes furious and hot. Before I can say anything—before I can draw breath—he turns away, watching for dangers in the night.

Chapter 11

Conversations and Threats

I’m awakened by voices and heat. Dustin has kicked the blanket off sometime in the night, but the heat rolling off him is more than enough to make me sweat. I ease away from him enough to give me breathing room.

“We can wait it out, Collin. It’s safer here than anywhere, you know that.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then, “Do you really think Ren’ll go for that?” Collin’s voice is quiet, and Finn doesn’t answer. I peek up over the couch and see them—Finn sitting at the small table, his back to me as they clean the guns. Light is streaming into the cave, and I can smell coffee.

“She’ll do what she’s told. But it’ll go down easier if you’re the one telling,” Finn says lazily, and all my anger sparks again. “Also, she’s listening to us.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I stand, dusting off my gritty palms. Collin raises, coming to give me a quick hug. “Do you want some coffee?”

“I’d like to know what I’m being told to do. What am I supposed to listen to?” I snap, aiming the words at Finn’s head.

Collin has the grace to flush, but all Finn says is, “Eavesdropping is a bad habit—and the sign of a morally corrupt character.”

“You’d do it in a heartbeat.”

He finally glances at me, and for some reason, all I can see is the expression in his eyes when he watched me on the couch last night. “It’s said imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” he says silkily.

“Imitate this,” I snap and flip him off. A smile twitches his lips before he turns back to the weapons on the table in front of him. That quickly, I’m dismissed.

I follow my nose to the coffee on the counter, pouring a cup and pulling myself onto the solid rock ledge before sipping it. Thick, hot, black as night—just the way I love it. “So, what were you talking about?”

Finn and Collin exchange one of those wordless glances that bugs the shit out of me, and I look away.

And scream.

The boys bolt into action, guns immediately leveled at the cave entry, Collin planted in front of me, scanning for an infect. I slide down, pushing past him, and stumble-run to the entrance of the cave. Finn catches me as I lean over the lip—and I’m glad. The site makes me nauseated. He pulls me away, but not before I see the gorge yawing below us, the sides of the canyon stained with blood and infection, the broken bits of infects who have fallen over the cliff.

“What was that?” he hisses, shaking me.

“Finn,” Collin snaps, and Finn releases me abruptly. I sag against the wall, struggling not to throw up.

“She doesn’t know, man. She has no idea what the hell is going on—you need to lighten up,” Collin says, his voice tight and angry. I’ve never heard him this angry with Finn before, and it cheers me up a little. Until he turns on me. “And you need to get your shit together, Ren. That stunt yesterday? Forget what Finn’ll do to you, you try that again, I’ll kick your ass myself. Screams like that in the Wide Open will get us killed.”

“There was infect out there,” I protest, and he rolls his eyes.

“We’re here for a reason, Ren. They can’t get us here.”

Suddenly, the previous day, the stress of everything slams into me. Collin yelling at me never fails to make me emotional. I turn away, compressing my lips and blinking furiously. I won’t let him see me cry. Him or Finn fucking O’Malley. I hunch my shoulders when he reaches for me, pulling out of his reach. Silence fills the cave, making it seem smaller than it truly is, and I want to bolt—want to run the three mile track in Hellspawn, anything that will let me work out some of this emotion.

Even punching Finn a few times would help, but I think he hits back.

That settles the last of my emotions, and I finally turn around and face Collin. I continue to ignore Finn—it’s probably the best option available to me.

“Dustin’s got an infection,” I say.

Chapter 12

Infection

They wake him up.

Despite my protest that it’s probably just dirt in the gash on his arm, Finn shakes him awake. Dustin blinks blearily, a sleepy smile on his lips. Finn says, his voice flatly unemotional, “You have a live infection. Strip down for examination and possible quarantine.”

“Quarantine?” I demand, amused. “Where are you going to stick him? He was with Collin in that car for almost twelve hours. If he’s going into Q, Collin would too.”

I don’t say that I slept next Dustin, or that putting them into Q would leave Finn and me alone together and we’d end up killing each other, and wouldn’t the infects just love that. I think he gets it, though, because his lips do that twitchy thing again that makes me think he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t.

Heaven forbid Finn O’Malley show a human emotion other than anger.

“I wasn’t bit,” Dustin groans, putting a hand up to block the sun streaming into his eyes. I take an involuntary step forward, and Collin catches me. He’s not taking any chances, not until they’ve satisfied their suspicions.

Dustin looks at me, and I bite my lip. “Just do it, Dustin. Please?”

He pushes himself upright, and I see the large bruise on his temple from where Finn hit him last night. Finn approaches him and takes a quick blood sample to run against markers of ERI-Milan infection.

It was an experiment the army played with at first—that eventually spilled into the private sector. Sanelos Pharmaceuticals created an emotion inhibitor to keep soldiers even keeled on the battlefield and during deployment. But Sanelos saw a civilian market. Kids were too emotional, too high strung. Prone to random acts of violence and suicide. The emotional response inhibitor was the magic pill—pop one and settle your ass down. Soccer moms around the country swore by it; the government used it to calm the violent and criminally insane; the military gave it to the soldiers with a touch of PTSD—it was the wonder drug that gave people back their lives, albeit without much in the way of emotion.

Because it wasn’t just violence—the ERI pill killed all emotion. And kill wasn’t the right word— it muted them, diverted the chemical reaction to keep the subject calm. It was the perfect solution, until it wasn’t.

The first case of ERI mutation was in Emilie Milan, a little fourteen-year-old ballet dancer. She’d been on ERI for ten years—one of the first poster children for the drug—when she was killed in a car accident on the way to a ballet recital. When she woke up, high on adrenaline, and attacked the morgue attendant, it was the first sign ERI wasn’t the savior everyone thought it was.

That was the day I was born. Something about the long use of ERI mutated in Emilie, and it spread when she bit the morgue worker. ERI-Milan spread like wildfire, the infection working through the dead and bringing them back with a violent hunger.

Within days, thousands were dead—and coming back. Hordes of infects were racing through towns and cities. And on Third Day, as it collided with the military—one of the largest users of ERI—it changed the response in the soldiers. There was something about the pack of people that changed the virus, mutating it. If ERI-Milan was the beginning, the horde colliding with the army outside of Atlanta—that was the end.

“He’s not bitten,” Finn announces, and I twitch, jerked from my thoughts. “Get dressed, Dustin.”

“I told you that,” I can’t help but snipe, and Collin gives me a quiet, quelling stare. I shrug. I wait, my back turned as Dustin struggles to redress. Finally, I hear the soft rasp of his jeans, and I turn back to him, going to sit next to him on the couch. His arm comes around me, and I snuggle into his side, ignoring the surprise in Collin’s eyes. “So he’s not infected with ERI-Milan. He still has a blood infection.”

Finn walks out of the back tunnel carrying a syringe. His eyes find me, and his expression tightens then goes savagely blank. The vial of blood is gone, but he carries a test strip. I snatch it from him as he injects Dustin, checking it quickly. None of the markers are there—absolutely no sign of ERI-Milan. A sigh of relief slips from me, and Dustin squeezes me closer.

“This will help—but I can’t promise it’ll fix everything,” Finn says.

“Then why don’t we take him to Haven 7? It’s not far. They’ll have a doctor for Dustin, and it’s safe there.”

Collin and Finn exchange a glance, and I feel my brother nod. Finn’s gaze swings to me. “Why do you presume that Haven 7 will be safe?”

“Havens are built to be safe.”

“Hellspawn wasn’t, yesterday.”

The quietly spoken words hit me like a hammer, and I inhale sharply. Dustin glares. “Dude. Chill. She’s going on the same assumption we’ve had most of our lives.”

“She needs to change her assumptions,” Finn says ruthlessly. “The Havens are falling, Nurrin. Hellspawn was just the latest in a list of nine to fall this year.”

I’m glad I’m sitting—I’d fall if I weren’t. As it is, I feel like the cave is spinning, and bile churns in my gut. Finn is watching me, and Dustin is cursing at my side. Collin looks so sad and tired. Why is Finn still watching me—like my reaction matters right now? I close my eyes and force out the question, “Nine—how many dead?”

“There were a handful of survivors from three of the Havens. Twenty total.”

I jerk away from Dustin, stumbling to the back of the cave. It’s not solitude, but it’s as close as I can get. I fall to my knees, the numbers spinning through my head.

After the initial wave, when the infection spread like wildfire, the governments swept in, putting people behind fences. With only a fraction of the population still left alive—we lost a quarter of the population in the first six months—they divided us into segments and set up Havens. For nine to fall in six months—the sheer number of lives lost makes me sick, and I gag, throwing up.

A hand is on my back, and I push against Collin, tears burning in my eyes. “How long has this been going on?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. “About a year. The first few reports, we thought were flukes. Aggressive infects.”

“And now?”

He shrugs. “Finn explains it better. Come back out.” I stare at him, and he gives an aggravated sigh. “He’s not as awful as you want to think. And he got us out of Hellspawn before it fell.”

“What’s his end game?” I ask, quietly. If it were anyone but Finn, I’d say Collin was—the devotion he shows my brother has actually made me consider the possibility that Finn bats for the same team I do. But he’s never made a secret of his open bedroom door and the women who parade in and out of it.

Collin looks away. “You’d have to ask Finn that.”

He stands, and I follow him out of the tunnel, back into the main cave.

Chapter 13

Map of the World

Dustin is exhausted, so I help him into the bed that Collin slept in last night. “How do you feel?” I ask, hovering anxiously over him.

“Tired,” he slurs. He forces his eyes to focus, and a vague smile turns his lips. “Biters, Ren, you’re so gorgeous.”

I flush, and he laughs, tugging at me. I kiss him, briefly, before I shove him down, and he laughs, sleepily, before he settles and closes his eyes. I roll mine and stomp back to the kitchen table, snatching up my snub nose revolver. Finn is unfolding a map, and I lean over it. It’s the United States, pre-Infection. But dotted across the continent are Havens, and I shiver, my fingers brushing the bright yellow stickers that are faded and curling with age. I press one down, rubbing my thumb over the eight scrawled on the little dot. Finn nudges me a little, and I step away, to Collin’s side. Finn ignores my retreat, leaning over the map and drawing a brilliant red x over Haven 8.

I let my gaze sweep over the map, finding the other eight Havens that have fallen. They form a line, starting just south of us, and marching north. Hellspawn is the farthest they’ve gotten. My gaze shoots up, collides with Finn’s. His lips are compressed, and what I see in his dark eyes makes my stomach bottom out.

“They’re cutting the west off,” I say.

He nods, and the confirmation makes it worse somehow. I fall into a seat and stare at the map, hoping that it will change. It doesn’t.

“We have to tell the north,” I murmur, absently. “No.”

My head snaps up, and I stare at Finn. He’s shaking his head, implacable, and a hysterical laugh burns in the back of my throat. “Why the hell not?” I demand.

“They don’t want to hear it, Ren,” Collin says, and I twist to look at him. “They won’t accept it. And if we show up at Haven 12, telling them we’re survivors from Haven 8, they’ll throw us in Q. We don’t have time for that.”

“Excuse me, but we’re sitting in a cave in the middle of the desert. How different is this from sitting in Q?”

“We decide when we leave,” Finn answers. I snort.

“You decide, you mean.”

He nods, and I rub my eyes, too exhausted to even be angry. “So what do you want to do?”

“I have contacts, in the west. I want to use them—we can still evacuate the west and move the Havens south. Let the biters have it.”

“They’ll follow us,” I protest.

“When in the past twenty years hasn’t that been true?”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I want to go to Haven 18. I can talk to some folks I know there—if we can evacuate the west, our best bet is to start there.”

“Then let’s go,” I say, standing. “The sooner we get Dustin some medical help, the better.”

Finn is silent, and Collin shifts, looking at him. “It’s as safe as it’s going to get, O’Malley.”

“I’m going alone.”

Chapter 14

Threat Assessment

I sit with my legs dangling out of the cave.

The sun is setting, and the cool air is seeping into me, chilling the stone under my ass. Collin is preparing canned soup for dinner, ignoring Finn.

“Get away from the ledge,” Finn orders irritably when he walks out of the back tunnel. I’m proud of myself for not flipping him off, although I’m not sure Collin is still sticking with the “be nice” routine.

When I don’t move, Finn hooks his hands under my armpits and drags me away. I shriek, flailing in his grip. He scoops me off the ground and tosses me onto the couch. I bounce up, swinging, and he ducks away, a savage grin toying with the edges of his lips.

“Want to fight, little girl?” he taunts, and I swing again. He back away, and I spin, kicking him with all the force I can put behind it. Finn grunts as my foot collides with his gut, and I drop into a crouch, my hair spilling into my eyes. His are furious—and something else. “Don’t fucking touch me, you bastard,” I snarl, and he has the gall to laugh at me.

Collin jerks him away from me. “Finn,” he snaps, and I see what makes my brother a Walker, the barely leashed violence that’s threatening to explode. “Cool it, man. You’re pushing me too far.”

Finn’s gaze focuses on him, slowly, then flickers to me and back again. He nods, and I turn away. Collin catches me, concern written on his face. I shrug him off. My nerves are shot, and I wish he’d let the fight happen.

Sure, Finn could wipe the floor with my ass, but at least I’d be able to get some of this aggression out. I desperately need that.

Even killing zombies would help right now.

We scatter with our soup, and I carry mine into the bedroom. Dustin’s sweating. I check his bandage—it’s tight, cutting into his skin. I swallow hard as I put my dinner aside, and then I unwrap the bandage.

The stench makes me gag, and I almost lose the little I’ve eaten. The flesh is putrid, decaying, his skin stretched and inflamed around the scratch. A line of thick pus oozes out, and I use a clean corner of his bandage to wipe it away.

“His cut—it had to come from one of the infects.”

I glance over at Finn. He stands in the doorway, staring at me. I don’t address his words— if it’s true, and it really is the only reason Dustin would have this kind of infection this quickly, there’s still a chance he’ll turn.

Unless he’s given meds, and quickly.

I clean his wound, dumping almost an entire bottle of alcohol on it. When Dustin begins to thrash, Finn pushes away from the wall and comes to hold him still. I glance at him quickly, and then away, wiping and pouring, until the bottle is empty. Finn cleans up the rags and trash as I rewrap Dustin’s arm, and then he grabs my cold soup. I follow him out of the room.

And begin to plan my argument.

Chapter 15

Making My Case

I wait until Collin is asleep before I get up from the couch and make my way to where Finn is sitting with his back propped against the cave wall, taking first watch.

Even if he claims we’re safe, in the Wide Open, there is always a watch.

“You need sleep,” he says without looking at me.

“So do you. You had watch last night.”

He finally graces me with a look, and I meet it with a cool one of my own.

“What do you want, Nurrin?”

“You’re going to Haven 18, to launch the evacuation.” He doesn’t respond, and his gaze goes back into the night. But the stillness of him tells me he’s listening. Finn O’Malley is always listening.

“Here’s the thing—you go, you leave Collin with an open infection. Dustin needs meds, you know that. And you won’t be back in time—the infection is going to spread, and eventually, he’s going to turn.”

“He’s still not showing the markers.”

“A flesh wound is still exposure. It takes longer, and we can stop it, but if we don’t do anything, it’s going to happen. And you won’t be back before then.”

His gaze swings to me. “What do you want, Nurrin?”

“Take me with you,” I say softly, and his nostrils flare, his expression tight. “Or Collin. I know you—you wouldn’t be headed to Haven 18 if you didn’t have a way out. Take Collin and let him bring back the meds.” I hesitate, and then, “Please, Finn.”

“That means leaving you with a live infection,” he says emotionlessly.

I shrug. “Dustin won’t hurt me. And the infection won’t take hold for at least a week. Collin will be back in plenty of time.”

He stares at me, his eyes unfathomable, and then he shakes his head, and the tension eases out of him. “Go to bed, Nurrin. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

I want to protest, but something in his gaze when I open my mouth is dangerous and forbidding. So I swallow my argument and stand up to walk away.

Before I do, I say softly, “I’ll get the meds Dustin needs. If you won’t take me or Collin, I’ll go by myself. You won’t be here to stop me. Think about that before you vanish into the Wide Open by yourself.”

Chapter 16

Executive Decision

Collin shakes me awake, and for a moment, half-asleep and surrounded by my brother’s voice and the scent of coffee, I can pretend I’m still in the Hive, still safe behind the walls of Hellspawn. Then Finn curses and the distinct sound of a gun being loaded fills the cave, and the illusion vanishes. I sit up and rub my eyes.

Finn spares me a glance, and I cross my arms over my thin tank top, wishing I’d had time to grab something more substantial. “Get dressed, Nurrin. We’re leaving for Haven 18 in ten minutes.”

I blink at him, and then, “But you’re taking Collin.”

Finn gives me a dark smile, and I flinch away from him. “There is no way in hell I’m leaving you alone in this cave with a live infection, Nurrin. You’d either bring a horde down the canyon, or Dustin would kill you. Neither would please me. So get your pretty ass off my couch and dressed. Now.”

I flush, and I hate myself for it—that was his intention. To Finn O'Malley, everything is a weapon, even words and emotions. It's one of the things I admire about him, even if I do despise it.

"I don't want to go," I say, shrilly.

Finn laughs at that, a deep belly laugh that makes me flinch—it's coated in irony and danger. The idea of spending hours in a car with him, days at Haven 18, of being dependent on this man—I shudder and look at Collin, my eyes pleading. He looks away.

Disbelief slips through me. "You want me to go with him?"

Collin shrugs. "Staying here with an open infection isn't much safer. He'll protect you." "I'll kill him," I snarl.

Finn pushes against me from the rear, and I skid forward, away from him, but he catches me by the waist, hauling me against him, and whispers his threat directly into my ear. "You can try."

His breath tickles the shell of my ear, stirs my hair, and goose bumps break out over my skin. I yank myself out of his grip and retreat to the curtained-off bedroom. I can hear Collin and Finn talking.

What the hell was that?

For a moment, under his constant aggression, there had been something playful—almost—in Finn. And that was terrifying.

"Five minutes, Nurrin!" He yells, and I shake myself. A quick glance at Dustin confirms nothing has changed—his fever is high, and the bandage on his arm is bloody and reeks of rot.

I don't really have a choice. If I don't go,

Dustin'll die. I'd endure anything to avoid that.

I strip quickly, wiggling into a pair of tight cargo pants, a simple black bra, and a tank top. I pull on one of Collin's old button down shirts, leaving it unbuttoned, then grab my boots.

In the main room, the boys are talking—Finn is giving orders, and Collin is nodding, shoving food and weapons into a bag. Finally he snaps, "I know, Finn. I've done this before. Worry about yourself and my sister."

Finn's voice lowers a little, and I pause in the act of tying my boot. I wonder if his expression softens to match. "I won't let anything happen to her, Collin. You know that."

He does? How? The friendship that I never liked, never understood, makes even less sense now that I’m spending time with them together.

"I know you'll do everything you can to keep her safe," Collin says, "but this is Ren we're talking about. She's not going to listen to you—she isn't like the other Hive girls."

"I know," Finn says, his voice full of something I don't bother to assess.

I slide my other boot on and tie it quickly, then kiss Dustin's clammy forehead. "Hang on, babe. I'll be back." Without letting myself consider if that's true or not, I exit the room.

Finn is waiting, giving me a quick look before nodding his approval. I grab the bag Collin holds out and force myself to meet his gaze.

His eyes are tight, worried, and it makes my stomach churn. He pulls me into a fierce hug, and I bury my nose in his chest, memorizing the feel of him, the smell of sweat and gun powder that surrounds my brother. "Listen to him," he murmurs in my ear, and I make a noise of protest. His grip tightens. "I mean it, Ren. He can keep you safe, but you have to trust him. You won't have anyone else out there, and I need you to survive and come back to me."

"Let's go," Finn says abruptly, and Collin releases me. I stumble and Finn catches me, reflexively.

"You have your weapons?" Collin says and, for a heartbeat, I'm back in the Hive, leaving for another day in the orchards while he passes out after walking the wall. I blink back tears and reach for my snub-nosed revolver. The knife goes into my boot, several throwing stars get tucked into my butt pocket, and I loop a shotgun over my head, to hang on my back.

Collin nods, and it's time.

Chapter 17

Topside

The wind is whistling, and it's throwing my perception off. Finn edges up the thin path, peering over the rim of the canyon. His tense shoulders ease a fraction, and he murmurs, softly, "It's clear. Move fast—don't stop, not for anything. Get in the car and turn it on."

"But," I begin.

"No," he snaps, "you don't get to argue. Let’s get this straight right now: out here, you listen. You don't question what I say, you do it. If you can't handle that, go back to the Hole and get ready to kill your best friend."

I clench my teeth and nod shortly. Finn gives me a feral smile then peers over the edge again.

He explodes onto the surface, already shooting. I’m a half step behind him, running through the infects as Finn puts them down. The Porsche is gleaming, if a little dented. I slide into the front seat, slamming the door shut behind me and fumbling with the key. It slides in despite my shaking fingers, and I scream as something collides with the driver side of the car. An infect slides down the door as Finn shoves a knife into the base of its skull. He opens the door, and I hurl one of my throwing stars without thinking, nicking his arm before it lands in the eye of the infect behind him. He doesn’t bother looking—he slips into the car and slams his foot onto the gas before he’s even got the door shut.

“You tore my shirt,” Finn says. I’ve finally got my heart rate under control, but his voice kicks it back up.

“But I did kill the infect,” I say in my defense, and his lips twitch.

“You did what you were told—I didn’t expect that.”

“I said I would,” I say defensively, flushing when he rolls his eyes. “I do take orders, when they make sense.”

“Like when Hellspawn was breached?”

That still bothers me. He shouldn’t have been in the Orchard—even if they had a protocol in place, a plan to get us out. “How did you get there so quickly?” I blurt out, and his eyes snap to mine.

They’re gray—a sharp, cold gray, like the sky over the wall at first light.

The thought is absurd, and I don’t know why I’m noticing, why now of all times. I flush and look out the window. “Your house wasn’t close to the Orchards.”

“Who said I was home?” he answers, looking back out the windshield.

Irritation sparks through me, and I look away as he laughs, sharp and mocking. “There are some benefits to the privacy of the orchards—benefits you don’t find in the Hive.”

A girl. He was in the Orchard with a girl?

Heat floods my cheeks, and I twist away from him, furious and hating that I am.

“How long, to get to Haven 18?”

His lips do that irritating twitch again. “Two days, Nurrin. Get comfortable.”

That makes me nervous. Two days, trapped in this tiny car with Finn’s overly large presence? I look out the window as he slams the car forward. Infects are swarming toward us, and time seems to slow as the car speeds up. One catches my eyes as he races at us, his skin limp and hanging off his limbs in long, leathery strips. His left leg is twisted horribly, and I can see bone, but it doesn’t slow him as he throws himself against the Porsche. The car skids a little at the impact, and I see the terrible hunger and rage in the zombie’s eyes as Finn curses savagely, wrestling the car into submission and jerking forward. There’s a sick snap when we roll over something in the road, and I glance at him, worried, but his eyes are tight on the road—if it can even be called that—as we leave the zombies—and my brother—behind.

We travel in silence. I keep my gun in my lap, but, though we see small herds of zombies occasionally, they don’t give chase often, and when they do, the Porsche easily out paces them.

Even a zombie will give up, after a while.

Eventually, I relax, stop scanning the desert for infects, and survey the interior of the car. The seat I’m sitting in is soft, buttery leather cocooning me. The interior is midnight black, and it makes Finn’s pale skin and startling eyes stand out in the dimness. He glances at me, as if feeling my gaze, and I flush, looking away.

And somehow, it changes the mood in the car. He doesn’t say a word, but there’s a tension now that wasn’t here minutes ago. I shift in my seat then curse myself for doing that. There’s a radio on his dash, though it’s useless. Radio died with the rest of the world, when I was born.

“I’m hungry,” I say, and Finn’s lips twitch again.

“There’s some energy bars in my bag,” is all he says, and I twist, my ass in the air as I shuffle through the bags we threw into the miniscule back when we jumped into the car. I let out a soft cry of triumph and slide down into my seat, sitting sideways, facing him with two energy bars.

“I’ve got peanut butter and chocolate, and tropical fruit,” I say, reading them. “You can pick, as long as you don’t want chocolate.”

I grin at him—and freeze. His expression, which has been neutral for most of the morning, is cold, icy and remote, and I shiver involuntarily. It draws his gaze, which flicks over me with a touch of heat that defies the coldness in him.

“Finn?” I ask, my voice cautious.

His gaze goes back to the road, and his voice is deliberately easy. “Chocolate. I don’t eat tropical fruit shit.”

I hesitate, and he holds out a hand, like he can snap his fingers and I’ll immediately cave.

That they are his energy bars doesn’t really matter much. I open the chocolate bar, and the smell slams into me. My stomach rumbles alarmingly, and Finn laughs, a sound that tickles my belly and sends butterflies to flight.

I break the bar and hand the smaller portion to him. Finn’s eyes narrow, and he gives me a disbelieving stare. I shrug. “I’m a girl.”

He opens his mouth to answer when it happens. The pop is loud—deafening in the silence of the desert—and the Porsche spins, skidding under the blown tire. My seat belt snaps me back as Finn curses, fighting for control of the car. Dust explodes around us as we skid off the road, into the soft dirt of the desert, and I close my eyes as we come to a stop.

“Fuck!” Finn snarls and explodes from the car.

He’s moving fast, and I struggle to keep up.

“Do we have a spare?” I demand, and he grunts, already half under the Porsche. I couldn’t imagine him out in the Wide Open without something as basic as a spare tire.

A screech jerks my attention away from him as the tire slides out from under the car. I whip around and see them—four infects. Two large men, a girl who could have been my age when she turned, a little boy no older than eight. They move with an eerie beauty and grace, and aside from that initial scream, they are silent as they race toward us. I pull my snub-nosed revolver, line my sights and fire.

The little boy falls, and the girl freezes, staring at his prone body. Something twists in her expression when she looks back up, a snarl on her lips. Finn emerges from the car, breathless, and I snatch his crossbow as he throws it up at me. “Hurry,” I urge and bring the weapon up, firing twice in rapid succession. The male in the lead squeals when the first bolt lodges in his shoulder, and then the second embeds in his eye, spinning him around and killing his cry as he goes down like a sack of bricks. His pack mates hesitate, hissing, and I take a deep breath, aiming.

The scream the girl lets out is so loud, and so unexpected, I jolt, firing inadvertently. It slams into her chest, and her scream gurgles off in a furious whine. Her eyes are full of hatred when she meets my gaze, a hungry, unthinking hatred that hits me like a hammer.

"Focus, Ren," Finn orders from near my hip, and it jerks me from my paralysis. Putting the other two down is easy after that, though the female lands disturbingly close to Finn's boot-clad feet. I step over, straddling his legs as I watch the puffs of dust on the desert. There are a lot—more than I think I can handle, and they're getting closer.

Drawn by the infect's angry scream.

"Hurry, O'Malley," I snap, and he grunts. Then the zombies are here—close enough I can put them down. I keep count for the first eight. After that, there are too many, too close, and as fast as I fire, there are more. The world seems to slow when I empty my clip. I drop the gun next to Finn's boots and pull my knives as the zombies swarm me. I shove the blade into the first's eye and grab him, pulling his limp corpse close to shield me as I attack the others. For a few minutes, straddling Finn, embracing a corpse and killing the infects, I think I can do this. Then one lunges at me from atop the Porsche and I scream as I duck away from her teeth. Her long fingers catch in my shoulder, and I feel the skin tear, feel the burn of the wound. Rage crystallizes into icy precision, and I hurl the zombie away from me and slam my blade into the infect that jumped me. "O'Malley, we gotta go!" I yell, reaching for and hurling my throwing stars. I’m running dangerously low on weapons, and I can’t fall back—they are already trying to slide past me, attack Finn where he is defenseless on the ground. Retreating would be a death sentence.

"Two minutes," he yells, and I kick the face of a infect who fell near him, scrabbling for a booted foot.

"Now!""

"Get in the car," he orders a heartbeat—a lifetime—later, and I laugh outright. No way in hell.

"Damn it, Ren, you promised!" he snarls, rolling to his knees and pulling his gun. The noise will draw more infects, but at this point, it might kill enough for us to get away, and that matters more than silence.

"When I said that, we weren't under attack."

He mutters something, and there's a brief lull in his firing before I hear the door swing open. An infect rushes me, and I swallow a shriek of pain as the exposed bones of his fingers break the skin, my blood spraying in a rush.

The remaining infects screech, and I slam my knife into the zombie's eye. A warm arm wraps around my waist, and I do scream as Finn pulls me into his lap and slams the door behind us.

I don't even have time to scramble out of his lap before he floors the gas and we explode from the horde in a burst of decaying bodies and dust.

Chapter 18

Somewhere Safe

My hands are shaking, adrenaline coursing through my body, and a random, awful thought hits me: is this what it’s like for the infects?

A laugh burns in my throat, and I swallow hard, trying not to let it out, trying not to throw up. My arm and back are itchy, burning, and I jerk around so violently it jars Finn.

I’m still in his lap. How the fuck did I forget that I was in his lap? His arms are around me, holding the steering wheel. His face is close—close enough that I can see the tiny freckles I never knew he had, the muscles tightening in his jaw, the stubble, dark like his hair, on his jaw. His gray eyes flick up to mine, hot and hungry and furious.

Startled, I almost fall off his lap and into my seat.

He shifts a little. “You weren’t bitten.”

It’s a statement, and I’m not sure if he’s denying it as a possibility or stating something he’s observed. Either way, I shake my head. I wasn’t. “But I was scratched.”

He holds out his hand, and I give him my arm without saying anything in complaint. He examines the claw marks, the deep grooves that are still leaking blood, and I flush, trying to pull away—it’s revolting. Finn’s grip tightens, almost painfully, and he looks at me, furious.

“I told you to get in the car.”

“You could have died,” I answered, without thinking. “Those zombies were trying to get to your feet, your legs. You couldn’t have gotten clear of them.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and I twist, digging in the bags to find the first aid kit. I drop down into my seat with it and rip open a handful of alcohol wipes. They aren’t the best thing to use—acid would be, I think—but they’ll do for the moment. The wipes burn, and I hiss, my eyes watering. He’s still staring out the windshield, his jaw tight, and I sigh, wrapping a bandage around my arm. The bleeding has begun to slow, and I think it’ll be enough to tide me over until we get to Haven 18.

Maybe.

“You could say thank you,” I say, reaching around to swipe at my shoulder blade ineffectually.

Finn stares at me for a solid thirty seconds, and I realize what an idiot I must look like, before he finally shakes his head and looks away. “I told you, Nurrin. I won’t thank you for risking your life. Follow your damn orders before you get us both killed.”

He gentles the words, a little, by taking a clean wipe and rubbing my wounds. I gasp at the ruthless cleaning, but then he drops the wipe, and his fingers ghost over the cut before he pulls his hand back abruptly.

“You’ll have a scar. Two of them.”

I shrug and look away. “I’d have a lot more, if I walked the wall.”

A grin tugs at his lip, and I shiver under the gray gaze he sends my way. “You want to be a Wall Walker?”

“Why not?”

“Collin would never let you.” He laughs, like I’m an amusing joke. Or his best friend’s little sister, playing with the big boy’s toys. Heat flares through me, and something makes me shift in my seat, leaning over until my lips hovered a few inches from his ear. He is still—so still it seems obscene that we are moving.

“I didn’t need Collin to sponsor me. And I didn’t need you, O’Malley. I would have walked on my own.”

His gaze is dark, his lips so close to mine I can feel the air move when he demands, “Who the fuck was sponsoring you?”

I drop back into my seat and shrug, a little. “I would have found someone.”

He gives me a disbelieving stare, and I lean my seat back a few inches—as far as it’ll allow me to.

“Wake me up when we get…there.” I wave a hand vaguely at the desert sprawling before us, and then I curl over on my side, tugging Collin’s shirt around me as I fall asleep.

The car slowing wakes me, and I jerk upright in the seat, my hand reaching automatically for my weapon. My heart stops when I remember, and I can't help the hiss of air.

"What?"

He doesn't bother to ask if I've slept well, and I sort of resent that. He's above mundane trivialities that seem to dominate the lives of everyone else.

I answer anyway, "My gun. I left it there, when we were attacked."

He doesn't even look away from the road. "You can get a new one at Haven 18. Or use one of mine—I have plenty."

I don't tell him that isn't the point—that this gun is special because Collin gave it to me, that it was the first thing he gave me after our mother turned. That it was hers. That it told me, more than words ever could, I was safe and loved and not alone in this fucked up world.

I shove those thoughts aside and look around. We're approaching a field of windmills, and I wonder if that's where we will rest for the night.

That we will stop is beyond dispute. I can see exhaustion pulling at Finn like an anxious lover and feel the shadows shifting with bodies ripe with death and disease.

"Where are we going?" I ask, more to ease the boredom than from any real desire to know.

Finn glances at me briefly. "Somewhere safe."

I want to pry, to ask for more than that, but I’m too tired, and I ache. It’s a deep, uneasy feeling in my shoulder and in my arm, and I want to scratch at them.

I wonder if Finn would notice, if I did. His eyes are firmly on the road, but that means very little when we’re talking about Finn.

He drives through the windmill fields, past the great turbines that power the western Havens, and turns into a forest.

It makes my breath catch, and it hits me suddenly that we aren’t in the desert anymore. The trees press up against the car doors, making me anxious for my gun.

“It’s safe,” Finn says, and I look at him. He shrugs. “At least, as safe as anything can be.”

The lake startles me. It gleams in the moonlight—night is settling on the forest, the last light slipping from the sky and giving way to darkness. I stare at the water and wonder what the hell he plans to do. We skirt the lake for a mile or more, and I laugh when I see the houseboat. It's small, but it'll take us into the water, and that's really all we need.

Infects avoid water.

Finn eases the car up to the dock and reaches behind us, pulling our bags from the depths of the car and into our laps. I peer into the darkness, but aside from the trees and tall grass, its quiet, an eerie peacefulness that makes my stomach churn.

What's out there, in the darkness?

"You ready?" he asks, and I shift, adjusting my bag and reaching for my gun. He stops me, handing me a long machete instead. "Keep it quiet."

I nod, and we slip out of the car and into the surprisingly cool night. Faster than I could believe possible, Finn is at my side, herding me toward the boat. The dock is short—a dozen yards—but leaves me feeling itchy and exposed. I breathe a sigh of relief when I step onto the houseboat, feeling its slight shift under me. Finn tosses me his bag, and I swallow down a scream of pain as it yanks at my torn arm.

The boat is quiet—it barely makes a noise as we pull away from the dock and idle out to the exposed open water of the lake. I feel the shore receding—and some of my worries with it. Here, at least, we're safe for a few hours. Here we can both sleep and not set a watch. Here, there are no threats.

Finn is finally satisfied with our location in the lake and kills the motor. We bob slightly as he throws an anchor out, and then silence settles over the lake and forest again.

Finn stares out over the water for a long moment. I wonder what he is thinking, but when I shift, he looks up.

"Let's get below and get your wounds stitched up.”

I freeze, staring at him. “You aren’t stitching me.”

Finn gives me a dark smile, and I shiver from the menace in it. I clutch my bag tighter and head for the stairs. Six short steps down empties me into a small room—small enough that there is little room to move around the bed that dominates the space.

“Sit down,” he says, and without thinking, I obey, dropping onto the bed in exhaustion. He rifles around the miniscule bathroom and brings out a first aid kit.

The sting of antiseptic on my shoulder makes me hiss in a breath and tense under Finn’s fingers. He pauses, and a small flask appears in front of me. “Drink this,” he murmurs. I take it from him and try to ignore the sound of him opening and prepping a suture kit while I hastily swallow some of the brandy. It’s hot and smooth as it slides down my throat, leaving a flare of fire behind it before it fades into a pleasant numbed warmth.

The first stab of the needle whips through me, and I scream involuntarily. Finn fists a hand in my hair, pulling me back against him, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I bite it off, swallowing down the agony, the scream. The pain recedes under the feeling of his arms around me, until that is all I can feel—that and the warmth of the brandy, sitting like a lit coal in my belly.

“Be quiet,” Fin hisses in my ear, and my panic fades in the face of fury. I elbow him in the gut, even angrier when he releases me without comment.

“I told you, keep your hands off me, O’Malley,” I say, but my voice is shaky and weak, and he laughs.

“Do I need to gag you?” he asks, his question sliding across my skin. I shiver.

I shake my head, and he smiles—I feel it where his lips are almost pressed against my skin. Fury floods me, hot and choking, and my cheeks flame.

“You can curse me after, Nurrin. For now, hold still.”

It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I manage it. He watches me for a few seconds when he comes around from behind my shoulder, his eyes slipping down to the lip I’ve bitten raw and the sweat that has beaded above it. Something shifts in his gaze, and he nods at the flask. “Take a little more, Nurrin.”

I swallow two large gulps, clench my fist, and nod. He gives me a faint smile, ducks his head, and begins. Twice, I whimper, and he pauses, letting me gather myself, drink some more of the brandy. Once, he stops and wipes away the blood trailing down my chin. His gentleness is unnerving. I shift, moving slightly away from him.

He doesn’t stop again, and stabbing burn, followed by a sharp tug, repeated over and over, makes me want to gag as he closes the wound.

When he’s finally done, Finn lets out a deep breath. He stands, washing his hands quickly in the bathroom then coming back and throwing a bottle of pills onto the bed next to me. “Antibiotics,” he says. “Neural inhibitors.”

“What the hell are you doing with these?” I demand. “The CDC controls them.”

He gives me a cold look, and I roll my eyes. “That’s right. Finn O’Malley, man of mystery and endless questions. Why would I think you’d answer a simple question?”

“Answering questions wasn’t part of this,” he says, stripping off his shirt. My mouth goes dry. “You wanted to come, you’ll do it blind—I don’t believe in answering questions.”

I stand. “What do you believe in, O’Malley? From what I see, the only thing you believe in is yourself and my brother.”

And that bothers me. It always will.

Finn pauses, hands on his belt, and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Does it matter? I’ll keep you alive.

I’ll keep Collin safe. And I’ll get Dustin’s meds.

Beyond that, does it matter?”

He hesitates, watching me, and I finally shake my head, because he’s right. It doesn’t. Something flickers in his gaze, before it’s gone and he nods. Then he slips into the bathroom, and I curl on my side, trying to sleep despite my racing thoughts.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Finn is wearing a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms and nothing else. He throws his clothes into the corner of the room and wordlessly crawls into the bed.

I almost land on my ass in my haste to scramble out of the bed.

Finn doesn’t even turn on, but his voice floats out of the darkness. “Get a shower and get some sleep, Nurrin.”

“I’m not sleeping with you,” I say, my voice shrill.

That does make him move, and his lips twist into a sinful smile as he peers at me over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

My mouth goes dry, and I breathe a curse on a shaky voice. He laughs and settles back on his side of the bed. “Sleep in the bed or the on the ground—I don’t care.”

His laughter follows me, faintly amusing, into the shower.

I end up sleeping in the bed. The floor is too hard, and the lure of a good night of sleep outweighs the distaste of sleeping next to Finn.

I can feel the steady pressure of his gaze in the morning. It’s what wakes me—the warmth of the sunshine on my hair and his gaze on my face. I lie still, pretending to sleep, and for some reason, he lets me.

Finn O’Malley, who tolerates no dissembling or lies.

I relax a little when he slips from the bed, and I listen to him move around the small room then the sound of his feet on the stairs. The fresh scent of clean air hits me, and I groan, stretching. My stitches tug a little, in time with my throbbing head.

There's a hitch in his steps, and I listen, trying to figure out what he's doing. A sharp, antiseptic smell stings my nose, and I sit up abruptly, my feet swinging to the ground.

Bleach and antibacterial disinfectant— industrial grade. The smell is familiar; it's sprayed on the walls of the Haven every morning and midafternoon. It's a scent as familiar as my own, as familiar as home.

It's a zombie repellent.

He creeps back down the stairs, pulling the door shut with a soft snick, and wets the towel from last night’s shower with the solution before shoving it under the door.

I'm trying not to shake when he finally stops, his eyes meeting mine. I see what he'll say.

We're trapped.

Chapter 19

Forced Together

I sit on the bed while he dresses in the bathroom. My arm is throbbing and I wish I hadn’t turned down the pain pills Finn offered. Nerves flutter in my belly as the door to the bathroom opens and he steps out. He drops onto the bed. It squeaks, alarmingly loud in the silence. I wonder if we can be heard, or if the zombies have lost interest by now.

“How long will they stay?”

Finn glances at me, gray eyes piercing. I shiver. He shrugs and tugs on his second boot. “Could be gone already, or they could stay out there for another four hours. They could keep us here all day.”

I cross my arms and glare at him. “We have to get to 18.”

“Yes, Nurrin, I am aware of your thoughts on the matter. Give me your arm.”

Because it’s killing me—certainly not because he told me to—I do. He unwraps the bandage quickly, and we both can see the angry line of infection spreading from the wound. It looks like hell, and I can almost feel the disease infecting me. I yank my arm away. He lets me, tension filling him.

“Did you take the neural inhibitors?” Finn asks, his voice dangerous, and I bite my lip. “Motherfuck, Ren!” he snarls, and I flinch away as he jerks to his feet. He digs in his pack, pulling out another dose and thrusting them at me.

“Take them.”

I bat his hand away. Neural inhibitors are a last resort, and they don’t work as often as they do.

“No way in hell.”

The words have barely left my lips when he has me on my back, my hands caught in his. I gasp at the pressure of his body on mine, and something flares in his eyes. He makes a noise in the back of his throat.

I bring my knee up sharply and he laughs as he rolls away then pins my legs with one of his. I’m caught, neatly splayed beneath him, and I hate it.

“Take them.”

“Screw you,” I spit.

He shifts a little, and my eyes widen. A grim smile twists his lip. “It’s one way to spend the day,

Nurrin.”

I don’t respond. Something—a tiny voice of practicality—tells me pushing him right now could land me in a place I don’t want to be.

His eyes are mocking. “Take your medicine like a good girl, and I might let you go.”

“They don’t work. And I don’t want to be a veg.”

“These work. No side effects.”

I shake my head, stubbornly, my fear of the pills more than my fear of Finn. I’ve heard too many tales of neural inhibitors attacking the brain instead of the infection. I’d rather he shoot me than turn into one of those mindless souls.

Sure they were harmless—they didn’t want to eat everyone they met—but there was nothing there. The year I graduated from high school, I spent a summer working in Hellspawn’s hospital. Caring for them was the worst part of the assignment, even worse than putting down an infect.

“Ren.” His voice snaps me out of my mounting panic and back to him. “I promise. I’ve taken them. You won’t become a veg.”

Something in his voice—and because he has never lied to me before—makes me nod. He eases up a little, shifting to grab the bag without actually letting me up.

I gag when he drops them on my tongue, and Finn leans down, kissing me.

I swallow in surprise.

His lips don’t leave mine, and he drops down on me completely as he takes my head in his large hands, nibbling at my lips. And despite the fact that it’s Finn, it’s a helluva kiss. Without conscious thought, I kiss him back. His tongue licks at my lips, and I open for him, whimpering a little as his tongue sweeps inside, twisting with mine and—

He rolls off me abruptly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Good.”

“Wha?”

Finn glances at me, cool and disinterested, and my face flames. “That was to get me to take the damn pills?”

“What did you think it was?” he answers, dripping disdain.

I don’t answer. Instead, I kick him off the bed, jerk the blankets up around me, and ignore his laughter as my face burns.

Chapter 20

On the Road

I’m driving.

Not because he wanted me to, but because we both know we’re short on time. Collin is trapped in that cave with a live infection, and we lost precious time on that damn boat. The sun sets, and we’re still hours from Haven 18, so he hands me the keys and I slide into the seat that still holds Finn’s body heat and scent. He pauses outside the car, and I wrinkle my nose at the sound of him peeing.

A moment later, he slams the door. “A pack of infects headed this way.”

Without a word, I hit the gas, and we’re back on the road. I glance at him as he shifts a few times in his seat, drumming his fingers nervously.

“Problem, O’Malley?”

His lips twitch, and for a heartbeat I can feel them again. Then he shrugs. “I like control, Nurrin. Giving that up is hard.”

I focus on the road. “Is that why you don’t answer questions? Because you have to control what people know about you?”

“What makes you think I don’t? It could be just you I refuse to answer.”

I laugh. “You don’t care enough to single me out. Besides, the girls in the Hive talk, you know. Everyone knows you don’t answer questions.”

“Then why do you persist in asking them?”

“Glutton for punishment?”

There is a faint amusement in his voice when he slouches in his seat and says, “Just drive, Nurrin. Quit asking questions you know I won’t answer.”

He closes his eyes, relaxed and ceding control enough to doze as I steer us through the star-studded night. I see zombies in the distance, loping along, pulled by the sound of our car. Once, we pass a convoy—five beat up RV’s barreling through the night, lights blazing, three snipers on the roofs. I pull off the road when I see them coming, and one of the snipers waves at me, looking bored and tired as they race the night.

I wonder how many people were packed into the RV’s.

Traveling between Havens is dangerous and expensive—I’d guess four or five families were crammed into each RV , splitting the exorbitant price as best they could.

“Get going, Nurrin,” Finn says beside me. “And keep an eye out—that convoy will have a trail of dead.”

He’s right.

We hit the horde ten minute after passing the convoy, a small pack, but more than we can push through in the Porsche.

I idle on the road, staring at Finn as he stares at the approaching zombies, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

“Give me you guns. Your bow, too.”

I grab them from below my legs, and he slides himself up to perch on the window of the car.

“Keep it steady, Nurrin. I’ll clear a path, but you have to get us through it.”

His voice drifts through the window of the car. "Take it easy, but get some speed, Ren. Get us through this."

He's trusting me. And he just called me Ren. I grit my teeth and ease my foot on the accelerator. From the corner of my eye, I can see the wind pulling at his shirt as we gain speed. The first gunshot makes me flinch, and the car serves a little. He slams a hand on the roof. "Keep it straight, Nurrin!" he snarls.

I tune him out as we drive into the horde. They’re moaning, racing at us from the darkness, and in two heartbeats, we're enveloped. There are enough to block off the road, but Finn does what he promised—the road stays clear. His shots have slowed, and I'm not sure if it's because he's low on ammo or because he's aiming, but either way, we need to get clear.

I call, "Hold on."

"Ren!" he shouts, and I grab one of his legs as I drive the pedal down. The Porsche roars under my touch, fishtailing a little before it shoots into the gap he's created. I feel him slip, and I almost slow down, but there are too many infects. Closing in from every direction. He fires twice, and the path opens, a brief window.

I take it, darting through. We burst from the horde into the empty night. Finn slides into the car, steadily cursing as he reaches into his bag.

He comes up with a hand grenade.

"Where the hell did that come from?" I demand, my voice shrill.

"What did I tell you about questions, Nurrin? Get this piece of shit moving." He pulls the pin, leans out the window, and lobs it into the midst of the zombies who have turned to chase us.

Finn is leaning back, his eyes closed, when the blast lights up the night sky and shakes the car. I glance into the rear view mirror, at the remains of the horde.

"Why didn't you do that to begin with?" I ask, glancing at him. He looks bloody, but it's fetid and old—blood splatter from the zoms he put down.

"We couldn't drive through an explosion," Finn says, without opening his eyes. "Stop staring. I didn't get bitten."

I flush, my gaze going back to the road. He laughs a little, says something softly under his breath. "What?" I snap.

"We won't be in Haven 18 long, but you can probably take care of that itch there."

"Oh, shut up, Finn. You have no idea."

He moves quickly, his lips brushing against my ear, sucking lightly on my earlobe before tracing the curve with his tongue. I shiver and he laughs. "I know if I can get that response, you are pretty desperate to get laid. I'd offer, but—"

"Fuck. You," I spit and he laughs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you might say," he says, closing his eyes. Fuming, hating that desire is coiling in my belly, I ignore him and drive through the dying night.

Chapter 21

Answers and Questions

Haven 18 is nestled in the curve of the Rockies and sprawls before us like a glittering gem as I come around the crest of the mountain. Finn stirs, rubbing his eyes. "Pull off at the next outlook. I’ll drive us in."

I glance at him, but don't say anything as we begin our descent, twisting through the pre-dawn light.

At the outlook, he glances over my clothes with a critical eye, and I flush. I don't look pretty. I look, more than anything, like I've spent the past several days in the Wide Open, killing zombies.

We don't get stopped until we're a mile from the wall, where a group of soldiers stand in the road like a miniature army.

He pulls up to them and lowers his window.

"Name and haven?" the general barks.

Finn O'Malley and Nurrin Sanders, of Haven 8."

The man frowns, and I'm not sure if it’s because of Finn's distinct accent or my name. "Last word from 8 was there was a breach," he says

"It fell," Finn says flatly, and the soldiers behind him suck in a sharp breath. "I have clearance to enter this haven, so if you'd let me pass..." he trails off.

The general sneers at him. "Whose clearance is that, boy?"

I can feel the tension that wraps around him, and I almost feel sorry for the older man. Being on the receiving end of Finn's glare when it goes dangerous and still is not something I'd wish on anybody.

Although, I am grateful it's turned on someone other than me.

He pulls something out of the door of the car, extending it without word, and the general glances at it half-heartedly. Then he looks back, his eyes wide and afraid.

"Do you have more questions?" Finn asks, coldly.

"No, sir. Apologies."

"Call ahead to the gate. I'm tired and want to get to my damn house."

I look at him sharply, but he's back in the ignore Ren mode. I peer at whatever he gave the general, but it's tucked away too quickly for me to see anything other than a flash of red. The guards clear the road, and we drive on toward the haven.

"Why did they let us pass?"

Finn glances at me. "When we get to the Haven, we're going straight to my house. I have a contact here. He'll come look at your arm. How are you feeling?"

"I thought you said there were no side effects."

He shrugs. "I've been known to lie before,

Nurrin."

I swallow the curse, knowing it'll only amuse him. Instead I shake my head and settle back against the seat. "I feel fine, sir."

He grins and looks over at me. "That sounds particularly nice, coming from you."

This time I do curse, and his laughter is still ringing in my ears when we pull up to the gates. They glide open, and we drive through, the reek of zom repellent mixing with the scent of humanity, mountain air, and fruit ready to be harvested.

A medic is standing with the walkers, her little hands clasped over her kit. "I need to test both of you," she says, with a quick apologetic look at me. I shrug. It's standard procedure, and if the inhibitors worked, it shouldn't be an issue.

If they didn't, I'd rather be put down here.

Finn tenses, but doesn't object. Whatever got us this far won't get us out of a blood test.

She swabs his arm first, drawing a quick sample and injecting a specialized dye. The blood doesn't shift color, and I feel myself relax—he’s clean.

Immediately, I hate that I care.

She runs the same test on me, and I look away as the dye sinks in, waiting for it to latch into the virus swimming in my blood. Finn is staring at the vial, his expression tight. I can't read the expression in his eyes, but it makes my nerves sing. Then he relaxes, and I look at the vial the medic is holding.

Dark red.

Finn clenches my hand before I can say anything, and he talks to the Walkers briefly before we're waved through.

He drives without hesitation, and I wonder when he was here last.

The house is on a quiet street, clean and unassuming and well maintained.

"Come on," he orders, killing the engine and grabbing our bags. I shelve my questions and scramble out of the car to follow him inside.

It's strange, to be exposed on the street and not be concerned about infects. Being in the Wide Open left a mark, faster than I thought it would.

The house is dark and barren. A few pieces of furniture in the great room and a single picture on the wall of the hallway.

It's the space that really startles me.

Havens have a limit of space. Most residents are crammed into vast apartment complexes, tiny lofts shared by whole families. But this—this is a two bedroom house with a surplus of space, and he doesn't even live here.

It might be time, I realize, to reassess what I know about the mysterious man who befriended my brother.

"Lee will be here soon." Finn says, tossing our bags onto the couch. "You can take a shower, if you want."

I stare at him, and for a long moment, he stares back. Questions are racing through my head, and he's watching me. Daring me to ask them. I take a deep breath. "Sounds great."

Amusement tilts his lips, a little, before he turns to lead me into the bathroom. As I pass him, he inhales, his emotions flashing across his face before he shuts them down and leaves me.

When I emerge from my shower, my hair smells clean for the first time in days. My clothes are a bit dusty, but I don't mind too much, and I pad barefoot down the hall, finger combing my hair.

Finn is standing in the kitchen with a young man.

He's heavier than Finn, thick in a way that screams weight lifter. His hair is girlishly long, a burnished red, and pale blue eyes skim over me in interest.

"You brought a girl to your home?" he asks, surprise evident in his tone.

"No questions," Finn intervenes, his gaze darting to me and daring me to say something. I shrug and sit down. "You’re the doctor, I presume."

Lee nods—it's a safe question. "He said your arm and shoulder had exposure."

I extend my arm, and Lee comes around to examine it. His head bends over me, his long hair tickling my skin, and I idly wonder if it's as soft as it looks.

I glance up when Finn moves. He's still standing in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

His eyes are stormy as he watches us, and I must make a noise, something that draws his gaze from Lee's hands on my stitches to meet my own.

For a moment, his gaze is hot, furious, so full of emotions it makes my mouth go dry. I lick my lips, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Hunger flares in his eyes, unmistakable.

"What caused this?"

The question jars me; I flush and look away as Finn's face goes blank.

"We had an incident—she was clawed by an infect."

"How recently?"

"Thirty two hours."

Lee frowns. "It's remarkably clear. Most cases, I'd recommend Q."

"I don't have time for that," I blurt before I can stop myself. Lee raises his eyebrows.

"You aren't testing for infection, and the wound is clean. Keep long sleeves on to avoid questions, but you'll do."

Finn straightens, coming to stand by the couch, and I feel like I've taken my first deep breath in days.

They talk for a few minutes, but I'm lost in my thoughts and relief.

The door closes, and Finn reenters the room. He glides past me. I wonder if I should say something.

"It was the neural inhibitors."

My words stop him, and he stands in the hallway, his back to me.

"If you had them, why didn't you give them to Dustin?"

He laughs. The bastard actually laughs at me. "Nurrin, neural inhibitors are regulated. Getting them is ridiculously expensive."

I glance around the house. "You have unoccupied houses and can call a doctor to them in the middle of the night with no advance warning. Clearly, money is not an issue."

His eyes sparkle. "Some things stretch even my budget."

“This could have saved him,” I say, ignoring his amusement. I feel cold, shocked. Does Dustin’s life mean nothing?

Finn answers the question I hadn’t realized I voiced. “I told you in the Hive. He’s your baggage, Nurrin. I allowed him to come to get you to shut up, and because Collin wouldn’t leave without you. I don’t care if he survives.”

“Then why bother giving them to me?” I snap and jerk to my feet

He catches my arm as I stride by him, pulling me around until I’m facing him. I glare at a spot on his chest, refusing to look into his gaze.

One of his hands fists in my hair, tilting my head back until I’m staring at him. I should be spitting mad—but there it is. The same hunger I saw in him when Lee was working on my arm, smoldering in his eyes now. I lick my lips as heat pools between my legs and his gaze heats.

“Do you really want me to apologize for that?” he murmurs, and I feel the brush of his breath against my lips. “Do you expect me to apologize for keeping you alive? Because if you do, you’re a damn fool. And I always thought you were smart, Ren.”

I shake my head, as much as his grip will allow.

“You never thought about me at all.”

Something fills his gaze, something more dangerous than lust, and I hold my breath. Then he releases his grip on my hair. Blood rushes through my scalp, tiny pinpricks of pain as he steps away from me. “Go to bed, Nurrin.”

I want to call him on it—the name he uses to distance himself from me, all the secrets, the desire he’s barely keeping leashed. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off, “I swear to god, Ren. You don’t want to do this. Go.”

My mouth closes with a click, and I spin, marching into a bedroom—his—and shutting the door behind me. I pause, hear his footsteps on the other side of the wood, and reach down to lock it.

Chapter 22

Day One

The door creaks open, and I lift the cross bow as Finn enters. Two steps and twang.

He freezes as the quarrel hits right in front of him, buried in the wall.

Finn stares at the quivering fletching for a moment then looks at me. "Something wrong, Nurrin?"

"Where the fuck have you been?" I snarl, finally letting the crossbow drop.

When I emerged from the bedroom this morning, I'd been startled to find the house empty. He left a note, ordering me to stay put. And I'd been happy enough to do so—I searched the house for any information about Finn, but aside from the single framed picture, there was nothing personal about the house.

And the picture told me nothing—just two men walking under some trees, each holding a child’s hand.

When my search yielded nothing, I tried to leave. And found all the doors locked. The bastard had actually locked me in the damn house.

He looks around now, taking in the trashed living room. His eyebrows raise a little, and the look he gives me is a mixture of amused irritation. "I had things to do. We came here for a reason, remember?"

"So you locked me in the house? That doesn't strike you as, I don't know, fucking insane?"

He shrugs. "It kept you safe and out of trouble. That's all that really matters to me."

"We're in a Haven," I shout. "It's perfectly safe."

He moves then, across the room, crowding into my personal space. I squeak as he leans into me, backing me up into the chair.

"It's Day One, and you’re a first. In a strange Haven with no protection. You know what they do to Firsts, Nurrin. Be pissy. Destroy the house. I don't give a fuck. I won't let you put yourself in danger because you want some fresh air."

It's Day One. I count the days in my head, backing up until I realize he's right. It's my birthday, the day the zombies rose.

He's watching me. "Did you want to be out there, alone?"

Dread tickles my belly, and I have to shake my head.

Being a First—firstborn after the dead came back—came with its own set of issues. Including the cult that sprang up during the change. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory, painfully aware that he's watching me.

"Can you wake me up next time?" I ask, my voice low. "Take me with you."

I look up and see the sardonic tilt to his lips. "I didn't realize you'd want to be with me," he drawls.

I'm too tired for this—for his games and subtle rebuffs, for the disdain he oozes when he looks at me.

"You know, I don't have time for this," I say, standing. "I don't care if you don't want me here— if you'd rather it was Collin. I came here to get the medicine to help my boyfriend. Medicine you neglected to mention you had. You do whatever you have to do, O'Malley, but don't stop me from doing what I came for."

I turn to walk away then say over my shoulder, "I'm going tomorrow, to get what I need. Help me or stay out of my way. But don't try to stop me."

Finn catches me at my bedroom door. He pulls me to a stop, and I look up at him. I don't know what I expect to see there—disgust, amusement, irritation, hunger. I don't ever know what to expect with him. And that fascinates me.

"It's your birthday, Nurrin."

I flinch, looking away as tears pool in my eyes. That is the last thing I expect to hear. "No. It's Day One."

He pushes my hair from my face, a gesture so gentle it makes my breath stop, and my eyes are wide and confused when I look at him. His gaze is so full I can't decipher what I see there.

If I were very honest, I would admit that I don’t want to decipher what I see there. But I am rarely that honest.

"Day One is the day our whole world changed. But it's also the day a girl was born. A girl who deserves to be known for more than just being a first." I gasp, and his hand drops away, leaving a searing heat in its wake. "I see that girl."

"Why are you saying this?" I demand, and I'm not even sure what I'm asking. His gaze heats and he turns away.

"Be ready at nine. I have an appointment."

Fuck. That. I want one answer. One damned answer. I catch him and yank on his arm.

He moves faster than I expect, his body pushing against mine, holding me captive against the door, his lips hard on mine. I gasp and, with a groan, he sweeps into my mouth, sucking softly on my tongue. Something deep inside me clenches, a hungry yearning.

I whimper, and he shifts, all of his weight bracing me, and the press of him against my belly, hard and impatient, makes me squirm anxiously.

His mouth leaves mine, trailing kisses on my neck. When he bites down on my earlobe, I almost faint.

I make a noise, and he groans, the noise vibrating against my skin. Pulls back and stares at me with hot, hungry eyes.

"Does that answer any of your questions?" he murmurs before be backs away from me, leaving me empty and aching and cold.

It doesn't. It answers nothing. I go into my room, strip, and crawl into his bed alone, with more questions than he will ever answer.

When I wake, the blanket is tucked around me and light is streaming into the room through the safety bars. I can hear Finn moving through the house, and I sit up, reaching for my shirt.

At the end of my bed is a folded pair of leather pants, a corset, and heels. And a small box, with a simple black ribbon on the top. I pick up the note and read it quickly.

Wear the clothes. Collin would want you to have something on your birthday.

F-

I open the box and stare at my gun.

It's so familiar it looks out of place there, the familiar little gun I've carried for so many years.

The gun that Mom carried before me.

The gun I lost in the wide open, protecting Finn.

The wild thought goes through me—when did he get it? Had he had it all along? He must have.

And then, the realization that has taken a long time to set in.

Finn was in my room, while I slept.

Part 2

The Boy Without a Past

*

If the past was what we were meant to see. Then behind, not in front, our eyes would be.

Author Unknown

**

The past means nothing—it died the same day the dead rose.

Finn O’Malley

Chapter 1

Old Friend

She's wearing them when she emerges from my bedroom.

Her blonde hair is pulled back, exposing every inch of her face and neck. The pants fit her like a second skin, displaying her lush ass. The black corset is laced up tight, pushing her small breasts together and up.

For a split second, I can't think about anything but pushing her against the wall and licking every inch of her delicious skin.

Then she pulls out the gun.

I swallow my desire and raise a lazy eyebrow.

"Drawing on me again, Nurrin?"

"Where did you get it?" she demands.

"You dropped it during the flat."

I knew what that gun meant to her. She might not see it, but I have watched her for years. Waiting. Hoping like hell the urge to fuck her would go away.

It never did.

But I learned about her—and I knew damn well what that gun meant. Her eyes soften a little, and I straighten. "Get your coffee—we're late."

And just like that, the softness is gone, replaced with curiosity.

I hand her a leather jacket and lead the way from the house.

"Where are we going?" She shuts the door of the Porsche to punctuate her question, and I grit my teeth.

"Does it ever occur to you that asking me questions is an exercise in futility?"

She grins, mischievous. "Nope."

A slow smile tilts my lips. Her eyes drop down and get that sleepy, sexy look that never fails to make me a little hard. I jerk the car into motion, and she gets thrown against her seat. I hear her curse.

And hide my grin.

"I don't know, Finn. Your evidence is thin."

Nurrin shifts at my side, and Lissel spares her a brief look. It's killing her to stay quiet, but so far Nurrin has managed to follow my orders.

"So you won't evacuate the Haven?" I ask.

Lissel shakes her head. "It's too much. And the Wide Open is dangerous—we'll take our chances here."

I nod. "Fine."

Nurrin makes a surprised noise, and Lissel smiles, the knowing smile that first intrigued me and now just makes me want to slap her. "You will be here long?" she asks, her hand lingering on my arm.

I glance down at it, at the fingers I've seen on my cock while her blonde hair spread across my thighs.

Now I stare at her until two spots of color appear in her cheeks and she pulls away. "No," I answer shortly.

"You have nowhere to go. Haven 8 is gone."

I laugh at that and stand. Nurrin leaps to her feet, twitching with impatience. "Lissel, you know better. I always have somewhere to go."

Nurrin laughs softly, and Lissel's sharp gaze goes to her. "She's a First."

It isn't a question. I straighten slowly and shrug. "So?"

"The Order would be thrilled to hear a First is in the Haven. And so close to Third Day, too."

I move before I think, pin Lissel to the door, my knee braced between her legs, my hand on her throat. Her eyes are amused and angry. Vaguely, I wonder if I have made the biggest mistake of my life.

"Finn," Nurrin hisses. I ignore her—I'm damn good at that.

I stare at Lissel, letting a dangerous smile play on my lips. "If word spreads that she's a First, my life will become messy. You know I don't like messy."

Her eyes narrow, and I shake her a little.

"Don't push this, Lissel. I don't want to kill you."

Blue eyes widen and behind me I hear Nurrin gasp. "Go to the car," I snap. For a long moment, she hesitates, and I almost yell at her. Then the door opens, snicks softly closed.

I release Lissel abruptly, and she stumbles. "What the hell are you doing?" I snarl. She stares at me unrepentant, and I turn away, disgusted.

"Don't play games with me. I'll kill you and be done with them."

If there is any response, I don’t hear it above the door I slam shut behind me.

Nurrin is watching me, her eyes full of accusations and questions. I shift, feeling the gears of the Porsche grinding, and grit my teeth. Turn sharply. Nurrin yelps as she tumbles toward me. For a heartbeat, her skin is pressed against me, her scent all around me.

I shrug her off, and she retreats to her side of the car. “Can you drive like a sane person?” she grumbles.

“Can you put a seat belt on?”

"Where are we going?"

The endless fucking questions. I think I could handle all of the reasons why fucking Ren is the worst idea in a long line of bad ideas—if it weren't for the endless fucking questions. I ignore her, steering the Porsche through the quiet streets of Haven.

I like 18. Always have. Maybe because I visited here, before the rising. Before the walls and the guns and the decay. I shut down that line of thought—it doesn't do any good to think of that time. It's over. It's been over for twenty years.

Shady trees shiver in the breeze floating off the ocean. A few women are clustered in a shop, bartering.

There are no children wandering Haven 18. Sometimes, there is such a lack of them, I start thinking the plague took them as well.

It's not true—our children are hidden deep in the Haven, behind every wall and defense we can manage, protected by the best guards, with three ways of escape in the event of a breach.

Not that it saved the children of Haven 8. Not that it will save them here.

But the defense measures make nervous mothers happy while their fathers Walk the walls.

Idiots. The idiots shouldn't breed if they're going to risk themselves like that—although, I don't see much point in it at all. Not in this world.

Although—fucking is fun. Maybe that is the point.

"Finn?"

Her voice is sharp and sweet and fills the confines of the car. I'm already surrounded by her scent and thinking of sex and all of it makes me want to pull over, drag her onto my lap, and sink into her until she's screaming.

I slide a look at her—she looks irritated. Whatever she sees in my eyes makes her pale, lick her lips. I wonder if she's thinking of the kiss.

I wonder how long I can make myself wait before I kiss her again.

"Fuck," I growl, jerking my eyes forward again. The car grumbles under me, and I turn sharply.

She curses and I smirk—I love hearing her curse. One of the best things about her is that she curses so damn well.

"Stop doing that," she grumbles. I ease the car to a stop in front of a small house and kill the engine.

"Wait here," I order, stepping out of the car. There's maybe a twenty-five percent chance she'll listen to me.

Her door slams shut behind me, and I throw her a glare. “Don’t waste your breath,” she mutters as she comes along side me. In her heels, she’s as tall as I am. And gorgeous, all sex and leather.

I catch her arm. “Same rules, Nurrin. Mouth shut and do what I tell you.”

“Who are we seeing?”

I start walking again, striding up to the little house. I can smell the oil and paint, pungent and mixing with the zombie repellent that soaks the haven.

Jesse grins when he opens the door. I nod briefly, stepping past him. I see the flash of curiosity in his eyes a heartbeat before he stifles it. His attention swivels back to me, professional and doing his damned best to ignore the impatient, curious girl radiating sex.

I wonder if I can kill him for looking at her.

Would be a hassle—finding a good mechanic in the western havens is never easy. But if she says anything to encourage the interest in his eyes, I’ll break his fucking neck.

The thought amuses me, and a smile twitches my lip. “Sit down, Nurrin.”

Jesse’s eyes widen, and I shift, slightly. Shielding her. He’s never had ties to the Order, but trusting Ren’s safety to anyone but Collin is impossible. Hell, trusting Collin with her is hard.

“The Porsche looks like shit. What did you do to it?” Jesse ask, breaking the tension.

At the table, Ren laughs. I don’t turn to her, don’t drink in the smile that’s curving her kissable lips. “The Wide Open didn’t agree with it. Can you get it cleaned up?”

“To your standards?”

I shake my head. The car was flawed— attempting to restore it to what it was is a waste of time. “Find a buyer.”

Nurrin shifts, and I step away from her. “How is the Harley?”

Jesse’s gaze slides over Ren, and I glance back at her. She’s smiling, a fuck-me tilt to the lips, her eyes sleepy.

“She’s not really dressed for the bike, Finn.”

“She’s none of your damn concern,” I snap, and her eyes flick to me, amused. “Get the bike. I’ll meet you in the garage.”

There’s a moment of hesitation from Jesse, but he’s used to following orders, and he knows my temper. He leaves.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask without looking at her.

She moves, standing lithely. I stay very still as she comes up behind me, her breath whispering over my skin as she says, “Scratching an itch.”

I grab her as she struts away. Her eyes are filled with amusement and a challenge. “No.”

An eyebrow arches, and she laughs. “Why not?”

My jaw clenches, and something flickers in her gaze. Disgust.

Why did I have to obsess over the girl who couldn’t be happy with a good fuck? Why the one who needed to know everything.

I release her. “Fine. Scratch away. Have him bring you home—and my bike.”

She opens her mouth to say something— probably ask another bloody question—but I ignore it, ignore her yelling my name as I leave.

Chapter 2

Killing Aggression

Every Haven has a Wall. And every wall needs Walkers. I stalk there now, ignoring the curious faces of Haven citizens, the mourning incense still hanging like a pungent cloud over the city.

There is very little I dislike more than Day One and the subsequent days. She’s at her most vulnerable then. For a heartbeat, I hesitate. Leaving her with Jesse is making all of my protective instincts scream. But I kissed her last night—if I keep up with the over-protective alphamale routine, she’ll bolt. I make a face. This long game might be worth the end reward, but there’s something to be said for instant gratification.

Namely, that it’s instant.

There are a few Walkers in the barracks, and I nod at them. “Help you?” one asks.

I smile lazily. “Haven 8. Chief Walker of the Western sector.”

“Bit far from your sector, sir,” he says, politely questioning my right to be here.

I hate questions. Despise them. Why don’t people get that questions are just a way to lie. The answers don’t mean anything—they aren’t earned, they’re given for nothing. How could they mean anything? “Just need a bit of a distraction. Do you mind?”

He eyes me for a moment then shrugs. “A Walker’s a Walker, no matter where he hails. Try not to get yourself killed up there.”

I flash a sharp smile, but don’t say anything in response. He steps aside, and I jog up the steep stairs.

The Wall is twenty feet thick, a hundred feet high. On the inside, it’s braced by buildings and barracks, small businesses that cater to the thrillseekers.

On the outside, there is nothing. A sheer, smooth drop directly to the ground, no vegetation or growth sprouting along the Wall. No trees within fifty yards. It’s like a great big hand carved away all of nature’s beauty and dropped a fortified city in its place.

It gleams white in the morning light, the stink of zom repellent still filling the air. It’s a familiar scent, on the Wall. Almost as familiar as the scent of blood and decay.

I see a small herd milling around a fallen deer. Infects prefer humans—if they can get at a healthy human, they’ll bypass any wild game for a shot at spreading the disease. But when hungry and desperate enough, they aren’t terribly picky.

Any meat will do when they’re starving.

Aside from the infects feeding, it’s a quiet morning—the border is empty. I lean against the wall, my finger tapping incessantly. This isn’t what I need. I’m too edgy, anxious. “Do you have a patrol scheduled?”

The Walker at my left shifts, surprised. “Sir?”

I flick my head, annoyed. “A patrol. Scouting parties.”

He stares at me blankly, and I growl, clattering down the stairs and approaching the fortified gate. It’s a stone door that slides directly into place, which lets Walkers into the Wide Open to patrol beyond the Haven and clear the wall.

“I’m going out,” I say, digging into their armory and finding a crossbow and a wicked sharp axe. It’s a personal weapon, one that requires close quarters. It’s perfect. Now I just need an infect. “Open the gate.”

“Sir, you can’t go out there,” one of the Walkers objects.

I give him a long look, and he finally flushes, looking down. “Open. The gate,” I repeat flatly.

There’s a screeching sound of metal on metal, and a narrow gap appears. I slip through it, putting the gleaming white of the wall behind me. The open air teases my skin, carrying the scent of wild pine and infects.

“You’re crazy, you know.”

I glance sideways at the Walker who followed me out of the Haven. I give a tight smile, and then a low moan draws my attention.

The herd with the deer has caught our scent, and one's head is whipping around, her moan an angry call as she searches. I pull my bow up, slowly, and carefully draw the string back. There’s a sharp twang, which draws the others’ attention. Then the quarrel catches her in the forehead, spinning her around as she falls.

“Incoming,” I say, and the Walker shoots me a disbelieving look—the amusement in my voice has to disturb him. The zombies take all my attention, and for the first time since I left the Hole, I’m not thinking about her. I’m not thinking about anything but the arrow I’m aiming, the putrid body bag bolting across the clearing toward me, and the axe in my hand as I swing it around. The zombie screams just before my blade slices into its neck, and I smile, a mad hatter grin, as I go to work.

The scream draws more—five infects burst from the tree line at a dead sprint as the Walker puts down the last of the first pack. I hiss—I’m tired and running low on arrows—before jerking the crossbow up and taking aim. I drop three, and the Walker picks off a fourth. As I line up the sights of the fifth, I hesitate—her long blonde hair is still shiny, her face almost untouched by the infection. She’s new and furious, awkward with the disease rampant in her blood system. The ends of her gold hair are bloody.

She reminds me, for a heartbeat, of the past. I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger, breathing out as the bow bucks slightly. I hear the muffled thud of the body, finally dead, hitting the ground. Sudden exhaustion sweeps me as I survey the carnage—it was senseless risk, and I’m sure I’ll hear all kinds of shit from Lissel later. But it did what I needed, until that last biter. A little annoyed that she ruined my high, I stalk around the dead, ripping arrows from their skulls. The Walker paces alongside me, eyeing me as he keeps watch.

“Have something to say?” I finally ask, bored. I jerk another arrow free and take the gore covered bolts back toward the Wall.

“We all have our ways of dealing with the Turn.”

I stare at him, a smile ticking my lips up. He pales. The fucker shot down a rampaging horde, took point while I retrieved shit we could do without—and a smile from me makes him nervous.

I don’t address his statement, the truth in it— or the fact that this isn’t a yearly blowup.

This is my life—everyone’s—every day.

Chapter 3

Cleaning Up

She’s back. I know, even before I push open the front door, that she’s back—the air feels slightly different when she’s sharing it with me, a subtle tension fills it that only I seem to be aware of.

I take a deep breath and open the door, letting a blank expression fall over my face.

I don’t need it—she’s asleep, snoring slightly, curled on her side on the couch. A blanket has slipped off her, exposing the soft curves of her breast and ass, still encased in the outfit I gave her.

I start to walk past, and she make a little noise, halting me in my tracks.

Damn her for the ability to do that. I kick the couch, and she snaps upright, her gun trained on my head. I keep my face straight, despite the urge to grin. She’s always ready for an attack. Collin trained her well—but then, he would. He’s lost too much to risk his sister.

“The door was unlocked,” I say, and she blinks, relaxing a tiny bit when she sees it’s only me.

“I didn’t think you had the keys,” she answers, tossing them to me.

“It’s dangerous for you to be unprotected right now,” I say, looking away.

She’s quiet, for so long I finally look back at her. She’s staring at me, emotions spreading across her face too quickly for me to follow. Finally she smirks. “Didn’t think you cared.”

My own words, echoing back at me. A smile twitches my lips. “Collin would be pissed if anything happened to you, Nurrin."

She looks away. “Did you get the meds?”

I shrug out of my leather jacket, and she inhales sharply. I’m still covered in blood from the skirmish outside the Wall. “What happened?” she demands shrilly, taking a short step toward me. I pin her with a sharp look, and she stops.

I ignore her, pulling the bloody shirt of. It sticks to my chest. I grimace. “I’m going to shower,” I announce, turning toward my bedroom.

“Finn O’Malley, you have to answer me,” she snaps. “You have to talk to me!”

The bathroom feels crowded with her in it. I hook my thumbs in the top of my jeans, ready to shove them down. “You might want to leave,” I murmur, turning to stare at her.

Her cheeks are flushed, but she sets her feet, crossing her arms. I grin, slow and amused. I unbutton and push my jeans down.

Her breath catches, her gaze skirting down before snapping up to my eyes. “I’m not leaving without answers, Finn.”

I step into her space, so close I can feel the heat of her skin, the brush of her corset-clad breasts. “See something you like, little girl?”

“Nothing terribly impressive,” she shoots back, and I laugh at that. Her breathing is fast, her eyes a little sleepy. She’s primed for sex and a fight, and I want to give her both.

I lean into her, inhaling her scent and licking at her pounding pulse point. She shivers, swaying toward me. “You sure, Nurrin? It’s gotta be more fun than taking care of yourself.”

“Who says I did,” she murmurs, and I jerk upright. “Jesse is quite talented. At many things.”

I want to throttle him. Or her. Instead, I twist and turn on the shower. The water is scalding hot, and it stings my skin as I step into the spray, ignoring her completely.

Knowing she was with other men in Haven 8 I could handle—there was distance, and I slept around. Tried to get her out of my system. But here, it’s somehow different. I want to strangle Jesse, push her against a wall and kiss her until she can’t remember anyone’s name but mine.

“You can’t ignore me and expect me to wait for you to do whatever it is you’re doing,” she shouts over the spray. I fist my erection and turn to her, blatantly displaying myself. Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip.

“I can, actually. You’ll listen or I’ll lock you in until I’m ready to go back to the Hole.”

She bares her teeth in a parody of a smile and turns away.

Fuck. “Nurrin!” I snarl, and jump out of the shower. She’s almost to the door, moving fast, when I tackle her. She hits the ground with a yelp.

I roll, pulling her under my wet, still-bloody body.

“Get off me, you bastard,” she shouts, and I clamp down hard on her wrists as she reaches to slap me. I force her hand down and glare at her.

“Are you fucking insane? Or just trying to get yourself killed? The Order is out there, hunting Firsts. You idiot.”

“I don’t care,” she says, and I groan, letting my weight drop on her. She gasps, squeezing her eyes closed. “Dustin needs me. The longer you fuck around, the longer Collin is with that danger.”

My stomach twists, and I pull away. “It’s too dangerous to go out while the Turn is being remembered.”

“That didn’t stop you this morning. And it’s too dangerous for Collin to wait.”

She’s right. She’s right, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. I prop myself up and stare at her.

“You have to listen.”

Hope sparks in her eyes, and she nods, a quick bob of her head. “Just like the Wide Open, Finn.”

I roll off her, and she stays there for a minute, staring up at me. I don’t look at her, just turn and stalk back to my abandoned shower.

Chapter 4

The Blessed Order

She strides alongside me on the quiet street. Mourning incense fills the air and my head, the streets taking on an eerie quality in the dimness. I glance at her from the corner of my eye. If she’s nervous being on the streets during Second Night, she’s doing a damn good job at hiding it.

She’s dressed in a scarlet bandage dress with a black ribbon shoulder strap. Paired with her black stilettos, she looks sexy and dangerous and five years older than she is.

She doesn’t look like a First.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

I roll my eyes, catch her elbow, and pull her along a little faster. She mutters darkly under her breath.

The building looks deserted, but according to Jesse, this is the best place to find what I need. The black market meds are going to be where every other vice in the Haven is found. Everything is controlled by one group.

I knock quickly and lean down to murmur into Nurrin’s ear. “Quiet, little girl. Understand? Follow my lead.”

She twitches and nods, just as the door swings open. I eye the bouncer, the steady thrum of music pounding behind him. “We’re closed.”

I pull out a bag full of narcotics and creds. His eyes widen, and I smirk. “Finn O’Malley, with a guest. Let me in.”

The guard steps aside, and we go into the long, wide hallway that separates the main club from the door. “Stay to the middle,” I say, dragging her close behind me.

“Why?” she asks, and an infect explodes into the room from the left. Nurrin chokes a scream down, a half-heard noise that’s buried when she bites down on my shoulder. I grunt and keep walking—her hands clenched in the silk of my dress shirt.

The infect is harmless—as harmless as they ever are. His lower jaw has been shattered, teeth removed in a gaping maw. His fingers are broken off stubs, but the bone protrudes—enough to pick up a contact infection.

“Why?” she asks, again, her voice shaking and scared.

“They don’t want anyone stumbling onto this,” I answer. The zombie hisses at us, broken fingers stretched. She shudders, and I keep going down the hall.

Another bouncer is waiting, this one visibly armed. He levels a gun at us, and I feel fury building in me. I understand the precautions, but at some point, they just become offensive. I’m well past my limit for irritating shit.

I draw my own gun, cock it, and point at his forehead. “My bribe already paid our passage. Unless you want this place brought to the aldermen’s attention, you’ll put that down and let me fucking pass.”

He smirks. “I  heard O’Malley had graced the Haven again. Didn’t expect to see you in the Underground.”

“That’s because you don’t know a damn thing about me,” I say coldly. The bouncer’s eyes flick to Nurrin, and she shifts, a little bit away from me. I want to drag her back, but it’d cause questions I don’t want to deal with.

He smiles and moves aside.

And we step into the Underground.

A dance floor has been set up in one half of the club—flashing lights and cheap beer is flowing, half-dressed girls dance on tables. A few couples are making out; one girl has her hand down her partner’s pants, toying with his erection.

Nurrin watches curiously, but I turn her away. Between the dance floor and the stalls selling goods, is a bar. A few working girls linger there, watching me, and this time, Nurrin draws closer, almost jealously.

I lead her past the bar and the illegal black market, deeper into the heart of the Underground. Here there’s a sexual playground, where any fetish and appetite can be satisfied. The music is replaced by low moans, the sound of chains rattling, and cries of pleasure—the scent of sex hangs on the air. Her eyes are wide when she looks at me, and I shake my head. A sub being whipped by a leather-clad domme watches with lazy, pleasure-hazed eyes as I lead Nurrin past the kink club.

There’s another door, but this one is unmanned. I push it open, leading her into the fight pit.

Two men—a Walker and a Haven worker—are fighting. From the mess of their faces, they’ve been at it a while, but the crowd is still screaming, hysterical, driven by an urge for blood.

Nurrin watches for a few seconds as the Walker pummels the other man mercilessly. The worker drops to the ground after a particularly vicious blow, and the crowd boos as he shakes his head, trying to clear it. She shivers as the Walker stalks over and kicks him, her face unexpectedly pale. “Nurrin,” I say, and her gaze snaps to me, revolted and pleading. “Eyes on me.”

She nods, gritting her teeth, and I lead her through the crowd, punching a man when he throws a careless elbow that gets too close to Nurrin. We get caught in the melee of bettors exchanging money when the fight ends, and then we’re near the wall. I find the only door and knock once.

A tiny Asian girl is sitting on the desk, a black man standing beside it. I eye them, and my fingers twitch, anxious for my gun. She shouldn’t be here.

Finally, the little Asian looks up at me, a bored expression on her pale face. “What can the Blessed Order of the First do for you, Finn O’Malley?”

Chapter 5

The Day the World Stood Still

Everyone remembers the day the dead rose. Even those who had been small children can pinpoint where they were when the army hit the zombie horde outside of Atlanta. The world stopped, eyes trained on a five mile stretch between Atlanta and Newnan, watching while the entire fucking thing came crashing down around us.

I was with my parents—my father and his best friend sat side by side, watching on a tiny monitor as the horde from Atlanta slammed into the troops from Fort Benning and everything-—every fucking thing we’d ever known or would know—stopped.

The Blessed Order says it began on Day One. When Emilie Milan sat up and ate the morgue attendant. But I was there. I was watching. I listened to the frantic calls, the screams of the soldiers as the virus in their blood reacted to the horde. The screams changing to moans when they were infected and joined the horde they were sent to destroy.

I heard it all.

I’ve heard a thousand stories since that day. A girl who lost her virginity while the zombies stormed Atlanta. A trucker who shot his children rather than let them face this world, and then carried that weight for another six years. A woman who baked an apple pie and sobbed as she listened to a newscast—her son had been in the ranks that changed.

People had been in class, in church, in basement bomb shelters.

Collin had been in a hospital, sitting next to his parents and newborn sister.

My story isn’t that different—I was with my family. I sat with the people who cared about me as the horde swarmed Atlanta and spread.

I played with my best friend under a desk when the dirty bombs hit Atlanta, obliterating the fifth largest city in the United States.

We were playing hide and seek when millions died from the nerve gas that did nothing against the zombies.

I was hiding in a corner while the world crashed down and the battle for the East Coast began.

Chapter 6

Negotiations with the Devil

I stare at the High Priestess of the Order, her black hair stick straight. A startling swatch of white hair hangs over one eye. I can feel the press of Nurrin at my back, her bristling energy and anger, but she’s quiet. And the priestess doesn’t know who she is—I’ve always been very careful to make sure they don’t know who or what she is.

“I need medicine. My brother picked up a contact infection.”

Her eye widens a little, but she doesn’t respond except, “I don’t know how that concerns me.”

I let a cool smile turn my lips. People who survive a contact infection are rare, and the Order adores them—they hunt them almost as intently as they do Firsts. “Don’t play coy, Lori. It doesn’t suit you.”

Anger sparkles in her eyes for a moment before it’s locked down and she lifts a delicate shoulder in a shrug. “You won’t give him to me. And I don’t need more cured. I need a First. Can you give me one of those?”

I feel Ren’s entire body pressed against my back. But she doesn’t react at all. I keep my voice flat. “If you don’t have your sacrifice, you won’t find one this late in the season. Maybe you’ve finally killed them all.”

She makes an irritated face and shakes her head. “No. We have our records. We know there are more—we just can’t find them.” Lori studies me. “Word from Haven 8’s High Priest was that they had a First.”

Nurrin’s grip on my back tightens a little. I force a smile. “Then we’re one step closer to the Blessed cure—everyone in Haven 8 was killed when it fell.”

Her eyes go wide. “What are you talking about?”

She doesn’t know—and it might be useful. “Information for medicine,” I say. She makes an impatient noise, and I stand up, turning Nurrin.

“Stop,” Lori snaps, her voice a whiplash of fury. She hates being one-upped, which is what makes it so damn fun to annoy her.

“I don’t have time for you to play games, Priestess. And you know I don’t appreciate them.”

She sniffs. “Fine. Tell me what you want.”

“InsuSyntrix. Four three week courses.”

“No information is worth that, O’Malley.” Lori laughs.

I smile, lazy and confident. “Mine is. When you decide you’re interested, you can find me.”

The black man takes a half step forward, but Lori stops him with a single hand. Neither says anything to me as I escort Nurrin out of the tiny room. Another fight has started, and I drag her into the crowd, tugging her until her back is pressed against my front. She’s stiff and furious, her breasts heaving under the material of her dress.

“We can’t leave—Lori is watching, and it’s safest if we enjoy the Underground before we make a departure.”

“So we’ll watch men pummel each other until Lori loses interest?” she hisses. It’s the first thing she’s said since we entered the Underground, and I’m pleased to hear how steady her voice is.

"Unless something else in the Underground captured your interest," I say. She inhales sharply, licking her lips.

My dick hardens, and there's nothing I can do to keep it from her, not with her pressed against me. I'm not willing to let her go.

"What the hell, Finn?" she whispers, furious.

"Chemical reaction, Ren. Nothing to worry about."

My words are dismissive, my tone condescending, but she twists, staring at me with curious, probing eyes. I see a question in them, but I don't have an answer, and if she keeps staring at me, her lips inches from mine, I'll kiss her and the consequences be damned.

"Eyes on the fight, little girl," I murmur. She smirks and looks back ahead.

I knew bringing her here was a risk. It wasn't my first choice, but last night was too dangerous— the Order had everyone on edge Day One. The Underground, when I watched it from the outside, was deserted. No one was near it—and going there when it was so quiet would reek of desperation.

I had thought my only concern would be walking a First into the Order's lair. But it’s not— there’s also the fact that I’m exposing her to something she's never seen.

If Dustin’s done anything right as her friend, it’s been keeping her away from the Order-run vice clubs.

We wait through two fights—one I bet on, and after collecting our winnings, I draw her tight against my body and lead her from the fight hall.

She stops near the kink club. There's a show happening—a girl is on the large wheel, two men behind her with floggers. Around them, the other club patrons are watching, lost in various states of sex and desire. I slide a glance at her, curious about her reaction.

Her eyes are wide and watching, her breath catching in her throat, so still she almost trembles. Her nipples are hard little peaks, pressing against the red silk of her dress. It hits me hard—she likes it. The kink club that leave so many with a sour taste in their mouth—she's intrigued.

For all that I've watched her for years, I didn't expect that. And it makes keeping my hands off her even harder.

"Come on, Ren," I say hoarsely. "Unless you'd like to join in, I think we've spent enough time here for the day."

A blush colors her cheeks, and she looks away. I wrap an arm around her and usher her out of the Underground.

Chapter 7

Bad Decisions

She trips along in her heels, and I bite back a sigh of irritation. Even knowing I'm the one who gave them to her doesn't make me any happier that we're still on the streets. Any other time, I'd have taken her out on my bike, but not in that damn dress.

"Finn," she starts, and I cut her a look, glaring in the bright street lights.

Rebellion fires in her eyes, but she doesn't continue. Not until we're in my little house, the door shut behind us, locks triple checked.

I let out the breath I seem to have been holding, tension easing out of my shoulders. It's like a weight has slipped off of them, and I can relax.

"O'Malley."

And just like that, it's back. I straighten, forcing myself to blankness, and turn to arch a brow at her. "What can I do for you, Nurrin?"

"I want some idea of what the hell we're doing," she says. "I need to know why the fuck you think taking me into an Order's lair—to their fucking Priestess—was such a bloody brilliant idea. If she had known, I'd be dead right now!"

I move without thinking, yet another bad decision in a night full of them. I shove into her personal space, and she takes a half step back. "Do you think I'd put you in danger? Do you think Collin would let you go with me if he thought I'd risk your life?" I demand.

"I don't think anything," she hisses. "I don't know anything—you won't tell me anything. You expect to march me into a death trap and then give me nothing. I want to know what the hell we're doing—Lori will make a demand. The Order does nothing for free, and the meds you’re asking for—" She laughs, a sharp, disbelieving noise. "What are you willing to give her for that medicine? How high a price are Collin’s and Dustin's lives going to carry?"

I make a disgusted noise and step away. It's either that or kiss her senseless. "Quit thinking so much, Nurrin. I won't risk your life—not as long as I need something from you. I'll do whatever Lori asks, because I won't risk Collin. Is that enough honesty for you?"

"No," she snaps.

I smirk. Turn away and walk into my room.

"That's all you’re going to get."

She stalks after me. "Tomorrow? What are we doing tomorrow? How long are we going to wait, Finn?"

My name on her lips is a curse and so damn sexy I can't stand it. I pull my shirt over my head and reach for my pants. Clearly, sex and nudity won't scare Ren away—but I'm too tired to give a fuck about this right now.

"Tomorrow, we'll wait for Lori to contact us. It's Third Day—lying low is our best bet, if we have to stay in the Haven."

She shudders, rubbing her arms. I want to do that for her, want to soothe away her fears. It's a bad idea, so I turn away and sit on the edge of my bed. "Just trust me," I say, quietly. "I won't put you in danger if I can help it. It'll just make my life more difficult. Get some sleep. I'll get what information that I can tomorrow—I want you inside, the door locked, until it's over." She's pale and nods.

Even without a First, the Order will kill tomorrow. I just need to make sure it's not Ren.

Chapter 8

Third Day

I can hear her, the soft snoring she would never admit to making, through the thin walls. I lie on my bed, the silk sheets warm with my body heat against my skin.

It's the seventh of March. The day the world stopped. It began, twenty years ago, in blood. It ended in death and smoke, fire and ash.

I wish, sometimes, I could go back. Back to that corner where I stood with Kelsey, her fine blonde hair tickling my neck.

I shake my head, hard, dislodging the memory, and swing from my bed. Pad naked across the room and reach for my pants.

When I'm dressed, I slip from my bedroom.

Hesitate briefly outside Nurrin's room. She snores quietly, and I grin. Not the calculated smirk that infuriates her, or the lazily manipulative one that seduces women to my bed—just a real smile. She wouldn't recognize me with this expression.

I whistle softly and go to the kitchen to make us breakfast. Not much—the house still gets rations because I demand it to maintain a home in the Haven and the aldermen want my presence— even my absent presence—here for the added protection.

Idiots. I can't offer them anything—Haven 8 falling showed that more eloquently than anything.

I peer out the window, checking the deserted streets. A small silver package is sitting on the walk up to my house. It's clearly placed for me to notice. I glance down the hall, to where her door is still closed.

God, I want the day over. Already, I'm anxious and impatient.

I put the coffee down and grab my knife.

Holding it flipped with the blade flat against my lower arm, I slip out of the house and snatch up the package.

A member of the Order is standing in the middle of the road, masked face staring at me from the depths of its hood. I bare my teeth at it and retreat back into the house.

"Fucking creepy fuckers," I mutter, glaring at the closed door. I make a cup of black coffee and open the package.

Inside, there are two small vials of Kelaxon and a letter. I curse. This does nothing—it might slow the infection, if Collin has picked one up, but it's too late to do anything for Dustin.

Nurrin is going to be furious.

O'Malley,

A good faith gift. We will give you the antibiotics in exchange for information about the fall of Haven 8. And a retrieval of a package in Haven 21. Bring both to me in two days, and we'll make the exchange. This is the last time your name will carry any weight within our order, O'Malley. Make sure it's worth using.

HP-

I'm sitting there, holding the note in my hand and staring into nothing, when she finally stumbles, half awake, from her room. She mumbles something incoherent in my direction as she staggers to the coffee pot and pours herself a large cup. I wait for her to reach for the sugar, but she just leans against the counter and takes a large sip, black, her eyes closing in a blissful smile.

I look away, scowling into the note, and she shifts a little. "What's that?"

"The Order made their offer," I say. I drop the note on the counter and stand. "Be ready to leave in an hour. The sooner we're out of the Haven, the better."

I stalk to the front door—I need to pay Jesse a visit, get a vehicle. He should have something old school enough to get me through the wreckage and into the city.

"Lock the doors. Barricade yourself in the safe room—I'll get you out when I get back."

Her eyes are wide, all traces of sleep gone, replaced by anger. I don't have time for this.

"Finn, you can't leave me!" she snaps.

"I can't take you this time. You know what those fucking lunatics are like on Third Day. I can't protect you—the best safety I can offer is that hole. Get your ass in it."

I slam the door behind me, punctuating my words, and lock it with my set of keys. She won't be able to leave, and if she locks herself into the zombie-proof safe room, she should be safe until I return.

Without letting myself consider that she won't be, I jog down the steps and break into a run.

It's a stupid move, but I'm too keyed up to care. The deserted streets work in my favor— Third Day is usually quiet until around three in the afternoon. I see a few cult members in their robes, but Lori must have passed word around— none of them approach me.

I hammer on Jesse's door for almost five minutes before he throws it open, cursing. I ignore his anger, shoving into the house. "I need a car. A Hummer or Jeep, if you have them. Fully stocked." "When?" he asks, and I glance at him.

"Now."

He makes an amused noise in his throat. I frown, watching his expression slip from amused to oh shit. "Dammit, O'Malley, you can't keep pulling this shit."

"Actually," I drawl, letting my accent thicken,

"I can."

He scowls, and I nod at the back of the house.

"Do you have anything?"

"Not a fucking Hummer," he snarls. I want to punch him—the thought of his hands on Ren makes me violent, and his pissy attitude is just lighting the fuse on my temper.

"What do you have?" I demand, my voice low and controlled. Jesse's eyes narrow, and he strides toward the back of the house.

"An armored truck. Ford started production in Haven 46 last year. It's gonna cost a shit ton, though."

"Speed?"

"No gov. You can tap her out at 120—she's got a good sized tank, so you can easily travel between

Havens. Where are you headed?"

I ignore the question and eye the truck. It's not my style—I prefer something a little sleeker or more obviously aggressive. But there's a gun turret mounted in the bed of the truck, which could be hella fun in a fight. I nod. "Make it happen."

"Dude—price."

I make an annoyed noise. "You know better.

The money will be wired tonight. Keep the

Porsche, too."

Annoyance flickers across his face, but I ignore it and head for the front door. "Get it to my place in thirty minutes. Fully stocked, Jesse."

"I didn't touch Ren."

I jerk around—and curse myself for reacting. Jesse's watching me, his eyes somewhere between amused and afraid. "I thought about it. I almost did—she's a hot little piece. But I wouldn't touch her."

I smile, coldly. "Thirty minutes," I repeat. And leave.

Chapter 9

A Changed World

Before ERI-Milan swept through the world, people lived in houses with porches, screen doors, and window that opened.

After the virus hit, things changed. Life went on—humans are too damn stubborn to quit completely—but it was different. America, Canada, Mexico—they were isolated from the European countries. Africa took longer to fall to the infection. All the third world countries fared better in those first few months than their more influential neighbors. They weren’t dependent on ERI, so it didn’t mutate in the population. But eventually, the tide of the dead hit them, and they didn't have a chance against the horde. Africa fell to the dead within six months, South America two months later. India and China were overwhelmed by sheer numbers, until the Chinese army rallied.

By then, we were alone, getting the barest of updates from the rest of the world. Fighting our own war against infection and trying to adapt—to survive.

It was an architect who created the bolt holes—a student at the University of Chicago, who hid in a basement vault in his apartment building until the dead finally took everything breathing and moved on. He was insane, a mess of crazy, when the National Guard found him a few days after the Fall of Chicago, but he had plans on him.

A brick and metal safe, perfect for surviving.

He killed himself, two nights after the Guard bundled him onto a boat in the middle of Lake Michigan. Ate a bullet and scared the ever-loving shit out of the other refugees.

His plans lived on—now, every private residence is equipped with a Hale Hall. Over the years, they’ve been adapted and become big business in the northwest—not surprising since they originated there.

I approach mine, staring. It’s top of the line— double steel walls, lined with zom repellent, coded to a body signature to open, followed by a retinal scan. It was the best money could buy, a neat little hole to waste away in. I press my thumb on the pad, and it warms, flashing green. The grip locks on me, and I feel the prick of a dart against my eye as the retinal scan activates—the dart is pressurized—if the scan picks up traces of the virus, it’ll fire through my eye, lodge in my brain, and explode. Messy, but effective.

Even knowing I’m clean, I hold my breath as the light flashes an alarming orange then hits bright, blinding green. The grip on my head relaxes, and I lean back as the explosive dart retracts. There’s a soft his of pressurized air, and the door swings outward. Ren is sitting cross-legged on the bench, her knee bouncing nervously. I force my smile down, away, and nod at the bag she’s dragged in the Hale Hall. “What’s that?”

“Clothes. Food—all the weapons I could find. Make sure I didn’t forget something you want, and we’re ready to leave.”

A surge of pride and approval hits me, and I turn away, striding through the house and scanning it. There’s nothing here—nothing that I give a damn about. It’s just a place to rest and hide, a place where my past hasn’t died completely.

I shouldn’t have a past—not anymore. Everyone lost that when the zombies rose. I don’t know why mine is the only one who seems convinced it’s a zombie and won’t just fucking die.

I crouch by a chair in the living room, prying the floorboard up and scooping out the cash and credentials I have hidden. I toss one travel pass to her. It’s not her picture or her name, but the resemblance is close enough.

“Memorize that,” I order, shoving everything in a bag and standing, kicking the floorboard back into place.

She’s watching me, but doesn’t say anything. I hear a roar on the road, and I grab her bag, tossing it over my shoulder as I lead her outside.

Her eyes are sparkling as she stares in fascination at the massive black truck, the thick bulky doors, studded with spikes. Razor wire wraps around the grill and tailgate—I could drive this through a horde and part them like butter.

Her voice is breathless and squeaky, hitting me straight in the groin, when she says, “Oh, Finn.” I glance at her, and she grins at me. “Can I drive it?”

Chapter 10

War and Peace

She drives. When she asked like that, I could hardly deny her. And I could use the opportunity to go over the supplies she packed. The truck is fully outfitted with a field med kit and food, weapons and extra rounds of ammo for the machine gun.

“Is that really a gun on the truck?” she asks. Her voice, even an hour into our drive, vibrates with excitement. Good—I want her happy, not thinking about Third Day.

“Yup. Apparently, this is Ford’s new model.”

She whistles, petting it, and I feel an irrational jealousy for the steering wheel. “Must have cost a fortune.”

Ren grins at me archly, and I laugh. “Quit fishing, Nurrin. I’m not answering shit.”

She huffs a breath and stares broodily out the window.

“Why do you care so much?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral.

Ren snorts. “You’re Collin’s best friend, and I know nothing about you. You can afford neural inhibitors, and a top of the line tank, but you’re a Walker and an orphan. You were somewhere you shouldn’t have been when Hellspawn fell, but you saved my life. You hate me, but you kiss me.”

Her words are so soft on the last one, I almost don’t hear her. Almost.

“There’s very little you need to know about me,” I say, staring out at the passing mountains. The trees blur, flashing red occasionally as we speed pass infects. “My past doesn’t matter. Money doesn’t matter. The only thing that you need to know is that Collin trusts me and I won’t put you in danger.”

Her gaze darts to me, and I see questions brewing, the denial on the tip of her tongue. I turn to the back of the truck and slip through the little door that accesses the bed—and the machine gun.

I spend more time mentally retreating from her than I am comfortable with, but I’m not going to think about that right now. She hits the gas a little harder, and I slip on the steel bed, catching the gun and holding on as we race through the mountains and the desert, headed for the remains of Sin City.

Chapter 11

The End of Days

We hit Vegas at dusk, and I can hear the screams from the rubble outskirts. I slow to an idle and look at Nurrin. She’s pale, her blonde hair sticking to her sweaty neck. “What’s your name?” I ask sharply, and her gaze snaps to me.

“Kelsey Cain,” she says. She rattles off a dead girl’s birth date and statistics, and I nod approvingly. “You’re Sean Jackson. Born in Buffalo, but moved west with the evac orders during the first wave. Mother and Father were killed when New York fell. Sister is alive and living in Haven 3.”

I nod. “Good girl. Remember—nowhere without me. Not even a Hale Hall, do you understand? I have no presence in Vegas, and we’re going without my name as backup, so we’ve got each other and nothing else. I’m going to get what we came for and get the fuck out.”

She nods—Vegas is a hellhole at the best of times, and Third Day is a far cry from the best of times.

“Do you think it’s already started?” she asks. I look out the windshield—smoke is rising from the ruined city, and the screams have increased in pitch, shrillness.

It’s ironic, in the worst possible way, that The Blessed Order took Sin City as their headquarters.

“Yeah, Ren. It’s already started,” I say softly.

Her hand clenches and unclenches, and I push down the urge to reach for it, to smooth my thumb over her knuckles. She nods sharply, and I put the car in gear, easing us forward through the rubble.

Vegas—now Haven 21—is different from most Havens. It doesn’t have walls, orchards, and fields. It doesn’t have brick apartment buildings for the orphans and the forgotten. The streets aren’t drenched in zom repellent.

Instead it has one single, shining monument to human depravity, a tower of sex and greed and stupidity. I pull through the wall of rubble, and Ren’s fingers clench rhythmically on her gun. We drive through the streets without much fanfare or issue. The streets are clear of infects—startlingly so. But as we drive deeper into the city, closer to the Palace, the screams intensify, until they echo off the buildings, off the vehicles, off everything to bounce and reverberate. She huddles into herself, and I see the first one.

The infect is racing down the street, his face twisted in a gross distortion. One eye socket is empty, the other so decayed all I can see is blood. His hands are gone, splintery bones where the appendages should be.

He’s grotesque, and I can’t look away, even though I know what’s coming. I see the sacrifice, running through the streets first.

The girl is young—not even a First. She’s too young to be. Her eyes are wide, and she sees us, the truck, an instant before the zombie screams and jumps the last few feet. She stares, pleading, and then she screams, another voice joining the melody of wailing. I look away, jaw tight. Shove the truck a little faster. At my side, Ren makes a soft, distressed noise, and I cut my eyes at her.

“She’s gone, Nurrin.”

Tears sparkle in her eyes, but she nods.

We pass three more token victims before we hit the main drag.

And then we stop, unable to move, and I’m suddenly grateful for the tank I paid a shit ton of money for. A zombie slams into Ren’s door. She yelps, skidding across the bench until she’s pressed against me, trembling as we stare at the decayed face and the gouges it’s leaving on the glass.

“It’s shatter proof, right?” she asks, breathlessly.

I nod, and she eases away from me. Drags her gaze from the zombie that’s still battering at her window and onto the carnage.

It's a fucking bloodbath. The bodies are strewn across the Strip like trash, dead and dying. Clusters of zombies crouch over dead bodies, feasting on the bounty of the Order. At my side, Ren gags, and I grab a bag, shoving it at her as she heaves and throws up. It's disgusting and messy. It's what I would do, if I were a little less jaded. If I hadn't seen it for so many years.

Every Haven has their version of the Order— lesser chapters, small congregations. Most midsized chapters hold the Third Day Massacre. I want to say there’s a method to their madness, but there isn't. There’s only fucking insanity, a new, deadly kind in a world gone completely mad.

It began with Sawyer Russell. He'd been traveling with a group of survivors out of Chattanooga—everyone in the area was scrambling to get clear of the carnage spilling from Atlanta, and he landed on a hospital transport.

They had five Firsts—babies born the day Emilie Milan rose. Six more born on Day Two and Third Day.

Eleven in all. Eleven breathless, hungry, screaming babies.

The hospital transport hit a traffic snarl outside Cleveland, Tennessee, and they were left to walk. The first night, the screaming babies brought down a small pack—five zombies found the little house the group was hiding in. Sawyer was desperate, coming down off a wicked meth high. With the zombies literally at the door and a baby screaming, he did the only thing that made sense in his fucked-up mind. He tossed the kid out.

That nameless child was the first First. And when the zombies left, temporarily appeased, and his group beat the shit out of him and left him for dead, Sawyer was left to think.

He didn't die. Instead he rallied, and he found people desperate and degenerate. People willing to believe anything, any tiny lie that offered any kind of comfort.

When he said killing a First made the horde retreat, and killing them all would make the zombies die, people were desperate enough to believe him. Before anyone realized how dangerous he was, the Blessed Order was established—a dangerous, murderous group.

Sawyer took his insane followers and retreated to Vegas, raided the local army base, and turned what was left of a casino into a fortress.

All year, the casino is open. People can visit the gaming tables, the second-level clubs. The fight halls and races. On the upper floors, the strippers and prostitutes, the kink clubs.

And, in the basement, when everything is gone and you have nothing left, Sawyer and his cult of blood hungry bastards takes what little remains.

I wonder what that girl's parents had done— what they spent her lifeblood on. What vice kept them running in this pathetic excuse of a world?

The massacres are a tribute, Sawyer preaches. They're a tribute to the work that is done and being done, to God's judgment while we hesitate over killing the Firsts.

I think they're all power hungry lunatics, but I know better than to cross the Order in their seat of power. So I wrap my name up tight and drive us deeper into hell.

Part 3

The Future without Hope

*

The future belongs to those who prepare for it today.

Author Unknown

**

The future is uncertain—but we will fight for our way of life. Even as it changes.

President Andrew Buchman

Chapter 1

Casino Evil Incarnate

He says trust. He says nothing matters. He says he'll protect me.

He's fucking insane if he thinks I'm actually buying any of it. I thought this would be a quick trip—in and out, get the meds, drop the warning, and scoot back to the Hole and Dustin.

I didn't think we'd end up in the Order's stronghold on fucking Third Day.

The massacre is over. We inched down the Strip at a snail's pace for an hour or more. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the Order swarmed the streets in zom gear, picking them off with practiced precision. Within minutes, the zombie horde was slaughtered. Without acknowledging the truck we're sitting in, the Order stripped the dead of their weapons and retreated into the casino.

"We're going in there, aren't we?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Finn nods, puts the truck in gear, and rolls over the dead toward the Casino.

They're waiting for us, guns bristling, and I shiver as he pulls into the parking garage and our truck is swarmed.

Finn shoots me a quick questioning look as the Order soldiers shout orders. I nod quickly, and he grins at me, shoving the door open. I slide across the seat. He tugs me down and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close as we face the Order. "Name and Haven."

Finn grins, and his voice takes on a soft drawl. "Sean Jackson and my fiancée, Kelsey Cain."

I struggle to stand still and not react to that—it comes without warning.

"What's your business here?" the soldier demands.

Finn grins, a light expression that's out of place on his blank face. "What? I thought the Order liked visitors."

"It’s Third Day, man. Not a day for visiting the vice clubs."

"Come on, dude. It took everything I had to save for this trip—and another two weeks of cajoling my girl's guardian. Don' tell me you’re gonna refuse us entrance." There's an entitled whine in Finn's voice that makes the soldiers relax, a calculating gleam in their eyes.

"You have to pass an infection test." His gaze flicks to me, and a leer touches his lips. Finn's grip on me tightens minutely. The solider whistles sharply, and a gaunt-looking man in pale scrubs made bulky with armor hurries out with a test kit. The soldier’s grip on his gun relaxes a little as the medic grabs my hand, jerking me out of Finn's grasp. He makes a low, angry noise, and I shoot him an annoyed look. The needle stabs into my finger, blood welling up. I hiss at the sting. The medic gives me an apologetic smile, then gives Finn the same treatment. As soon as the vials settle into a deep red, the soldiers lower their guns and relax.

"Welcome, Sean and Kelsey, to the Keep of the Blessed Order."

Chapter 2

The Enemy's Gates

It takes another two hours to be sorted through the security and assigned a room. Finn pays the extravagant price with a remarkable amount of bitching, and finally, finally, we're escorted to the sixth floor, where our room is waiting. It's clean, done in white and gold, with sharp lines and one large bed. I stifle my sigh and Finn smirks.

As soon as the guard shuts the door behind us, he drops our bag and drags me into the tiny bathroom.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss as he presses me against the door and reaches to turn on the shower.

"The room is bugged. We can't act like anything but our cover stories—do you understand?"

He stares at me, and I remember what he said downstairs—I'm supposed to be his fiancée. I bare my teeth and snap, "You’re fucking insane, you know that?"

The smile he flashes me holds more than a trace of crazy, and I think he knows it.

"Fine. What's the plan?"

"We need to get the eye of High Priest."

I shudder. I've spent most of my life avoiding that very thing. To be told now that I'm going to do the opposite—it's enough to make my blood go cold. Finn eases back, giving me space, and stares at me. "You can do this, Nurrin. Two days—less if we put on a good show tonight. We get what Lori wants and we go back to the Hole."

Back to Dustin and Collin—back with the medicine that could save their lives. I nod, and he gives me a rare, approving smile.

Two hours later, I'm really wishing I'd gotten more details before I agreed to this. I stare at the dress and shake my head. "No. I'm not wearing that."

Finn makes an impatient noise. “Quit whining and get ready—we’re already late.”

I give him a dirty look. He returned with the dress five minutes ago. I stare at it and then him and ask the question I've been avoiding, "Where are we going?"

Finn doesn't answer—surprise, surprise—but he does give me a dark smile before pushing me into the bathroom and closing the door.

I stare at the dress. I hate it, but my mouth waters a little. It's gorgeous, a fall of black silk and satin, flowers and spirals in jet beads, twisting up the side. It's got a high neckline and thin shoulder straps. The shocking part is the midriff, which is a sheer black material that rises in knife-like points. They rise up and around my breasts, drop low to brush my navel and hips. The back is completely sheer, dropping in a sharp point at the tip of my ass.

The dress is demure and daring, sexy as hell while keeping everything important tucked away.

Its eye catching and attention grabbing and everything I need to be tonight—in this dress all eyes will be on me. There's no way to float under the radar. The High Priest is sure to see us.

I heave a sigh and strip out of my clothes and underwear and shower quickly. I pull my hair up and apply my makeup. I use a light hand, making my lips almost a natural pink, and no blush. My eyes are dramatic, smudged and smoky, the blue jumping out. Then I dry my hair, leave a few curls hanging down, and pull the rest up. I add the peep toe heels and straighten, smoothing the wrinkles free and taking a deep breath. Then I open the door and step into the main part of our suite.

Finn is leaning against the side of the window, drinking something golden from a small glass. The sun is setting behind him, and for a heartbeat, framed by the opulent rooms and the sun, in a black suit, black shirt, with a startling silver tie— for a moment, he makes me freeze, emotions that make no sense kicking around in my chest.

It's Finn. Finn O'Malley. The man who annoys the shit out of me, who refuses to answer a simple yes or no question, the one who made my brother keep secrets from me.

The one who saved my life. Three times now.

I shove that thought down and take a half step toward him. Of course he looks good. He's in a suit and tie—even in blood stained-workout clothes, Finn looks good. In a suit, looking out on the world like he owns it and fuck the zombie apocalypse for getting in his way? Then he looks positively edible.

It doesn't mean anything.

His gaze swings to me as he takes a sip of his drink. I flush as he does a slow sweep over my floor-length gown. His eyes are like a hot, physical touch, sweeping me from head to foot and lingering on all the interesting bits in between. I clear my throat, and his gaze, sardonic and amused, snaps to mine. "Do I meet with your approval?" I ask, cocking out a hip.

He shrugs and finishes his drink. Straightens his cuffs. When he looks back up, his gaze is cool and remote, as blank as he ever is. "You'll do. Let's go—we're late."

He leads me down the brightly lit stairways, and I try not to think of the last time I clattered down a stairwell with him, the alarms of Hellspawn chillingly quiet. He’s holding my hand— part of the stupid façade—and I want to tug free and bolt the rest of the way down, until we’re on level ground, with enough space to shoot anything that approaches.

Where memories don’t echo off the tile and white walls.

His grip on my hand tightens, and it steadies me. Running would be weak. And if there is anyone I don't want to be weak in front of, it's Finn.

There's a third-floor restaurant, a place full of pristine tables and white tablecloths, beautiful women escorted by flawless men. He leans close and murmurs, "Follow my lead."

I slide Finn a look from under my eyebrows, but I don't respond as he steps slightly in front of me and speaks to the hostess. "Reservation for Sean Jackson and guest."

I bristle that all I am is a ‘guest,’ but the hostess smiles slightly and leads us to a small table, secluded to one side of the restaurant. She waits until Finn is situated comfortably next to me, and then smiles again. "The show will begin in a few minutes."

My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips as she walks away. "What show?" I whisper.

"We're supposed to be in love."

"What show?"

"It's normal—a lot of newly engaged couples go to them. And looking like that, there's no way we'll slip under the radar. Especially not at this show."

My voice is shrill and a little hysterical.

"What show, O'Malley?"

His gaze flashes hostile, and the lights in the room dim. I freeze as a server places two glasses of water on the table. He leans down and murmurs,

"If you desire anything, I'm at your service."

I glance at him, startled to see the waiter is wearing only a few chains and a cup. Finn catches my gaze. I know he can see the shock there.

Then the stage comes into view, the silver pole. A girl is writhing on the stage to music that pounds in my blood like a spell. I lick my lips again, unable to look away.

The stripper teases for what seems like forever, long enough that I forget we're in a restaurant, surrounded by other patrons, long enough that I begin to forget that Finn is sitting beside me. She swings and sways, dancing, her head thrown back. And when she's finally naked, the man appears. He's naked, fully erect and carrying a pair of handcuffs.

I watch as she sinks to her knees and takes him in her mouth, her pretty blonde head bobbing while he keeps a hand tight in her hair. Until he finally pulls her away and secures her to the pole. Her breasts are high, nipples tight and shiny from his mouth. I think he'll fuck her—I almost want him to—but then he drops to his knees, hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, and licks. She screams, a noise of sheer pleasure, and I finally look away, overwhelmed.

I look straight into Finn's eyes.

Burning, hungry, and something else that flicks away so fast, I ignore it. He's watching me, and I can't breathe, can't look away as the girl's screams increase, as the noise from the crowd tells me she's not alone in her pleasure. She keens, and even then, he doesn't look away. A large, heavy hand cups the back of my neck, and he drags me forward, until our lips are a heartbeat away, the heat of his mouth almost scorching against mine. There's a moment of silence, and I lick my lips as the girl shrieks, the man groans. The tip of my tongue brushes against Finn's lips, and he growls, jerking me forward into his mouth and a bruising kiss. His hands are hard and hot on my shoulders, fingers rubbing over the material of my dress as I writhe closer to him in the tiny seat. He makes an impatient noise, nips at my lips, and I whimper.

I fucking whimper.

Distantly, I can hear the couple having sex on the stage, hear the slap of skin and the soft swell of breathing. But it’s distant—so distant it could be another planet. Because for this heartbeat, this endless eternity, nothing matters but Finn, his lips on mine.

He sucks my lip into his mouth and bites down, hard enough that a lick of pain makes me jump. He shoves the table away from us. There’s enough room for him to grab me by my arms and tug me into his lap. I settle against him, my legs on one side of his, my ass pressed against his erection— and need explodes through me. I thought it was there before, but feeling him hot and hard against my ass, teasing so close to where I’m aching for a touch—it drives me crazy. I grab his suit jacket and jerk him closer. He shoves his tongue in my mouth, all finesse and skill vanishing as lust slams into both of us. I feel like he’s devouring me, his hand sliding down my shoulder to grip my breast.

I groan into his mouth at the touch, my entire body tight and achy for more. My nipple is pebbly and pushing into his palm. I want his mouth there. I pull away, a little, to tell him that, and his lips immediately find my throat, skating over my pulse point, teeth nibbling, and then he bites down, hard enough that I shriek, mindless of our surroundings and the girl screaming on the stage.

Nothing exists beyond right now—right this second.

I reach for him, between our bodies, and he bucks, an almost involuntary movement as I trace over the hard outline of his erection under his pants. I smirk and nibble at his earlobe.

“God, Nurrin,” he whispers, harshly.

It’s a bucket of ice cold water being dumped on my head. I jerk back, staring at him, and he goes still, waiting—watching me and gauging my reaction. His eyes are still hot and hungry, but his face is blank as he catches me around the waist, stopping me before I can scramble across the tiny booth and bolt. His lips are against my ear, but the passion is gone—his voice is icy cold and rough when he says, “Stay still—they’re watching.”

Relief floods me, and I almost sag into his arms—it was a show. A way to catch the Order’s attention. Just like that kiss on the boat meant nothing, was just a way to make me take the neural inhibitors. This is the exact same thing.

“Are they coming?” I ask, and his gaze darts past me, searching the crowded room.

A grim smile turns his lips. “One more, Nurrin. Make it look real.”

He kisses me again, before the warning settles, and I freeze as he plunders my mouth, sweeping in and exploring every crevice, rubbing over my tongue and flicking at my teeth, with just enough thrust and retreat that I can’t help but think of sex. And thinking of sex with this man in my arms is dangerous—stupid in so many ways.

A soft noise jars my attention, and I peer up. I know how I look as I stare blankly at the waiter— my gaze sleepy and sexed-up, my lips swollen from kisses, my dress and hair in disarray.

I look freshly fucked, and I know it. The gleam of appreciation in the waiter’s eyes makes me want to preen. “The Priest would like to invite you to his private rooms, sir.”

“Thanks, but we’re happy here,” Finn says, drawing me closer.

The waiter makes a slightly pained face, and I smile, slip out of Finn’s lap. “Come on, babe.”

Finn frowns, but lets me tug him out of the booth. The waiter beams, a slightly idiotic expression, and turns to lead us through the club. The other patrons are lost in their own private worlds, watching, or fucking, or being watched while they fuck. I ignore them as I let Finn guide me through the room, now reeking of sex, and into the hall.

Chapter 3

Tangled Webs

The waiter leads us to a bank of elevators and keys in a quick code before offering us a final smile and retreating back down the hall to the pounding music of the dinner show. I shiver as the elevator doors swoosh closed, and at my side, Finn is tense and waiting. His arm is wrapped loosely around my waist, but his attention is turned away, and I’m glad. I need the break, however brief.

Being constantly under Finn O’Malley’s scrutiny is exhausting work. We glide up into silence, and I stare out the window at the darkness of the ruined desert city.

“Have they killed her yet?” I ask, and Finn’s gaze darts to me. He hesitates—Finn. He never hesitates.

“No. Not yet. Soon, though.”

I shiver, and the elevator slows. With a deep sigh, Finn gathers me close, fixing an appropriately cocky and disdainful expression on his face. I stare, fascinated by the change, and he pulls me tight to him, my entire body pressed to his side as the elevator stops and the doors open.

The night sprawls before us—twinkling stars and darkness as far as I can see. On the very edge of the horizon, the sun is teasing still, a deep twilight cloaking the edge of the world.

A light brightens when we step into the room. It takes a heartbeat or two to realize we’re in an apartment—the kind of apartment I’ve never seen, but still.

“It’s the penthouse,” Finn murmurs, surveying the wide area. It’s clean and sparse, the décor and furniture clearly expensive.

The room appears empty, but there’s a charge to the air that makes me nervous. I shift closer to Finn, instinctively twisting to give him my back as I sweep the room.

And that’s how I see the priest first. He’s in black robes, a shadowy figure in the dark room. His head is bare, the cowl pushed down. And he’s watching us, an amused, calculating gleam in his black eyes. I squeeze Finn’s arm, and he twists, staring at the priest.

And curses.

I jerk, startled, away from Finn. There is anger and annoyance in his face, and a recognition that makes me sick. What did I just walk into? What did Finn walk me into?

“I didn’t expect to find you so far west, O’Malley,” the black priest says, stepping away from the wall.

Why does everyone say his name with such familiarity? Is there anyone who doesn’t know this man? How did I ever think he was just an orphan Walker?

“You underestimate me, Omar. Always have,” Finn says easily.

Omar shrugs. “It’s easy to underestimate what you don’t see. It’s been a while since you were in Haven 1.”

Finn’s gaze hardens. “Why are you here? And in those robes?”

“I joined the Blessed Order when we lost the Virginian border,” Omar says. I blink—that was almost ten years ago, one of the last major defeats in the Battle for the East. Has it really been that long since he’s seen this man? And if it has, how does Omar still remember Finn?

“I never took you to be a religious man, Omar.”

“I never thought we would concede the East.” There is a hint of accusation in Omar’s voice that makes no sense.

Finn’s eyes go frosty, and he says, quietly, “Wait for me in the other room.”

“No,” I answer, and he twists to glare at me. “You can’t just kick me out of the room whenever someone brings up something you don’t want me to know.

Finn’s expression tightens, and Omar laughs, the noise odd coming from a giant priest. “She’s feisty. As spirited as Kelsey was.”

“Don’t,” he snaps, and the word is harsh, savage. A knowing gleam flicks in Omar’s eyes, but I’m hung up on the name—the same name I’m supposed to be using here.

“Who is Kelsey?” I ask, my voice shaking.

Omar doesn’t answer. Whatever issues are between the two, he won’t give me information.

“Shouldn’t you be at the sacrifice?” Finn says, and Omar shrugs. “I would think the High Priest would want to be there for the miracle.”

“The miracle is nothing more than mindless beasts following their limited nature. Finn O’Malley arriving in my casino with a lovely Kelsey lookalike in tow—that’s something else entirely. Why are you here?”

“I’m running an errand for Priestess Lori.”

Omar frowns. “What does she want?”

“It’s your Order, man. You tell me why I’m here.”

Omar’s eyes skate to me. “Perhaps it’d be best if we discussed alone.”

Finn’s shoulders relax. I glare. “You’re both shutting me out? Good to know the Order and you have something in common.”

Finn doesn’t respond. Omar eyes us, as if he’s trying to decide what the dynamic is and what to say—but he’s made it clear he stands with Finn.

“I’ll have her escorted back to your suite.”

“Don’t bother,” I snap, stalking to the elevator. I can feel Finn’s gaze following me, and as I turn in the empty elevator to stare daggers at him, he takes a half step toward me. For the first time, I see indecision on his normally blank face. Then the doors slide shut, and I’m left on my own, without answers. Again.

Chapter 4

Searching for Truths

I’m supposed to go to our room—I know that’s where he wants me. And I swore to go nowhere without him. But fuck Finn and his demands and vague promises, his refusal to answer questions and his kisses—especially his kisses. Fuck it all.

Without letting myself think through the wisdom of it, I stab the ground level button, and the elevator glides into motion.

As I descend, I think about the conversation that just took place. Omar knew him. From before the fall of the East.

When the zombies rose, there were some places that fared worse than others—Atlanta fell first, in a wave of dead and the ash of bombs. New York City and Boston, Pittsburg and Philly all fell quickly—the infection hit hard and spread fast in the urban environments, and no one knew how to combat the rampant spread of it. There weren’t enough weapons to make a dent in the cities.

The United States government evacuated DC first—moved them all to Haven 1, a fortress-like max security prison in Idaho. Over the first two years, they evacuated as many as they could, building Havens as quickly as possible, with what was left of the Army defending the construction. When the civilians were as safe as the government could make them, attention turned back to the northeast—and the battle that would become a war, a war that would last for ten years, began. Every time we gained ground, the zombies would push us back. We’d kill a horde in Pittsburg, and a week later, another would dart in, driven by hunger and drawn by the stench of death.

I’d heard of wartime converts—the military who fought and lost the East when we eventually waved the white flag and retreated to the safe zone.

Not that it was—not really. Even the safe zone had the Wide Open, and that was undisputedly the zombies’ land. We only traveled through it, and all of us were living on borrowed time.

The Order thrived when we lost the East. They grabbed the military up faster than anyone could believe. Before the East was declared unrecoverable, the Order was just a fringe group that was annoying and a little dangerous. But with the backing of so many military, they became something else—something everyone was afraid of.

By then it was too late. The Havens were fractured, the government was in shambles, and when the Order retreated into what was left of Vegas, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The elevator dings pleasantly, and the doors slide open on a spacious, quiet hall. I can hear the soft murmur of the gaming room, and I turn toward it. I have no real interest in the games, but maybe I can find a drink—getting drunk seems like a brilliant idea, suddenly.

After the dinner club and what I saw in Haven 18, I’m not sure what to expect from the Order’s casino. I’ve seen films of them before the change, when they were brightly lit and filled with glittering people playing at velvet-lined tables and sitting in front of rows of slot machines, drinking and smoking and winning.

It’s nothing like that. A few guards in Order robes patrol the edges of the massive room, and tired looking men and women loiter around dirty, scratched tables, piles of chips in front of them as blank faced dealers pass out cards and collect money. A waitress, wearing a sedate uniform instead of the chains and strategically placed cups, pauses near my arms. “Are you wanting to play, miss?”

I look at her, at the startled respect in her eyes. I don’t fit in here—not wearing this dress that Finn put me in. I can feel the spark of interest from the men at the tables, the disdain from the women watching their men. I am distantly aware of the attention of the guards and the realization that this might not have been my most intelligent move ever.

The waitress is still waiting, a hopeful look on her face. “No,” I say, shortly. I’m not here to gamble away what little I have—the Order is dangerous enough to me without lining their pockets and selling my freedom. “I only want a drink.”

A small smile turns her lips and she motions. I follow her deeper into the casino, aware of the eyes chasing me and the soft murmur of conversation that swells behind me as I make my way to the bar. It’s a pitted, pockmarked thing of oak, rounded and smooth from hands rubbing against it, and time. I rest my arms lightly, and the bartender, a boy who looks younger than me by a year or so, approaches. His eyes are tired, but his smile is bright. “What can I get you, lovely lady?”

“A beer,” I say. He nods and turns to the tap, and I wonder why I didn’t just keep my mouth shut. I don’t want a beer—I don’t even like beer.

And there is the small matter of this dress still.

“Do you know where a girl could get a little privacy and quiet?” I ask as the bartender places the beer carefully in front of me.

“How much privacy?” he asks, seriously.

I motion to my dress. “Somewhere I won’t be stared at.”

He hesitates for a long moment, and I give him my most beseeching eyes. Finally, he cracks the barest of smiles. “Come on then—I don’t want you to be stared at either. The girls don’t like it when something competes for their tips.”

I give him a hostile smile and he takes a half step back.

“Sorry, miss.” His head drops, respectfully, as he comes around the oak bar and leads me past the edges of the casino. The deeper in we go, the odder the games become—a cat chases a mouse in one cage. I stop, half appalled when it catches it’s victim and rips into it. The watchers cheer, and a few fistfuls of chips change hands. But most are still, waiting, as the cat paces its cage, yowling and hissing.

“What are they waiting for?” I ask, and the bartender glances over. Something flickers across his gaze before he looks away.

“The change.” He says shortly, striding away. I glance back, my stomach twisting as I realize the mouse had been infected. The cat is slowing, stumbling. As I stare, it screams, falling over.

The mouse had been dosed with ERI-Milan, heavily—there’s no way the cat could change that fast without something to instigate it. I shudder and hurry after the bartender, almost tripping over my heels in the process. "Why?" I ask, my voice low.

He glances at me and shrugs. "Blood sport is a paying game, miss. And the Order needs money to run."

I don't respond. For a moment, I had managed to forget where I was—the beast whose belly I traipsed through. Now, I can't help but think of it, and I feel a slither of cold fear—maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe going back to the room is the best idea I've had all night.

"In here, miss."

I look up, startled out of my thoughts, and gasp as he leads me into a large ballroom. It had to have been an events room, before the change—it's wide, with high, heavy walls and a vaulted ceiling soaring above us. My heels clack on the marble as I step inside, staring around.

It's a massive library. The walls are lined with books, tables ordered nearly with stacks of newspaper clippings.

There's always been rumors about the Order. Rumors they are in the slave trade, that they buy children and raise them to be killers, rumors that they experiment in the depths of their compounds, looking for a cure to the disease everyone knows can't be cured.

And there is talk of a library, a vast collection of clippings, newspaper articles from the change that are gathered and collected—here, apparently.

A soft light glows through the room. I want to look through the record of the Change.

"Will this be quiet enough, miss?" The bartender asks.

I turn, smiling at him. "It’s perfect, thank you so much."

He nods and starts to turn away. "Oh. You are, of course, welcome to pursue our shelves. Make yourself at home."

My fingers twitch, involuntarily, at his words. I wait as he smiles one last time and slips out the door. In the sudden quiet, I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of mourning incense and smoke, leather and hot plastic. I take a step toward the bookshelves and pause. Omar's words from upstairs are still echoing in my head. He seems to ascribe to the same philosophy on information as Finn—which means virtually none. But after a little time with him, I'm getting better at picking up Finnformation. He gave me more than he thought—more than he probably wanted. I grab a few books at random and sit at the table stacked with papers. They're neatly ordered, divided by Haven and month. I grab a stack about Haven 1 and start paging through it. There's almost no chance that a random child would have been documented during the change—the only one who mattered was Emilie Milan, and after her death triggered the change, no one was able to spend much time reporting any news. Not until things settled, and that took almost two years.

But there was always news from Haven 1. It's where the government retreated to—the president and his advisors sent out news bulletins to keep people's hope up.

There wasn't much beyond that—emergency PSA announcements, a few articles about the measure to approve Haven building and mandatory evacs.

One name—Sean Finnegan—keeps popping up. A friend of the President Buchman. He worked with WHO and led the CDC team trying to find a way to combat the infection. I see him again and again, until the fall of Detroit three years after the change. I don't remember that—but Collin does.

Detroit fell in a wave of blood. No one expected it. The cold slowed the infects, and the gun-toting gangs put them down almost as fast as the zoms rose. Then a horde swarmed—one that migrated down from Canada, and the city collapsed under the sheer numbers of the zombies.

The scientist is briefly mentioned—a tragic casualty in the fall. The president hosted a funeral, which raised a few eyebrows and made the news, such as it was. There was a blonde girl there, a pretty, thin creature standing, somber and dignified, next to the president and the casket.

The president’s daughter.

I dig back, pondering the information I have. Finn has a slight accent, which means he originated somewhere else—and was probably trapped here by the zombie apocalypse. He has contacts everywhere and enough money to move small mountains.

And the High Priest of the Blessed Order knows him from a past life. That is the hardest part to reconcile, the part that doesn't fit. Who was he— who were his parents—when the world ended? It's the only way to explain his wealth and prestige.

I flip the file closed and reach for the stack that's largest—the articles that follow the Battle for the East.

There was a small contingent of college students who couldn't put aside their civil rights hang-ups and refused to fight the zombies. Most of those were eaten. The only civil right a zombie cares about is the right to eat anyone's brain.

The only use for people like that was reporting, and in that crazy time, everyone needed to have a use. So they were sent to the front lines, reporting back during the war. A lot of them died. Those who didn't got over their civil rights issues and killed, because that is the only way to survive in this world.

I find Omar in the eighth article. There's a square box of text detailing an offensive to reclaim Methuen, a small town in Massachusetts. Omar is mentioned in the article, but it's the picture that captures my attention.

Omar was young—younger than I am now. But he was still a small mountain of a man, his body wrapped in fatigues and zombie-resistant armor.

His expression is lighter somehow, more hopeful.

Before the inevitability of the war hit him.

There are other people in the picture, but the one who draws my attention stands at Omar's right, a blank expression on his face.

He looks the same. Same empty eyes, lithe body, close-cropped hair. Same full lips that refuse to smile. Same disdainful impatience oozing from his negligent disregard of the world around him.

Finn. He fought in the war—they let him. It doesn't explain his wealth, but other things make a little more sense, the foggy lens of who he is twisting into focus a little more.

I hear him enter the room, the air charged with his irritation as he stalks toward me.

I slide the article away and twist in my chair to meet him. Sitting feels too vulnerable, standing too aggressive. There is no good way to confront Finn O'Malley.

He stares at me in silence for a few moments, long enough that I want to fidget, but refuse to.

"What are you doing, Nurrin?" he asks, finally, his voice low and tightly controlled. Even with that control, he sounds furious, and it makes my own anger swell to meet his.

"Reading," I answer blandly.

"You’re fishing," he says, glancing at the closed files in front of me.

"Does that bother you? I don't believe in blind trust, O'Malley, and you've done nothing to earn mine."

His expression tightens—something about that bothers him. But he doesn't address it, doesn't tell me why. Instead, "I told you nowhere alone."

Really?

"That's your hang up?" I demand, my voice going up a little despite my effort to remain calm. "You kicked me out, remember? You didn't want me overhearing whatever was so damn important. Well, fuck you—you can't decide that and then expect me to trot back to the room like a docile little wind-up toy. I'm not that girl, and I'm not your arm candy. If that's what you want, pretty sure there's a whole casino full of girls who can keep their mouths shut. Go find one," I snap.

"You have no idea what you’re talking about," he says tightly. "And being angry isn't an excuse for risking your life, you fucking idiot."

I smile, a nasty edge to it. "You have to give a damn to be angry."

I finally stand, and Finn is close enough that I can feel the heat if him a hair’s breath away, a slip of air and cloth separating us.

"If you risk yourself again, because you’re too fucking impulsive and childish, I'll chain you to the damn bed until its time to go home."

I blink, almost take a step back. He's got that look in his eyes, the one that is feral and disturbing.

"Do you understand me?"

"If you touch me, I'll cut your balls off and feed them to you," I whisper.

He smirks at me. "Last time I touched you, you liked it, little girl."

Rage and humiliation flare through me, chasing a spike of arousal. "Go fuck yourself," I snap.

He shoves me into the wall, his mouth hovering above mine, and I can almost taste him. I push back against the wall, as far from him as possible. "Collin will kill you for this," I whisper, and I hate that my voice shakes.

Regret flickers over his face, briefly, and he steps back, giving me a little breathing room. "You might be right about that. But I would risk it to have you alive."

"Why?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

He steps away, and I can breathe, the air slipping through me and leaving me weak in the knees.

"Come on. Omar invited us to dinner."

Chapter 5

Invitations

The room we go to isn't a public one. It's quiet, hidden from the crowds. Here, there is no noise from the casino, no mourning incense, none of the lightly clad waitress and heavily armed guards. Here there is only a table, low hanging lights, and the mountainous black priest. He watches us with curious detachment as Finn escorts me across the room and waits for me to sit. The table is already set with plates of chicken in a creamy sauce and lumpy potatoes, a salad topped with vinegar and oil, and a crusty loaf of bread. I stare at the wine as Finn drops with negligent grace next to me.

"Eat," Omar says, waving at the food. I reach for the wine, and Finn calmly reaches out, slapping my hand down. He stares at his friend in silence. Omar makes a half smile, half grimace. He takes a healthy sip of my wine and a small bite of everything on my plate. Finn doesn't say anything, just watches him for a long time before some of the tension eases out of him and he nods at me. Omar shakes his head, a little. “A lesser man would find your suspicions offensive, my friend.”

“A lesser man wouldn’t find me at the table with him,” Finn answers. He doesn’t reach for food, but I’m starving, so I take a mutinous bite.

Screw him and his suspicious ass.

“What do you want, Omar?” I ask. He’s already spoken to Finn—anything that was important, anyway. I’m under no delusions about my importance to this man.

“It’s Third Day,” he says simply.

Shit. Finn goes tense and alert next to me, and I shift in my seat, an instinct as old as I am raising its head. I want to bolt, find a hole to hide in until the danger has passed. Finn’s fingertips brush my leg, and I shiver, but stay in my seat. The two bites of chicken roll nervously in my stomach, threaten to make a reappearance. This is why he wasn’t eating.

“The sacrifice is in a few minutes. I wanted to extend an invitation to join us.”

For a heartbeat, I don’t understand him. He can’t have offered that. No one but the Order observes the sacrifice—it’s one of their most closely guarded rituals.

“We wouldn’t want to intrude,” Finn says, tensing to stand.

Omar smiles, a wolfish expression, all teeth and menace. “I insist.”

Finn slides a glance at me, a question in his eyes. I force a sick smile. Finn looks back to Omar. “Lead the way, friend.”

Chapter 6

The Stuff of Nightmares

The casino has been emptied, and above us, there is a low, long wail of a siren. I freeze, and Finn’s arm wraps around my waist like a steel band, pulling me close and dragging me along.

“What is the story, here?” Omar says, glancing over us. “I know her name can’t really be Kelsey.”

“She isn’t important to you,” Finn says, and his voice is so dismissive tears actually sting my eyes. I stare at the floor, ignoring both of them as I stumble after the two men through the deserted casino. Omar’s gaze rests on me, a hot brand of pity.

What would he do, if he knew that Finn hadn’t brought a piece of ass into his stronghold, but a First?

Stupid question—he’d throw me into a cage until next year’s sacrifice.

We reach the back of the casino, and Omar presses a code into a small box by a vault door. A tiny blood test appears, and he waits while the needle pricks his finger. It flashes green and the door slides open. Three armed guards are waiting on the other side, guns pointed at us.

“Stand down.” Omar barks the order sounding more like a drill instructor than a priest, and the soldiers snap to obey. One hesitates, and Omar steps into his space, the gun barrel pressing against his chest. The soldier’s eyes go wide and startled. “Stand. Down,” Omar murmurs, his voice like a roll of thunder.

It makes sense, now. How a decorated war hero became the High Priest in the Stronghold. A militant order needs a militant leader.

“They are my guests,” Omar says. The soldiers glance over us curiously as Omar leads us past them, into a long narrow hallway. With each step, I can hear the beat of drums and the chanting of the Order—the sacrifice is near, and the faithful have worked themselves into a frenzy that this will be the time, the last First that needs to die to end it all.

If there is anything that makes me think humanity should have died when the zombies rose, it is the idiotic blind faith of the Order. We’re too stubborn for that though.

As we round a corner, the noise of the crowd swells to a fever pitch, a hysterical beating of drums and shrieks for salvation. I stare at the arena. Before the change, it was a place for entertainment, a place to watch men box and women in tiny outfits parade around them. It was a place of depraved amusement—and now, it’s a floor stained with the blood of my sisters and brothers.

The boxing ring has been modified a little— chain link fencing, fortified by steel bands, circles it, topped with razor wire. It’s what we use to protect our schools and children in a Haven, what tops our walls—the wire is perfect for catching and shredding anything that comes near it.

And now it will trap the sacrifice.

Omar steps into the room, and a acolyte in a scarlet robe immediately moves to stand next to him. “Trina will take you to your seats. We’ll talk again, after the sacrifice.”

Finn watches Omar as he strides into the mass of Order faithful. The robed sea parts before the black priest, his black robe licking at the people he passes.

Our seats are in the front, a small, secure box. We’re separated from the masses, a position of some importance. And one where we can’t avoid what’s happening.

“Can you watch this?” Finn asks, his voice warm in my ear. I nod, jerkily.

Omar’s voice booms out, over the drums and chanting, “Faithful! Bring forth the sacrifice!”

The chanting falters, and a shrill scream rips through the room, hitting the spectators like fuel to a fire. They surge, a physical wave of people, desperate to reach the girl being ripped from her little hidden room. The scream comes again, chasing chill bumps over my skin. I know that noise. It’s broken and shrill, furious and hungry.

It’s the noise of mindless desire and death.

People thought, before the change, that zombies moaned. They don’t. A moan is the noise someone makes when they are dying, when they are broken. Zombies scream—because only a scream can convey the rage they feel, and the endless hunger.

I clench my eyes closed, and distantly, I’m aware of Finn prying my hand off the chair, wrapping my fingers around his own, a calloused anchor holding me in the here and now, reminding me he’s given me a promise.

The girl comes into view, and I struggle not to flinch. Her hair is long and blonde, braided neatly. Her green eyes are wide and unseeing—she’s drugged out of her mind. It’s a small blessing. Her handler shoves her into the cage, and she blinks against the blinding lights, a hand coming up to shield her eyes. Her dress is simple, a white flowing garment that covers her from throat to toe. She’s perfect—a pure, untouched First.

“As we were saved the third day by a First, may we be saved again. And may the blood of the Firsts appease the Unclean—may it earn their grace and our salvation.”

“Grace and salvation,” the faithful chant back, almost orgasmic in their fervor.

Omar closes his eyes, and Finn’s grip on my hand tightens. Her eyes, blank and unseeing, meet mine, a tiny half smile on her lips.

And the chute opens, a pack of five zombies tumbling down from the ceiling to land in the ring. One lands wrong, and the snap of its leg reverberates through the sudden silence of the crowd. I bite down hard on my lip, desperate to keep my scream inside as the zombies survey the room. One, a big male with a bloody chest wound and blood-clotted eyes, sniffs and throws his head back, screaming.

It breaks through the drug haze, and behind the zombies, the girl whimpers. A female whips around, her teeth bared as she hisses and sees the girl. It takes less than two seconds for the other four to locate her, and less than three for the girl to realize she’s fucked.

She screams as the first zombie lunges, rolling away. Black gore and blood from the zom smears on her dress, and she stumbles as the infect catches a better hold, jerking her closer. I’m surprised when she lashes out, kicking the zombie squarely in the face. He stumbles, a screeching whine building in his throat. The girl uses the second of time she’s bought to jump on the fence. Below her the zombies are battering it as she climbs, shaking the links and jumping for her scrambling feet. Two have turned away and are snapping at the fence, fingers stretched to reach the crowd on the other side. There’s a murmur of discontent from the crowd. I have a heartbeat of thinking she’ll get away, that she’ll find her way to safety.

Then she hits the razor wire, and the scent of blood hits the zombies. The girl screams as the zombies converge under her, shaking the fence and lunging upward at her, driven mad by the scent of blood and flesh. She shrieks as two infects slam into the fence, making it buck and almost throwing her off. She clutches at the razor wire, and I can see it digging into her fingers, slicing through them. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she screams, an agonized noise, as the sheer bladed metal bites deep, deeper. A finger falls into the pack of zombies, and Finn mutters a curse next to me. I’m barely aware. Her eyes have opened again, her pretty face contorted by pain and fury. Her eyes lock on mine again, and I flinch, almost look away.

And then she falls and the only thing I can see is a spray of blood. The wet sound of her scream, and ripping flesh, the sound of broken teeth eating. I can’t—I look away, bury my head in Finn’s shoulder and try to hear anything but this— anything but the screams of approval now coming from the Order and the sound of zombies tearing apart a girl whose only sin was being born the day the world went to hell.

Chapter 7

In Memorial

I keep it together until Finn shuts and locks our door. Then I drop to my knees on the too-soft carpet, a wail building in my throat. It’s been building and demanding release for hours—since the First was killed, her screams silenced by hungry infects. Through the slaughter that followed, when snipers put the zombies down as priests swayed behind the distracted creatures. After, while Finn spoke to the black priest and I stood there like a pretty doll. I kept it together through all of it, because falling apart in front of the Order wasn’t an option.

But here, with no one but Finn to witness it? I hit my knees with bruising force, my dress digging into my skin. He crouches next to me, extending a pillow silently. I snatch it from him and scream, my voice muffled by the lumpy pillow. I can feel Finn moving around the room, but I’m lost in my own thoughts, private agony, and the disgusting feeling that’s ripping through me. My stomach twists, and I gag. The pillow is ripped away and a small trash can appears before me a second before I lose it, heaving into the little bucket. My sides ache, muscles clenching as I gag.

Finally, I slump on the ground. A wet rag lands in front of me, and I look up, faintly amused that Finn is taking this much care of me. He’s loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. A sliver of skin glows alabaster in the dim light of the room.

I swallow hard as he stares at me, and for the first time all night, I remember the little strip club we started in tonight, and his lips on me. The untamed hunger in his eyes when he stared at me. There’s nothing to buffer me from that now, and that is almost as disturbing as the sacrifice was.

“I can see you thinking,” he says, and I shrug. There’s nothing to really say to that. “What did you learn in the library?” he asks.

Ah. This. Damage control—how much did I learn and what kind of spin can he put on it? “It doesn’t matter,” I say, standing. “Unzip me.”

Something flickers across his face, but he doesn’t say anything. Stands behind me and slowly drags the invisible side zipper down. Heat from his fingers brushes against my skin, but he doesn’t linger or go anywhere inappropriate. And when the zipper is completely down, my dress open and revealing me from the curve of my hip to the swell of my breast to the top of my armpit, he steps away.

I retreat to the bathroom and change into Collin’s old workout shirt and a ratty pair of shorts. Finn is staring out at the silent, dark city when I emerge, backlit by nothing but blackness this time. I feel, vaguely, a sense of deja vu.

“It was never this dark, before,” he says, softly.

Almost speaking to himself.

“Did you come here?”

His gaze flicks to me, and he makes a face. “No. Come on, get in bed. You’ve had a long day.”

I don’t argue. He’s right, and I’m exhausted— all I want is to close my eyes and let today disappear completely. I climb onto the massive bed and settle on my side, sinking into the plush comfort, the pillow almost swallowing my head. I tug the blankets up and around me and close my eyes. A few minutes later, there is a dip in the weight of the bed as Finn lies down then jerks the covers a little. I pull back and mutter, “Cover hog.”

I must already be asleep. I know I must be dreaming his laugh and soft, “G’night, Ren.”

Chapter 8

The Order’s Agenda

I sleep hard, straight through the night. There aren’t any dreams—or if there are, I forget them in my exhaustion. That I am sharing a bed with Finn doesn’t even bother me. I’m too tired for anything to bother me.

A fist pounding on our door jerks me, rudely, into waking. I stifle a shriek when I see Finn, crossbow loaded and pointed at the door. The blanket shifts, pooling around his waist, and I flash back to him, standing naked and wet in the shower, him tackling me.

God, my first priority really needs to be getting laid, because this is getting ridiculous.

The pounding comes again, and then the deep voice of Omar, snapping at his men for disturbing us. I expect Finn to relax at the sound of his friend, but if anything, he seems more agitated, his body stiff, muscles vibrating with tension. I stare at him in confusion, and ask the first thing that I can think of, “How on earth did you smuggle that into the Stronghold?”

Finn’s gaze skates to me, amused and disbelieving and, I shrug. A simple girl requires simple answers when shit get complicated.

“Finn. I need to speak to you, old friend,” Omar calls through the thick door. Finn doesn’t respond, and I roll out of bed. The door opens before I can reach it, Omar stepping in and shutting the door in the face of his soldiers.

Omar's gaze slips over me, taking in my clothes—and lack thereof—before slipping past me to Finn. He's still sitting in our bed, naked from the waist up, crossbow at the ready.

"Put that down, idiot," Omar grumbles, sidling past me without touching me. "Get up. We need to talk."

"It couldn't wait until I'd gotten a shower?" Finn asks, letting the crossbow drop into his lap. I notice his finger is still on the trigger. So does Omar, whose lips twitch in amusement.

"Are you planning on killing me in the Stronghold? Do you think you could escape if you did?"

"I've gotten out of worse," Finn says, not bothering to deny the wild accusation. Omar laughs at that, grinning, the first unguarded expression I've seen from him.

"You really think you could—and I'm half inclined to believe your claim. You got us out of Cinncy."

Finn's face is blank as he swings his legs down and stands. "Tell me what you want."

"What is Lori offering you?"

Finn pauses, his eyebrows going up. "Meds."

"Bullshit. There's no med you need that you can't get your hands on," Omar shoots back, and I twist to stare at Finn. "That's why we kept you around—why we needed you so damn much." "That was a long time ago, Omar. Things change."

"Not that."

Finn's lips thin, and they both fall silent, staring at each other. I can't stand the tension thickening in the room and burst out, "Is that true? Can you get the meds to save Dustin?" Omar startles, visibly, and Finn curses.

"Shut up, Kelsey."

I hate that name on his lips, hate him calling me anything but my name. Hate that it belonged to someone I know nothing about. "Tell me if it's true, O'Malley."

"No. Dammit, no. I can't get anything without bartering. I haven't been able to for years. Which I just fucking told Omar, or didn't you listen." He stalks past the black priest, shoving my shoulder. "God, you don't ever fucking listen. And you sure as hell don't trust me."

I shove him back, my eyes glued to his face and not the naked torso, covered in scars and defined with muscle. "You haven't fucking earned it."

Rage flickers across his face, but I turn away before he can say anything.

"I can give you meds, Finn. You don't need Lori."

I jerk around, but Finn is laughing, a silent shaking of his shoulders. "No. No fucking way in hell."

Anger fills the priest's eyes, and his voice is tight and demanding, "Why not?"

Rage rips across his face, and I realize, really realize, how close Finn holds his emotions. How much he doesn't show, because now—here—I see it all. "Because you’re a fucking traitor. I don't trust you Omar. I didn't then, and I don't now, and no matter how much time passes, no matter how many Order's you join and how far you climb, I never will. You can't undo what happened to Kelsey."

The other man is quiet, a large, brooding mountain. Finally, he nods. "Fine. I'll see you in my office in an hour."

Finn doesn't say anything as the black priest leaves with the quiet swish of his robes and soft snick of the door. He doesn't comment on the rumble of Omar's voice ordering his soldiers to escort us to him in an hour. He doesn't address that he's let more of his past slip, without telling me anything. He doesn't even look at me, just turns away and slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

Leaving me with the echoes of angry voices and more unanswered questions.

When we are ushered into Omar's office, the priest has changed into a pair of cargo fighting pants and a tight shirt that's still damp with sweat from his workout. There's a slim file on his desk that catches my attention. He gives us a brusque look as we enter and extends the file impatiently. Finn reaches for it, and Omar jerks it back. "Don't do this, O'Malley. You don't trust me, and I get that, but you know me. You know how far I'll go.

You don't know anything about Lori. She's ruthless and doesn't give a fuck about the Order." Finn smirks. "Two things we have in common." "If she takes the Stronghold, she'll kill us all. She doesn't believe it's the Firsts—she wants everyone born after the change slaughtered. Is that what you want to see happen? Is that what she would have wanted?"

Finn lashes out, faster than I can follow, and I see Omar's head snap back. The giant makes a low noise in the back of his throat and shakes his head hard. "Do not use her like that," Finn growls.

Omar stares at him hard, his face grim. "Get out. And god help us if she takes this Order from me." He tosses the folder and Finn catches it easily. He doesn't open it, just shoves it in a pocket and throws open the door. We're almost gone when Omar grabs his shoulder. "I'm here, O'Malley. If you need—"

"I don't," he says, interrupting Omar. Shutting him down without anything more than that. It's brutal, and I don't understand it. Finn tugs me against him, and I have one last glimpse of the giant black priest, his robes giving him a forbidding appearance, before Finn drags me away.

I stumble along behind him, past the soldiers lining the halls, and finally ask, “What now?”

“We give this to the Priestess. And we get the fuck out of here.”

Chapter 9

Awkward Interludes

The truck feels like home. Strange, since the only time I've spent in it was driving to Vegas with a man I can't stand—but after twenty four hours, anything that isn't the Stronghold is a breath of fresh air. I slide into the passenger seat, my jeans rubbing against the sticky hot leather.

Finn cranks the engine and glances at me as he slams the door. I look past him, at the mountainous black priest. He's staring at Finn, his expression unreadable. I wait for Finn to acknowledge him, but he doesn't—he checks the safety on his Glock, drops it into the cup holder between us, and shoves the truck into gear. I look away from the priest as we lurch out of the underground parking garage and into the blinding Vegas sun.

We travel in silence for almost an hour before I finally look over at him. "What did he give you?"

Finn shrugs. "Its Order business, Nurrin. I don't get involved."

"You didn't tell him about the falling Havens."

It's not an accusation—more a quiet observation. It still makes Finn's lips twitch in irritation. "Do you really think I'd do anything to preserve the Order? I'd sooner let the zombies win."

It's a common sentiment against the Order. There was one unwritten rule of our changed world—don't kill the uninfected.

The Order didn’t believe in that, and many wanted them dead because of it.

"Want to tell me what was going on between you and the priest?" I ask, staring out at the open land. It's spotted with trees and broken roadways, a few infects darting along the sand in the distance.

He doesn't answer—not that I thought he would. "You did well in there," he says instead.

I snap around to stare at him, so fast my neck pops. He smiles, a tiny twitch of his lips that I'm beginning to pick up on. "Did you just compliment me?"

"Don't act so surprised, Nurrin. I can see someone’s assets."

His gaze flicks down briefly before it slides forward again, but I feel the touch of it like a hot brand on my breasts, stroking over my nipples. I flush and stare out the window, ignoring him and the soft, mocking laugh that echoes through the truck.

Chapter 10

Complications

It's the screams that wake me. I don't know how long I've been sleeping—only know my eyes feel gritty and the sun is high above us when I blink awake, the ghastly scream echoing in my ears.

The first thing that really sinks in is that we're not moving. The truck sits utterly silent—the engine isn't even ticking with heat anymore. I shiver in the silence as the scream comes again, and look over at Finn.

His hair is wet, his clothes sticking to him.

That's the second thing that sinks in. The scent of bleach and disinfectant is almost choking me, burning the inside of my nose as the fumes fill the truck.

I open my mouth, and Finn shakes his head, sharply. Scribbles something on the paper he's holding and hands it to me.

Outside.

I look out and a scream rises in my throat. His hand clamps down over my mouth, and I bite, anything to let off some of the terror. He doesn't flinch. The whimper that slips from my throat is barely a breath, unnaturally loud in the deathly quiet of the truck. He arches an eyebrow, and I nod tightly. Only then does Finn ease back, releasing his grip on me. I take a quiet breath and stare out the window.

The horde is massive. Larger than any I've ever seen. In Hellspawn, the largest horde we would get was between seventy and a hundred zombies. This is ten times that size. They move together with eerie precision, loping along, fingers clutching and releasing rocks as they go. Occasionally, one will scream and another will answer with a snarl, shoving the screamer out of the way as they dart through the desert. A few hesitate around the truck, sniffing and snapping at it. One catches on the razor wire and screams furiously before he rips himself free, leaving a chunk of rotted thigh behind.

They stream around us, moving like a river of death, and for the most part, don't even realize we're here. I shudder, staring at the dead faces, the vacant eyes. Every instinct screams to run, to find somewhere they can't reach me. Every instinct says that sitting like this is paramount to death.

I've learned to listen to my instincts—my instincts and my brother have kept me alive for twenty years. But this—Finn is still and silent, his eyes tracking the herd as it parts and sways and shakes the truck.

We sit there for what seems like forever, until finally—finally—they are gone, the last one darting past in a blur of decay and blood.

Even then, we don't move. We sit in utter silence until the herd vanishes completely, the sun glaring in our eyes. I can't feel my fingers, and somehow, I realize I've grabbed my gun. Finn's crossbow is sitting in his lap.

The sun begins to set, and I finally look at him. He's staring at nothing, his eyes half closed. He looks exhausted—worse than I've ever seen.

"When is the last time you slept?" I ask.

He shrugs, exhaustion pulling at him. "It's hard to sleep when there's no one watching your back."

That burns a little. "You can't keep me safe if you’re dead from exhaustion," I say, sitting back.

"And I would stand guard."

Finn's gaze snaps to me, startled. I don't say anything, and he's quiet for a moment, watching me. Finally, he cranks the engine. I wince at the sudden roar of noise, and he gives me that quirk of a smile that drives me fucking insane. But something is different, this time—almost like he's got a new-found respect that I haven't seen in him before.

It's full dark when we finally limp into Haven 18. The Wall gleams in the moonlight around us, the crack of a shot gun echoing across the mountains.

Finn is still driving, although I'm not sure how he's managed to keep awake. He stops the truck near the gate, and we wait as we're cleared. They take a little longer than usual—probably waking some poor medic—until Finn is cursing, his fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. Finally, the medic arrives and the blood tests are done. Not terribly surprising, we're cleared clean and we drive through the gates. Immediately, Finn slams the truck into park and slides out. I scramble to follow him, grabbing my bag.

"We hit a horde about half way here. Looked like they were headed for Haven 22. You might want to send them word, that it's coming."

One of the Walkers sneers, and Finn rolls his eyes. "Or don't. Frankly, I don't give a fuck what you do. The truck needs to go through decontamination. Send it to Jesse—he knows how I like things done."

"We're not your servants, O'Malley. 18 isn't beholden to you or Haven 1."

Finn doesn't bother to answer the man, just turns and stalks into the night. I could question the soldier, but I don't—I follow Finn into the dark streets. We walk quietly, some of the tension draining from me. I can hear people talking, laughing in their homes, the lights dim for the night, but life clearly being lived. It makes me nostalgic—I want to be home, surrounded by Dustin and Collin, Kelly a quiet counterpoint. But I'm not. Kelly is dead, and Collin could be—Dustin could kill him. Home is gone, and I'm with Finn O'Malley, of all people.

"It's amazing, how secure and safe they think they are," he murmurs. I look at him, but Finn isn't talking to me. He's almost swaying with exhaustion.

We reach the house, and it feels comfortable, familiar. Without talking to me, Finn locks the doors behind us and stalks to his room. I hear the lock click into place, the creak of his bed, and the clank of his gun landing somewhere.

I sit on the couch and try not to think about how I came to be guarding Finn while he sleeps.

Chapter 11

Neutral Ground

I stare at the door, a knife in my hand. It's been quiet for a few seconds but—

BANG BANG BANG

Like clockwork, the pounding comes again. I should just answer the damn thing. Clearly my “ignore and hope it goes away” method is striking out.

Finn would be furious if I opened the door to a stranger. And in this Haven, the only person who isn't a stranger is Jesse, and he only just barely qualifies as more than that. He'd say it's too dangerous.

The banging comes again, and my fingers twitch on the knife, reflexively.

He can say it's too dangerous all he wants. The bastard's been sleeping for almost twelve hours straight, and this banging is gonna kill my nerves.

A noise from the back of the house startles me. Finn stalks from his room, his hair a mess, drawstring pants riding low on his narrow hips. I look away, uncomfortable. I hate when he uses his body as a distraction. It's not fighting fair.

He ignores me completely, going straight to the door and yanking it open. "What the fuck do you want?" he snarls. I flinch back from the barely checked violence in his tone—it's the voice you hear before he kills someone.

The man on the other side of the door stares back impassively. He's shrouded in a light gray robe, the cowl pulled up and over his head. He looks like death—or what people imagined death to be, before the end of the world and the zombies came back.

"Priestess will see you now," he says.

Finn bares his teeth in a parody of a smile. "Your damn priestess will see me when I'm good and fucking ready."

He slams the door without letting the priest respond and heads back to his room.

"Get dressed," he snaps and slams the door behind him.

By the time we are dressed and get to the Order's club, we're both in a foul mood. Finn and I are escorted through the empty club, past the wheels and chains of the vice club. The scent of blood and sweat still hangs in the air, their own perfume.

Lori looks like she hasn't moved since we left. Her red robes pool around her as she perches on the desk, her black guard silent at her back.

She watches us with quiet intensity as Finn paces into the room and scowls. "What the hell, Lori. What the fuck do you think to accomplish by dragging me from my house? I have your damn information."

He throws the file at her, and the guard shifts, agitated. A slim hand lifts to still him before she plucks the file open and lazily glances over it.

"Very good, O'Malley," she almost purrs.

"You knew he'd be there—that Omar would work with me," Finn accuses without heat. She shrugs, delicately. "You manipulated me," Finn says, and I finally understand his anger.

"I did."

"I've killed for less, Priestess," he says, almost conversationally. A smile, amused, turns her lips up.

"I know. But I have what you want—meds. I gambled and won." She snaps her fingers, and the gray priest behind us disappears. "He'll bring the medicine. Now, give me the information about the zombies."

He stares at her, and the priestess smiles, a cool expression. I want to hate her, but it’s damn hard—she’s done what I didn’t think anyone could: manipulate Finn. I admire that.

But I would hate to be the red priestess, when Finn no longer has use for her.

Chapter 12

A New Direction

Three shiny glass vials, filled with a viscous gold fluid. Two tubes of pills large enough to make me gag.

They sit on the counter like precious gold. I want to cry at the sight of them.

There isn't a cure to ERI-Milan. After the zombies rose, there was a backlash to medicine— even the most medicine-proponent person was hesitant to take something unnatural. The end of the world had a way of leaving a bad taste in ones mouth.

But eventually, even that fear faded. The most extraordinary thing about humans is we can overlook anything. Sure, it was the side effects of experimental drugs that triggered the apocalypse, but when drugs were good for keeping depression and anxiety and headaches at bay, what’s a minor apocalypse? Humanity didn't die when ERI-Milan swept the earth, and eventually, the medical powers—CDC, WHO, drug companies, even

Sanelos, began looking for the magical cure to ERI.

The problem was, they couldn't trace how it changed. When the zombie horde hit the Army troops, it triggered a change in the structure of the disease. That's what people didn't realize—not then, not even now. ERI wasn't a chemical suppressant. It was a disease that crippled the emotional response centers.

And diseases are living things. When it looked out the eyes of the horde in Atlanta, it saw its own destruction, and it did what any living thing is wont to do—it changed. It did whatever was necessary to survive.

There was no way to study it, though. And without studying the disease, it was virtually impossible to destroy it.

So the drug companies turned to lesser “cures.” They came up with serums and neural inhibitors—risky medications that could stop a contact infection—sometimes.

It wasn't a cure, but it was almost better. The drug companies colluded in their labs and bottled hope. In a world without that, they created a drug that offered a chance, and sold it at a premium price.

Finn comes up beside me, jerking me from my thoughts as he scoops up the meds and tucks them into a secure pocket of his bag.

"Ready?"

I nod. I am so beyond ready to be done with this Haven and back with my brother. I grab my bag and follow him out of the house. He tosses his stuff into the back seat, and I settle on the passenger side, my gun and knife propped in the custom holster hanging from the door.

They stop us at the front gate. A man Finn's age approaches his window and leans in. "Sorry, sir. Walls are closed."

Finn gives him a disbelieving look. "Why?"

"Aldermen's orders. No one is allowed out, on account of a horde spotted headed this way."

For a heartbeat, I can't breath. I'm back in Hellspawn, the alarms screaming in my ears, the sound of zombies feasting a horrific counterpart. I'm in the silent truck, my heart pounding as hundreds of zombies whip past us, driven by hunger and some unknown need.

I shiver in my seat, the burning desire to escape slamming into me. "Finn," I start, and he nods, cutting me off.

"I know, Nurrin. We need to get out."

Chapter 13

Haven’s Aldermen

It's impressive—and a little alarming—how quickly Finn can gather the Aldermen. The Haven has been closed, there are quite literally zombies at the gates, and Finn does nothing more than call Lissel. Within an hour, all of them are assembled, waiting a little impatiently as Finn and I enter the little room we first met Lissel in. She's sitting with five others—four men and a tired looking young woman.

"What do you want, O'Malley? We have better things to do then waste our time on you." One of the men, a thin, pointy faced man, gripes.

Finn ignores him, drops lazily into a seat. He kicks a chair out and nods at it—my invitation to sit. "I need out of the Haven."

"Can't help you. The Haven is closed until the horde passes or reinforcements arrive."

Finn is quiet, staring at nothing, for long enough that the aldermen begin to fidget. Finally, "Do you think holding me here will bring those reinforcements? I hate to break it to you, but Haven 1 forgot about me. They don't care about me or 18 or anything but their own survival. We're on our own here."

"You can bring people in." The alderman is older, with salt-and-pepper hair and the stiff demeanor of a war veteran.

"General Reid. You don't really believe that," Finn says, stretching lazily. "They sent you here to get rid of you after the war—if they'd forget one of their decorated veterans, why not me?"

"Because you were always more than a veteran, decorated or not. Reach out. Use your name, son."

Finn drops his feet to the ground and leans forward. "You aren't listening. They don't care. Most of the ones left in 1 don't even know I'm alive, much less who I am. They aren't coming to help you, and they aren't coming to help me. Even if I thought they would, I won't call for support. You have two options: wait for the horde and get ready to die, or get the fuck out of the Haven." "Those aren't options," the quiet woman, Melinda, says.

"They're all you've got. I've seen it happen—I was in 8 when fell. You won’t survive. Look around. Reach out to the Havens around you. Who haven't you heard from? Why do you think they're quiet? It's not because it's harvest time. It's because they're gone. The Havens are falling, and you have to wake up and face that."

"We can't leave," she says again, and her voice is a little desperate.

"Then get ready to die. Because the horde will come. And the Haven will fall. I'm leaving—you have no legal right to detain me here if I'm willing to take my chances in the Wide Open."

He nods at me as he stands, and I start for the door. My heart is pounding, crazily. Who is he? "You can't just desert us," Lissel says, catching Finn's arm.

He whips around, shaking her off violently. "I can. I will. I warned you, I told you this was happening, and you ignored me. Do something or don't, but I won't sit here and die with you because you’re too fucking stupid to get out of a sinking ship."

"Will you look? Look at the Haven and tell us we should evacuate!"

It's the younger woman, and something about her voice makes me hesitate. Finn grips my arm.

"Keep walking, Nurrin. This isn't our problem."

It's not. My only concern should be for Dustin and Collin.

But there is something desperate about her, something in her eyes that makes me pause—a pleading.

I look at Finn. See the fury in his eyes and make my decision. Somehow, it doesn't feel as good as it used to, when doing something just because he didn't approve was almost a game.

It's still the right thing to do.

I turn away from him and the medicine that will save Collin and Dustin, and face the young

Alderman. "You have thirty minutes. Show me." Relief flashes across her face.

On the surface, 18 is like any other Haven. The majority of it is crop land. A few factories stand near the South wall. Shops line Main Street. Three massive stone structures comprise the Hives— sixty percent of the civilian population is packed into them.

On the surface, there is nothing different here. People walk to work at a snail’s pace. Women chatter over laundry lines. Dogs bark in someone's house, and a man's voice echoes in song. It feels warm, cozy. Like home should feel.

It's a fucking illusion. There is nothing safe but a gun and someone you trust at your back. Even that isn't truly safe—safety is a luxury that died on an afternoon car ride with Emilie Milan.

Melinda drives us past the Hives and homes, shops and factories. To the very edge of the Haven, where the Wall backs up against the mountain face. There are more guards here then I expect. I glance at her, and she ducks her head, almost as if she doesn't want to admit to something. It doesn't bode well for whatever she's planning to show me.

"We have to walk from here," she says. Finn is silent, a seething presence behind me.

I try to ignore him and focus on the tunnel she leads us to. It's narrow, with a low ceiling. Three heavily armed guards are standing by the entrance, and Melinda flashes us an apologetic smile. "You need to verify your infection status."

I blink, startled. It's normal after traveling through the Wide Open, but we haven't been exposed since arriving in 18. She doesn't back down, though. Reluctantly I offer up my hand. The test is high quality, a cuff that wraps around my bicep and bites down with over a dozen needles. I yelp and Finn shifts restlessly.

After a few minutes, the needles retract and the cuff releases me. Finn goes through the same test—what surprises me is that Melinda does as well. There is a ring of red skin on her arm that tells me how often she comes here—and that every time she goes through a test this intense.

"The tunnel is narrow on purpose. I hope you aren't claustrophobic," Melinda says, ducking into the tiny opening. I glance back at Finn; he stares at me, expressionless.

The tunnel is long and winding, and just when I think I will scream from the pressure of the rocks above and around me, it tightens and we reach a guard with a drawn AK47. He eyes us, his expression lightening just a little when he sees Melinda.

Then he reaches for a small box on the side wall and hits it. A few seconds later, a series of lights flash, and the AK47 drops.

"You're clear. Go on in."

We take a step out of the cramped tunnel into a small cave. The walls are smooth, arching away and above us.

"What was that box?" Finn asks.

Melinda looks nervous, but says, "The siren alarm system. We modified it a little."

"Tampering with a Haven's alarm system is a federal offense."

"When Haven 1 bothers to check on us, they can drag me to jail," the alderman drawls. "In the meantime, I'm doing what's needed to keep my people alive."

"How?" I ask.

Melinda smiles and leads us into a man-made tunnel. We walk, and I'm silent, staring at the little caves that branch off. There's room after room of private residence, a large square filled with weapons, an entire wing of medics and kitchens. They all spiral inward, into a tightened grid of rooms protected by more soldiers.

"What is this?" I ask, needing to hear it.

"It's the world's biggest Hale Hall. It's what we can fall back to, if there is ever a massive breech. It's where we keep our children to keep them safe."

"It's a massive tomb." Finn says, flatly.

She flushes. "It's the best chance we have."

"And what happens when you come out? When you run out of food and think it’s safe and poke your happy little head out only to find you were wrong and the infects are still right there? What happens then? Hiding doesn't work."

"Fighting doesn't either," Melinda snaps, glaring at him.

"That's why you don't do either," he says, quietly. "You can't live in fear of the day the zombies batter down your door—that isn't living. You live in spite of that day. You live because everything in our screwed-up world says we can't and we shouldn't and fuck them." He looks around and shakes his head. "But this isn't living. Hiding in a hole is just a slow way to die."

He turns away from her, his gaze hitting mine. "I'm leaving, Nurrin. Come or don't. I'm done here."

Chapter 14

New Plans and Old Behaviors

I don't hesitate this time. Truth be told, there isn't even a choice to be made. Collin trusts Finn, and that means I do. I might hate him, might want to stab him with my knife more often than I want to stab an infect, but I trust that following him will take me home. To Collin.

We're halfway back to the house, and more importantly, the truck, when he slides a glance at me from the corner of his eye.

"How far will you go to get home?"

I blink, a little startled. "How far are you thinking?"

A smile twists his lips, and a shiver of dread snakes along my spine. It's never good when Finn looks like that. "We can get out. It's going to be a little trickier, with the gates locked. But it can be done. It will probably take a little more than you’re comfortable with."

I frown at him. "Are you taking me back to the kink club?"

He snorts. "Never."

I shrug and look forward, my shoulders relaxing a little. "Whatever you do, it can't be worse than that, right?"

Something glitters in his gaze, and I look away. "Be careful, little girl. You have no idea how bad it can be."

I ignore the chill that chases its way down my spine and start walking again. “So what do we need to do?”

He shrugs. "For now, nothing. Tomorrow, I need a little time."

Chapter 15

Visiting Friends

Finn is sleeping or gone when I slip out. I’m not surprised to find that there’s fresh coffee and two slices of bacon and cheese on a piece of burnt toast.

Clearly, Finn’s breakfast skills need work.

I grab the weird sandwich and coffee and head out. As I jog down the stairs, I hear the distinct sound of the door locking behind me. Through a sheer force of will, I resist the urge to look behind me. I don’t know what game he’s playing or why this is important. But I know his goal is to get out of 18, and I can totally get behind that.

The Haven is abnormally quiet. People are retreating as the horde gets closer. Last night, sirens rang every hour, a different note letting the citizens know how close the horde was and how long they had—we had. I glance at the napkin my sandwich was wrapped in and hope that noon won’t be too late.

There’s no answer when I knock on Jesse’s door, but I can hear the distant clang of tools on metal and muttered cursing. I grin and head around the corner of the mechanic’s shop. The back yard is a junkyard of dead cars, broken into pieces and sprawled across the land. Old tires and pans of sticky, black oil are stacked to one side, and there's a narrow, curving path amongst the car parts. I follow it, deeper into the jungle of mechanics, until I hit a wall of solid razor wire.

"Jesse?" I yell, and I hear a muffled thud.

"Ren?"

"Let me in!" I shout. I hear a few tools rattle around before the wall of bladed metal parts and I crawl through.

Jesse is smudged with dirt and oil, his hair covered by a ratty bandana, and he looks startled—and a little bit nervous to see me. "What are you doing here?"

"We can't leave the Haven, and Finn is driving me crazy," I say glibly, "so I thought I'd visit the one friend I have in the Haven. Do you mind?"

He grins. "Not if you don't mind me working."

I look at the motorcycle. It's a little crotch rocket, like the one we rode out of Hellspawn on, and I cock my head at it. "Who is it for?"

"O'Malley. The Porsche financed this, so I'm getting it ready for him."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"Upgrades on the tires, holsters for his guns and crossbow, zombie repellent leg guards and shatter proof wind shield. I'm adding bags made of zom armor, and a wraparound shield for whoever rides bitch."

I blink, staring at the unassuming little bike. "Something that little can handle that much weight?" I ask doubtfully.

"I reinforced her structure. And redistributed the gas tank, so she can go longer distances. She won't be as nimble as his last bike, and she might be a little exhausting to handle, but she'll do. And it's a helluva lot safer than the last bike. That was suicide on wheels."

An accurate description. Not that this will do a damn bit of good if we hit a horde like the one on the way back from Vegas.

"How long have you known Finn?" I ask.

Jesse hesitates for a heartbeat, long enough that I know he shouldn't be talking to me. But Finn sent me here, after all. He had to know I'd ask questions he would rather I didn't.

Too damn bad. I'll take whatever information I can pry out of Jesse.

"Since he was about twenty. He left the war before it was over. Went to Haven 1 to see what he could do there. But he made enemies. Finn isn't the most patient man in the world, and he was younger then, impetuous. He was a decorated war veteran, but he was also making serious demands—and at the time, no one wanted to hear from a sixteen-year-old that we should abandon the East. And he didn't have the protection of his father anymore. So after a while, he left. The president gave him free passage to wherever he wanted to go. He headed west. Took him a year or so to figure out where he wanted to be—I met him when he landed here briefly. But whatever Finn was looking for, it wasn't here. About a year after that, I heard he settled in 8."

I'm stuck on something he said earlier—not that he was in multiple Havens before he landed in Hellspawn. "Pass me that wrench?" he asks. I look blankly at the pile of tools, but can't see them. I can't think. Something warm and rough touches my face, and I jerk, startled.

"Hey," Jesse murmurs, softly. "What's going on in that pretty head, Ren?"

His lips are soft and full—I noticed that the first day I met him. Full and utterly kissable. And it could take my mind off Finn, off whatever he's hiding from me. I lean forward and catch them with my own. For a second, Jesse is still, startled. But then his hands come around me, pull me tight to him, his lips moving against mine. He nibbles at my bottom lip, almost a tickle, and I shiver. I want to feel more than I do. I deepen the kiss, licking at his lips and into his mouth, teasing over his teeth, a soft thrust and retreat.

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

I pull away, and I almost apologize. Jesse touches his lips, staring at me with surprise in his eyes. "Wow," he says softly. I look away. "Yeah."

Chapter 16

Reflections and Interruptions

It's awkward, sitting with him, when I can feel his eyes on me, the hunger in them no longer hidden. But I do, because Finn made it clear when he needed me to return. He talks about cars, and I pretend to be interested; I talk about Dustin, and he pretends he isn't jealous. It works nicely for the both of us, honestly. My nerves are stretched tight when it's finally time to leave, an anxious thrumming that makes my knee jerk.

"I should go," I say, finally, standing.

Jesse stands with me, watching me with curious eyes. "You don't like Finn."

I shrug. "He's been part of my life for a long time, not that I ever really understood him. But no, honestly. I don't like him. He's annoying as hell, and he drives me fucking crazy—he refuses to answer any questions, yet he demands that I trust him, even when what he's suggesting is completely crazy."

"Like right now? You being here?"

I stop short and stare at Jesse. A smile quirks his lips up, but he doesn't seem pissed.

"You should go, Ren. Finn is waiting."

I nod awkwardly and go on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "You aren't a bad guy, Jesse."

He laughs quietly at that as he pulls aside the razor wire and I slip out.

I find the priest a few blocks from Jesse's garage, but not close to Finn. I hesitate in the street, and two more in gray robes drift up behind me. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to walk forward. "What does she want?" I ask the giant bodyguard.

He doesn't say anything, just turns and glides down the sidewalk. I want to bolt—want to race back to the relative safety of Finn's home. Instead, I grit my teeth and follow the priests of the Blessed Order.

Lori is a few streets over, sitting on the sidewalk, with her robes billowed out around her. Even on the dirty street, she looks like a perfectly made-up doll, a tiny porcelain creature with flawless features and impossibly perfect hair.

"Sit with me, pretty girl."

"I like standing," I answer, and her teeth flash in her tiny face. It's not a smile. Gritting my teeth, I lower myself down next to her.

"Tell me. Do you think he's right? That the zombies are adapting and searching for new food—that they are deliberately targeting the West, trying to isolate us as they did in the East?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Giving the zombies thought and cunning seems a little far-fetched and reaching. But Finn believes it, and my brother agrees. I trust my brother. I suppose that's where I stand."

"But you aren't doing anything to help Haven 18."

"What you do to survive is no one’s business but your own. We have our own priorities," I snap shortly.

The little priestess smiles, and this time, there is genuine amusement there. It's not a grimace or a threat. "That I do believe. Finn O'Malley has always had unusual priorities."

I sneer. "The Order hardly has the right to point fingers about odd values. You kill humans."

"We recreate the sacred days," she says with calm conviction.

That's what terrifies me about Lori. Not that she's of the Order—Omar didn't scare me and he is their High Priest. It's that she believes, where others don't. Omar is there for power—Lori’s here for conviction.

I glance at my watch, pissed that it's already almost twelve thirty. Whatever he wanted, I'm late. I stand up and dust off my pants. "As much as I enjoy chatting, I have to go."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you should. Tell him that I allowed it."

My blood runs cold, and I go still, staring at her. Lori's eyes gleam with madness. I shiver despite the heat. "What did you say?"

"I am letting you go. Because for whatever reason, O'Malley wants you. Remind him that he owes me—not the Order, but me—for my leniency. I will save you, as long as I can, for the sake of Finn's goodwill toward the Order."

I don't understand—it doesn't make sense. None of it does, but then nothing around Finn ever does. I scramble away from her, and the priests that surround us drift back, letting us past. Lori laughs, her voice chasing me down the street.

"Tell him what I say. The Order has marked you, First!"

I break into a run.

Part 4

The Horde Without End

*

I wish I had seen it—the world before Day One. It sounds amazing.

Nurrin Sanders

**

We should have died. Some days, I wish we had.

Finn O’Malley

Chapter 1

Old Lovers

She's late. I can tell as I unlock the front door—the house feels empty and abandoned.

This seriously fucks up my plans. I open the door and step aside. Lissel glides in behind me, all sleek curves and fuck me smiles.

This isn't gonna go like I wanted. I miscalculated, and someone will get hurt.

"Where is your little friend?" Lissel asks. Her tone grates on my nerves. Makes me grind my teeth.

"She's none of your fucking business," I say.

Her eyebrows go up at that, but I'm kissing her before she complains. Her arms are around me, and I remember why I used to fuck her. She throws everything into the kiss with no inhibitions or hesitation. In any other situation, I'd be in. I'd be kissing her back, ready for sex. As it is, I go through the motions, but my mind is somewhere else. Wondering where the hell Ren is.

If Lissel notices my inattention, she doesn't say. She just reaches for my belt, fumbling it open.

Shit, if I don't get this stopped soon, Ren’ll be walking in on more than I expected her to.

Although it'll do its job, and that's all it really matters at this point. All that I can let matter. She has my pants open, hand clutching my dick. I groan, my head falling back as she drops to her knees and takes me in her mouth. With her head bent, all I see is blonde hair and, for a moment— just a moment—I can forget that isn't right. Then the sensations overwhelm me, and I don't fucking care who it is. All that matters is that she doesn't stop. Fingers cup my balls, rolling them as she sucks me to the back of her throat. Somehow, I've clutched her hair and my fist, pulling her along.

She moans, vibrations running along my dick.

With a curse, I pull her to her feet. Lissel laughs, wiping her mouth.

I need to slow this down. There needs to be some kind of delay, a way to wait for Ren. I whip around, pinning her against the wall and grabbing the bottom of her shirt. Her body jerks when I rip it, and her eyes are angry, but hungry. I yank on her bra, and her full breasts spill out.

She’s moaning, whimpering and shifting against me as I pinch her nipples, kissing her neck.

She jerks up her skirt and reaches for me.

Too fast, too fucking fast. She’s got me in her hand, a tight hot fist stroking my dick, and I can feel her wet heat. I thrust, and she laughs as I slip along her folds. She shifts, just enough that I don’t slide deep into her. I growl, remembering why I quit finding my way to her bed—she’s too damn manipulative. Everything is a game to her.

I grab her hips, angle, and thrust into her. She screams, her body spasming around my dick as I fuck her.

Distantly, I know this is fucked up. I know I’m taking it too far. I know that this wasn’t the plan. But that’s distant—all I can focus on is the white hot pleasure running through my body, and Ren’s voice, ringing in my ears as I thrust into Lissel. I’m chasing my own orgasm—fuck Lissel and what she wants, she got me here despite my resolve, I’m going to get everything I can out of it.

Her nails are digging into my back, and she’s panting as one leg wraps around me, meeting every thrust. I slam into her, and she shrieks, clawing at my back as her body tightens around me. My release slams into me, and my head drops back as I let everything go and surrender to the pleasure.

When I can see and think, I realize Lissel is smiling, a smug expression that makes my blood boil in a completely different way. I drop her leg, and she slides down the wall, tugging her bra into place while I tuck my dick away. I take a deep breath and turn to look at Nurrin.

She’s staring at us with an expression I don’t think I’ve ever seen on her face—disgust and loathing and fury. I stare at her, my face blank, masking my fascination. Finally, she shakes herself and twists to look at me. "What the fuck are you doing?"

There’s a dizzying rush of relief. She might be furious, but she’s using that to play the emotions I need from her—she’s using it to get us out.

"Scratching an itch," I say, pushing away from Lissel. "How was Jesse?"

Something flickers in her eyes that makes my blood run cold. I step toward her, and she skitters back a step. Fuck. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with screwed-up plans. "Did you fuck him?" I ask, my voice low.

Her gaze darts to mine, disbelieving. "Are you serious? You think you have a single inch to stand on?"

"Don’t worry," Lissel purrs, approaching me on one side, "we’re just old friends catching up."

Nurrin gives the alderman a disdainful look and sniffs. "Bitch, do you really think I care who he fucks? I just care that we’re still trapped in this hell hole."

Lissel goes stiff, and I finally look at her. "That’s true. Old friends, and all. Help me out, Lissel."

"Fuck you, O’Malley," she hisses, outraged.

Nurrin coughs, muttering, "You already did that."

I shoot her a dirty look. Then I focus on Lissel. "This doesn’t have to be difficult, Lissel. Staying in 18 is going to be messy. Do you remember, what I told you about messy?"

A sliver of fear flickers in her eyes, and then she shakes her head, stubbornly. "I can’t help you. I won’t risk the Haven."

I make an impatient noise, and Lissel flinches. "It's not just you, you jackass," she snaps. "If it was, then I'd say fuck it and open the gates. But it's not—every time the gates open, we risk a breach. I can't authorize that, even if I wanted to."

"Every Haven has a back door," Ren says, her voice sharp and disbelieving. I know she's thinking about the tunnel we used to escape Hellspawn.

Lissel is shaking her head. "We sealed it."

"Why on earth would you do something that fucking stupid?" I demand, sharply.

"Because we have the Hale Hall. I know Melinda showed you, so you have to know we'll hide before we run."

I shake my head, furious. Look at Ren over Lissel's blonde hair. The alderman is waiting, almost impatiently watchful, for my next move.

I don't have a lot of options. "Get my bags."

She nods, and ducks into the back of the house. I reach behind me then lean into Lissel's space. "I didn't want to do it this way," I murmur.

"Finn, you need to accept this. Running won't work this time—and whatever that girl is dragging you out to, it's not worth it. You can survive here—even if your ties in Haven 1 have dried up, you have a place here. I'd make sure of it."

She doesn't get it. She never has. That's the problem—she wants to give me something that no one can. Stability and a place to belong, for fuck's sake. What does that even mean in a world like ours?

I stare at her and shake my head. Lean in to kiss her quickly, because I don't dislike Lissel. I just have priorities. And she isn't one.

Ren clears her throat, and I twist to look at her. She's got that foul expression again. "I need you to do one thing, Ren," I say, and she visibly flinches. She's not used to her nickname on my lips.

"What?" she asks warily, and I wish I could do something about that. I wish I could ease her distrust—but I can't, and my priority right now is to just get us out.

"Trust me?"

I wait, perfectly still, not even breathing. Behind me, Lissel is fidgeting, and in front of me, Nurrin is staring at me with her big green eyes.

Finally, she nods. Something tight and tense loosens in my chest, and I give her a grim smile.

Then I yank off a length of silver duct tape and wrap it quickly around Lissel's wrists.

"What the hell are you doing?" She shouts, jerking away. I yank her back, the tape cutting into her skin. Nurrin steps up, her gun in her hand. I give her a tiny nod, and the barrel of the gun presses into the soft skin of Lissel's throat, skin I so recently kissed.

I can't think like that. Not right now. I finish securing Lissel's hands, Nurrin's gun holding her steady. Then I stand up and stare at her. "Now. Here's what's going to happen—you are going to get us out of the Haven. And if you do it without any trouble, I'll let you go. If you don't—it'll make my life messy."

"You wouldn't dare kill me," she spits.

I smile, lazily. "You didn't think I'd fuck you and tie you up, either. Keep betting on what I don't have the balls to do."

Lissel's mouth snaps shut and I nod. "Good. Let's go."

I shove her into the back of the truck, and Ren slides in, her gun still pointing directly at Lissel's head. She glances at me curiously. "What's the plan?" she murmurs.

I arch an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes.

"Asking a question is not a lack of trust."

"Just wait," I mutter.

"You don't know, do you?" Ren asks, as horrified as she is amused.

She's wrong. I do know. It was the plan from the beginning.

The gate is sealed. Two dozen guards are milling around it, their weapons pointed at the ground as they talk to each and wait, bored, for the change of watch. I'm about to throw a kink into all of their plans.

I park the truck and stalk around the front. The soldiers surround me, almost instantly. "You need to clear out," a particularly brave one says. I glance at him, and the poor kid wilts, falling back a few steps. Until I drag their lovely Alderman out by her bound hands.

Then their guns snap up and train on me.

"Put those down," Lissel snaps, furious. "The idiot wants outside."

"The gates are sealed. No one in or out, sir. And abducting our alderman is punishable by quarantine."

"Or being put outside the Walls," I add. "Which you’re welcome to do."

The soldiers look confused, and I take a deep breath. "Why are the Walls sealed?"

"Infection. We can't risk letting it inside," the guard says promptly.

I stab the needle deep into Lissel's arm, making my motions clear. You couldn't miss them if you were blind—and she screams, loud enough to wake the dead. Outside, the zombies scream in response.

I hear Ren's tiny gasp, but she doesn't do anything to step in. She doesn't scream at me to stop. "Let me out," I say, keeping my finger on the plunger. "Now. Or I'll infect her and you'll be facing a breach." The guards hesitate, and Lissel is hyperventilating in my arms, fighting tooth and nail to get away from me. I clamp an arm down over her throat until she sags against me. Look at the guards. "It's your choice."

The guards hesitate, and she screams, "Shoot the motherfucker. Now!"

"She's already been exposed," one guards says, quietly. That's all it takes—the whispers spread like wildfire. Within a few seconds, they're reaching for the gate lift. "You have to be quick," the captain orders.

I nod. "Nurrin. Take the wheel," I order. She's staring at me with wild, wide eyes. I tug Lissel into the truck, almost in my lap, and snarl, "Drive!"

She does. Lissel falls into me with a yelp, and I jerk the needle free. "Sit still."

"Fuck you," she snarls. I don't have time to pay attention because Nurrin shouts my name and we slam into the horde. The truck shudders as the razor wire slices through the undead. Blood and gore explode from the front of the truck. From all sides, bodies slam into us, the screams shaking the air.

"Get in the back, Lissel." I snap, reaching for my crossbow. "Nurrin. Keep her steady and moving. We're dead if we stop."

She nods, and from the corner of my eye, something slams down toward my temple. I move without thinking, my blade swinging up and cutting across Lissel’s belly. Her eyes go wide, shocked. Ren screams, a shocked noise she chokes off almost immediately. The scent of blood fills the tiny cab. For a moment, there is only silence and the rasp of the dead outside. I curse and shove the little crawlspace open. The dead scream, furious at the scent of blood. "What the hell are you doing?" Nurrin shouts, more furious than scared.

"Saving our lives," I answer and grab Lissel's shoulders. Her hands are gripping me, causing me to stumble. Around me, the razor wire shakes as the zombies pummel it, and it occurs to me this is probably the stupidest thing I've done in forever.

Then I don't think. Nurrin guns the engine and I throw the body—it's only a body—out. Blood sprays in a glittering red arc, and the zombies whip around, following the scent of it. Nurrin slams the gas down, and we shoot away as the infects feast.

Chapter 2

The Hole

It's been hours. She's quiet—lost in her own thoughts—and I don't push. I don't want to see distrust in her eyes, or disgust, so I turn away.

I never turn away from the truth, but this time I do. There's no way to accept what I did. I can't ask her to—it's hardly a fair request.

The sun is dropping, and I glance at her. "Stop or keep going?"

Nurrin gives me a slightly startled look, like she forgot I was even here. We're in a deserted strip of the Wide Open, nothing but scraggly trees and sand to keep us company. "Keep going. We'll hit the Hole around midnight if we keep going."

I nod. "Want me to drive?"

She shakes her head, staring out the windshield. Her fingers tighten, briefly, on the wheel. "Why did you have the virus?" she blurts out. "How could you threaten someone with exposure like that?"

I don't answer for a few minutes, staring at the little vial, now neatly capped. Without letting myself hesitate, I stab it into my leg and decompress the plunger.

Nurrin hits the breaks so fast and hard, I'm thrown around. She falls out of the truck, and even before she's clear, the gun is trained on my head. Her whole body is shaking, but that's steady—the barrel doesn't waver at all.

I drop the needle and lift my hands, a gesture of surrender. "It's a saline solution," I say. Nurrin doesn't seem to register I spoke, so I repeat it, louder. "It's not the virus, Nurrin. It's a placebo. I just needed them to believe it was ERI-Milan."

"I believed it," she shouts.

"You trusted me enough to get in the truck. I swore to get you to your brother, Nurrin. I will. Don't doubt me now."

"You fucked her today!" she says, her voice shrill. "And then you killed her, fed her to the damn horde. How can you expect me to keep trusting you?"

Frustration boils in me, but I shake my head. Lean my head back. "You have to decide that, Ren. You can decide I did it because that's what it took to get you out of 18. Or you can decide I'm a monster. Eventually, you have to quit hiding behind your anger and make a decision." I throw the empty needle aside and slide into the driver's seat. "Now. Are you coming with me?"

Chapter 3

Discoveries

It’s pitch black when we reach the Hole. I park the truck and lean over to shake Nurrin’s shoulder a little. She blinks sleepily, and it’s a struggle to force myself back to my side of the vehicle.

"We’re here," I say. She nods and yawns.

There aren’t any infects around—strangely, I haven’t seen any in hours. But I’m not into taking unnecessary chances. "Got your stuff?" She nods, shrugging her bag onto her back.

"Can we go down in the dark?"

I hand her a flare stick. "Crack that when we get out. And move quick—we’re alone for now, but you know how that goes."

She nods, and eagerness slips across her face.

"Ready?" I ask, grabbing my knife.

We scramble out of the truck in perfect synchronization. She’s at the side of the canyon, the pink flare sparkling at her side, and I nod at her. "Go." She doesn’t wait or argue—apparently we have made progress since leaving. She edges down the cliff face as I glance around.

My blood runs cold as I take in the empty cliff.

Something is wrong.

I push aside the sensation, the stomach curdling fear, and follow Nurrin down the canyon.

Nurrin’s pack is in the entry, and I step over it and her burning flare. Toss it and mine out over the cliff. They flare brilliant and bleeding as they plummet to the canyon floor. Behind me, Nurrin is moving around the little cave, lighting candles and calling Dustin’s name.

I can taste the stale air. No one is here. No one has been here. Blood is on the ground, pooling on the low couch. It smells old and coppery. I close my eyes and face the open canyon, into the midnight sky, and listen as she gets more and more panicked. Until, finally, she’s at my side, and I know how upset she is.

Nurrin doesn’t cry. Not in front of me. She never has, not in the years I have known her brother. But tears are standing in her big eyes now, and her expression is furious and disbelieving. I draw her into my arms without thinking, and stare into the night as she buries her face in my chest and says, her voice muffled, "They aren’t here. Collin is gone."

The End.

The Horde Without End

The World Without End, Book 2

Part 1. The Beauty of Breaking

We live without guarantees, in a time when loss is the norm. We are not given the
luxury of falling apart.

-President Buchman, addressing Haven 1.

There is a world of strength waiting to be discovered in her moments of weakness.

-Finn O’Malley

Chapter 1.

Broken Pieces

She hasn’t cried. She doesn’t cry for me— but I know how fragile she is.

I want to break her. I want to push her hard enough to see her shatter. I want to see the shards of her on the ground.

How fucking beautiful would she be, when she put herself back together? She would. Nurrin is too stubborn to do anything but survive.

Nurrin is a first, born to a world of death. She is innocent of the life before the change. She has never known anything but Hale Halls, razor wire, and walls. She has never known she could be anything but a survivor.

I watch the sun rising over the canyon. In another world, people might have exclaimed over the beauty, stared at it in wonder.

To me, the red-washed sky means only one thing: it’s almost time to leave.

I glance over my shoulder. She retreated to the sleeping area a few hours ago, after we fought over leaving immediately. I think there is a part of her that hopes Collin will come back. A supply run wouldn’t be completely unjustified.

My lips twist.

Collin wouldn’t leave the Hole, not unless he had to. Not when he knew that it’s the only place I would take Nurrin. He’s gone because something is wrong.

Chapter 2.

Making Plans

She’s awake—I know she is, because as soon as I leave the cave entrance, she’s poking her head out of the bedroom. Her eyes are suspiciously red, but she doesn’t look as breakable as a few hours ago.

She does look tired.

“What are we doing?” she asks, her voice raspy.

“Do you think you’re up to travel?” I ask, letting disbelief and disgust tint my tone.

Nurrin doesn’t answer. She steps past me, her curling blonde hair brushing my arm as she snatches her gun and long knife from the table. I spent a few mindless hours cleaning everything last night. I catch her wrist as she pulls back, the one holding her knife, and Nurrin hisses slightly, a furious noise. “Don’t play games, O’Malley,” she says quietly. “I’m going to find my brother.”

“I won’t go out there if you aren’t at a hundred percent. Do you understand that? I won’t take you out there on some ill-advised suicide mission.”

Anger flashes in her eyes, and she jerks free of my grasp. “What the hell do you think this is going to be? We have no clues to where he is—we’re going out there with nothing to go on.

Ill-advised is the least of what we’re doing.”

I laugh, and she wheels on me, her eyes wild. “You know something. What the fuck are you not telling me? Do you know where they are?”

“You trusted me, yesterday,” I say quietly. Her eyes narrow, and she snorts. I want to laugh, but I swallow it and stare at her. “I’ll find Collin. We were partners long enough that I have some ideas.”

That’s a lie, but her shoulders drop and her eyes brighten, a little. She’s hesitant to trust me—but she wants to.

Hope. It’s a wretched bitch.

“Collin wouldn’t leave unless he had to. And he had the bike—we might be able to track him.”

“Where would he go?” she asks.

Always the fucking questions. Even though they are warranted—justified—they irritate me. “Get your gear. I’m going to pack what food we have left.”

Worry flashes in her eyes. “Why? Won’t we come back?”

I look at her and blank my expression. It’s not going to help to give her anything to pounce on. I can’t face her questions right now—even if I had the inclination, we don’t have the time.

“No questions, Nurrin,” I say sharply. She gives me that annoyed look, but it’s a step up from the hopeless fear that’s been in her eyes since she realized Collin was gone.

She mutters a curse under her breath, and

I smirk as she goes to do what I say. The amusement fades as I stare at the scratch on the table. It’s cryptic. Three hurried gouges slashed in half by a fourth. An i, with a diagonal slash over it.

I had it covered with weapons, and she was too crazed with worry and fear to think to look—but I know the way Collin’s mind works, and the protocol of Wall Walkers.

And Collin isn’t so fucking stupid to leave without some kind of breadcrumbs.

The problem is that it’s just a breadcrumb.

I push aside the niggling fear that Collin is running from a live infection, that taking Ren after him is putting her in danger.

It doesn’t matter—she’d never tolerate being left behind. And if I did, it would just mean both of them would be missing, because she would bolt as soon as I was gone.

Doesn’t mean I’ll take her out without some kind of ground rules. I manage a grin.

She’ll be pissed.

“Nurrin,” I yell, “get your ass out here.”

“Fuck off, O’Malley,” she grumbles without any real heat. She comes back out, and I take a quick look. She’s changed into leather zom gear. It conforms to her ass, follows the curves of her pert breasts.

Shit.

The girl has to be carrying five different weapons, her brother and boyfriend are missing, and fucking her is still a bad idea.

So why can’t I get her out of my system? I had hoped Lissel—I hiss and shove that thought aside. “Can you fit anything else in your bag?” She nods and brings it to the table. I shift so the marks are hidden and push some MREs to her. Her nose wrinkles, but she obediently loads them into her bag.

In minutes, we’re done—it’s almost disturbing how well we work together now.

“Weapons?” I ask shortly.

She huffs, but rattles them off. I nod and pass her a few hand grenades. “I’m driving, so I’ll need to you cover us. Can you handle that?”

She gives me a flat stare. I arch my eyebrows, and she pockets the grenades.

There is something undeniably sexy about seeing Nurrin shove grenades into her leather pockets while a garrote is wrapped around one wrist and throwing stars hang from her waist. She catches my eye and gives me a grimace. “What?”

“You seem more together than I expected,” I say. “I’m wondering how much is an act. Are you going to fall apart out there?”

Anger flickers in her eyes—that’s fine. I don’t care what she uses to keep from falling apart, to keep herself together and moving forward. As long as she does.

“I want my brother. I’ll hold together for as long as it takes to find him,” she says flatly. “He could be dead, Nurrin,” I say. Pain spasms across her face, and I should look away—no one should see something that intensely private. I don’t. I watch her, fascinated.

“He could be. But he’s not. Collin has survived twenty years—no zombie will kill him. Now get your shit and let’s go.”

“You know what the rules are—out there you obey without questions.”

She snorts. “Fuck your rules, O’Malley. My brother is out there—you can help me find him, or you can get the hell out of my way. Those are my rules.”

“That’s a good way to get yourself dead,” I shoot back.

Nurrin’s expression goes blank. “Do you really think I care?”

She turns away before I can respond, but the question does its job—it tells me exactly how depressed she is, just how far she’s fallen.

Nurrin isn’t suicidal—she’s too much of a survivor for that maudlin shit—but she is hopeless, and that could be worse.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Chapter 3.

Topside

The cliff is swarmed with infects. All the ones near the Canyon when she started screaming last night are still here. A handful have fallen over the edge—I watched them tumble to the rocky bottom of the cliff during the night, but I can hear the screams and the quick darting steps as they circle the truck. Once, I hear the rattle of metal and a furious shriek— one apparently wandered too close to the razor wire.

Ren is pressed against my back, her entire body shaking with the need to fight. I draw my sword carefully and glance at her. She gives me a tight smile, and I nod once.

And we explode off the path.

The first zom screams as it sees us, and I feel the wind whistle past my face as Nurrin takes the cliff top, a throwing star embedding in the infect’s throat, slicing deep. I jerk its head forward, onto the blade, and it goes limp as the razor edge slices into its spinal column.

Then the other infects are too close to think, and I’m twisting through them, leading with my sword. I can hear her shouting and cursing as she slams her blade into one infect after another. I hear it, and distantly I care—but really, the only thing that matters in this moment is killing and making sure we don’t end up shoved off the damn cliff.

I whip around, my sword slicing through a rotten neck, and smile as gore sprays. “Truck,” I shout. Ren growls behind me, a sound laced with annoyance more than anger.

She sounds nothing like the dead—too full of life. I glance at her, unable to resist. A zom screams, and I smirk, twisting away from Ren to slam my knife under its chin, burying it to the hilt in rotten brain matter. I shake the viscous matter from my hand and whistle sharply. Draw their attention from Ren. I bring my sword in front of me as they focus on me, away from Ren. She makes a face, annoyed, and I force my expression to go flat. She doesn’t have to like it—I don’t actually expect her to like it—I just need her to work with me and get the truck started.

Watching us, she makes her way to the waiting truck. I shout as she opens the door, and the nearest zom screams, lunging at me. I slide under the attack, slicing up. And stop thinking.

The only time I can turn off my brain is when I’m fighting the infects, because it doesn’t take anything more than cut and slice and stay the fuck out of range of their teeth. That is easy—they don’t demand anything, answers I refuse to give.

This is simple.

I give myself over to the ease of it all and fight my way through the infects. I’m vaguely aware that she turns on the truck, that I could fight my way to it—that I’m supposed to—but I’m more focused on the fight. Until there is nothing left to kill, and I stand, panting, in a circle of the dead.

For a long minute, I just stare, slowly coming back to myself. Then the door to the truck cranks open. Ren pops out, standing on the step rail, a tiny thing dwarfed by the massive truck, bristling weapons. She gives me an arch look. “You feel better?”

Always with the fucking questions. I shake my blade, bend to wipe it off on the only clean scrap of cloth I can find on the dead. Sheath it and stalk over to where she’s leaning out of the truck. Give her a flat smile.

“Let me guess,” she says dryly, “you’re driving.”

At least the girl can learn.

Chapter 4.

Roadside Revelations

We’re driving for maybe five minutes— long enough that the canyon has vanished behind us and Nurrin has begun to get twitchy—when she finally asks. I’m surprised it took her this long.

“Where are we going? They could be anywhere.”

I deliberately keep my gaze ahead. “I know where he was heading.”

On her side of the truck, Nurrin is a trembling ball of outrage. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s glaring, or that hope has sparked in her eyes, however briefly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Collin carved a message in the table. He’s headed to Haven 9.”

“Why there?” she demands, her voice going shrill.

“Because it’s close. I’d guess that Dustin’s infection spread and he had no choice—there’s no sign that there was a breach, but he’d get out of here, if it meant saving Dustin’s life or buying him a little more time while they wait for our return.”

“Why wouldn’t he just say that? Why make it so fucking difficult?”

I slide a glance at her. She’s staring out the window, fury etched on her face.

She won’t like this.

“Because his sister is a First. And because I’m his partner—we both have enemies, and he can be used as leverage against either of us.”

“He was alone there, Finn,” she says. I hear her hesitation, though, and flash her a quick smile—she isn’t asking about why I would have enemies. Not now, anyway.

“Doesn’t matter—Collin is smart. He found a way to tell me what I needed to know.”

“Then why did you say that, about him being dead? If you know where he was going?” I stare out the windshield, at the dust that is sweeping the canyon edge. It’s hot and dry and carries the hint of smoke and decay.

Everything smells of decay, these days.

“Because it’s a long way from here to Haven 9. And there are a lot of obstacles between us and him. Because the Wide Open is full of the dead, and we both know they’re changing—and Collin was traveling with a live infection—even if he could get to 9, they could have thrown him and Dustin into Q.”

She flinches, and I try to get a grip on my temper. Being angry with her won’t do anything, and I can’t afford to fight with her—right now, nothing matters but finding Collin.

“You didn’t tell me what you were planning, when we left 18.”

My grip tightens a little on the steering wheel, and she sighs. “Are you going to keep me in the dark this time, too? Because if you feel the burning need to fuck and murder an Alderman, I’d like a little warning this time.”

I snort, banking my anger. She’s furious, and cool indifference is the only way to handle Nurrin’s anger.

“She wasn’t supposed to die,” I say. Not that this time will actually make it through her thick skull. I’m tired of repeating the same shit to her.

“What was she supposed to do? Jump to safey? You were dragging her into a horde, with no recourse to get home.”

I bristle. “Haven 18 will fall. If it hasn’t already, it will within the month. I was getting her out of a sinking ship. Is that so fucking wrong?”

“You killed her.”

I nod. “But I gave her a clean death—she was dead as soon as she drew a knife on me.”

She shudders. “She was dead as soon as you decided to fuck her.”

Ah. That is the crux of it. The real issue she has with me killing Lissel.

“Sex doesn’t mean anything, Nurrin. It’s a biological need, and she met it. Doesn’t mean I give a fuck about her or it.”

“She loved you,” she protests, shrilly.

I laugh at that. Because it’s the classic mistake, and I’m not surprised that she’s making it. Disappointed, but not surprised. “She didn’t love me, Nurrin. She didn’t fucking know me.”

She looks at me, and I can feel the sympathy and pity coming off her in waves. It infuriates me, but I keep my grip on the steering wheel light as I twist to avoid a stack of freshly killed infects.

I wonder who bothered to stack them.

“No one knows you, O’Malley. You won’t let anyone get to know you. Why is that?”

“Why do you still think I’ll answer your questions?” I shoot back, and she flushes, leaning back in her seat. “I don’t give a fuck if people know me, Nurrin. Frankly, it makes staying alive easier when I don’t have to worry about idiots who think they know me trying to save me.” My tone is mocking, calculated to get a reaction.

She laughs, and I flick a quick look at her. “You told the Alderman Melinda that they should live—that hiding from the disease was only choosing a slow death. But you hide from the whole world. What are you choosing, by doing that?”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, she props her feet on the dash—something she knows I despise—and leans back, closing her eyes.

Chapter 5.

Holed Up

When the dead came back and the world went to hell, there was a lot left behind. Big cities didn’t fare well—Houston burned for two months during the first wave of infection, and Atlanta didn’t just burn, it smoldered, the ash of radiation and infection a true testament to the magnitude of the change.

But small town America didn’t fare so badly. Whole towns were untouched by the first wave of infection, escaped it altogether—until the refugees and the government swarmed in and shoved everyone behind Haven walls.

Sometimes, when I’m drunk and feeling nostalgic, I wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t. If they had let nature and humanity live out together—if we could have stopped the disease if we all fought it, instead of just the ragtag army they sent to fight the Battle of the East.

Not that it matters. The government made their evac orders, and the American people, convinced the world was ending and their government had their best interests at heart, obeyed.

The rest has been a slow march toward extinction.

I slow as we ease into the ghost town, and Nurrin blinks, stretching in her seat as she comes awake. “Where are we?”

“No idea. Some town between the canyon and 9. We need to stop for the night.”

She leans forward, scanning the streets. “I don’t see anything out there.”

“No, I haven’t seen an infect in a few hours,” I say quietly. It’s still a while before sunset, but the city is the perfect place to hole up for the night, and I don’t want to chance being stuck on the road without a bolt-hole.

And there is the slim possibility that we can scavenge a little.

“That one,” she says, and I glance at the house she’s pointing to. She’s right, as much as it pains me to admit. It’s on a wide swath of overgrown grass. A swing has collapsed into the rotten porch. It’s decrepit and untouched— which makes it perfect. And a small forest of apple trees wave from behind it—fresh fruit wouldn’t be the worst thing to stock up on.

Without saying anything, I turn the truck into the drive. Gravel pops under our tires, a few sticks snapping in the silence. I park a safe distance away—close enough to get to and from the truck safely, and far enough that we can make a quick escape if something is inside—and we sit there, eyeing it.

“How many rodents do you think are crawling around in there?” she asks finally.

“More than you’ll appreciate.”

She snorts. “I appreciate rat stew as much as any Haven girl, O’Malley.”

My lips twitch, and I reach behind us to grab my crossbow. She checks the magazine on her 9mm and then slams it back in, chambering a round.

“Ready?” I ask softly. She flashes me a quick grin, and I shove the door open. Nurrin prowls out of her side of the truck, her gaze darting around nervously.

She’s adjusted, too well, to being in the Wide Open.

It’s a little unsettling how easily we gain the house. There is no sign of life—or the undead—as we move across the overgrown lawn and she reaches down, easing the door open carefully.

I step in quickly, scanning the room with my bow up. Nurrin steps in behind me, sniffing the air experimentally.

It’s dry—musty and old, but there is no hint of rancid badness that clings to the infects.

“Did we actually find a Clean city?” she asks, her voice a little awed.

I shoot her a look. “Those are myths, Nurrin. Get your head on straight.”

She flips me the bird, and I relax a little— she’s not a hundred percent, and I can see the sadness in her eyes when I’m not needling her. But if I can still get a rise out of her, she’s not too far gone, and that is something to hold onto.

We clear the house, finding nothing living or dead. Just an empty house, still carrying the weight of the people who abandoned it.

“I’m going to scavenge, while we still have some daylight.”

She nods. “I’ll get a safe room together.”

It’s what I would have told her to do— that she immediately moves to do so is a little disconcerting. I watch her for a moment, searching for something, and she rolls her eyes.

Without a word, I stalk from the house.

The city is Clean. And I haven’t seen one of those since we swept out of the East, retreating to the land the living had claimed.

There are always rumors of them. Even now, twenty years after the world fell apart, people still talk about Clean places—mountain tops and islands are popular—pockets of infection-less land. I used to think there were Clean islands. For half of that first year, I clung to the idea. But the fact is, they don’t exist. ERIMilan ripped through the entire world and nowhere—not even the poorest villages in the most remote countries—was able to escape the ravages of it. Not after it mutated outside of Atlanta.

But for the moment, the infects have abandoned the little town, and I prowl it unencumbered.

There isn’t much to find—twenty years of decay and scavengers have left it at it’s bare essentials, but I do find a few packs of water pures in an abandoned car and an old can of zom repellant. I grab both and hit a nearby RV. It’s the newest looking vehicle—a Ford ZTNK2300. The tires are flat-proof. Blood is caked to the side of the RV, and I wonder how long ago they—whoever they were—were killed. I bring the bow up again, my finger twitching on the trigger as I reach for the door.

The bang of it slamming against the outside is ridiculously loud, but nothing comes out screaming, so I duck into the vehicle.

It’s fully stocked. Food and cases of water, a stack of batteries and powdered zom repellant, ammo and several guns. Even the mattress and pillow look sound.

Like whoever had been here stepped out for a breath of air, and never come back.

I think of the blood stain and shake my head—they probably did.

I should feel worse about pillaging from the dead—but in our world, it’s necessary. You do what it takes to survive, and fuck the sensibilities of the dead, or stupid shit like decorum. Decorum won’t kill a zom—but the rounds of ammo sitting in this RV will. I glance at the front of the ZTNK and see the keys there.

Fuck. I’m going to have to let her drive my fucking truck.

I see Nurrin, her blonde hair a pale shadow in the window, as I pull up. I can imagine what she’s thinking—who the hell goes out to scavenge and comes back with an RV?

Part of me says to let it go—I don’t need the damn thing.

Except that I don’t know that. My influence is fading—it has been since I left Haven 1. There are people who hate me, more than I care to think about. And I have no idea what it will take to get Collin out of whatever mess he’s found himself in.

I grit my teeth. She won’t be happy about it—it’ll slow us down and make us more conspicuous on the road, neither of which is ideal.

I grab my crossbow and climb out of the ZTNK, locking it behind me. We might be in an impossibly Clean town, but the Wide Open always holds a few surprises—and I didn’t want this one wandering away in the middle of the night.

Nurrin is standing with her arms crossed over her chest when I walk up the creaking stairs. I glance past her into the room she’s cleared. It’s been cleaned, and she’s set up for the night, laying out two sleep sacks, a couple of MREs, and bottled water. The room reeks of zom repellant, and the floors almost gleam. There is a small pile of curious rubbish, and I flick a glance at it. “I cleared the house,” she says. “Where the hell did you find a ZTNK?”

“On the main street. I didn’t see anything, and it’d been abandoned.”

“And what happens when the people who were trawling in it come back and realize it’s gone?”

“They’ll manage.” I shrug. I reach down and grab an MRE. Beef Strogenoff. Disgusting shit.

“Finn, I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says softly.

I stare at her, a long stare. “Do you really think they’ll be coming back?”

She flinches. “Yes. I have to believe they’ll be back.”

We’re not talking about random strangers in the ZTNK anymore. But then, I don’t think we ever were.

“I picked apples,” she says, an abrupt change of topic. I glance at them—they’re small and look hard, but it’s fresh—looking ahead at a few days of MREs, anything fresh is nice.

“We should have stayed at the damn Casino,” I mutter.

“Their food is definitely a step above ours,” she agrees. I glance at her as she turns to set the apples down. Her ass has dust on it, smeared from her hands, probably, and there’s a smudge on her arm—sometime between getting here and me coming back from scavenging, she’s come out of her zom gear.

“What’s in the RV?”

“It’s fully stocked—looks like they were making a long trip. Ammo, food, clothes, survival gear—everything you’d need for an extended stint outside.”

“Any clue where they came from?”

“Didn’t look. But it’ll be good for trading if we run into any trouble.”

She glances back at me. “Won’t your name be enough to get us through?” Irritation sparks through me, and I take a deep breath, catching my temper before it breaks completely.

I grab the MRE she tosses to me and give her a blank look. “You’re fishing again, Nurrin.”

“No,” she says. Her voice wobbles briefly. “I’m not fishing—I’m not playing games. I’m through with games, Finn. I need to find my brother.”

“What do you think we’re doing?” I ask sharply.

“You said once that the only thing that mattered was that you’d keep me safe and Collin safe.”

I nod—I remember telling her that.

“You were right. That’s all that matters. I don’t give a fuck who you were, or what you did—I just care about getting to Collin before it’s too late.”

“We both want the same thing, Nurrin. I want him back, too.”

She stares at me for a long tense moment, and then, “Why did you let him in? Of all the people in 8, why did Collin crack you?”

I remember that first day, walking into the training room. I hadn’t needed it—but the Commander had insisted if I were to Walk, I’d train with his men. So there I was, and Collin was leaning against a wall, watching with this little smile on his face. I didn’t know much about him, except two very important things: he survived the Turn, and he was Nurrin Sanders’ brother.

Even then, I knew who she was—a hotblooded, spitting hellcat at fifteen. I’d been watching her from a distance since I arrived in 18, and I’d learned a lot.

Quiet. Unassuming. And fucking savage when she was threatened. One recurring theme was her brother. He had no life outside his sister and went through hell to keep her identity as a First under wraps.

I walked up and gave him a smirk. “How long do you think you can keep a First under wraps?”

His face had gone comically shocked, and then he punched me.

“O’Malley,” she snaps, exasperated. I blink, staring. How long had I been lost in thought? “You know, it gets really boring when you refuse to talk about anything,” she says grumpily. I shrug, and she snorts and settles across from me with her MRE.

Chapter 6.

The Lies of a Clean City

She takes first watch. Even in a city with no evidence of infects, we’re going to have a watch. Anything else would be stupid and irresponsible. When she wakes me for my watch, I stretch and murmur, “Anything?”

“No.”

We don’t say anything else as she crawls into her sleep sack, and I prop against the wall by the window, rolling my neck to work out the kinks. Slowly, silence eases back down on the little room.

I stare out into the darkness, trying to ignore the sound of her quiet, almost silent crying. The wind has picked up, and it shakes the trees outside, giving everything an eerie quality and making the shadows dance. But for all of that, it’s quiet.

“We can leave,” she says.

“Not in the dark, Nurrin. Suicide missions aren’t my thing.”

She makes an unladylike noise and rolls over.

A shrill scream splits the night, and she jerks upright. Even in the darkness, from the far side of the room, I can see the terror on her face, the wild, wide eyes. I put a finger to my mouth, and she nods. Shifts out of her sleep sack and crawls silently to my side.

The first zom appears from the trees, darting out of the depths of the apple orchard. She shivers, watching it, and doesn’t see the second.

I do.

“Fuck,” I whisper. She looks away from that first—it’s almost to the house—and sees what I do.

Infects are pack animals. They travel in small groups—small being the key. There’s a lot of speculation as to why—my theory is that they can’t feed enough to sustain large groups. They happen, occasionally, especially when cities were falling in the East. But tey always splinter, a horde becoming smaller and spread out, manageable. This though—

It’s a horde.

And not just a horde—but the largest I’ve ever seen. It makes the mass of infects in Vegas, drawn there by the Order, seem small. It's bigger than the horde that enclosed the truck on our way back. They pour out of the trees by the hundreds, swarming the orchard and around the house. They aren't silent—not like the last horde we saw. This one is full of fury and hunger, their screams scraping along the walls of the house, filling up the little room until I'm sure it will drown out everything, the last sounds we ever hear. Nurrin mutters a low curse and clamps her hands over her ears, her eyes scrunched shut. It's not an escape. There isn't one.

The worst part isn't the screams, or the sheer number of them. It's how new they are.

The horde moves with speed and fury, at an awkward, limping gate. Like the infection is still ripping through them, changing them.

I see Wall Walkers, snarling alongside the others.

She makes a low noise, almost a moan, and I shift, putting a hand to her lips.

They can't hear us—not over their own noise—and they probably won't be able to sniff us out over the reek of zom repellant. But it's still better to stay quiet until the horde has passed.

She slumps against me, and we sit like that for a long time, watching as they race by. Snap at each other. Scream in anger and hunger.

They’re changing. ERI has always been highly adaptable—it was the miracle of the drug, and the reason it doomed us all. But their behavior is becoming a pattern.

Hordes, moving like they’ve scented the living, when there’s no reason for it. Infects don’t move like that unless they’ve narrowed in on a human. Even animal meat doesn’t raise this kind of response.

I’ve known this was coming—that it was inevitable. I’m still not ready for it.

But at least the falling Havens make a little more sense.

Even after they have passed, we sit in silence, watching a few straggling infects scrambling after the main horde.

The silence, after the screaming fades, is startling. It wraps around us like a heavy blanket, broken only by her raspy breathing as she tries not to fall apart. I sink down and prop my crossbow against my knee. Glance across the window to meet her terrified eyes.

"What are they doing?" she asks, her voice shaking. My muscles clench, and I struggle to stay still. It's the last thing I want. But I can’t have what I want.

"They're adapting," I say, looking away. "ERI-Milan is a highly adaptable virus. It looks like it's changed again."

"But why?" Nurrin sounds lost and broken—I hate that weakness in her voice, hate that I think less of her for it.

"Why do any of us adapt? They're trying to survive."

She opens her mouth to say something, and I roll my head to the side, staring out the window. "Get some sleep, Nurrin. What the infects are doing doesn't matter—tomorrow we have to get to 9."

I hear her inhale, probably preparing to argue with me. I flick a glance at her, and she bites down on whatever she's going to say. Snuggles deeper into her sleep sack, which she half drug over when the horde came through. I stare out at the darkness as she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep, refusing to look at her.

The infects were fresh. That's the most troubling part of it—not the size of the horde. I've known for a long time that they outnumber us. But this is unprecedented. Even during the first wave of infection.

That first three months, while the world fell to pieces and the dead moved like a fucking plague, three of seven people were killed or changed. Those were your odds. Seven people walk into the apocalypse. Four make it out—if they’re lucky.

Three billion died in three months. Then we got our shit together enough that we could fight back, pulling every defense we had into the fight and throwing up walls as quickly as we could. Havens went up faster than anyone believed possible—the first four were functioning within six months of the bombing of Atlanta.

Having the dead killing the living lit a fire under people’s asses. Evac orders were sent, and we hid. The slaughter slowed after that.

By the time First Day rolled around for the first time, another billion were dead. The dead outweighed us by numbers—but we were fighting back and holding our own.

Fucking stubborn.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts of another time, another life—back when I thought we could win this fight. Back when winning might have meant something. We all dreamed of something—going back to the world we had before Emilie died and everything changed.

The truth is there is no winning—no going back. The zombies are here—ERI-Milan is too prevalent and adaptable to kill completely. We will never reclaim the East. We will never be rid of the zombies.

We’re all searching for something—a Clean place—but what we’re really doing is waiting for the other shoe to fall.

And from the size of that fucking horde, I’m beginning to wonder if it already has and we’re just not aware of it yet.

Chapter 7.

Roadside Hazards

The truck ahead of me bobbles, riding the edge of the curb, and I tap my horn, annoyed. If she blows out one of my tires because she’s fucking with the AC, I’m going to be pissed. She responds by flashing her brakes at me.

Smartass.

I don’t like her in a separate car. There’s no one to take point, for either of us. If we hit trouble—when, because it’s always just a matter of time—there’s no one to cover us. I’m used to being able to concentrate on the road, because she’s riding shotgun, that little pistol of hers always in her lap.

A girl with a gun should not be such a fucking turn on.

But I’ve been a walking hard-on since she rolled out of her sleep sack this morning, her shirt tangled up and giving me a delectable view of her nipples, shadowed points under the thin cotton.

I remember what she felt like, under my hand in the club at the casino. I remember how she came alive, how she had crawled into my lap, a hot little bundle of want.

She might hate me. It might be the worst idea in a long line of bad fucking ideas. But there is no denying there’s a hell of a connection between us.

I’ve always known there would be. It’s the only thing that’s kept me away from her bed all these years.

Nurrin isn’t a Haven girl—not the kind I can fuck and forget. Even if I tried, I don’t think she’d let me—she’s the kind of girl that sinks into your pores, who comes screaming and wraps around your soul.

Which is a stupid fucking thought if I’ve ever had one.

The truck bobbles again, and I curse, shoving the ZTNK into high gear and pushing the throttle until I’m alongside her.

She’s smiling, one leg propped on the seat as she nibbles on an apple and steers one handed. The window is down, whipping her hair around like a blonde tornado.

She looks free and unconcerned—the most carefree I’ve seen her since we left Haven 8. I let the window roll down and toss a bullet at her. She smirks at me, her eyes lazy and taunting. “Keep the damn truck on the road!” I shout.

She laughs, lazily flips me the bird, and hits the gas. I swallow my laughter as she pulls ahead of me, swerving into my lane to cut me off. I relax against the plush seat, staring at the taillights of the truck and trying to think about something other than why I want to fuck her senseless. And how—because I have a damn good imagination and—

A plume of dirt kicks up suddenly to the east. Too suddenly. I smack the horn. Three quick beats. She hits the brakes so fast I swerve, the ZTNK swaying alarmingly as I dodge the suddenly still Ford.

She’s out and moving before I’ve stopped the ZTNK, exploding into the back of the RV with worry clear in her green eyes.

“Kill the truck,” I order quickly. “Then take the roof of the ZTNK.”

She nods, and I jerk on the trap door to the roof, letting the collapsible stairs fall down. There are three mounted gun turrets up here, and a weapons locker. I flip it open and grin at the sight of the grenades. The dust is getting thicker, moving closer, and across the empty plain, I can hear the sound of engines, the buzz like an annoying insect.

Nurrin is leaning into the engine of the truck, her ass in the air, and I whistle sharply. She shouts a curse then pops up, holding a greasy handful of spark plugs.

My truck isn’t going anywhere.

“Nurrin, move your ass,” I shout, and she turns back, lurching to the truck and almost climbing inside. I glance again at the cloud, and I can pick them out, a group of motorcycles darting across the plain, a few open backed Jeeps.

Fuck.

“Nurrin,” I snarl again, and she’s in, the RV door locking behind her. It’s a steel reinforced door, made to be resistant for up to twelve hours of siege. There’s no way they’re coming in that way. I hear the clatter of her feet, and then she’s at my side, stepping past me to grab a few grenades and tucking them into her pocket.

“Will they leave us alone?” she asks, checking her knives. I feed a string of bullets into the machine gun and click the safety off. Shrug.

The buzz has become a roar, and I step away from my gun and into Nurrin’s space. She goes stiff as I put an arm around her, tugging her against me, my lips at her ear. “Sit down on the roof. Try to look non-threatening. Follow my lead, do you understand?”

“You are so fucking bossy,” she grumbles, her breath against my neck punctuating the words. My grip tightens on her, and I shake her a little. She knocks my hands away, glaring. “I understand. I’ll be your little windup toy, but I’ll be honest, O’Malley. This shit is getting hella old.”

I dismiss her complaint, turning the gun lazily to the south, and watch the motorcycles rumbling closer. Dust billows up around the RV and us as they prowl around the truck and race circles around the ZTNK.

Marauders. I watch them, looking for some clue to what kind they are—the type to be tossed out of a Haven for a criminal offense or the kind who just hates government control.

Some people are stubborn enough that they’ll face the infects before they face the government controlling their life and world, even with the limited government we have now. It’s not exactly sane, but it’s their choice. And there is something vaguely tempting about it— the lure of freedom.

These though—they’re not people looking for a bit of freedom. These are people who live on the edge of society because they can’t abide by society’s laws.

Before, people who broke laws were put in prison to keep them away from society and to carry out their punishment. But when we turned prisons into havens, we had to rethink the justice system.

It was pretty simple. Follow the rules, or be put in the Wide Open to take your chances with zombies.

It didn’t get rid of crime entirely— nothing could do that—but it helped.

But the people who lived in the Wide Open, in traveling gangs, they were vicious, with no moral qualms and a survival streak a mile wide. I let a smile stretch my lips. Because we have something in common.

The leader is a scrawny man with thin hair, sharp eyes, and enough weapons that I’m left wondering if he has a bit of an inferiority complex.

He grins up at us, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he watches Nurrin’s swinging legs.

She looks bored and utterly unconcerned.

That’s my girl.

I blank my face, and he laughs. “Nice tanks y’all got. Where you headed?”

“Haven 23,” I say idly. “You?”

A laugh rumbles through the group. “We tend to drift, friend.”

“Dangerous habit for these days,” I observe.

“Necessity. Not everyone fits neatly into your havens. What happened to your truck?”

“Engine trouble. We’ll get it fixed—no need to stop for us.”

“Well. About that. You look like good people—well connected, and headed for a nice life in 23. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my people. So we’re going to even the odds a little.” He grins. Like that kind of logic works. It didn’t work before the zombies, and it sure as fuck doesn’t work now.

Nurrin tenses, and I step close to her, pressing my legs into her back. She relaxes a little, and I look back at the scrawny leader.

“We can’t help you,” I say simply.

“That wasn’t a request, pretty boy. Give us your ammo and food. We’ll take the ZTNK. You get to keep your life and the truck.”

Nurrin laughs, and the man’s eyes dart to her, furious suddenly. I’m tempted to smack her for drawing their attention.

“I don’t like their offer,” she says, leaning back on her hands. She grins up at me, and I smirk. Cocky little girl.

“The other offer is you put up a fight— and we take it all, including you, blondie. After we kill your boy.”

I throw the star without even thinking, without considering that it’s a bad idea. It’s instinctual, a quick flick of my wrist, and the flash of metal, the heavy thunk as it embeds in the tire of Rat-man’s bike. Nurrin whistles, and I catch her by the arm, tugging her back. She scrambles to her feet, a solid presence behind me as I stare at the leader.

He’s furious, and I consider that it was probably a bad idea to bait him like that. Too late.

“Last chance. Leave us alone,” I say evenly.

“You have two guns and a few knives,” Rat man snaps. “I have a gang of twenty experienced fighters. Do you really think you’ll win this?”

I smile, a lazy twitch of my lips. “Only one way to find out.”

Rat man sighs. “Take the damn RV. Don’t damage it—and leave the girl untouched. I want her.”

Fury flares in me. I shift Nurrin behind me, hear her soft huff of displeasure. “The girl is mine,” I snap, and she makes a choked noise. Rat-man pauses. Stares at me. Around him, his people are uncoiling chains and grappling hooks. “You try to scale this wall, I’ll throw you down. I promise I can outlast you.”

“Not if I shoot you first,” he says, pulling a gun. I laugh. I’m goading him—and I know I am. I bare my teeth in a parody of a smile.

“Fight me—even and fair. Winner takes the ZTNK. The girl goes free regardless.”

Rat-man’s expression twists to disbelief. “Why?”

I glance at Ren. She smirks and holds up a grenade. “Because I’ll blow this fucking RV before I let you touch me.”

His eyes narrow, and then he laughs.

“Why not?”

I glance at her. “If anything happens, get the fuck out of here. Do you understand?”

She shakes her head slightly, and I growl, choking the noise off a second too late. “I need to know you’ll get safe, Nurrin. Don’t let that animal touch you.”

Worry wars with anger, and she steps into me, hissing, “If you get yourself killed and leave me alone in the wide open, I will find your zombie ass and chain you in my basement until you rot. Do you understand?”

I let it all out, let everything I’m feeling into my eyes, for just a moment, and her eyes widen. She takes a breath, and I jerk her close, kissing her.

Because if I die, I’ll do it with the taste of her on my lips.

For a split second, she’s startled, unmoving. And then her hand comes up, fisting in my hair, her lips parting on a groan. I dip into her mouth, controlling the kiss, angling her the way I want.

She yanks on my hair, hard, biting my lip with just enough force that I hiss, and draw back.

Nurrin grins. “Go slay the dragons, O’Malley,” she drawls. She turns away, all cool nonchalance, but I see the press of her nipples and the flush crawling up the skin of her neck.

Chapter 8.

Fight It Out

People like talking. They like sitting down and hashing out whatever fucked up problem they’ve invented, talking about it until the issue is so muddled they can’t remember what the fuck they sat down about in the first place.

I don’t talk. And from the feral gleam in Rat-man’s eyes, I know he doesn’t either. I swing down the stairs and key open the steel door, triggering it to swing shut and lock behind me. I’ll be out here alone—she won’t rescue me if shit goes bad.

If she does, I’ll kick her pretty little ass.

I grin, and then I step out, out onto the sand.

The gang is arrayed around us in a loose circle, and I give them a lazy grin. “You people gonna let him fight?”

One spits on the ground. “Why should we? Kill you now would be easiest.”

A shot rings out, the ground exploding inches in front of the man’s foot. He curses, stumbling back a few steps.

“Because if you interfere, she’ll put a bullet in your head. She doesn’t miss.”

It’s the only warning I’m going to give. I launch myself at Rat-man, who gives a low shout, jerking backward.

He’s off balance and retreating. Already. This might be easier than I thought. I dart in, and he comes up swinging a knife. His gang cheers, a noise that recedes as the blade scores across my arm, a shallow cut.

It doesn’t do anything but piss me off.

I glance down at the cut then lunge, tackling him. He punches at me, and I bat the blow aside, grabbing his knife hand a split second before he drives toward my ribs. I twist, hard, and Rat-man’s eyes widen in pain. The knife clatters free on the road. I should let go now—but I don’t. I keep twisting, until I feel the bones bending, and then a little farther.

His scream breaks the silence, and I smile, a cold smile. Grab a handful of his dirty hair and slam his head into the asphalt. Again. Again.

“Enough,” a sharp voice shouts, and I blink. Blood is pooling under his head. I glance up at Nurrin—she’s standing, a worried look on her face, her gun propped on one hip.

I give her a slow smirk and stand.

“You bastard,” one of the men hisses, lunging at me. I pull my gun, shooting him point blank. Nurrin curses above me, and I step into their leader.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I say softly.

“Or I’ll kill him. Do you understand?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” one shouts, staring at their dead comrade. “You fucking killed him!”

I smile, a savage expression. “You stop me, threaten my life, my woman, and you have the fucking balls to stand here like I did something wrong? You’re lucky I’m letting any of you leave.”

“O’Malley,” she yells, her voice urgent. I hear the scream a second later, faint but unmistakable.

Enough of this bullshit. “Take your trash and get away from us,” I snarl. I turn and snap my fingers. Nurrin tosses the bag of spark plugs, and I snatch them from the air. She meets my eyes, briefly, and I see the worry, the concern before she shuts it down. The screams come again, and I turn to the truck.

Footsteps are my only warning, then the report of the gun. I glance back, and see another gang member on the ground, writhing.

“That wasn’t a kill shot, little girl.”

“No need to be excessive,” she calls back. I laugh.

For some reason, that does the trick—the remaining gang members scramble for their bikes. I shove the spark plugs into place and slide into the truck.

Rat-man has been deserted. He’s squirming on the ground, his eyes wide as he searches for his gang. I feel a flash of pity, but it’s outweighed by the knowledge that he’ll buy us time.

Another gunshot rings out, and I look over. Nurrin is leaning out the passenger side window, her gun pointed. Rat - man slumps, a neat bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Idiot girl.

“Let’s go, Nurrin!”

She rolls her eyes, slides into the driver’s seat of the ZTNK. And we leave them all behind.

Part 2. The Lie of Hope

*

In reality, hope is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs man’s torment.

-Friedrick Nietzche

**

“Hope is the reason we’re alive. Because humanity was too fucking stupid to let it go.”

Finn O’Malley

Chapter 9.

Aimless Direction

The RV rattles around me, and it’s not enough to kill out the fears dancing in my head.

Captured. Dead. Turned.

The litany repeats on a loop. I can’t close my eyes without seeing Collin, broken and bleeding, one of the corpses in the bloody streets in front of the Stronghold. I’ve pictured him dead a thousand ways, dead and worse— infected.

In the Clean house, Finn thought I’d slept. I’d stared into the darkness until my eyes ached, until I thought I’d scream from the sitting still— there were so many things we could be doing, and waiting for daylight seemed like the most wasteful.

Every minute we spent not finding Collin was like a small slice of glass on my skin. Every breath aches, carrying the weight of guilt and the knowledge that we might never find him.

I’m following Finn because I have no direction of my own. Because sitting still would do nothing, and I would go slowly insane if I didn’t do something, but on my own I would just curl into myself and pray the demons away. I’m following Finn on the fool’s hope that he knows what he’s doing, that my brother is alive and waiting for us in 9.

I don’t believe it. Not really. But it’s all I have to hold on to at the moment, so I clutch it like a lifeline, the only thing that is pulling me along on this aimless search.

Chapter 10.

Preparatory Males

I can see the Walls, bleached white and brilliant in the sun. I squint—from this far away, I can see tiny shapes moving along the Wall, the walkers doing their due diligence. From here, I can't pick out features.

Behind me, Finn is still moving. Getting ready.

Apparently, that means changing into clean clothes and washing his face.

"We're wasting time," I grumble.

"Getting tossed in Q will waste more. So do what I said."

I grit my teeth. I hate that he's right. That we're waiting instead of rushing in, that rushing in won't save anything or anyone.

I want Collin. Being separated from him hums along my skin in an unnatural buzz— something I neither like nor am used to.

"Nurrin," Finn snaps, and I stand, spilling from my seat to push past him. I glare at the outfit he’s laid out for me. It’s better—barely— than the dresses he’s put me in before, but it’s still not what I’d like to wear.

Silk skirts and corsets, skinny jeans and shirts that leave me half exposed—none of it makes sense to me. I have always been most comfortable in zom gear and Collin’s workout leathers. That isn’t an option now. I have a part to play, and Finn is adamant that I play it well.

I dress quickly and pull my hair up into a tight pony tail and dab on some makeup.

When I step out of the bathroom, I go still, staring at him. He’s hunched over a map, something very weary and broken about the way he stands there. It makes my heart twist a little.

Which is insane.

Finn doesn’t get tenderness—he wouldn’t want it even if I were inclined to give it to him.

He’s a heartless bastard.

And I hate him.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that. Like now, when he’s shadowed by fatigue and worry, when the lines of his tattoos are stark against his tense skin. It’s hard to remember how much I loathed him in Hellspawn. Why I did.

“You did well, in the fight,” I say abruptly. His gaze flicks up to mine, surprise in his eyes for a heartbeat before it’s chased away by disdain.

“I don’t need your sympathy or your pity, Nurrin.”

“You don’t need to be an ass,” I answer crisply. He smirks, a tiny twitch of the lips. “Do you think he’s there?” I nod at 9.

He shrugs, looking out over the Wide Open to where it waits. “Maybe. We’ll start in the morgue, see if they have Containment. Rule that out as quickly as possible.”

I nod, my chest tightening. “Will the Aldermen help us?” You. That is the subtext of my question, and he grins over at me, reading it clearly. It’s mocking, and I bristle, wanting to smack the look off his face.

I wish I had fought, earlier. Maybe it would have helped this unbearable tension.

“Always with the fucking questions.”

I shrug, and he slides into the driver seat. I notice that he ignores my question completely as he puts the ZTNK into gear, and we lurch down the road toward whatever 9 holds for us.

Chapter 11.

Old Habits

The Walkers look the same. The Walls look the same. Even the stupid weapons and the stupid gates look the same.

But this time, flashing a cool smile and a name doesn’t earn Finn any special privileges. This time, the Walkers eye us with cautious distrust. Even when Finn clears the ZTNK and we pass our blood tests—and that will never get old, will it?—there is something cautious about them.

“What’s your business in 9?” one asks. He’s decorated—clearly their leader. I hide my smile at the way he stands there, his hands resting lightly on the hilt of his knives, his posture loose and unconcerned.

Two harmless Haven travelers, divested of their weapons, their blood tests clean.

That’s what he sees—all he sees. Finn dressed us well for this part, with his toopolished clothes and insistence that I dress up. We’ve made an impression, all right.

They’re idiots, comfortable because they think we’re no threat. That, more than anything, convinces me that they have no idea who Finn is.

No one could know Finn O’Malley and think he’s anything less than a threat. He stands next to me, a relaxed stance. “Just a vacation with my fiancée. She’s never been far from our haven.”

“Why 9? Why now?” the leader asks.

“Her father had some business here, so we thought we’d deliver it for him. And my leave came now.”

His gaze sharpens on us, and I shake my head. Finn slipped that in on purpose. “Leave. Are you a Walker?”

“Of Haven 29,” Finn lies easily.

29 is to the east, along what used to be the Canadian border. It’s far enough away that they won’t bother to check our story. Finn would have an easy story ready. I wonder, idly, if anything ever catches him unaware.

There’s a brief discussion about our paperwork, which somehow got lost, and Finn loses his temper. It’s amazing how quickly and well he can act.

“You have a hostel, don’t you?” he finally demands.

The Walkers look disconcerted, and one says, “There’s an empty room in the barracks, if you’d like to stay there.”

Finn flicks a glance at me, and I make a face. A wealthy girl on her vacation wouldn’t want to stay with soldiers in a smelly barrack. She’d be furious, and I know that’s the part I have to play.

“I don’t care where we go,” I whine. “I just want to go to bed.”

There’s a beat of silence followed by a badly muffled laugh. My face flushes.

Finn’s eyes seem to laugh at me before he shuts the emotion down and turns back to the Walkers. “We’ll take it. Thank you.”

“What of your transport?” the captain asks lazily. “Leaving a ZTNK like that is asking for it to be stolen.”

For the first time, some of the idle disinterest slips from Finn, and I can see—they can see—the barely controlled violence simmering under the surface. “They are welcome to try,” he says softly, expressionless.

The walkers go still, staring at him, as if they aren’t really sure what to do. As if they suddenly realize the lamb is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and they let that into their Haven. A few exchange wild looks, and then Finn snaps his fingers at me and I snarl softly. His gaze darts to me. Without too much complaint, I go to his side, and we follow the Walker silently to the empty barrack that will be our home for the duration.

Chapter 12.

Tiny Bed. Big Adjustments

The first thing I notice as we step into the room is that the bed is miniscule and narrow. An unfortunate looking mattress on a bare wire frame. A thing meant for utility and not comfort, and sure as hell not for sharing. I look away almost as quickly, my gaze colliding with Finn’s. His gray eyes are roiling with emotion, but when mine meet them, he goes utterly blank.

Useful skill, that.

I’m anxious after the Walker abandons us, pacing the narrow room and avoiding thinking about what we’ll do when night falls and exhaustion makes sleep unavoidable.

Then guilt slams into me. I’m worried about sleeping arrangements, while Collin is god knows where, enduring god knows what? How fucking petty can I get? I pause in my pacing, twisting to level a glare at Finn.

He meets it with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“This is your fucking fault!” I snap.

“Do explain,” he drawls, his accent thickening a little—a sure sign he’s not as even tempered as he appears.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell them your name? Smooth things along a little?”

“Can’t.”

I snort, “Your name has opened doors from 8 to the fucking Stronghold. Why is it different here?”

He gives me a flat stare, and I laugh, a little hysterical. “Oh, forgive me. You won’t answer a question like that. How silly of me to forget.”

“Don’t do that,” he says, annoyed.

“What?”

“That sarcastic bitchiness. It’s annoying as fuck.” I gape at him. “And you’re better than that.”

I can’t help the bitter laugh that wells in me, the one that sounds a little hysterical and on the very edge of shattering. I cut if off as Finn looks at me.

“It doesn’t matter what happened in the other Havens, Nurrin. Here, my name will open no doors—I don’t know anyone here. We’ll get through this the way anyone would—by bribing our way and fighting like hell. Which we’re very good at.”

“We don’t have time, for that,” I snap shrilly.

“We also don’t have a choice,” he shoots back, his voice as bracing as a slap. “I don’t have the time to coddle you. You have to get your shit together, or Collin is as good as dead.”

The words are harsh and violent. They sting tears to my eyes, but they also jerk me up short. I shudder, knowing that he’s right. I don’t have the indulgence of wallowing and worry— not if there is even the slightest chance in hell of finding Collin alive. I take a deep breath, nod sharply to myself, and stare at him. Finn is watching me, his gray eyes caustic and demanding.

Exactly what I need him to be.

“What are we going to do?”

Something sparks in his eyes briefly— close to approval—before it’s gone. “We’ll listen to gossip, first. If that doesn’t yield anything— check Q and Containment. Appeal to the Warden holders. If Collin and Dustin were here, they’ll know, and they’re accessible, even to us. See if we can get into the morgue.”

I flinch, and he adds, “It’s better to eliminate that possibility than to have it dangling over us the entire time we’re in the Haven.”

“And for now?”

“We’ll rest. Get some sleep without the stress of the Wide Open and start fresh in the morning. I’ll see if I can get some info from the Walkers—they might talk to me if they feel camaraderie.”

I almost laugh at the idea of Finn O’Malley having camaraderie with anyone other than himself, or possibly Collin. But I have a feeling he can fake it, if he has to. There is very little that O’Malley can’t do, if he has to. “What will you do if Collin isn’t here?”

Finn’s eyes narrow a little. “You have yet to mention Dustin.”

I stare at him, working through the words, trying to process them. Then I flush. “I want to get them both back. Obviously.”

“It’s not obvious,” he says softly. “You want Collin back—from how often you’ve brought up Dustin, I wonder if you even remember he’s what started this.”

I flounder for something to say, but come up with nothing. Finn doesn’t push further than that, just turns to the little bed where our bags are and rummages through them until he comes up with a few knives and two guns. The backup to replace the weapons the Walkers confiscated. “I want mine back,” I say when he extends one to me. He nods, as close to a promise as I’ll get, and I take the standard Glock, tucking it into the empty holster on my hip.

Chapter 13.

Twisted Priorities

I can’t get Finn’s subtle accusation out of my head. It wasn’t an overt thing—Finn O’Malley doesn’t need that. But it’s a niggling presence in the back of my mind.

And it was there because it was the truth. I had forgotten Dustin.

Before Emilie Milan and the zombies and the horror show that life became—before I was born—people had different priorities. Life wasn’t easily mapped out. Family was defined by more than blood. People fought with family and walked away from them completely, finding friends who would take their place. And it was common place, a normal occurrence.

Now, blood is all that matters—the blood that is shared, and the blood that is spilled.

Maybe that’s why Dustin hasn’t been my first concern, or even my second. Looking back now, I struggle to find the feelings I had for him. There is the warmth of something familiar and comfortable, a friend that’s been a long standing fixture. But Dustin, for all that he’s been in my life for almost ten years, isn’t someone I’ve ever bled with or for. We had a safe life, a good life, in Hellspawn.

I haven’t worried about him, because I’ve never needed to. Because he isn’t my whole family and closest friend. He’s Dustin. The goofy boy from downstairs who laughed and teased, who grew into a surrogate protector, and someone whose kisses could melt me like butter.

He was comfortable and steady, and I could easily have been happy with him, if the Haven hadn’t fallen.

But it did.

And with the uncertainty I am now swimming in, there is no room for comfort— there is only the driving need to find Collin. It’s a need that cramps in my belly and makes my mouth dry, my hands shake. It’s a fear that that makes Finn at my side not only tolerable, but welcome.

Finn would move heaven and earth and face a horde alone to find Collin. Which means he is the only person I want helping me.

Chapter 14.

Drifters

It’s funny that I became accustomed to Finn’s strange kind of influence so quickly. It was so effortless there in 18, it was easy to take it for granted. As natural as breathing, it was something that made doors open and annoyed me, but made things too easy, until it was gone.

There are no Aldermen scraping to meet us. There are no house calls from mysterious doctors in the middle of the night, no empty, dusty homes standing waiting for his return. There is no whispers of vice clubs and Undergrounds. We are met with closed doors and a few Walkers bored enough to entertain our questions.

By noon, I’m furious and more than a little scared. We know nothing more than we did yesterday.

“Calm down,” Finn says under his breath, steering me down a market street. The Haven natives watch us with thinly veiled curiosity. “Too long,” I mutter, and his grip on my arm tightens a little. Not enough that I wince— just enough to get my attention and jerk me back to the necessity of keeping my calm.

“Talk to the women. I’ll see if the men will tell me anything.”

I shoot him a quick look—Finn isn’t usually comfortable with a divide and conquer strategy. Tiny lines of stress bracket his eyes and lips. I nod.

The women are standoffish. They eye me warily as I separate from Finn, and I watch as they appraise us. Appraise him. There are more than a few admiring stares as we collectively watch his leather clad backside retreat.

Even I have to admit it's a helluva nice ass.

"Is he attached?" A girl to my left asks. She's pretty, just shy of the unhealthy side of thin, with short cropped black hair and the outline of a gun at her left hip. She's got enough innocence mixed with don't fuck with me to make her interesting.

Finn would like her. As much as he likes anyone.

I want to claw her eyes out. Instead, I shrug lightly. "I think he needs information."

A few women turn to look at me, their gazes harsher than they had been on Finn. Of course. Women are our own worst critics.

"What kind of information?"

I hesitate—Finn built our cover story, and I should probably stick to it. But I know what hook to dangle to get these women to help me. I nod at Finn. "My brother is his partner. He disappeared about a week ago—left behind a code that pointed us here. He was with my boyfriend. We're trying to find them."

The girl frowns a little. "We don't get a lot of visitors to the Haven."

"Then these two would make an impression," I say with a thin smile. I'm struggling to hold my temper when what I want to do is smack her and demand answers. Not that she would even have them.

"I don't know much. My brother is a Walker and said two refugees arrived three days ago. They were sent to Containment. You might want to try there."

I give her what might be a friendly smile and turn away. "O'Malley," I yell. His head lifts from where he's been talking to a Walker. His eyebrow goes up, and I nod. He doesn't say anything to the Walker, just stalks to me and matches my step as we leave the market behind.

Chapter 15.

Containment

When the zombies took over the Wide Open, Havens were thrown up across the country as fast as they could be fortified. There was no rhyme or reason to it—they were numbered as they went into operation, scattered across the Midwest and past the mountains. There were even a few built in Canada.

Mexico was a black hole of death and infection—no one, not even the Mexicans, fought for it. They retreated to our cities, and when the plague found them there, they fell back into our Havens.

The first time a refugee convoy dumped evac citizens, it was at Haven 3, on a deserted plain in Kansas. It was the perfect place for a Haven, surrounded by farm land, self-sufficient, with enough excess crops to send to neighboring Havens.

It would have been a good place. In a time when there were no good places.

Except that in the chaos of the evac dump, a contact infection slipped in. Those days, there were no blood tests. There was nothing but the knowledge that the infects were in the Wide Open and the walls needed to be secure.

They escorted everyone inside and settled them into their new homes, and for the first time in months, everyone let out the breath they had been holding. Here, they were safe.

Here, they would live.

Three weeks later, a second convoy arrived with an evac dump. The Haven walls were unmanned, and black smoke rose behind the walls. The stench of death filled the air for miles. The contact infection that was carried in by that poor evac victim had gone live, infecting her. She, in turn, had infected the Haven.

Despite the perfection of the location, 3 was abandoned.

Blood tests were developed. Quarantine for anyone showing all three signs or exposed to a live infection. Containment for people who weren’t infected, but were potentially a risk to the Haven, although some Havens skipped it in favor of Quarantine.

People bitch, quietly. It takes little provocation and absolutely no proof or justification to end up in Q or Containment, and spending three weeks in either is no one’s idea of a picnic.

But it is a necessary evil, a part of the world we live in.

We approach the squat, square building, and Finn glances at me. “You can wait outside.”

I don’t even bother dignifying that with a response, just roll my eyes and keep walking toward the building. The stench of unwashed bodies and human waste slaps me in the face, making my eyes water, when I open the door. Finn makes a disgusted noise and props the door open. There are three Walker recruits sitting on either side of a triangular desk, so each was facing an open air, barred cells. They look bored, only mildly interested to see us standing in their doorway.

“Fucking amateurs,” Finn mutters, low enough that I hear it but they can’t. I agree with him, privately.

They aren't watching the Contained, and the shatter proof glass to Q is thick with grime and the viscous slog of infection.

This isn't a holding place to prove you are clean. This is a death sentence. My stomach lurches unpleasantly, and I falter in the doorway. I don't want to go in. Don't want to find my brother here. Something in me rebels at the mere possibility of it.

Finn has no such inhibitions. He strides in, ignoring the recruits completely as he walks to the first cage.

"Oi! You can't be here," one of the recruits says, his voice sharply disbelieving.

Finn doesn't bother to look at him, surveying the holding cells impatiently. Which means it's my job to make nice with the men with guns. I give the back of Finn's head a dirty look and fix a smile on my face as I stroll to the Walkers. The first one glares at me. "What the hell does he think he's doing?"

"We're looking for my brother. He came this way a few days ago, and we thought Containment would be a good place to start."

Amusement in their eyes. “If your brother is here, he’s as good as dead.”

Fear seizes my chest, and I can’t breathe.

“Containment isn’t a death sentence,” I choke out. The recruits relax—my fear makes me less of a threat, more someone they can victimize and control.

They have no fucking clue.

“In 9, that’s exactly what it is.”

I hear Finn’s low curse then the solid beat of his boots as he stalks away from the barred cells. His presence is heavy at my back, throwing waves of anger and violence. I shudder, and only a concentrated force of will keeps me from stepping away.

“I’ve been here now for almost twenty four hours,” he says, his voice low and even. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m pissed. Now, you aren’t responsible for the welcome we’ve received in 9—but you are here now, and you are responsible for Containment. Which is a fucking joke. So you get to answer my questions.”

“Go fuck yourself,” one of the Walkers snaps.

I shiver. It’s the wrong thing to say. I can feel it in the stillness of Finn, in the sudden spike of tension—a kind of waiting violence, just needing direction. I smile. “You idiot,” I breathe.

There is a flicker of confusion, and then a gun resting on my shoulder, pointing past my face, unwavering on the recruits. “I could. Or I could shoot you and go ask someone else questions. You can answer, or you can bleed. I don’t particularly care which.”

“I’m a Walker—shooting me is a federal offense.” Shooting a recruit probably won’t be as frowned upon as a full-fledged Walker, but the point is there.

“Yep.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before the click of the safety on Finn’s gun. The Walker’s eyes gets very big, and I sigh. “Just tell him. Have any refugees come to 9 in the past week?”

“Three,” the recruit grits out. There is murder in his eyes, and only a strong sense of self-preservation is making him talk.

I don’t frankly care—so long as he does.

“When?”

“Two days ago—three stumbled in. One hit the morgue a few hours later. I don’t know what happened to the others.”

“They left,” one of the other says. “Serg said they were headed to The Stronghold.”

Fear makes me move without thinking, twisting to give Finn a startled look.

And that’s when the recruits act. I feel a sharp jerk, and Finn’s eyes widen a half second before I’m jerked backward, out of his space and into the grip of the other men.

So stupid. So fucking stupid to forget for even a second that Finn wasn’t the only danger. I go limp in their grip, and the quiet one, the third I hadn’t been paying attention to because he hadn’t spoken—so fucking stupid—has moved, jerking me away from the safety of Finn’s orbit. I feel the metal of a knife pressed against my throat, and I go still.

“I don’t have time for this,” Finn mutters.

His gaze darts from the knife to me to the Walker behind me. Rage flares, darkening his gray eyes for a moment, and then he shifts, his gun dropping slightly. I have just a half second to brace myself before he shoots. The recruit to my left, the first one to challenge us, screams, almost hitting the ground. Bits of blood and bone spray me as the bullet flies out the back of his leg. I grimace, glancing at my tight white shirt.

This is why you don’t wear white. Ever. Someone is bound to get themselves shot, and you end up wearing it.

“You just signed her death sentence, man,” the recruit holding me says, fury rippling in his voice.

“That’s a flesh wound. Let her go, and I won’t kill him,” Finn says, almost bored.

I’m going to strangle him. When this is over and I don’t have a fucking machete held to my throat—I’ll strangle him. Antagonizing the people holding me by the throat...bastard.

“Do you have any veterans from the war?”

His grip on me loosens a little, curiosity piqued by the question. “Of course. Warden Ansliey. Every Haven has a few veterans. Why?”

“Get him down here. Tell him you have someone who would like talk to him.”

“Why?”

Anger spasms across his face, and I think maybe he isn’t as bored and blasé about this as he appears. “Tell him to come. Tell him one of the Thrasher’s squad has a few questions.”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and I feel the knife shift a little lower, then up, nicking into my skin. I hiss, and Finn tenses, impossibly. “Tell him that—if he refuses to see me, you can do whatever the hell you want to either of us. But you tell him that, and if he’ll see us, you let us go. And I won’t shoot all of you.”

The Walker hesitates—I can tell that he doesn’t want to. He wants this settled now, with blood, for making him look bad. The one who was shot wheezes slightly at my left. The knife slides higher, and Finn hisses, watching it. My skin feels raw. Something tickles along it, and I realize belatedly that it’s blood—he cut me.

“Don’t,” Finn murmurs. “Don’t make me kill you.”

The knife tightens again, and I gasp as pain flares hot at my neck. And then he relaxes and it drops down, bloody, at his side. I sag forward, and Finn catches me, his hands hard and impersonal as he pulls me away from the Walkers. This isn’t about me, or that I’m bleeding. He shoves me behind him, without actually looking at me, and the Walker smirks, watching.

I flush. Fuck. Can he make things any more obvious? He all but pissed on me to mark his territory. Which would be less fucking annoying if he weren’t Finn O’Malley.

He’s a necessary evil, someone to help me find Collin. He is something I can’t avoid. But in moments like this, I want to—I want to stab him with his own stupid sword and walk away from him forever.

How the hell did Collin ever put up with this asshat’s behavior for so long?

The Walker is talking into the Haven comm, a radio that links the various wardens and important places in a Haven, his tone grumpy. He hangs up abruptly and glares at us, like we’ve done something specifically to annoy him while we stood waiting in silence.

I suppose since Finn did shoot his friend, he might just be grumpy in general.

“Ansliey is on his way,” he announces, his lips tightening.

Finn doesn’t react, doesn’t do anything but lean farther away from them, into my space.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” the recruit demands of his superior, and the other man looks up. I see his name, now. Emerson. The one who almost slit my throat is named Emerson.

Why does that make my stomach twist, where his knife against my skin hadn’t?

Finn ignores the question, but pulls a rag from the bag holding his spare ammo and tosses it to me. I stare at him darkly then wipe the blood away, wincing when the wound pulls unpleasantly. My stomach dips uneasily, and I swallow hard.

I’m not sick. I can’t fucking afford to be sick right now. Not in a Haven like this, where Containment is a death sentence. This is nerves.

I shove the rag into a pocket and look up. Into his eyes, which are too steady and intense on mine. I suppress a shudder and look away.

Chapter 16.

The Thrasher’s Reach

Warden Ansliey is not what I expect. He’s wiry and in his mid-thirties, with a thick head of bushy hair, bright blue eyes, and no nonsense attitude. His gaze sweeps over the entire scene as he stands in the doorway of Containment, ticking off the relevant details. Then he dismisses us entirely, focusing on the three recruits.

“What the hell is this?” he snaps. They glance around uneasily. “Containment is a safe place to wait, you idiots. It is not supposed to be a live infection—this is a hazard to the whole damn Haven. Does your commander know this shit hole looks like this? You know what—don’t answer that. I’ll take care of your commander. You get some fucking repellant and get this place cleaned. I’ll be back with the Aldermen in two days—I’ve ignored this long enough. It’ll be clean, or you can take your chances in Q.”

The Walkers are staring, eyes slightly glassed. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Serves them right, the arrogant little shitheads.

“Sir,” Emerson starts, and Ansliey glares at him. Emerson pales and swallows hard. Goes quiet.

“You two,” the Warden snaps, “with me.”

“Sir!” Emerson interjects again, “he shot Halvers.”

Ansliey glances at the Walker still on the ground. His gaze flicks over me, lingering on my throat, and then he shrugs. “You attacked his Thrasher. What the hell did you expect?”

I don’t know what that means. From the confused looks on the Walker’s faces, they don’t either. But it does mean something.

“Come on,” Ansliey grunts, turning away from the Walkers without bothering to speak to them again. He doesn’t wait to see if we follow, just strides out to his Jeep, an open top thing with no defenses built in.

Either this man is a lot of talk who never wanders past the Walls, or he’s a crazy as he seems.

I’m betting on the latter.

Ansliey has the Jeep on, the roar of it drowning out all sound as we approach. Finn grips my wrist, gives it a sharp tug, and I look at him. There is worry in his eyes, and he leans into me, his lips feathering against my ear as he whispers, “No questions, Nurrin. I don’t know or trust him.”

I smirk. “You don’t trust anyone, O’Malley. That’s half your problem.”

Something flickers in his eyes, and he leans closer. “What’s the other half, little girl?”

“You’re too uptight. You need to get laid.”

His hands find my hips, his grip tight.

It’s not the same as the grip Emerson had—there is nothing about it that is hostile. But it is there, a solid grip that pulls me against his body, and I hiss as he rocks his hips into me, his cock nudging my ass. Then he lifts me up, setting me into the truck, and I look back at him, see the laughter in his eyes. I can feel him, his touch on every inch of my skin, and I hate that I like it. I hate that some stupid female part of me wants more of it.

I jerk away and settle into my seat. Ansliey is watching me in the rearview mirror, and my chin comes up, almost daring him to say something to me. His lips twitch and he shakes his head, but he keeps his comments to himself. Finn swings into the passenger seat, and Ansliey eyes him briefly. “You’re young to have fought for the Thrasher.”

“Which should tell you something, if you think about it,” Finn says evenly.

Ansliey grunts and shoves the Jeep into gear. I bite down on my questions—I won’t get answers, and if I push, Finn will shut me out completely. Better to pretend I don’t care and pick up what I can from listening.

The Warden drives through the Haven without talking, and I take it in quietly. The typical Haven is ten square miles—they started smaller than that, of course. Prisons and schools that were barricaded. But as time and necessity demanded, the Walls were pushed out to make way for factories, shops, schools, and farms. Until a whole world could be coalesced into one small square of land.

It feels familiar, while still being incredibly foreign. Like looking at home through a distorted lens. The orchards are replaced with crop fields, acres of wheat and corn and neat rows of soy and beans. A solitary track to the side, with an array of work-out machines in the center. Three Walkers jog around it.

The apartment complex is squat and grey, not the tall building I lived in.

This Haven is so similar to home, and yet so different. And it reminds me, painfully, that I don’t have a home anymore. That 8 belongs to the infects now. I’m alone and Havenless.

Tears sting my eyes, and I turn my face into the wind, hoping to hide them there. The very last thing I want is for Finn to catch me crying.

He doesn’t respect weakness.

The thought startles me. Because there was a time when I don’t care at all what Finn respected. Somehow, between Hellspawn falling and my brother going missing, that has changed, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

The Jeep lurches to a stop. We sit still and silent for a few heartbeats, staring at the little cabin. It’s nestled against the east Wall, with a small patch of grass converted into a personal garden.

There are no houses or businesses near it—the Warden apparently likes his privacy.

“Come on in. Your girl looks like she could use some time to clean up. We’ll talk.”

Finn nods, and I trail the two wary men into the house. It’s neat, almost fanatically so, with a sparseness that makes me worry about the man. There are no knickknacks, no personalization. It is as sterile and untouched as Finn’s home in 18.

This, I realize abruptly, isn’t a home. It’s a place to sleep and keep weapons. But the Warden isn’t comfortable here—he moves through the space with a kind of awkwardness that says it’s not a safe place.

And how terribly sad is that?

“Bathroom is through there, if you’d like to clean up,” he says, pointing. “Unless you’d rather she stay put.” Blue eyes flick to Finn briefly then back to me. He’s being too solicitous, too careful around me. I tense—does he know I’m a First? He can’t know that, not after ten minutes. I step closer to Finn, and Ansliey relaxes. “So she is your Thrasher.”

I go still.

“She’s under my protection. If you want to call her that, by all means, do. But she isn’t who you think.”

“What is one of the Thrasher’s men doing this far south? I heard you were all given appointments in 1 after that last battle in New York.”

“We were. I turned mine down. If you know anything about that battle, you’ll know none of us deserved a promotion.”

Something flickers across Ansliey’s face, and his voice tips toward apologetic. “No one knew what to believe about that offensive, sir.”

I can’t hold back my laughter at that, and both men glance at me. “You’re a Warden, and you’re calling him ‘sir?’ In what world does that make sense?”

Ansliey smiles. “In a world where he served under the Brown Thrasher. No one who fought for her deserves less than my honor and respect.”

I slide a glance at Finn. His hands are deep in his pockets, and a blank expression has settled over his face. “I thought you said your name wouldn’t open doors here,” I say, a little bitchy.

He shrugs slightly. “It didn’t.”

No. It didn’t—his past did. How much does that bother him? From the tight grip he’s got on himself and his emotions, more than I know.

“What can I do for you?” Ansliey says, picking up on the tension and changing the subject.

“First aid kit?”

Ansliey grabs it from the kitchen, and Finn tugs me to the table, pushing me down with my head tilted back as he inspects the wound on my neck. I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling as his fingers move with practiced precision over my wound. When he rubs it roughly with an alcohol swab, I hiss and look at him.

His face is blank as he works, but his eyes—his eyes are hot and furious. I shiver, and he meets my gaze, all of that emotion there for me to see.

And then it’s gone, shut carefully away as he finishes cleaning my neck. I keep my gaze averted, and when he tapes the last gauze on and steps away, I mutter a quick thanks and straighten, moving away from him.

His gaze follows me, seeming to mock me. I ignore him and focus on Ansliey, who is watching us with a bemused look.

“What can you tell us of recent Haven arrivals?” Finn says abruptly.

“Three arrived a few days back. In pretty bad shape—we’ve been seeing a lot of refugees recently, more than we have in the past decade. I don’t know where they came from—the Priest met with the Aldermen before they left again.”

Finn frowns. “They were with a Priest? Of the Order?”

Ansliey nods. “Arrived together. The Priest and a sick one, in a truck. The other was on a bike.”

My heart drops. Why the hell is Collin keeping company with a priest? What about that makes any sense at all? I open my mouth to say something, but Finn speaks quickly, cutting me off. “Did they go anywhere? Besides the Aldermen—did they meet with anyone, or indicate where they were headed?”

“The Stronghold. The Priest was pretty vocal about that being their destination.” He hesitates, and then, “Come on. I’ll take you where they were.”

Chapter 17.

The End of Hope

My head is swimming. Because it’s too hot in the south. Because I’m exhausted and can’t rest. Because my stomach still won’t settle and my throat itches and stings when sweat slides down and catches on the sliced skin.

Or, maybe, because of where we’re sitting.

The Jeep engine ticks quietly as it cools, but none of us have moved. None have spoken.

A lot of things change from one Haven to the next. They have to, to become distinctive and someplace people can call home. It’s necessity as much as desire.

Two things don’t change—the Walls— they are always tall and wide and white. And the Morgue. It is always next to the armory, patrolled by Walkers, and painted black.

I stare at the black building, panic building in my chest. A building of the dead, and they were here—why the hell were they here, what is Ansliey thinking, I can’t do this, can’t go in there, it’s dangerous…

“Nurrin,” Finn snaps, and I realize it’s not the first time he’s said my name. I shift in my seat. Take a deep breath. I can taste decay and death on my tongue, and it makes me want to gag. I shake my head and swallow hard. Shove the door open and almost fall out of the truck.

I can do this. I have to do this—whatever is inside, I have to face it.

Finn catches my arm as I start toward the morgue, staring down at me. I can see it in his eyes—I don’t have to do this. I could let him.

Except that I can’t. I have to be able to face this, or I’ll be paralyzed. I have to see what’s inside, even if it destroys me.

His lips thin and he lets go of me. For a second, I sway, but he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t help me get my feet under me. Just waits patiently as I do.

For some reason, he believes in me, and that means so much to me. More than Finn O’Malley should. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then step forward. Ansliey trails us up the wide steps, stepping forward to speak to the morgue attendant as we enter. I twitch impatiently, and then we’re moving again. I follow the morgue attendant down a long hallway, and then he opens the door. A stench of death slaps me, and at my side, Finn curses.

Ansliey mutters something, but I can’t hear him. I barely feel it as Finn presses a mask into my hand.

I can’t feel it, and I can’t see anything but the body lying on the table in front of me.

I don’t know him—he’s a stranger, younger than me. Maybe ten. Blond hair, feather fine, falls on the table in a long sheet. Blue eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. There is very little evidence of what killed him—faint bruising around his eyes and a redness to his mouth that suggests a contact infection.

And a neat hole in the center of his forehead, a gunshot directly to the brain.

My stomach twists, unexpectedly heaving, and I swallow, hard, struggling to keep the bile in my stomach.

Finn twitches at my side, and I shift past him, moving down the line of tables.

Haven 9 is small. They don’t have many dead at any one time. Going through the morgue is quick, and as I near the back—only three tables from the last—my breath eases. They aren’t here.

I look away from the end of the room, at the body on the table. And scream.

Chapter 18.

The Grief of Permanence and Promise of Hope

The thing about the apocalypse is that it made life fragile. Life always was, but for those who had lived before, death was not an everyday occurrence. It was a tragedy, something that was actively feared. It was people’s greatest fear.

And then, death became complicated, because it became less than permanent.

People survived because of hope. It wasn’t the weapons or the army, it wasn’t the walls of the Havens or the medicines pumped out by the drug companies working to fight their own creation. It was hope. That simple.

That insidious.

Hope that one day, death would be simple again. Hope that it would change. That the dead could be cured—that the world could be cured.

Everyone has a moment. That defining, life-altering moment when everything hinges on hope.

It can kill people, to see it dashed. I’ve seen it before, in the Haven, and after.

You never know how you will face the end of hope. Until you have no choice but to face it.

Chapter 19.

Found and Lost

I’ve lost people. You can’t survive in this world for twenty years without having lost people. But seeing him, lying there, a tiny round hole in his forehead—it’s different. Different from when Mom died, eight years ago.

Different from watching Hellspawn fall or the parade of deaths on Day Three every year.

I scream again, but this time, there is no strength behind it, or in me. My bones go limp, and I hit the ground. I close my eyes, willing it away, the vision.

Dustin looks nothing like the boy who woke in my bed the day Hellspawn fell. His skin is ravaged and gray with infection, his green eyes filmed with it. The muscles in his face have begun to sag. The neat hole in his forehead is rimmed with black, a sure sign the infection was moving too fast.

I take all of the details in, but nothing makes sense. Nothing is sinking in.

Dustin is here. Dustin is dead. Collin— “Collin,” I gasp and lurch forward.

Hard hands catch me, tug me up. I meet gray eyes and see the understanding there. And the demand. Tears well in my eyes, and I gasp, struggling to keep from falling apart. “Collin,” I whimper, my brother’s name a plea.

Finn ignores me and motions to Ansliey. “Take her to the Jeep,” he orders. The Warden doesn’t protest, just takes my arm gently and leads me out as Finn talks to the morgue attendant. I can almost taste the questions on the back of my tongue. Distantly, I want to go back and demand to be included.

“Who was he?” Ansliey asks, the question a gentle intrusion. I blink at the Warden, the one I never expected.

“Who is the Thrasher?”

His eyebrows go up. But he doesn’t hesitate to answer, maybe because he just watched me crumple. “Kelsey Buchman. The daughter of President Buchman—she led several key assaults in the Battle for the East.”

The world spins. My gut heaves, and everything that still made sense—which wasn’t much—disappears.

Who the fuck is he?

Chapter 20.

The Impossibility of Breaking

Ansliey doesn’t push as we wait for Finn. Maybe because after his little revelation, I retreat into silence, staring at the sky until sunspots dance in my eyes and my head spins. Maybe because just when he does gather the nerve to speak, Finn emerges from the morgue. I’m aware of him, but I don’t turn to look at him. I just stare at the sun, hoping that it will burn out the image of my dead lover.

“Can you take us to the barracks? I need to drop her off, and then I want to talk to the Aldermen,” Finn says.

“Don’t bother. I’m going with you,” I say, not moving.

“No.”

That does get a reaction. “Excuse me?”

“You need to go and get a hold of yourself,” he says dismissively.

Grief gives away to rage so quickly I can’t process it. I can only lean forward, into Finn’s face, and hiss, “He was mine. My lover. You have no right to say what I need now that he’s dead. Collin? He’s mine. My brother. Do you think for a minute he’s thinking about you, lost out there? Go fuck yourself, O’Malley.”

“He is,” Finn murmurs, a smirk turning his lips. It enrages me, and I jerk back, ready to smack him. He catches my hand before it can connect, uses it to jerk me forward. “He’s thinking about me, Nurrin,” he whispers, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips, “because he knows I will keep you alive. Remember that.”

Then he releases me, so abruptly I fall backward in my seat. I can see Ansliey watching us with wide, confused eyes, and I wonder what he thinks of this.

If he’s still under some delusion that I mean anything to Finn O’Malley.

I don’t. I am merely a promise he is fulfilling.

“To the Aldermen, then,” Finn says, soft and even. I ignore him and focus on the sky again as the Jeep rumbles to life.

We drive in cautious silence. Something about Finn’s insistence on seeing the Aldermen bothers me—I want to confront him about it, but

I can’t.

Not with Ansliey listening and Finn’s lips a thin angry line. Not with the knowledge of who Kelsey is.

When we stop, I don’t bother looking around. I can’t see past the sunspots. Even if I could, all I would see is Dustin. No need to look around for that. I drop out of the truck and tug my shirt into place. I can feel them watching me, and it makes my chin come up.

I refuse to let Finn fucking O’Malley see me break.

I stride to the steps of the Haven government building, taking the moment to shove the pain down, down deep where I can’t feel it for now.

Later. On the road. When Finn isn’t staring. When Collin is safe. Then I can shatter into the grief clawing at me. But for now—now I let it simmer and embrace the anger just beyond it.

Because anger is easier. So much easier than grief will ever be.

Chapter 21.

Heedless Warnings

The Aldermen are gathered around a large round table, arguing over a report that looks like it’s seen better days. When I enter through the open door, they don’t even notice. I hesitate there, a lifetime of respect for the people who run a Haven keeping me from interrupting.

Finn apparently has no such reservations. He slides past me, directly to the table. Refusing to be left behind, I move to flank him as Ansliey circles the table to stand near a curly haired woman. Her eyes narrow as they assess us. In any other circumstance, the lingering glance at Finn would bother me, but then her gaze darts to me. I don't know what she sees, but she pales.

"What can we do for you?" she asks. Whatever she's feeling, her voice is steady and strong.

Bonus points for her.

"We're just passing through, Alderman. But we wanted to warn you—the Havens are being attacked."

"We heard a little." She makes a face. "Or maybe it would be better to say we haven't heard. From several Havens. I take it you have some theories or information?"

"ERI-Milan has mutated. It's the only explanation. Without a scientist or lab, we can't really say much more than that, but the disease has changed, and because it has, the zombies have. The hordes are bigger, and they're working together—we haven't seen numbers like this since the change."

"But we're safe behind the Walls."

"No. I don't think we are. That's the problem—we've gotten comfortable behind the Walls, and now things are changing and we aren't. You need to be willing to change, or this Haven will fall, just like 8 and 18."

"We haven't heard 18 fell," the curly haired woman says sharply. "Who the hell are you?"

"Cora, this is Finn O'Malley. Walker in Haven 8 and a veteran of the East."

Her eyes narrow, and she snorts dismissively. "How old are you, O'Malley? What on earth do you think you know about something you can barely remember happening?"

Disgust sours my stomach. "He didn't have to come here. He didn't have to give you any warning—we're leaving, and he could have gone and let the whole damn Haven take its chances with the Horde. But we took the time, and we're here. And you'll dismiss it just because you think he's too young?" My voice is thick with disbelief and a little mocking—maybe because I'm not trying to keep it from seeping through. "That's not just shortsighted, it's stupid and reckless."

I turn to Finn. "You've given them the stupid warning. It's time to go."

Finn doesn't say anything as I turn on my heel and stalk out. Maybe he has something left to say to the idiots who run this Haven, but I'm done.

I'm leaving. Collin is out there, with a priest of all fucking things. And I'll do whatever it takes to get him back.

Chapter 22.

Impossibly Surreal

The room feels suffocating small. Even more so than it did last night, when all we had was a tiny bed to share—Finn ended up sprawling on the end, while I curled in the dirty corner, half sitting.

Now it feels half that size, and every move he makes, every brush of fabric over his skin, rubs at exposed nerves.

Maybe it's because my grief is welling up so big it will make even this tiny room smaller. Can a feeling eclipse space, shrink it to something that is insignificant and negligible?

Because right now, it feels like it can.

"The Aldermen were startled by how rude you are," he says. I swallow hard and jerk at the lacing of my corset top. Is that really what he wants to talk about?

"Because if I had been a polite little windup doll, you would have been the same?

You were about five seconds from shooting one of them."

Oh look at that. I can sound normal, even when grief is choking me.

"I have the right to be a bastard—I've lived long enough and killed enough that no one can say a damn thing."

"Is that what it is? Killing gives us rights?"

He goes still and silent, and I shake my head, jerking the corset off abruptly. The lacings sting against my skin, and then it’s gone and I can breathe. “I think death should earn me something. Watching my best friend dead on a morgue table--”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Something about his voice warns me to stop, that this is dangerous. But dangerous seems like a brilliant idea right now. I twist to face him. “I’m falling apart. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yes,” he snaps.

I stalk to him and shove at his chest, furious. “Then go. Leave me the fuck alone, O’Malley. Go find someone who knows who the hell you are and gives a shit—I don’t need you.”

“You’re better than this,” he snarls, shoving back.

“He was my lover, you bastard,” I scream.

His face spasms, and he shoves me into the wall. “He was a boy. A distraction. You deserve so much more than a paltry Haven boy.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I hiss.

Finn’s eyes flick down, and I realize, abruptly, that I’m in nothing but the skin tight pants and strapless bra.

“I know that you need someone as strong as you. Someone who won’t be under some fucking delusion that you need protection.”

“Dustin was strong,” I whisper.

Finn laughs, his hands on my hips tightening, almost bruising. “Dustin wasn’t what you need.”

“How do you know?”

A mocking smile. “You walked away. When you find that one thing you can’t live without—that person—losing them will destroy you. It won’t be something you walk away from. Dustin was a distraction—a plaything. Nothing more.”

I slap him, hard. And I don’t know if it’s because he has the gall to say that to me, or if it’s because I hate him for being right. A smile ticks up the corner of his lips, and then he’s kissing me.

And I don’t push him away. I gasp under his lips, and he growls, a low noise that hits me, low, his fingers digging into my hip as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. It twists with mine then retreats, and I whimper. He catches the noise, sucks lightly on my lip and my tongue, and I can’t—I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe and I don’t even care.

His lips rip away from mine, and I whimper, terrified he’ll step away. But he doesn’t. His big hands come up and jerk my bra cups down.

I have a half second to think—bad idea— and then his fingers are on me, plucking at my nipples, and I groan, arching into him. His lips skim down my neck, nibbling, and I go limp against the wall, braced by the knee between my legs, and his body holding me up, his hands pinning me there.

He pinches my nipple, and I shudder, almost coming off the damn wall. Wet heat wraps around it. I swallow a scream. Every nerve comes alive as Finn traces my nipple then sucks gently.

He thrusts his knees against me, and I move, rubbing against him as he works me over. With every brush of his teeth, every pull of his mouth on my nipple, twist of his fingers, and thrust of his leg, everything in me coils tighter, until I can barely see, all I can do is feel. His hand leaves my nipple, and I almost scream, teetering on the edge. His hand catches mine, jerks it between us, to cup his erection. I gasp as he rocks into my touch. I open my eyes and look at him.

I expect him to be closed off, his eyes vacant or closed. Anything but what I see.

Finn is staring at me, his gaze hot and demanding, taking in every twitch of pleasure as his fingers caress me and his body rocks against mine. I can see the hunger in his eyes, and then he twists, and his knee hits me again, just right. I can’t see anything as the orgasm hits me, hard. I shudder, pleasure sweeping over me in endless waves, and the world spins—it actually motherfucking spins.

When I can breath—when the tremors ease and I can move without twitching in remembered pleasure—I open my eyes to find myself on the bed. Finn has his back to me, his shoulders hunched as if expecting me to start screaming.

What just happened hits me, and I take a breath.

“Get dressed. We’ll leave in the morning,” he says.

I open my mouth, to ask where, to ask anything. And then I close it again, because there isn’t anything to say.

I crawl off the bed and grab a t-shirt off the top of my bag. Finn is very careful to keep his back to me as I strip out of my bra and pants, redressing quickly in the new t-shirt.

My panties are wet. It’s all I can think about as I curl in my corner of the bed. Finn flicks the light out, and the room is plunged into darkness and a new level of tension.

As I lie in the darkness and listen to Finn’s steady breathing, I can smell the scent of sex. On me, and him, and the air. I flush and twist to get comfortable.

What will this strange partnership be like now? What the hell came over him, that he would do that? Is it that he’s bored and I’m the only girl readily available? Finn hates me—I’m something he was saddled with, a burden he’s carrying because of a loyalty to my brother. So what was this?

I don’t have answers. As usual, with Finn, I only have a lot of unanswered questions.

And the unavoidable knowledge that no one—not Dustin—ever made me feel like that before.

Chapter 23.

The Familiar Road

“I could come.”

The words shift through the small room, and Finn pauses in the middle of shouldering his sword. Looks at Ansliey with curious and unsurprised eyes. “You are a Warden, sir. Leaving isn’t really an option, especially since we have no idea when we’ll be back this way.”

Disappointment shadows the Warden’s face, and I think I understand.

“They need you,” I say softly. Finn stiffens. “The Haven is in danger—if you aren’t here, it will fall. You’re a war vet—you can help prevent that.”

“Or I can go down with a dying Haven,” he says, his voice bitter.

“You are their best chance for survival. Would you take that from the entire Haven?”

He snorts. “The Haven is run by politicians with little time for a war vet who is more crazy than he is cautious. They won’t listen to me—and I’ll let the Haven fall before I give the infects a chance at me.”

Finn hesitates, and I look at him. He’s ignored me all morning, ignored the tension that spikes whenever we brush against each other in the small room.

“Have a plan. You won’t be able to save them all, but you might save a few and you’ll have a better chance at getting out alive if you have a plan. Don’t count on the gates—those will lock down as soon as the Horde gets close. Have another way out. Don’t go to the Hatch— those will be death traps.”

“Is that how you got out? When Hellspawn fell?”

Finn’s lips thin, but he nods reluctantly. “Yeah. It is.”

Ansliey frowns, clearly unhappy, but he nods.

And that quickly, we’re done. We’re ready to leave. Except...

“Dustin,” I say softly. Both men turn to look at me, and I see the tension in Finn’s face tighten, just a little. He doesn’t like me asking about Dustin. Not even this little bit.

Well, fuck Finn and what he likes.

Ansliey’s lips tip into a slight smile, and he pulls out a thin silver chain. A tiny vial swings from it, and tears cloud my eyes. I take a deep breath, determined to get through this meeting without breaking down like a little girl on her first day of school.

“I thought he seemed important to you. I can’t give you everything—Haven procedures when we have a mutating virus.”

I nod, and he hands me the thin chain. The little vial swirls and clouds with gray dust— not much at all, but so much more than I expected. “Thank you,” I whisper, hugging him suddenly.

Ansliey goes stiff and startled, and then he relaxes into my embrace, patting my shoulder softly. “I’ll see him buried, girl.”

I nod and pull back, wiping my eyes quickly. I loop the thin chain over my head and let the cold vial settle against my skin, the ash inside swirling and slowly coming to rest.

It’s a tiny memento, but it is more than I expected. It will be enough, because it has to be. I step away from the Warden, and Finn clears his throat. Tosses me my pack. And that fast, we’re done—ready to leave once again.

Chapter 24.

Destinations and Clues

We’re in the ZTNK, pulling the truck behind us. I’m not sure if that’s because Finn wants the versatility of an extra vehicle, or if he’s too stubborn to leave it behind in a Haven we will likely never return to.

I move around the back of the RV, getting our bags stowed and changing out of the corset and into a loose practice shirt. A bag of weapons gets tossed between the driver and passenger seat and I grab two bottles of water from the RV’s fridge before dropping into my seat and cross one leg under me, handing Finn a bottle of water silently before I flip open the book in my lap.

“What is that?”

It’s a thin book I found in the barracks last night, when I couldn’t sleep and slipped out.

I’m still a little surprised I was able to get past Finn without waking him. Or maybe it’s just that he didn’t care that I was leaving.

“Oral history of the Change.”

He glances at it, and I hold it up. The title is very self-explanatory, but I elaborate anyway. “People who were in the Battle for the East, and who survived that first few years—these are some of their stories.”

“Everyone has a story,” he says dismissively.

I pin him with a hard stare. “Everyone does, but not everyone wants to talk about it. Unless you’d like to talk to me about the Thrasher? Because I can put this down, if so.”

His gaze darts to mine, furious, and I smirk. “That’s what I thought, O’Malley.”

I turn back to my book. I don’t really want to talk to Finn any more than he wants to talk to me, and I definitely don’t want to remember the feel of his leg between mine, his mouth on me.

He opens his mouth, and for a moment, I think he’ll talk. That he’ll tell me one damn thing without me having to beg for it or fight it out on my own. Instead, he makes a face and focuses on the road. I stare at the page, the words blurring as my temper rises, and reach for the vial hanging between my breasts. I clench it, hard, and fight to even my temper. Flip to the next page and try to read these strangers’ horror stories.

Ironic, that I will know more about them than I will about the man I’ve been traveling with for two weeks.

“Why do you suppose he went to the Stronghold?”

“What?” Finn says, distracted as we weave down the potholed road. Clearly 9 has priorities, and maintaining the roads in and out of it aren’t high on the list. Maybe it’s their proximity to the border.

“Collin and that priest. Why would he go with a priest to Vegas?”

“He didn’t.”

I jerk hard in my seat, twisting to look at Finn.

“There was another message. With the morgue attendant. He’s not headed to the Stronghold—he’s going to 6.”

“Why there?”

“Why not?” Finn shrugs. “I don’t really know, Nurrin. I’m just following the breadcrumbs and hoping we get to him before they run out. But what it does tell us is that he’s alive—or he was three days ago.”

That’s true, a comforting truth. But maybe he isn’t anymore. Maybe Finn is feeding me that line of hope because I’m crumbling and he can see through my shell and tell.

Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for it. I nod a little, blinking back the tears that are stinging my eyes. “So. Not the Stronghold?”

“Not this time. As much as I’m sure Omar would love to see us.”

“What happened between you and Omar?” I ask, the question out before I can stop it.

Finn’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, enough that the plastic creaks alarmingly. “What is the only thing that matters?” he asks, softly.

I don’t have to question what he’s talking about. “You will keep me alive and keep Collin alive.”

Something flickers across his face, and then, “Omar betrayed me. He betrayed the mission. I can forgive a lot—but not that.”

There’s more to it—so much more, from the rage in his voice. But for once I’m not interested in pushing him.

“One day, you’ll trust me enough to tell me some of what happened to you,” I says softly. He looks at me, staring as we bump down the road, and I don’t look away. Finn finally smirks, a mocking twitch of his lips before he turns back to the road. I let out the breath I’m holding and lean my head back on the seat.

“One day, little girl, you will have earned it.”

Chapter 25.

Another New Place

The trip to 6 is surprisingly uneventful. With a bed to crash on and plenty of food, we don’t need to stop for much—once for gas at a fortified little station that sells us fresh, hot sandwiches, and then we’re on our way again. Moving is the safest way to be, in the Wide Open.

“What will we face in 6?” I ask.

Finn shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

“So we won’t be trusting your name to open doors?” I ask, flipping a page. I’m almost through with my little book, and feel like I’m no closer to knowing anything.

Certainly this book has nothing about the Thrasher and why she was so important in the East. The account I’m reading now is from a sailor on one of the last boats to make dock in New York before ERI-Milan mutated in Atlanta.

Finn ignores my question. Typical.

“Where are you from?” I ask abruptly. “Originally?”

Finn shoots me a startled look. “That is your burning question? Where I was born? What the hell does it matter? I’m here now. I’ve been here for over twenty years.”

“One question,” I grit. His eyebrows arch, and I shake my head. “I’m not pushing about Kelsey or Omar, or why the fuck every haven seems to know your name—all important things, by the way. I’m not demanding to know what’s so important about Collin that you will do all of this to find him. I’m asking where you were born.”

I stand and start to the back of the RV, unable to stomach him anymore. I pause. “You demand a lot of trust from me. A lot of tolerance for a ton of bullshit. You can’t expect me to trust you without reservation if you won’t give a little.”

It’s late that night—he let me sleep longer than I thought he would, maybe because I yelled at him. Although that’s not typical behavior for Finn.

The ZTNK rumbles to a stop, and he calls back to me. “We’re here.”

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling for a long minute, trying to shake the fog of sleep, and process that we’ve arrived. The air is drifting in from Finn’s open window, and it tastes wilder—bigger—than anything I’ve ever known. Distantly, I can hear a dull roar.

I roll from the bed and twist my shirt straight, then shamble up to the front and drop into the seat next to him.

He glances at me then back at the Haven. “We’re just ourselves here. If Ansliey got in touch with them, it’s too late to lie.”

“But you won’t be able help us by flaunting your name.”

“Not here. But that was true of 9 as well,” he reminds me. “And we still did fine.”

I don’t take the bait. Too much about Finn is pushing me too far. I need space from him, time to think. I need my brother, to remind me why I trust this enigmatic man.

Neither are options right now.

We roll up to the gate, and I stare at the wide white walls, reminding myself that Collin is why I’m doing this—any of it.

“Do you think he’s still here?” I murmur.

Finn sighs. “I really hope so. But if he’s not, we’ll keep going. You know that, right?” I bite my lip, and he reaches over.

His fingers are hot on my chin as he twists me to look at him, but gentle—softer than I expect from him. “We will keep going. Until we find him.”

I stare into his eyes for a long heartbeat, longer than is really comfortable, and even though I don’t have any reason to, I trust him.

Maybe Finn doesn’t answer questions, but he doesn’t lie either. It’s an annoying trade off, but I’ll take it.

The gate clatters open, and two Wall Walkers jog out, one assuming a defensive position while the other taps on Finn’s window.

He rolls it down and slips out our IDs.

The Walker frowns at them then glances up quickly, handing one card over his shoulder to his partner. The man glances at it and wordlessly retreats back to the gate.

“I thought you said you weren’t known here?” I murmur.

Finn is frowning, watching the two Walkers. He doesn’t respond to my comment. A few more Walkers clatter out of the gatehouse, slipping into the Wide Open, and neither of us misses the fact that they are heavily armed.

What the fuck is happening?

“You don’t know me. Understand? You found me on the roadside, and we traveled together for a few days, but you don’t have any past history with me and you have no idea who I am. Do you understand?” he says, voice low and urgent.

“No,” I whisper, because I don’t understand. And because I know one thing—

Finn is the best chance I have of finding Collin.

His gaze flashes to mine, and I tilt my chin up, a silent challenge. “This is not a good time to decide to trust me, Nurrin,” he growls, frustrated.

“I don’t,” I say. “But I need you.”

I glance out the window instead of watching his reaction. The Walkers have circled the front of the truck, and they’re all armed— with those guns pointed at us.

“Finn,” I say, staring.

He curses, low and vicious, and leans across the bag of guns between us to murmur. “Take the wheel. Try not to be combative—I have no idea what’s going on, but let’s try not to get shot today. Okay?”

Without thinking, I reach for his hand. His grip on my fingers is tight, strong—it steadies me. He pushes the door open and releases me, sliding out while I wiggle into the driver’s seat.

I can see the glances the Walkers are sliding toward me, but Finn is blocking me with his body. His tone is furious.

“Do you greet all visitors like this?”

“You’ll need to be tested,” the Walker says without answering his question. If he thinks that will put Finn off his stride, he knows nothing, no matter what he thinks.

Finn waits patiently as a medic scurries out, fixing him with a fierce glare before focusing on the needle stick. When she’s done, she flicks her eyes to me. I can feel Finn’s tension shoot up, even without him touching me, and I force an easy smile.

Clean tests are no one’s idea of a good time, but I am clean, so it’s nothing to be worried about. I extend my arm, and she jabs it, a little harder than necessary. I hiss a breath. Finn shifts. “Be careful.”

The medic snorts. “I don’t take orders from you, O’Malley. I never have.”

Finn jerks back, and I shoot him a confused look.

For the first time, he looks just as lost as I am. And I realize something.

I trust him. I don’t know what he hides or what will happen next. I don’t know from one minute to the next how we’ll get out of whatever mess we’ve found ourselves in. And I deal with that not knowing because I trust that he does. It’s flawed, imperfect, and frustrating. But it works for us, and I am comfortable there.

This—this not knowing, with both of us lost, isn’t a place I like to be. I didn’t realize until it was jeopardized just how much I trust Finn’s odd brand of handling things.

The medic straightens, handing me a swab of cotton to clean my arm. She gives me a look of loathing and stalks away. “She’s clean.

They both are. Strip him of his weapons.”

Finn jerks, the crossbow coming up and leveling at the medic. “You might rethink that, sweetheart.”

The medic laughs, a twisted noise. She hates him. I don’t know why, but I know, deep down in my gut, that it’s true. I twist to look at Finn, who still has her pinned with the crossbow.

He meets my gaze, and I can see what he wants—me to leave. Cut my losses and get the fuck out.

Idiot.

He’s going to hate this.

I toss my knives out the window and watch them embed at Finn’s feet. His gaze goes furious—so angry it makes me shiver. Even when I did something stupid and risked my life for his in 8, he has never looked at me with this much anger.

The medic smirks, turns to look at me, and says softly, “The rest.”

“This gun is special,” I tell her, ignoring Finn completely now. “You damage it at all, O’Malley will be the least of your concerns. Do you get me?”

“You aren’t in the position to make demands. Sanders.”

She nods abruptly, and the Walkers shift to point their guns at me. A gleeful smile twists her lips up, and I shake my head, leaning back to stare at her. “You aren’t smart, are you?”

Anger colors her cheeks, but she doesn’t lose her temper. Instead she cocks her head to the side and grins. “Take them. Both of them. I’ll gather the panel.”

She turns away without waiting to see if they will listen, trusting that her word will carry. Bitch. Finn steps into her space as she moves to skirt past him, and he murmurs, “If anything happens to her, I will bring down everything I have on you. Not this Haven. Not the Walkers— you. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Her gaze flicks to me, steely, then back to Finn. “I think the whole world knows what that means, O’Malley.” She shakes off his grip and stalks away. The Walkers close in around us, and I move closer to Finn. He glares over at me. I shrug lightly.

“Let’s go,” one of the Walkers barks, and just like that, we’re taken into custody.

Chapter 26.

The End at the Beginning

Some things were irreparably changed after the zombies rose. A lot of things, if we’re honest. Emilie is a name more known than some presidents, and—in some minds—as infamous as Hitler. The way of life, travel, education, our everyday sense of security—all of that vanished when Emilie died.

We didn’t even realize it was over, not then. Not when the president deployed a thousand soldiers against the mob in Atlanta.

And the worst part is, that wasn’t the end. That wasn’t the beginning. Both moments in time were occupied by the same thing: the moment that ERI was commissioned and accepted for use. The first time a brilliant mind—and it was; only a very brilliant mind could conceive of a way to suppress emotions and pass it off as a good thing—happened along the idea and went to the lab to execute it.

Synthrix did one thing that for years was lauded as a life saver. A life changer.

They were right. It changed everything. And scientist have been working ever since to undo that damage.

Chapter 27.

Detainment and Surprises

We’re put in Containment. 6 was a prison before it was converted to a Haven, and even though it’s been expanded to a sprawling Haven with miles of Walls, at its heart, it’s still a prison with a prison mentality.

They march us into a tiny cell, and when they try to separate us, Finn goes icy and still, a hairsbreadth from danger. I clear my throat. “You are detaining two citizens who have no infection. We’ve broken no laws. I think you’ve pushed as far as you can without us losing our patience completely—we stay together.”

They confer briefly, and the leader shrugs. “Caitlyn said nothing about separating them.”

Once we’re safely locked into the tiny cell, the Walkers fall back and watch us, talking softly amongst themselves.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand in a near whisper.

Finn flicks a glance at me. “Always with the fucking questions, Nurrin.”

Jokes. The idiot has jokes, now, of all times. I roll my eyes and turn away, dropping onto the single narrow cot. It’s creaky and hard as hell.

“I don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing. I wish you had listened to me and left.”

“To do what, exactly? I can’t find Collin without you.” I say the words without bitterness. A first. A smirk tugs at his lips, and his eyes are all mocking when he says, “Don’t get soft, Ren. Not now. Hold onto your anger.”

I flush. The door opens, and we watch as the Walkers file out, leaving us alone.

Finn sighs, a weary noise, and slides down the wall, propping his hands on his knees. I mirror his pose on the cot, and we fall into silence—one I feel no need to break—as we wait.

They keep us waiting until the sun has dropped in the sky and hunger is gnawing at my stomach. The Walkers never return, and Finn is quiet. I’m bored out of my fucking skull, and I can’t help the occasional glances I sneak his way. I can’t help but watch the way his lips go soft as he leans his head back and lets the tension ease out of him.

I can’t help but remember the feel of those lips. Goosebumps ripple along my skin, and I look away.

“I hated you, you know,” I say, absently.

Finn breathes a laugh, all ironic acknowledgment. “I do recall that, yes. It's very easy to hate something we don't understand, Nurrin. And you have never understood my relationship with Collin."

"Explain it to me," I say. Not a challenge this time, but an invitation. He looks at me, expression unreadable. I hold my breath, waiting.

And the door opens, before he has the chance to say anything. Three Gray-robed priests glide into the room. I feel everything in me clench—a lifetime of knowing the Order is my worst enemy and greatest threat. I curl into a smaller ball, trying to make myself invisible as they stare.

At Finn. All of them are ignoring me. I frown, slowly uncurling, my feet falling to the ground as I straighten. What the hell is going on?

“I’m not terribly surprised you’re here,” one of the Priests says, a smile tickling his lips.

“Ah. So this is where the Grays settled. I didn’t realize you made it to the ocean,” Finn says, and I flick a glance at him.

“Let them out. I don’t like discussing business through bars.” The Gray looks at me, his eyes an unnervingly clear blue. “I apologize, ma’am.”

He gives Finn a curious look. Finn has come to his feet, and he extends a hand, pulling me up. An arm wraps around my waist, and he tugs me into him. His lips brush my hair. “No names. Nothing to make them thing you are anything more than a traveling companion. Got it?”

I nod, and Finn straightens away from me. Smiles as the Blessed Order leads us from the room.

My mind is racing, and I grasp onto facts as I move alongside Finn. I have never seen a Gray Priest before. I know nothing about their sect within the Order. But the medic ordered our detainment, based on who we were rather than what we might be carrying into the haven.

And the Gray Priests are who she summoned. That alone tells me a lot, and it’s nothing I like.

Some havens are run by the Aldermen.

Some are run by the Walkers and are militant. A very few are under the sway of 1—but no one trusts the federal government after they bombed our own cities. The rest are given more to anarchy—to the people and their whims.

And the Order. The Order holds more Havens then I like to think of, but I have never heard of one so under their influence.

Places like this are the stuff of nightmares for people like me.

I've never been to one. Colin has done well all my life keeping me from safe the Order. Yet with Finn I’ve been close to them three times in only a few weeks. What on earth makes me continue to trust him?

They are divided into sects, even within their own religion. The Black Priests control their military arms. The Red control sacrifices and conversion. I know nothing about the Gray.

Except that they know Finn.

“Do you know what this is about?” I ask.

Finn’s lips thin. "No."

I want to tease him, if only to ease that worry line between his eyes. But now is hardly the time. Instead, I reach for his hand, squeezing it briefly. His eyebrows shoot up, and I smirk before I release him and we follow the Order in silence.

Chapter 28.

Science and Religion

The room we follow the Grays into is brightly lit. Glass vials are neatly stacked, microscopes and lab equipment wiped down to a pristine shine. A few more gray-robed priests are in a corner, talking over a small sterile dish of something thick and black. Four men in white coats are clustered around the remains of an infect, a bloody gash down her face.

It’s very clear, very quickly. The Gray Priests are scientists. Which is just fucking wonderful. Because fanaticism isn’t nearly enough—nope. It needs to be paired with just enough knowledge to make you truly deadly.

“Finn O’Malley. I’ll admit I didn’t expect to see you here. We’ve never made a secret of the fact that we aren’t fans of yours.”

“I’m not sure I should care,” he says, stepping away from me and closer to the lab equipment. There’s a tablet with a display lit up, and I’m surprised that no one attempts to remove it. Finn glances it over. Shakes his head. “This premise is flawed.”

The Grays still conversing over the specimen stop talking and come to where their brothers stand. The white-coat scientists bristle.

“Explain yourself.”

Finn tosses the tablet back down, and it clatters. “You are looking for a cure to ERI-Milan, strain 73. But that strain has already mutated. You’re working from a corpse—it’s not relevant anymore.”

“How the hell would you know?” the scientist snaps.

“Because he’s Finn O’Malley,” one of the Grays interjects smoothly. “I believe, Dr. Levine, even you are aware of whose son he is.”

“Just because he’s Sylvia Cragen’s son doesn’t mean he knows anything about the way her disease works.”

“No,” Finn says softly. “Time and experience taught me how it worked. And it was not a disease. It was a cure.”

The words are spinning around me, and some of the puzzle pieces of who he is fall into place.

Sylvia Cragen. Holy Jesus. This can’t be real—it can’t. I twist and stumble a few steps away, hitting my hip on a lab table. I can feel the

Grays and the scientists watching me, but mostly I can feel Finn very carefully not watching, and the weight of the information that is now out in the open.

I’ve had a lot of theories about who Finn is and why he’s important. Wild ones—a prince of Wales stuck here after the apocalypse began. And ones that made no sense—the illegitimate son of the president, protecting his sister.

But not this. I could never imagine this.

“Why are you here, O’Malley?” Levine asks.

“My partner came through here. With one of your Priests. I’d like to find them.”

One of the Grays frowns. “A Black priest came through two days ago. But he was alone and only stayed for a few hours.”

Finn’s face tightens. “Is that normal? For a Black to travel alone and that quickly? Aren’t they usually sent out in squadrons?”

The Grays shift and exchange looks. I laugh. “Yes. But they don’t want to admit it. And certainly not to you.”

Finn’s gaze flashes to me, furious and warning, but I ignore him. “Finish this up, O’Malley. I’ve had about as much hospitality as I can take from this Haven.”

I turn away. Behind me the Grays are muttering amongst themselves, and I know I did exactly what he didn’t want—I drew attention, and the very worst kind at that.

I don’t particularly care, even if I should.

“What do you know about Synthrix mutations?”

Finn hesitates. Of course he does. How many times has he told the Havens, and how many have ignored him? We’ve seen the changes in the Horde. The change is impossible to ignore—the infects are developing a pack mentality. They’ve always moved in groups, but they were drawn by hunger. They weren’t driven by each other.

But now? Now, it seems like they are. I think back to the Horde in the Clean house, the way they moved together, almost aware of each other.

We’ve been fighting a war for twenty years, a war we’re slowly losing. But something about it has changed—something about them.

And now the Order is offering to listen to Finn. How the hell do I expect him to resist? I glance back at him, find him staring at me. Expression completely inscrutable. Mine isn’t. Mine says so much. How angry I am, how betrayed. How much I don’t want to be here. That he is breaking his promise by staying when we should find Collin. I let him see it all, and see his face tighten. A little.

Then I turn away and walk out of the lab.

I lose track of time as I sit outside the lab. Medics come and go, leveling curious looks at me, but my mind is spinning and I ignore them, content to ride the emotions and confusion. Occasionally, I hear loud voices from the lab, but they aren’t clear enough for me to make sense of them.

It doesn’t matter. None of it does. The only thing that really matters right now is how I’m going to deal with this new knowledge.

Sylvia Cragen. What the ever-loving fuck?

Emilie Milan was the child who began the apocalypse, the little girl who was so terrifying as a child that her parents medicated her for a lifetime, calling it a success when she went on to live a happy life.

But there was a child before her. If Emilie was the beginning of the story, he was the prologue.

Everyone has heard whispers about the violent brother who spurred Sylvia to find a way to live. I wonder vaguely if I will be given the truth now. Knowing what I do about Finn, I doubt it.

Chapter 29.

A Story of Family

Finn closes the door of our room with careful precision. I pace the room, noting the clean bed and the soft carpet under my feet. It’s an immaculate room, one that is reserved for visiting dignitaries.

It’s more than a little surprising that they care that much about Finn. Or maybe it’s a healthy fear.

“Is she still alive?” I ask abruptly.

Finn releases the breath he’s been holding and drops his bag onto the bed. “We don’t have to do this, Nurrin.”

“I think we do, O’Malley. Or is it Cragen?” I shoot back. “What the hell have you told me that is true? Is any of it true?”

His eyes flash, furious. “I have never fucking lied to you, Nurrin. Be careful with those accusations.”

“I want the fucking truth. No dissembling, no dodging. Tell me the truth for once.”

Finn stares at me for a long moment. I wait, half holding my breath. Will he?

“Don’t think you’ve earned something from me just because I got you off,” he says, looking away.

I stare at him, not entirely sure I believe I heard him right. Then I laugh, a shrill noise. “Fuck you, O’Malley. I didn’t earn anything for kissing you, except a hot shower to get the dirt off.” His gaze darts to mine and goes icy. “I deserve to know this because I’ve fought with you. I’ve listened to you. I’ve trusted you to keep me alive, you arrogant asshole. The very least you could do is mention that your fucking mother is the creator of this goddamn plague!”

There is a long moment of silence, and then I snort. So fucking typical.

“She didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says, his voice very tired. “All she wanted was— ” He cuts off, shaking his head. I want to push for more, but he moves away from me, shuffling through his bag onto the bed before he heads for the door. “We won’t be here long. I’m meeting with the Grays tonight to finish our discussion. I want you to stay here.”

“Finn,” I say, my voice low.

He looks back at me when he reaches the door. “What did I promise? Do you remember?”

I’ll keep you alive. I’ll keep Collin alive.

I nod, unhappily, and Finn studies me, looking for god knows what. Then he turns and leaves me alone. With only my thoughts and questions for company.

I’m half asleep when he comes back. I blink sleepily into the pillow, but I don’t move to look at him.

His gait is awkward—not the smooth strides of a predator, but stumbling and half falling. He lands on the bed, and I can smell the shine on him, even from here. My nose wrinkles in distaste, and I burrow deeper into my pillow. Finn is still and silent for so long I think he’s passed out, and then he shifts to strip noisily out of his weapons belt and shirt. I heart the rasp of his zipper, and then he falls into bed with me. I lie there silently, and am drifting to sleep when he says, softly, “She was trying to fix him. That’s all she wanted. That’s all any of us wanted.”

What was it like, I wonder, to grow up with Sylvia Cragen for a mother and Keifer as your uncle?

His arm comes around me, drawing me into him. I force myself to stay limp and relaxed. He thinks I’m sleeping—he has to. He would never speak to me like this, so unguarded. It feels like a lie to let him. But I’m not going to stop him. He tucks me into his side, a warm hand heavy on my hip.

“Why can’t you trust me?” he mumbles.

I don’t answer, and he says nothing else.

But it is a very long time before I fall asleep.

Chapter 30.

Atonement

I wake up sprawled across Finn, his breath in my hair, my hand in his shirt. For a moment, I don’t move, not quite able to process the warm, hard body under mine, and then common sense kicks me in the ass and I start to scramble away.

His arms tighten, snagging me back against him. “Where are you going?”

“My side of the bed,” I say dryly. He doesn’t release me, and I put up a little fight. Amusement flares in his eyes, and his arms tighten, just enough to let me know he could keep me there. And then he lets go and I scramble across the bed to my corner. I stare at him as he stretches lazily and rolls off the bed.

A tiny treacherous part of me wants to drag him back in.

Finn throws a knowing smirk over his shoulder, and I flush, looking away.

“How long will we be here?” I ask, falling backward onto my pillow. It smells faintly of alcohol and Finn, and I want to mind more than I do.

“I want to leave today. It’ll depend on what happens with the Panel.”

“We have to find Collin,” I remind him.

Impatience flares on his face. “I haven’t forgotten. But warning the Havens was his idea—and we will never have a better audience than this one.”

“You have a debt to pay, O'Malley—or you think you do. I get that. But the only thing I need is to find my brother. I'm leaving to do that—tomorrow morning. With or without you.”

“Don’t threaten me, Nurrin. I don’t like it.”

I smirk. “And wouldn’t that be awful— for you to deal with something you don’t like.”

Laughter and annoyance are fighting in his eyes, but he shakes his head and turns away. “Come on. Get dressed. I want to show you something.”

I hesitate, staring at him as he pulls a pair of pants on and buckles them. Clean, faded blue jeans that fit his ass just right. A tight black tshirt. And his weapons belt.

I swallow hard, looking away and scrambling for my leathers. “Where do you keep finding clean clothes?” I ask. “The end of the fucking world, and you’ll go out looking like you just did your damn laundry.”

Finn laughs, a silent noise that crinkles his eyes up just a little. “Always with the questions, Ren.”

Chapter 31.

The Wide, Wide World

I have lived my entire life behind walls. I’ve lived that way, happily, convinced it was safe, the only way to live. I have embraced it, because I’ve known no other way. Even with the walls, the sky arched overhead, and I knew how big the world was. I was happy there, in my tiny corner of it, with my brother and Dustin.

I was an idiot.

Seeing the ocean for the first time is exhilarating and terrifying, bringing tears to my eyes. Finn stands a few feet away, watching silently. I take a few stumbling steps toward the water then fall into it.

The ocean is like a living thing, a seething monster that stretches forever, curving to meet the horizon, thrashing with white-capped waves. It is alive and gorgeous and so much more than I could ever anticipate. It’s a whole world, one wild and untouched by infection.

I taste salt on my lips, and I’m not sure if it’s from the water breaking on my knees and splashing my face, or from the tears I wasn’t aware I was crying.

“Why did we let them win?” I whisper the question. I don’t need to speak louder than a whisper—Finn is too aware of me and my moods to miss it.

“Because we were terrified. Because living a small life was better, to some minds, than no life.”

I twist to look at him. “Do you believe that?” I hold his gaze for a moment before I am looking back at the water, the wild ocean.

He moves, crouching near me. The water laps at his boots, a soft plea.

“I was born in Scotland. The highlands were my playground when I was a boy. My cousin and I would roam the hills behind Mum’s lab. It was a whole world—hills and cliffs and more green than you could possibly imagine.

We lived inland, but every year, Da would get leave, and we’d go down to the shore. I loved the ocean then.”

“Why did you come here?” I ask, hardly daring to believe he’s being this open.

“Mum knew there would be side effects from Synthrix. Da had friends in the government, so we came to talk. We had bad timing.” His lips twist in a grim smile. “Mum was at the CDC when Atlanta was overrun.”

I jerk, staring at him. He won’t look at me, and I can see the exhaustion and pain in his eyes, things he usually keeps hidden.

“No, Nurrin. A small life is not better. A small life, in the walls of a cage, isn’t a life—it’s a slow death.”

I inhale sharply, tasting the salt of the ocean on my lips, the scent of things wild and untamable—untouched by even the infected.

“We have to find him, O’Malley. Whatever you think you can achieve here—we have to find Collin.” I finally look away from the water, the mesmerizing waves, and look at him.

“You have a promise to keep.”

A smile ticks his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

I look back at the water before I ask my question. “When we find him, can we come back here? To a Haven by the ocean?”

“Why?”

“Because I’d never ask Collin to live outside the walls—but here, I can almost pretend they don’t exist.”

He moves, fast, and I yelp as he catches me by the arm, his hand tangling in my ponytail hanging over my shoulder. His expression is fierce, furious.

“What?” I gasp.

“Don’t. Don’t ever pretend, Nurrin. Live in the walls, if that is the life you want. Or live outside them. But don’t take this paltry existence and pretend it’s more than it is. Don’t fucking lie to yourself.”

“Why does it matter to you?” I demand. Shock fills his eyes, and something—very deep—that I can’t name. Then it’s gone, and so is he. So suddenly I over balance and land in the water, my hands splashing down hard. I stay that way for a long minute, blinking the salt water off my eyelashes. I can feel Finn moving, leaving me.

Apparently sharing time is over.

Chapter 32.

Panel Decision

“We think you could help us,” Dr. Prachard says earnestly.

“And I appreciate your goals. I think you should keep working. Look at what the disease has done—try to predict what it will do next. But I can’t help you. I’m not trained, and I’m needed elsewhere.”

“What could possibly be more important than finding a cure?”

Finn sighs. “You can’t cure ERI-Milan. It’s too different from what was created in the lab— and it’s in all of us. How will you cure us all?”

“What would you suggest?”

“Figure out a way to live—the Havens won’t stand forever,” he says. “You have to figure out a way to live outside the walls—to survive in the Wide Open.”

“How?”

Finn blinks. “I have no idea. Surviving is a personal thing—you figure it out for yourself. I can’t help you with that.”

“You want to leave,” one of the other scientists, Dr. Browning, says. None of them look surprised. Neither do the Gray Priests behind them.

“I came here searching for my partner,”

Finn says carefully. “That hasn’t changed. He is still my first priority.”

“With the changes you say are happening in the Horde, is traveling in the Wide Open safe? You can stay here, show us what we’re doing wrong.”

“You can atone for your mother’s mistake,” Browning chimes in. His eyes are hard, where his tone is full of false calm.

I can feel the change in Finn—tiny changes a stranger might not notice. A slight straightening of his back. The insolent twist to his lips. The hardening of his eyes. Whatever they thought to get from him, to achieve from this meeting—it’s gone now. Finn has closed off from them.

I smile.

“My mother’s only mistake was letting your government touch something she created with love. I have nothing to atone for. You can cut up as many rotting bodies as you want—do it till the day the Horde overruns the last Haven for all I care. I can’t help you.” He shifts his attention to the Grays, completely dismissing the Panel.

“Where did he go? The Black that was here.”

“That is, I’m afraid, classified,” A Gray priest says softly.

“Then I want access to the Stronghold. Your wireless network.”

I hiss in a breath. Those are insanely expensive. The wealth of information that so many took for granted was merely one of the many things ripped apart by the infects. Very few had the money or means to put it back into place—it was limited to the largest Haven schools and government business.

“That’s not possible.”

Finn’s hand dips into his pocket, and he pulls out a long, thin chain, smooth metal tags dangling from one end. He tosses it to the Gray, and I watch the glitter of the light on the dog tags, the narrowed eyes that widen as he reads them. Finn’s cool smile.

“Your High Priest says it is.”

The computer is ancient. A big monitor that has cracks and stains, a fat box to the side that spits ominous noises as we wait and watch. But when the screen crackles to life and Omar appears, his shaved head gleaming from the lights of his office, the disrepair and alarming noises fade away, replaced by awe that something like this is possible.

“O’Malley. What do you need? And why are you threatening my people?” Omar scowls.

“I didn’t threaten anyone. I think your people have a bit of a complex. I need information—there was a Black priest here, three days ago. Traveling alone. I need to know where he went.”

The High Priest frowns, but leans back, and I hear the whisper of paper as he flips through whatever is on his desk. I hear a mutter that sounds vaguely like a curse, and then he’s back, his face filling up the screen, a giant even here. I shiver and shift a little behind O’Malley.

“You won’t like this. Why do you need this priest?”

“He has something I want,” Finn says, predictably cryptic.

Something flickers in Omar’s eyes, filling his face before it goes blank. “He reported in at 6 then left for his next destination. He’s going to our base outside the walls of 1.”

Part 3. The Guilt of Surviving

**

Guilt is useless. The dead don’t feel guilt for dying—why feel guilt for living?

-Finn O’Malley

**

In this world, we are all survivors. It is our one great unifier, the only thing that could defeat our differences.

President Buchman, State of the Union Address

Chapter 33.

Homecoming

I sit on top of the ZTNK, smoking. I can hear Nurrin below me, cursing as she rattles around inside the RV. She doesn’t like that we’re leaving it behind—I don’t either. It’s become something familiar, comfortable, too quickly.

One reason to leave it behind.

I can see 1 from here, the top of her walls shining in the sun. Crops circle the Haven like a giant fucking rainbow. It’s the height of stupidity and arrogance to have the fields outside the Walls—but it’s also typical of 1.

They have never believed the same rules apply to them here. And to be completely fair, they have never needed to.

When the Atlanta fell, everyone quickly realized it was only a matter of time before the infection spread out of control. Da more than most, and we were positioned to advise and help. The priority then was protecting the government. No one could imagine a world without something like a central government.

The Super Max had been Da’s idea. Walls meant to keep people in would surely keep infects out. And they did. The prison became a fortress, and people convinced themselves it was a home.

Twenty years later, staring at it, nothing of the original structure remains except for a single watchtower. Kelsey and I played in that tower, when we still believed the war could be won, before we realized just how futile it all was.

Before Kelsey became the Thrasher.

I shake my head and shift, wincing as my knees pop. “You about ready, O’Malley?”

Her voice drifts like a memory, and I can hear another girl saying that, a lifetime ago. I lean over the side of the RV and smirk down at her. She’s wearing black leathers, a tight tank top under her zom gear. Her hair is up in a messy pony tail, bits and pieces falling out onto her face. She huffs impatiently, displacing a few before they drift back down and land on her lips.

“Come on, Finn,” she says impatiently.

I smirk and step off the side of the RV, crouching to absorb the blow to my knees when I hit the hard-packed ground. Nurrin’s eyes are resolutely unimpressed. “Are you done?”

“Everything packed?”

She gives me a dirty look, and I arch an eyebrow. “Let’s go, then.”

There is no way to return to 1 without it causing waves. No way to slip in unnoticed. 1 is too fortified, and I am too well known. It’s worked to my advantage in the past, but I’m not sure what kind of reception I’ll get now.

Most people who knew me well enough to hate me are dead, so that’s helpful.

Nurrin is a quiet twitching presence next to me as we pull up, and I slide a glance at her.

“What is the only thing that matters?”

Her eyes are frowning, but she says the words. I nod and tap the gas enough to get the attention of the Walkers. Useless, since I’ve already got it.

I roll the window down as two Walkers approach.

“Name and Haven.”

A deep breath. Everything will change if I do this. I slide a glance at her.

“Finn O’Malley, returning to Haven 1.”

Chapter 34.

Returning Hero

It’s madness, predictably. The requisite blood tests, efficient blood sticks. The now familiar moment of panic before Nurrin’s settles as clean. The search for weapons, too solicitous.

And then we’re being rushed through the Haven streets, and I can hear the Walkers muttering around us, my name and Kelsey’s.

I had hoped, after years away, the stories would have died.

I knew better, but hope is the one thing that will always fuck you up. My lips twist a little. The Captain is speaking into his walkie, and I lean forward, away from the wide-eyed Nurrin. “I don’t want to be announced.”

“Sorry, sir,” he says apologetically.

“Orders.”

I bite down on the question. Who the fuck is giving orders regarding me? Everyone is dead. My father, the war generals, Kelsey’s elite team.

Even the president who held this country together when the end of the world fractured it. They’re all dead, and I’m left here, wondering every day what the fuck I’m doing.

It would be easier to stop. To take my weapon and chances in the Wide Open.

I would have—I meant to. Nurrin leans forward, her chin almost on my shoulder. I shift away from her, irrationally annoyed.

Where would I be, what would have happened if I hadn’t stumbled into her in 8, spitting mad and cursing at a Walker who was dragging her away from the Wall?

Probably dead, and wouldn’t that be nice.

“It’s so big,” she whispers. Her eyes are saucers on her face, reflecting the wonder of this Haven.

I remember cities, before. Sprawling things with massive shopping centers, wide roadways, trucks that sold food, and restaurants you could drive up to and have food handed out. There was very little structure, no curfew, no rules. There were parks with equipment just for children to crawl on and areas just for the dogs to run.

It was nothing like the average Haven.

The only place that comes close to the freedom that cities achieved is here, with wide spaces for parks, large trading halls, a cafeteria that serves food to everyone, not just Walkers. Even this—even here—does not approach what a city was. But to a girl from 8, who has never seen anything beyond her own walls, it’s a whole different world.

I feel a surge of pride that she will see this with me, that I will protect and guide her through this. And a bolt of fear that I will lose her to this.

Not mine.

I have to continue to remind myself of that—that as much as I want her, as much as I will protect her, she isn’t mine.

Nurrin values trust. And she has reluctantly given me hers. But there is so much I haven’t told her—things I refuse to tell her.

The truck comes to a gentle halt, and I look around. My stomach drops. “Why are we here?” I demand, furious.

“Orders,” the Captain says nervously. I swallow my snarl of outrage and turn to Nurrin.

“Stay in the car.” Her eyebrows go up, silent disbelief. “If you have ever trusted me—do it now. Stay in the car, Nurrin. Please.”

I see indecision flicker in her eyes, and then she nods and sits back. It’s not a lot, and I know how quickly it can change—how quickly she will change her mind and bolt after me.

Which means I need to move.

I’m out of the truck and striding up to the small white house without waiting for the

Walker escort, without needing any direction. I know this place, possibly better than some of the raw recruits they’ve brought up since I left.

It’s the same. A lot of things here have changed—a lot of things will continue to change in 1—but one thing won’t. One thing will always be the same. And that is this little white house.

A man, a few years younger than me, comes out and gives me a wide smile. “Well, I’ll be damned. I thought they were lying. Or dragging up a ghost who had an uncanny resemblance.”

“That’s a helluva lot of escorts for a ghost, Kenny,” I say, letting my accent thicken. Something flares in his eyes, there and gone before I can assess it.

He moves quickly, fast enough that instinct has me reaching for my knife before I can stop the motion, but before I reach the empty sheath, he’s there, his arms coming around me in a gruff hug. “It’s good to have you home.”

This isn’t home. It hasn’t been home for over ten years. I don’t bother arguing with him though.

“What brings you back?”

“I’m looking for someone—my partner from Walking in 8. He was traveling with a Black Priest, and I have it on good authority that they headed this way.”

Kenny smirks. “You’ve never been a fan of the Order, Finn.”

“Still not. Omar is the Black High Priest. He owes me a favor.”

I see the rage, clearly this time. Kenny has gotten good at hiding his emotions, but he can’t hide that.

“What the hell are you doing associating with him, Finn? He killed her!”

“The dead aren’t my burden, Kenny. Not anymore. My duty is to the living, and I’ll use whatever I have at my disposal to see the living returned to me.”

“Tilting at windmills again, friend?” he says, too softly.

I step back and study him. Kenny had never been a big feature in my life. Kelsey dominated my world—two years older and so perfect it was maddening. Kenny was her annoying brother, an afterthought, if we thought at all.

But that was before the war.

“I thought this house went to the current head of state.”

Kenny shoves his hands in his pockets, gives me a cryptic smile. “It does.”

The door to the car opens. I’ve taken too long. But this new information is too much, too much to dismiss or process. I stare at him, unbelieving.

And see the naked shock, the wild hope. He takes a step, almost staggering as she slips her hand into mine.

“Kelsey?” he whispers, his voice shaking.

Nurrin makes an impatient noise and looks at me. "We're wasting time."

I'm still staring at Kenny. I see hope fade, replaced by devastation and the realization that, as much as she looks like Kelsey—and with her hair up and her leathers wrapped around her like skin, she does—it’s not her, just a lovely stand-in. She is a ghost, haunting this home.

Hunger flickers in his eyes, and then it's gone, locked away as he licks his lips and forces a smooth smile. "We haven't met."

And if there was any way to avoid this meeting, I would—I think I would rather face a horde than do this. But Kenny is looking at me, his eyes demanding, and Nurrin is twitching impatiently.

"Nurrin, Kendall Buchman."

She smiles, a pretty dimple appearing in one cheek, and I'm reminded of how innocent she still is, despite her time with me and the sharp edges I seem to hone.

"Buchman, huh? Any relation to the late president?"

"He was my father," Kenny says smoothly. He's still holding her hand, even though the handshake is over. I can't help staring at it, and Nurrin flushes, pulling her hand free.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, a soft acknowledgment of everyone Kenny has lost.

When your father is the president, your loss is a public tragedy, but it's no more than the private ones we have all faced since the world ended.

Nurrin refocuses on me. "Does he have any information on Collin?"

I grit my teeth. "I was in the process of finding that out, when you decided to join us.

What happened to the damn car?"

Her expression goes sticky sweet. "Got hot."

I don't imagine the snort of laughter from Buchman, but I do manage, barely, to ignore it.

"I'll send word to the Order's Priestess. If your Black Priest is here, we'll find him. In the meantime, my Walkers will see you settled at the hotel."

Nurrin blinks. "You have a hotel?"

Kenny grins, the same charming smile his father used to win reelection. Except it looks different on him—menacing in a way Andrew never was. Or maybe it's because the smile is aimed at Nurrin, and I can feel the way she sways toward him. "We need somewhere for

Aldermen to stay when they come into town. I've already called and had two rooms prepared for you."

Nurrin tenses next to me then grins happily.

Mother fucking happily.

I know she hates me. I know we're only together because she has no options, not if she wants to find Collin. But that she is so happy to be away from me—I shake the thought, refuse to dwell on it, and say, smoothly, "No need. I still have my house here."

Something crosses his face, and I go very still. Rage flickers in my veins. He didn't—.

"That place was mine. Deeded to me for my service under the Thrasher and in the war."

"Her name," Kenny growls furiously, “was Kelsey.” The easy-going smile is gone, and the man who stands here is capable of running our nation, even fractured as it is. It is the first time in my life I’ve felt a smidge of respect for him.

Except his anger sparks my own. “I know her name, Kenny. I spent years with her—don’t forget that.”

“As if my father would have let me,” he spits.

“Is that what this is about?” I ask, letting a little contempt slip into my voice. It might be the equivalent of poking a bear, but his self-righteous bullshit is grating on nerves—already raw from being somewhere I don’t want to be.

“Do we have to do this?” Nurrin cuts in sharply. “You can glare at each other later—I want a shower and a clean bed. Who can make that happen?” She looks at me expectantly.

“What happened to my house?” I grit out the question.

“Stay at the Embassy tonight. I’ll see about your house, and you can move back in tomorrow.”

I don’t like it. But I know she’s tired, and I don’t want to fuck with Kenny today—I want to use the rest of the day to reach out to the friends I still have in 1. So I nod. Success gleams briefly in his eyes. “Excellent. Let’s go.”

He draws alongside Nurrin, and I stalk behind them, silently seething. At first she is startled, but that gives way quickly to amusement as Kenny rattles off places in 1 that she should visit and asks innocuous questions about where we’ve been, what we’ve been doing, who we are looking for.

It annoys the ever-loving fuck out of me.

Not because she tells him anything—she’s a First, a survivor, and too fucking smart for that shit—but because I can tell the attention is alluring. And I don’t want her fucking allured.

I throw myself into the front seat, kicking the Captain out as Kenny helps Nurrin into the backseat, and remind myself that I have no right to be jealous. She isn’t mine.

She never will be.

If I could just fucking remember that, life would be much easier for all of us.

Chapter 35.

The Embassy

Kenny walks us in. By now, he’s found reasons to reach out and touch her. She’s got a tiny smile on her lips that makes me want to throttle the both of them. That fucking fast. Logic tells me to back off—Kenny isn’t a bad guy, just one I dislike.

I dislike a lot of people.

He steps over to the desk, and I lean into her space. “Forget that kiss already, little girl?”

She twists, a wisp of hair falling into her eyes as she smirks at me. “Jealous?”

Yes. She pauses, her head tilting slightly as she stares, fascinated. What can she see in my eyes?

“O’Malley,” Kenny calls. I pull away from Nurrin, cursing softly even as I stare at her. She is such a bad idea. If I could just remember that.

“Is a queen ok?”

“Give us the suite,” I say abruptly, not looking away from Nurrin. Her eyes go wide, and anger colors her cheeks.

Now I look away, right into Kenny’s angry blue eyes, just before he grins and nods. He’s gotten good at hiding what he’s feeling. I suppose nine years and a presidency will do that.

“What happened to age restrictions for your office?” I ask lazily.

Even the unflappable receptionist reacts to that question, a shocked little gasp. Kenny smiles slightly. “Does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t affect me. I don’t give a fuck about shit that doesn’t affect me.”

The receptionist mouth forms a startled little O, and Nurrin vibrates with anger at my side.

Kenny just stares at me.

I step up to the desk and give the receptionist a cool smile. “Keys?”

“Suite 102. On the tenth floor, sir,” she says faintly. I think her professional curtsy is more habit anything at this point. I take Nurrin’s arm and pull her into me. “Thanks, Kenny. Appreciate the escort.”

I turn away and get halfway across the lobby before his voice rings out behind me. “It’s Kendall, O’Malley. Or better yet—President Stiles.”

I don’t look back.

Chapter 36.

In The Suite

She shakes my arm off as soon as we’re in the elevator. I eye the contraption briefly then shake my head, annoyed. Only fucking 1 would have something as ridiculously frivolous as an elevator. Damn politicians and their fucking obsession with keeping the world the same. It’s not. It can’t be. The rest of the world has adjusted—when are they going to wake the fuck up?

“What was that?” she asks softly. She’s not as angry as I expect, and that throws me off.

“Kenny Buchman Stiles. We”—I make a face—“grew up together. Sort of.”

“You hate him.”

I blink at her, startled. Nurrin laughs. “Come on, O’Malley. You all but peed on me to mark your territory. You embarrassed him in front of his people. You challenged him.” She smirks. “You weren’t this aggressive with Omar.”

“I can kill Omar,” I say reasonably.

It should bother me more, that I can say that reasonably.

“Can’t assassinate the president of the United States, can you?” she muses. “Why do you hate him, O’Malley?”

“Mind your own fucking business, Nurrin. I’m going to shower and head out.”

She trails me into the bathroom, “Where are you going?”

I stop stripping to stare at her. “What does it matter? I’m not taking you. You aren’t leaving this fucking room, do you hear me? I don’t trust this haven, or Kenny. He’ll have people watching us.”

“Paranoid much?” she asks.

“My paranoia keeps me alive. And you, as well. Remember that.”

She rolls her eyes, and I nudge her toward the door. I need a moment, a space of breath between up.

“Why did you do it?” She asks, tilting her head back to look at me.

I don’t ask her what she’s talking about. I sigh and lean against the sink. I need sleep, so fucking bad. It feels like I haven’t slept since 8 fell.

“Do you really want to do this, Nurrin? Because we’ve done pretty good, ignoring it.”

“Can’t ignore the elephant forever,” she shoots back. I bite down on my tongue to keep from saying something snarky to her. Glance at her from under my eye lashes.

“Biological needs, Nurrin. You were there. I was there. It was fun. Nothing more.”

Her eyes go wide and startled, and then she nods, too abruptly. “Nothing more. Good. Then you’ll excuse me if I don’t want you marking me as yours. Kendall wants to have dinner with me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “When did that happen?”

“On the way here. Weren’t you listening?”

“I don’t want you spending time with him, Nurrin. He’s dangerous.”

“Says the man who would happily kill the Black Priest,” she says mockingly as she pushes away from the wall. “Keep your hands off me, Finn. We’re traveling together. Nothing more.”

“Not even you could make yourself believe that, Nurrin,” I say softly.

She gives me a thin-lipped smile. “I’m very adept at believing the truth.”

The door to her room is closed when I emerge from the shower. I consider knocking on it, but she doesn’t want to talk to me—she’s made that very clear. A closed door speaks volumes.

So I dress quickly, grab a few knives and my gun belt. Shove my feet into some dusty boots. “Stay here,” I shout.

“Fuck you, O’Malley,” she shouts back, amiably.

I grin and head out.

When I left 1, I swore I’d never come back. With Da dead, Buchman dying, and Kelsey worse than dead, I had nothing to keep me here but bad memories. There was a lot of anger over that last mission, and not many were sad to see me go.

There were a few, though. And those few are who I go to now.

Claire Donal was in the US visiting her new niece when the dead rose. She was one of the ex-pats Da scrapped together and evacuated to 1. A lot of them didn't survive. They didn't know how to survive in this new world, one so separated from the one that they always known. Claire, on the other hand, did. She didn't just survive in 1, she thrived.

In Ireland, she had been a town gossip, a skill that proved useful in our new world. She knew everything that was happening in the city and had no problems bartering that knowledge for anything she needed.

If there was anything I missed about 1, it was her.

Claire didn’t like the pretense most of 1 embraced—she didn’t have a shop in the market district, to peddle her information.

She’s a creature of comfort—she likes to be at home with her hot tea in front of her and her feet buried under a rug. If you have information, you can damn well come to her.

Which is what I am doing now. The house is quiet—no one's around it, but that could be because of the hour of the day. I tap on the door, and when I hear her voice, push it open. Her eyes go very wide when she sees me, and she makes a little noise like a shriek. I smirk, and she screams at me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands.

“It seemed like a good time to come home.”

“This isn't your home. It hasn't been since—” She stops abruptly, and her face takes on a slightly apologetic look. Her eyes find mine.

I shake my head. “Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago.”

“It was. But not so long ago that you've forgotten.”

I shrug. “It's hard to forget something you live through.”

“Especially when you shouldn't have?” she asks archly.

My expression goes a little cold, and she laughs. “Don't bother with that—it's never worked on me. I saw you grow up, remember?”

“Bitch,” I say, fondly.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “I thought the world would end before O’Malley came home to 1.”

“Didn't that happen twenty years ago?”

She gives me a look that’s hard to read, even for me, then stands. “I'm going to make us some tea, and then you're going to tell me what the hell you're doing here.”

She’s still bossy as fuck.

Some things really will never change, I think, following her to the kitchen and watching as she putters around boiling tea and dropping in old tea bags.

Part of me wants to ask where she’s still getting her supply of tea, but I don't—some things about Claire you just leave alone and let be a mystery. We all deserve a few secrets.

She hands me a cup of bitter brew, and we go back to the living room. I wait as she settles into her chair. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you—of course, I am. But what the fuck are you doing here, O’Malley?”

I hesitate, not sure what to tell her. And then I say, “There's a girl.”

Claire laughs. “There always is, with you. Is it like Kelsey?”

Again, I hesitate, weighing the question.

So many ways to answer. Because in ways—yes.

They could pass as sisters, she is so similar to Kelsey. But there are differences, a refreshing innocence about Nurrin that Kelsey never had— couldn’t have, in the world we knew.

“Of a sort,” I say finally.

“I’ve heard bits and pieces about you over the years, O’Malley. You haven’t made many friends in the West.”

“Did you think I would?” I ask.

Claire’s eyes soften, a little. “I had hoped, darling boy.”

I don’t respond—Claire has always been good at seeing through and calling me on my bullshit. And has absolutely no qualms in loving me, despite my faults.

“What is happening in the Haven?” I ask softly. “How the hell did Kenny win the presidency? Have they lost all sense?”

“He ran on the family ticket. Even using his mother’s maiden name, he was something familiar. With everything that’s happening, familiar is nice. It was necessary.” She shrugs. “And frankly, he hasn’t been a bad president. The Havens have done well under him.”

I snort, “The ones that survive. The ones the infects haven’t taken.”

Her eyes narrow on me, and she takes a deliberate sip of her tea before setting it aside. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I get up, pacing anxiously. “Same currency?”

Claire has the grace to look offended. “You don’t buy information, O’Malley. You’re a friend. I won’t demand payment from you.”

“And I won’t take your charity,” I say gently. Something flickers in her eyes, grateful respect.

“The Havens are falling,” I say bluntly. “Seven in the past year. That we know about. The zombies are changing—ERI-Milan has always been a disease of mutation, and I think it’s had another jump. I think our time behind these walls—in the safety of the Havens and the Walkers—it’s coming to an end.”

“The Havens have been safe for twenty years, O’Malley. You can’t waltz in here and say that’s going away. People won’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what people believe. They can accept the truth, or they can ignore it— neither makes it less true.” I pace the length of the room. “You can’t stay here—they will come to 1. The hordes will keep moving until there is nothing. The infection doesn’t burn off—we won’t cure it.”

And you came to 1 to deliver this message? Seems incredibly altruistic for you, O’Malley.”

“My partner,” I say softly. “He’s missing. I think he came here with a Black priest. It’s the only reason I’m back.”

She studies me for a moment. Then, “Stiles will insist on making this a state visit. You know that, right?”

I give Claire a tight little smile, my eyes going cold. “Kenny can go fuck himself.”

“That won’t be a popular opinion here, darling. The boy has done well by us. And people still remember you and your loyalty to the First Family.”

“It wasn’t to the family, Claire. You know that. It was to her,” I say.

“So what will you do? Alienate the man who can help you?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t know what to say. Accepting Kenny’s help goes against my best instincts—and my instincts have served me well to keep me alive.

“I’ll put up with it, to a point. I need time to get everything together in 1 and to find Collin.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“I haven’t decided yet, but you are right about one thing. This isn’t home anymore. I’m done here. This will be my last time in 1.” Sorrow fills her eyes, and I lean in to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for everything. I would have been lost here without you."

"Of course. Do you want me to come if there's a party? You might need a few people who like you."

I think about Ren, with all of her questions unanswered, and this woman who knows too much about me. "No. I think it would be best if I didn't have allies."

A smile turns her lips. “You can't protect her or hide her forever.”   “Probably not but I’ll give it a damn good shot.”

Claire laughs, a hearty noise that follows me as I leave her house.

Chapter 37.

State Parties

I will say this about Kenny: he moves damn fast.

The room is a mess of dresses and glittering shoes when I return. Nurrin is grinning like an idiot and talking to an effeminate man in his mid forties.

I don't say anything, just stop and stare with my eyebrows raised. She smirks. “Kendall is throwing you a party to welcome you home formally.”

“Well,” I say, “that's very nice of him. Glad he asked me if I could clear my schedule first.”

She snorts and turns away from me to discuss dress choices with the other man, effectively dismissing me from the entire conversation.

Little Nurrin has grown balls in the time we’ve spent together. I'm not sure what Collin will think of her when we find him.

“You should get dressed,” she says over her shoulder “The party starts in an hour.”

I'm tempted to argue with her and stay in what I'm wearing. I have no need to impress the officials and pompous assholes who populate this Haven. But I heave a sigh and go to my room to change.

One thing I learned quickly after the Turn: politicians don't change. Doesn't matter if the dead rose and are outside the door eating the guests, politicians stay the same—the same self-serving, power-hungry bastards who have nothing else in life to do but spend the people’s money. This party promises to be more of the exact same behavior.

But it’s a good excuse for Nurrin to get dressed up, and I won’t pass up that opportunity. She looks fucking hot in a dress. She’s picked a jade green one tonight, with a low back and high Mandarin collar that wraps around her smooth throat. It contrasts sharply with her blonde hair and green eyes, and I want her, a sharp pang of desire that hits like they always do—unexpectedly and with the force of a bullet.

She gives me a slow look, taking in my suit, the jacket hanging open, and slicked back hair.

“How many weapons are you carrying?” I ask, stepping into the living room.

Her eyes sparkle with sad amusement— it’s the same question her brother asks, every morning.

“Three.”

I almost ask about ammo, but I don’t. The fact that she’s managed to hide three weapons— at least one gun—in that sexy as sin dress is too much of a turn on.

“You know this is going to be a mad house, don’t you?” I say softly. She’s turned away from me, the smooth expanse of her back a wide oval of unmarked skin. I itch to trace the curve of her spine, trail kisses down to where her back flares to meet her ass. Push her until she’s panting and begging.

“It’ll be fun. Kendall promised to show me around the Haven after.”

I go still, the desire gone abruptly. “Excuse me?”

“After the party. He knew you’d probably want to see some of your old friends, so he offered to show me around a little bit. Why?”

“Nurrin,” I say, practically snarl. “He’s dangerous. For the love of god, stay away from him.”

“You don’t like him.”

“I don’t trust him,” I correct. Her hands are in her hair, attempting to pin it up. I pluck the little pins from her fingers, let it fall, and lean past her to pick up a small decorative comb. I recognize it—of course I do.

Kenny is a sick fuck.

I tuck the comb in one side, pulling her hair out of her eyes. Nurrin lets out a shaky breath and twists to stare at me. Too close. Too much. I want too much, and I can’t. Her eyes go soft and sleepy, a hint of a smile to her lips.

And I step away, giving us both the space I need to get my head on straight. Because this can’t happen—not here, not now. Maybe— probably—not ever.

“Do you trust me?” I ask quietly. Because I want that. I want that so much—no one but Collin has trusted me in so long I’ve begun to forget what it actually feels like to not be looked at with scorn and hate.

Oh, some people, the smart ones like Lissel, will keep some respect in their eyes. But it’s not for me. It’s for Thrasher’s solider, the one who still has ties and a past.

I hate her, for dying. For leaving me behind with this mess while she escaped. I hate myself, more, for living.

“You don’t make trusting you easy,” she says.

I incline my head, acknowledging that. I don’t. I never will. It is who I am.

“Yes,” she says.

A little bit of the tension inside me eases, and I put a shawl around her shoulders. “Come on, Ren. We’re gonna be late.”

The party is, quite predictably, ridiculous.

Women in slinky dresses, men in suits, not a single one of them carrying weapons.

Cater waiters—fucking cater waiters— wandering around with trays of delicacies and dishes nobody's ever heard of.

Except here. Here the stupid extravaganza is commonplace. It's nothing—just a little party to welcome home a hero.

Not that anyone believes that. No one here thinks I’m a hero. No one has for a very long time, and I can see it in the looks that they give me when I think I'm not looking.

Fuck it. And fuck them. I don't care. I watch Ren, concentrating on her as she navigates this glittering ball of vipers.

She moves through the crowd like she was born to it, with smiles and little laughs and the occasional small talk when someone stops her. Kenny is escorting her around, and that brings people’s attention to her. That, and she looks just like Kelsey.

I shake my head. There is a general approaching me. I recognize him vaguely. He must have fought in the war.

For a while I'm caught up in the crowd, making small talk about the last Haven we were in, avoiding dirty looks, and hating every fucking minute of it. How on earth did I let myself get dragged here?

I manage to slip in a few questions about the Black Priest, but no one knows anything, and if they do, they aren’t talking. Not surprising. The Order doesn't have much of a presence in 1—or at least they didn't when I left.

Politicians have very little use for a cult other than their own.

Somehow I manage to keep track of her, so I see when she loses it, when her eyes get a little bit too wide and her breathing little bit too fast, the smile on her face a little too stiff.

Buchman is still talking to an advisor.

Two politicians’ wives are praising her dress and touching her, and I can see that she's about the bolt or snap and pull her weapon. That would make my night, but I sigh and step into action. I’m moving across the dance floor before I can stop myself.

“Nurrin,” I say sharply.

She jerks, startled, and then a small smile of relief forms on her lips, quickly gone. I offer my arm, and she steps away from the other women, away from Kenny, who is approaching her, pushing into my space.

He frowns. And even though I know he's the president of the fucking United States, I have a very hard time seeing him as anything more than the little boy who followed me and Kelsey around.

“You aren't leaving are you?” he asks.

“No,” she says quickly. “I just need some air, and Finn needs my..."

"I need to talk to her,” I add, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Knowing this is rude, knowing that people are watching, I turn away without waiting for response and lead her out of the room.

The farther we get the crowd, the more she relaxes until finally she shakes my arm and says, “You have to quit doing that.”

I don't say anything, just smirk. I lead her to the back of the building to the small staircase that leads the roof.

Her eyebrows go up when she sees it. “How did you know about this?” she asks.

“Always. Always with the questions.”

She grins. “You would have no idea what to do with me if I quit asking questions.”

I let my eyes do a slow crawl over her, tracing from her hair, still in its comb, to the high collar of her dress, all the way down, tracing every curve along the way. Then I flick my gaze back to hers and give her a slow smile. “I could figure something out.”

She flushes. There’s an interesting bit of color crawling up her neck, just enough to get me interested in how far down it goes.

“Promise?” she whispers.

“Don't,” I say soft and, low my voice a warning. “Don't do this if you're not incredibly sure it’s what you want.”

She steps to me, and her lips cover mine. All thoughts ceases for a few seconds. Her soft lips part, her tongue darting out to flirt with mine. I'm against her, and it takes a huge effort of will to step away. More than I thought possible, but somehow I manage it.

“Stop,” I whisper. “This isn’t what you want. And I don't want his sloppy seconds.”

The color in her cheeks now isn't arousal—it's anger. She steps back. Frowns. “You really are an asshole, you know. I have no idea how Collin put up with you for so long.”

I keep my face blank. "I'm an acquired taste, sweetheart."

She snorts. Steps away from me to peer over the Haven. The lights are on in full force tonight, illuminating the Haven, the limos that wait in the street for their respectable occupants.

How many whores will find their way into the back of those cars tonight?

"It's insane, you know?" she says softly. "I never dreamed a place like this could still exist.

Collin would talk about them. Places like this. But—I just...it never seemed real. It doesn't seem real now. How do you leave a place like this?" It's easy.

I don't like everyone knowing everything about me.

“I don't like being questioned every time I open my front door. I don’t like everyone thinking they know what is right for me and being in my business. Right now, sitting there, you see it. It's beautiful and glitter and Kenny is charming. What we don't see is how fascinated they are with gossip and how much they don't care what happens outside their walls. They’re selfish and self-absorbed and bored.”

She’s quiet, staring off into space. Softly, she says, “Havens are falling. The infection is changing. People are dying by the thousands, and 1? They don't care. They throw parties.”

“I saw that a long time ago, after the war ended. I left and I found a place where I could live. It was a good place, though you hated it,” I say. She’s staring at me like she’s never heard me speak—and to be fair, I don’t usually talk this much.

“Collin did. Hate 8. But he would love this.”

“Yeah, it's beautiful. I hope you enjoy it while we're here. Just don't forget why we're here. Don't let Kenny charm you out of remembering your brother.”

She inhales sharply, a stinging little noise, but I don't take it back. I don't explain myself. I just leave it there. I leave the party behind—if she wants Kenny, let him bring her home

I’m downstairs, and almost to the door, when he stops me. I don’t know why I didn’t expect it. Or maybe I’d just deluded myself into thinking this wouldn’t happen. That Kenny would be smart enough to leave me alone. But he isn’t. Not terribly surprising, in retrospect.

“Nurrin—she’s a lovely girl,” he says, sipping at a drink. I eye him briefly. “She reminds me of Kelsey.”

“That you can say that with a straight face is a little disturbing, Kenny. Kelsey was your sister, after all.”

“I know exactly what she was. And I know that you are responsible for her death.” His genial smile is gone, replaced with a cold mask. There it is. The man behind the charm. “I want Nurrin. And I want you out of my Haven.”

“Pity I don’t much give a fuck what you want,” I say lazily. “I’m here looking for information. By your own family’s decrees, I’m given safe passage and shelter in this Haven. You broke your own laws by violating the sanctity of my house.”

“It was Kelsey’s,” he growls.

“And she’s dead. So what the fuck do you think it matters? She deeded it to me, and I was using it, in good faith that it would be undisturbed when I returned home. You broke that faith. Not me.”

“We gave her to you, in good faith that you would bring her home.”

I look away, too tired for this fight. “I did,” I say softly.

“You brought home a corpse,” he snarls. I blink. I don’t want to do this. I want my quiet haven—and Collin, with no questions. I want the orchards around me as I listen to Nurrin and her friends. I want the warm sun and my bike, and I want—more than anything—I want it all to be over. This whole fucking thing.

I’ve been wrapped up in it—the disease, and Kelsey, and the war—for too long to ever truly separate myself from it. I should know better. I do know better.

“Are you throwing me out?” I ask softly. “And before you answer, know this—Nurrin will come with me. I won’t fight for her—she’ll come because I am still the only person who can help her find her brother. One night of charm and drinks won’t distract her from that.”

“Maybe not. But you are fighting an uphill battle. The Order doesn’t like you—and the word about your history with Omar is filtering out of Vegas. The generals don’t like you, and I can’t blame them at all for that. And I don’t like you. Who the hell do you think is going to take your side—stand by you—in 1?”

I cock my head and give him a smile. “What makes you think I need an ally? I’ve always worked very well on my own—it’s one thing the Thrasher valued most about me.”

I use her title on purpose—I know it annoys him. A vein pops in his forehead, and I smirk and step away from the wall. I can see Nurrin reentering the room, see the way the crowd reorients itself around her. They react to her the way I remember people around Kelsey—like she is special, something different that needs protection.

In a way, they’re right. She is special. She is different, and that deserves to be treasured.

In a way, they’re better for her than I am. I am too fascinated in how breaking her can make her stronger to consider protecting her. I know that she’s different—but I know that as lovely and strong as she could be, there is so much more to her. There is a world of strength waiting to be discovered in her moments of weakness.

They don’t see that. Dustin didn’t—none of the Walkers in 8 saw it. They saw a pretty girl, another Haven girl perfect for raising the next generation and taking care of her husband— worrying about him. They didn’t see a girl whose strength matched their own.

Surprise flickers on her face, and I wonder how many of my thoughts she read in my expression. I force it blank, slipping behind the mask. She frowns, but an Alderman is talking to her and she is distracted briefly. I exchange a long look with Kenny. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stay away from her, but I remember the boy he was.

The more interest I show, the more he will want something just to take it from me. It’s the reason he’s always been fascinated with Kelsey.

“I’ll send some men to escort you around the Haven tomorrow,” he says, his tone firmly back in warm politician mode.

I shrug. “Don’t bother. I’ll be out most of the day.”

He’s still forming a response when I turn away. I see a party of five arriving, Priests of the Order in pristine robes. Black, Red, Gray, White, and Blue.

There is a stronger presence here than I believed. My gut twists, and I catch her eye again. They’re a bit wide and a little glazed—to anyone else, she looks calm and collected. But I can see the subtle tells of fear. I arch an eyebrow and watch as she takes a deep breath, steadying herself and her nerves. She gives me a tiny nod.

And against all good sense, I leave her there, surrounded by my enemies.

Chapter 38.

In Haven 1

I leave in the morning, while she is still sleeping. It was a shitty night all around—I was restless all evening, waiting for her to return, and the tension didn’t die down when she did. If anything, knowing she was on the other side of the suite made it even worse. I wanted to slip into her room, into her bed, kiss her until she forgot Kenny and the politicians, her own name, forgot everything but me.

I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. But the temptation was there, and it was damn hard to ignore.

And sleeping was difficult—too much silence. I shared space with her for long enough that being on my own feels strange.

Which is fucked up. And fucking annoying.

I make a face and grab some fruit off a platter provided by the Embassy. Then I head out, deliberately leaving her behind.

Here’s the thing. When you leave a place, it kind of freezes in your mind. Even knowing that our world is defined by blood and adaptability, it’s strange to see the changes in 1. I wander the Haven for four hours, find deserted shops in the places of friends. I find my way, slowly, to the barracks.

It’s where I should have started.

Being a Walker—and before that, a special forces solider—means I’m most comfortable with weapons and men who know how to use them. But even here, it’s like a different world. The rooms are different, the faces filling them unfamiliar. The commander is a man I’ve never met, and he gives me a brief look when I’m ushered into his office. “President Stiles said you’d slip my men. I sent the best I have.”

I shrug. I saw the Walkers in the Embassy lobby as I ducked out.

“Sorry,” I say, completely unrepentant.

He grunts. “They’ve better things to do than chase a has-been war hero.”

I smirk. He’s got a lot disdain for a man he’s never met. I wonder what Kendall told him. The Commander sits back, rubbing his eyes. Orwell is a trim man, mid-thirties, with hair that is going salt-and-pepper at the temples. His eyes are brown, and cold as they stare at me. “What the hell are you doing here, O’Malley? I’ve heard the stories. I know about Columbus. I’ve read the reports—the one President Buchman didn’t have redacted. I never understood why he bothered with that. Why he protected you.”

Because he trusted me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I don’t say anything. I stare at him until he finally sighs. “Tell me what you want.”

“A Black Priest.”

Orwell’s face takes on an expression of distaste, and my impression of the man inches up. “I can’t help you with that. The Order is not a fan of mine.” “Why?”

He pauses, studies me. Then shrugs. “I’m new to the command—Stiles gave me the appointment a year ago. The Order had a man up for the job—one of their Black Priests. Not the High Priest. But he chose me. They haven’t been happy with the president since.”

“So he’s not in their pocket.”

“It’s hard to determine. A Blue is in his cabinet, and several Grays have been made Science Czars. But for now, he’s keeping the military away from the Order.”

“Because of Omar. As long as he controls the Blacks, Kenny won’t want anything to do with them,” I say quietly. The Commander’s eyebrows go up, but it makes sense.

“You don’t have to have ties to the Order—but you monitor who comes into the Haven. Have any Priests come by recently? From 6?”

“I’ll have my assistant check the records. It might take a few days—we have six gates and several hundred visitors on a daily basis. You understand.”

I do. But it makes me twitch with impatience. “I need this quickly. 1 is not a friendly place for me or my companion.”

“Nurrin Sanders? Stiles seems very taken with her.”

I nod, my lips pressed together. “That would be the issue.”

Understanding and amusement fills the other man’s eyes. “Don’t worry. Stiles is easily distracted—another pretty face will arrive from another Haven, and he’ll forget all about your girl.”

For some reason, that bothers me even more.

I’m leaving the Commander’s office when I see them. Kendall is dressed down, in jeans and a button down shirt with two buttons undone.

Nurrin is dressed up. She’s put on a dress, of all things, and a pair of heels that stretch her legs and curve them. Her hair is up in a messy knot on the top of her head—the same way she wears it when she’s fighting or working out, or when she’s running the track. With the dress, it doesn’t look sweaty and messy. It looks sexy, finger-tousled, and freshly fucked. She’s holding his arm, her head tilted to him, a smile on her face.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, not from here, but I can see how incredibly beautiful she looks, and how she hangs on everything he says.

I stay in the shadows, watching as he leads her, as he settles her into a chair at a café— only in 1 would they have open air cafés. He orders for her, and I see the annoyance in her rigid shoulders before she lets it go, smiling at the waitress and Kenny.

I should leave, but I can’t bring myself to move. So I lean back, into the shadows of the door way, and watch as he flirts and charms, as she asks questions and sips at the drink he selected for her. What the hell does she think she’s doing? What game is she playing?

They talk for a while, until she finally shifts and stands. Kenny stands with her, and I can’t see his face, but I see his move. Rage flares in me as he kisses her. But still, I watch as she leans into him, fitting against him, the soft drift of her eyelashes as she closes her eyes and brings a hand up to twist in his hair. I hiss, a soft noise I’m glad no one can hear, and then she’s pulling away, a soft smile in her eyes. She says something else and moves away. I let her take three or four steps, until I know she will be sure to see me. Then I step out of the shadows clinging to the door.

Nurrin goes still, startled, her eyes wide. Her lips are still wet and lush from his kiss, color in her cheeks, but there is a touch of fear in her eyes that I know is for me. Just me.

I stare silently for a long moment, until she’s fidgeting, and then I let my disgust seep through. She flinches, as if she’s been struck.

Then I step past her and walk away. “Finn,” she calls, once. I keep walking. There is nothing I can say to her right now that won’t be violent and unforgivable.

She isn’t mine. She’s been with me, long enough that I’ve begun to forget. She can’t be mine. I won’t let her be.

But it doesn’t mean I don’t want her. And the sight of her in Kendall’s arms is enough to leave me irate and shaking with violence.

Chapter 39.

The Uses of the Order

The best part—the only good thing— about the Order is the vice clubs. They're a part of every Haven, and I go to one now. Anyone can fight in the ring matches. All you need is a little cash and a bit of desperation. I'm lacking on the latter, but the first is easy and I'm angry enough that I need violence to flush it from my system. Before I see her and do something neither of will be able to live with.

The Priestess who takes my money is a pretty girl in dull red robes. A blood-thirsty little bitch then. All reds are driven by blood and conversion—crazy zealots, the lot of them. She gives me an appreciative stare as I strip out of my shirt and weapons belt and hand over the money.

"You'll be fighting our Kang," she purrs. "He won a few nights back, but isn't our current champion."

I nod and push past her into the crowd. They immediately launch into the predictable chatter as they eye me. I'm not a sure bet—I don't look like the type that will beat another man into oblivion. I'm wiry instead of thick, and I don't bother playing to the crowd. I'm content to ignore them altogether and focus on the source of my real rage—her arms wrapped around Kenny, her lips wet, her hands gentle in his hair.

She was gentle with him. There’d been none of the passionate violence she gave to me, on the rare occasions I kissed her.

Each time we’ve kissed—the boat, the house in 18, the club, even the barracks, when I watched her fall apart under my hand—each time has been a battle, a fight for dominance that shifted into desire. There was never gentleness. Nurrin doesn't need gentle. She needs fire and fight, the heat of passion burning her up until there is nothing left. Until she is broken by it and so desperate for it again that putting herself together is the only option, as natural as breathing.

Kendall has no idea what she needs— what she is. He can't know, because he met her twelve fucking hours ago.

I growl, softly, as a spectator gets a little too close, and there's a nervous titter of laughter from the candy on his arm. She giggles. "He's savage. I like him."

I give her a cold smile, the last smirk from a predator before he devours his prey, and her eyes go wide and hungry.

Then the bell clangs and the far gate swings open, and Kang explodes into the ring. I watch him lazily, the arm candy forgotten as I assess my opponent. He's big—outweighs me by close to thirty pounds, with a shaved head and a fucking face tattoo. Who the fuck is this prick?

Does he have no sense of what's fucking idiotic?

Who the hell tattoos their face? Who the fuck kisses a man she's known for twelve. fucking. hours?

He bellows and rushes me. I slip aside, twisting around to follow him with a sharp kick to the kidneys. He reels back, and I punch him once, twice. Three times in that fucking stupid tattoo, because dammit, who the hell decided that was a good idea? He roars as he hits the mat, and I kick him again, vicious shots to the kidneys until he lies there limply and I can smell blood and shock in the air. I shake my hand out, blood spraying from it. A few of the girls shriek in mock disgust, and I bare my teeth at the crowd.

Then I retreat to my side of the ring, and money begins to change hands. I catch the Priestess’ eye and nod briefly.

Once wasn't enough. It wasn't even close to enough.

I fight five more people before they pull me out of the ring. I’m snarling in rage, covered in blood, and the clear victor. The Priestess has been replaced by a Black Priest with a clinical stare. “Got a bit of anger.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I snap. “Take your fucking cut and let me go.”

“You’re the victor for the evening. You’ll be expected back tomorrow,” he says casually.

I laugh, a mirthless noise. “Tell you what. You tell me where the Lone Priest is, and I’ll come back and fight your battles tomorrow.”

“We haven't had a Lone Priest in a few months," he says cautiously. I growl softly. Why is everyone hiding this man? What the hell was so special about him that even the Order is denying knowledge?

I don't say anything else, but as I take my earnings and tug my shirt on my still-bloody body, it occurs to me that reaching out to Omar again might be my only option.

Every time I do, I feel a little more indebted to him, and every time I bring them into our life, I feel the noose tighten around Nurrin's neck.

I curse and stalk back to the Embassy.

I see the wild looks the staff members give me as I stalk into their pristine lobby. The girl singing at the piano falters, swallowing a scream as I storm through the civilized room to their ridiculous elevators.

"Uh..." One of the receptionists hesitantly approaches me, and I give her an icy look.

"Don't. I know I'm offending your guests. The thing is, darling, that I don't give a fuck. You have a problem with me? Ask your president if he'll tolerate you kicking me out. I think you might be surprised by his answer."

She swallows hard, and the elevator doors glide open. The couple inside goes pale when they see me then scurry out.

I step inside and fix the receptionist with a final cool stare. "You can station a guard outside my room—but I'm not bitten, and I won't change."

My temper is still riding the edge, and that’s not good—that’s not how I need to confront Nurrin.

I don’t need to confront Nurrin. I need to walk the fuck away and let some other idiot help her find her brother.

Guilt hits me immediately, and I shake my head. I can't leave Collin—or Nurrin. I swore after Columbus I would never leave anyone behind again.

I also swore I'd never give a fuck about anyone, and that was an epic fail.

I curse softly and push open the door to our suite.

Kendall has a hand on her knee, and she's leaning against his shoulder. Tear tracks stand out on her cheeks.

Tear tracks.

"Get out," I hiss.

Kendall smiles at me smoothly as Nurrin's eyes fly open. Relief and fury war for dominance, but I dismiss her and focus on Kendall.

"Where have you been, O'Malley?" he asks, standing. "I thought we'd get you settled into your house today."

"Get the fuck out of my hotel room, Kenny. I'm too tired for your bullshit."

"I'm here because she invited me."

I cock my head, ignoring the anger at the truth in his statement. Anger later. Get rid of him now.

"You know what I find so odd? That you’re turned on by a girl who looks like your dead sister. Even in our world, Ken, that's some twisted shit."

Rage blooms in his eyes, and Nurrin makes a choked little sound.

"Nurrin, darling, I'll see you later," he says softly, not looking away from me.

She doesn't protest when he leaves. Just watches me with big eyes as he moves closer to the door. I block it with my body and lean into him. "I am very, very good at killing. And killing you would make me very, very happy. Stay the fuck away from her, or I will see you fed to the Horde before I leave this godforsaken haven. Do you understand me?"

"I'm Kelsey's brother," he snaps. "And the fucking president."

"That means a hell of a lot less now than it did when Andrew wore the title. And Kelsey couldn't stand you, so don't think that will stay my hand. Or have you managed to block that little tidbit as well?"

"You bastard," he snarls.

I smirk. I've spent years embracing the fact that I'm a bastard. It's more of a compliment than anything else now. In our world, bastards survive. And I am nothing if not a survivor.

“Kendall, go. I need to talk to O’Malley,” she says, her voice clear and startling both of us. His face goes red—being dismissed by a girl with no name or title has got to piss him the fuck off.

It makes me ridiculously happy.

Until the door closes, and I’m left alone with her. She’s still wearing the dress from earlier, a red dress with a short skirt and thin straps that leave her shoulders bare. I was right. The scratches have formed thin scars. Her first scars.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, her voice shaking with fury.

“Oh, Nurrin. You don’t get to ask me that. Where have you been today? Touring the Haven on the arm of America’s favorite bachelor? Do you have any idea how disgusting it is, that he sees his dead sister in you and wants you?” “Because you are so much better? You’ve used me as a stand in for Kelsey since we left the Hole. You only want me because you can pretend I’m her. If you want to talk about sick fucks, let’s look a little closer to home.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice even. “So maybe you should stop. Focus on the things you know.” “I know you want me,” she taunts.

I force a laugh. “I don’t want Kendall’s leftovers, Nurrin. Don’t delude yourself.”

She gasps, and I start to turn away from her. I can’t be with her. The fighting wasn’t enough—I want to push until she’s screaming, until we’re both at each other’s throats, until she shatters against me. I can’t—it can’t happen. We can’t happen. I step away, and she lunges. I twist as we fall, catch her against my chest. She’s furious, spitting mad as she swings at me.

“Coming at my back? Dirty fighting, little girl,” I taunt.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you have to be such an asshole about everything? If you don't want me, why the hell does it matter if Kendall does? He could—"

"What," I hiss, my hands on her hips now. I want to shake her. "He could take care of you? Protect you? He's a weakling, Nurrin. He couldn't protect himself, much less you. You have no idea what he's capable of—he's weak, and he's got just enough power to be dangerous. Stay the fuck away from him."

"You don't get to give me orders, O'Malley," she snaps furiously.

She shifts on me, and even though we’re fighting—maybe because we’re fighting—I groan as her heat hits my erection. Because the second her weight landed on me, the second I felt every inch of her pressed against me, even furious and ready to gauge my eyes out, I wanted her.

I always want her. I always want this.

Her eyes drift shut as she rubs against me, almost like she doesn't realize what she's doing, and her fingers, braced on my shoulders, dig in. No gentleness. Not here. Not between us. Never between us. I thrust against her, and she groans, a throaty noise that hits me just right.

I need to erase him. I need his touch on her, his memory next to her, gone. I need her here, fully in this moment.

I rip the dress. She jerks, stunned, her eyes narrowed on me as I yank her bra down and rear up.

Then her cry is in my ears, her hands in my hair, her tit in my mouth. She's rocking against me, and I want her panties gone, I want these fucking pants gone. I want to slide deep into her. I bite down on her, and she screams, a throaty, broken noise that I want to hear every night for the rest of my life.

A dangerous thought.

I roll her off me and smack her butt lightly. "Hold on to the table," I order. She blinks, and I see the questions starting to surface in her eyes. Not what I want. I want her too lost in this to question me.

I dip my head down, lick at her nipple until it pebbles, and then I draw on it, sucking hard enough that she's writhing and whimpering. I bite, and she arches off the floor.

"Hold. On," I repeat. And she does.

I don't let myself think about this, because then I'd have to stop.

And I want this too damn bad.

I tug the dress until it slips from her then nudge her until she's lying on her stomach.

Then I kiss her. Starting with her scar, taking note of every shiver and stifled moan as I trace the curve of her spine. All the way down to where her back flares to meet her ass.

Just exactly as I had imagined. Little nips of teeth and the stroke of my tongue on her satin smooth skin, and I will go to hell for betraying Collin's trust like this, but I don't regret it. I can't regret it.

I will go to hell a thousand times over to have this woman in my arms for even a fraction of a moment.

I tease her until she's almost sobbing, until my name is a plea and a curse and she's thrashing under me. Then I slide up, brace myself above her. She groans as I thrust against her, and I can feel her heat, even through the two layers of clothing we're wearing. I reach between us as I thrust again, and slip two fingers through her wet heat.

And she screams, coming apart as I shove my fingers into her, the contractions of her pussy drawing me deeper. I flick my thumb over her clit, and she makes a noise, something between a moan and a whimper, bucking weakly against me as her body shudders.

For a long time, we lie like that, not speaking, my fingers still buried in her. She squeezes lightly, and I rub against her silken walls until she purrs like a kitten. I'm tempted— so fucking tempted—to coax her back to that peak, to tease her into begging.

Instead, I slip free of her and push myself off the ground. Adjust my dick in my pants as Nurrin tugs her bra up and shoves her hair out of her eyes. She’s staring at me with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.

Always a good look to see in the eyes of the girl you just got off.

“Tomorrow, I’m reaching out to Omar. The Order is hiding something.”

“Kendall wants you to meet with the Science Czars,” she says quietly.

I go still, and then, very quietly, “Why?”

She pushes up off the floor. Even in the shreds of her dress, with her hair a mess and a sheen of sweat on her, she looks glorious. A tiny frown is on her face. “I might have mentioned that the Horde seemed to be changing.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t think it would be a problem. You’ve told everyone you could get to listen.”

I have. And it shouldn’t be. But this is 1. And they have always ignored my warnings. I told them. Kelsey and I both told them

Columbus was dangerous. Omar, though—he had advocated for it, and he was our senior, in age if nothing else. And Buchman listened to him.

I shrug. “Fine. I’ll meet with him. But we’re not here to deliver warnings, Nurrin. We’re not here to court politicians. Especially not this politician.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” she asks suddenly. I shrug a little. Because he was too much of a memory, too much Kelsey, while being not nearly enough. Because Kendall spent his entire childhood hating me and blaming me for something that I hated and blamed myself for. Hating him was easier than looking in the mirror.

I don’t say any of that. I lick my lips, taste her, and see her eyes go sleepy.

“He’s dangerous, Nurrin. And he’s not our problem. Collin is why we’re here. The only reason. Don’t forget that.”

Her eyes go wide, and I have a moment to consider I might have gone too far, but I shove it aside and stretch, popping my sore back. “I’m taking a shower. Tomorrow will be an early morning.”

I don’t look back as I leave the room.

Looking back only ever gets you regrets and death.

Part 4. The Science of Change

*

Change is the law of life.

-John F Kennedy

**

We change. We adapt. The biggest change we allowed was letting fear dictate our lives—and zombies didn’t do that.

We did.

-Finn O’Malley

Chapter 40.

The Nature of Change

We all live in stasis. In a kind of floating state that gives us the impression that because things haven’t changed, they never will. When the zombies rose, that delusion was shattered, for a time. But humanity is made up of creatures, and all of us are creatures of habit.

Falling into stasis was inevitable, as easy as breathing. Each Haven was its own self-contained world. Of course some things changed from one Haven to the next and supplies would be brought in from Havens that specialized in other things. But for the most part, we lived apart, and we were all able to convince ourselves that the world was only as big as the horizon at the edge of the Wide Open.

But that’s not true. And we know it, when we allow ourselves to think about it.

Every once in a while, there is something that happens, something that is so catastrophic that we are forced to examine who we are, and why we are. What makes us different from the people around us, and what separates us from the infects.

It’s a painful place to be. Change is never easy, but self-examination? That fucking hurts.

Chapter 41.

The Morning After

The air feels different now. After the incident in the barracks, even then I was able to ignore the simmering attraction. He was furious. I was horny. Nothing but biological needs being met, just like Finn said.

I can’t say that now. Not when there is someone who wants me, who I sent away. To fall in fucking Finn O’Malley’s arms. What the hell is that? What weird life am I living?

And there was his comment, afterward— the one about Collin. How had I managed, even for an instant, to forget my brother? Was I so fucking shallow that I had been distracted by a pretty face and a charming boy? I roll to my side. 1 is dangerous. It’s seductive and beautiful—lies wrapped in their glittering lights and open air restaurants. And that makes it dangerous.

Someone bangs on the door to the suite, and I tense. I’m tempted to let Finn decide to answer it, but I know, deep in my gut, who it is and what it’s about. I sigh and slip out of bed.

Grab my robe from the end of the bed—the Embassy provides robes. What the hell is that? Wrapped in the white fluffy material, I shuffle to the front of the suite.

Kendall’s Walkers all have a stylized S on their shoulders. I picked up on that quickly, the small signal that symbolizes their loyalty to Stiles. I don’t know if they share their loyalty with the Walkers, but first and foremost, they belong to Kendall.

“He wants you,” the Walker announces.

“Now, please.”

I force a smile, even though I’m bristling inside. That he thinks he can snap and I will immediately jump to his demands is more than a little bit annoying.

“Why?”

The Walker blinks, startled. “Does he want to talk about the Horde or O’Malley’s thoughts on them? Or perhaps the missing Black Priest who has my brother?”

“I…I don’t know, ma’am.”

“Tell President Stiles I’ll be in his office at noon. With O’Malley. To discuss the Horde with his czars.”

Confusion fills the Walker’s eyes, and a kind of dislike that makes me shiver. I’m defying his boss—and he doesn’t like that at all.

I step back into my room, letting the door fall gently shut.

I wait, counting silently. I’m reaching twenty and getting nervous when I finally hear him start walking away. I let out my breath and let my shoulders slump.

“Why didn’t you go?”

The air crackles with tension between me and him, and I take a deep breath before turning. O’Malley is propped against the door jam, a pair of sleep pants hanging low on his waist. There’s a trace of stubble on his jaw, and it hits me that his hair is getting long.

He watches me watching him, and a tiny smile tilts his lips. Shit. I’ve been staring too long.

“Why didn’t you go?” he repeats, softly this time. Letting the question wash over me like a balm.

“Because I want to find Collin, and I can’t do that while I hang on Kendall’s arm.” I shrug and tuck my robe tighter around me. Not that it matters. Finn has seen me nearly naked, writhing for his touch.

Heat crawls up my neck. I doubt I’ll ever forget the intense, brand-like pleasure that came from giving myself over to his touch.

I do know I’ll never forget the intense humiliation that swept me afterward, when I couldn’t drag myself away from him. When his fingers were still buried in me, rubbing—

He growls, and I flush, looking away. “So. Noon. The czars. You can fit that into your schedule, I assume?” My voice is just a little bit too hyper. He nods, slowly, and I force a smile. “Great.”

I bolt past him, and I hear him sigh my name, but I can’t—I can’t look at him, not when I can still feel the ghost of his touch, not when I want it again, so bad I can taste it. Not when I know he only wants to keep me from Kendall.

I fumble into the shower and turn the spray all the way to hot. Toss my robe and the bra and panties I slept in to the side and step into the water. It cascades over me, a wet embrace, and I lean my head back, letting the water soak my hair and pull it long and straight. Then I sag to the side, my head against the cool tiles, and try so hard to forget.

I want to forget Kendall, and 1, with all its wonders that will make any Haven pale in comparison. I want to forget the Order, milling around the party two nights ago, with their curious eyes and too sweet smiles. I want to forget the meeting with the czars and the behavior of the Horde, the way they've gone from small groups to a mass we have no hope of fighting.

Mostly, I want to forget the feel of Finn O'Malley whispering kisses over my skin, his body hot and heavy as it held me down, the barely restrained violence in his touch, the too strong grip of his hand on my hip. I groan, reaching between my legs, and the second I slip two fingers inside my pussy, my thumb rubbing my clit, I shatter. My legs give out, and I slide down the side of the tub and lie there, panting softly as the water swirls around me.

So much for forgetting.

Chapter 42.

Panel of Czars

When I emerge from the bedroom, Finn is waiting, and from the tightness of his jaw, he’s not happy about it.

He never is. "Sorry," I say, blushing.

His eyebrows shoot up, and he laughs. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Act like shit’s changed. Nothing's changed, Nurrin."

"How can you say that? You were there, last night—"

"Nothing. Do you understand?" he demands fiercely, standing. He's tense, a step away from lashing out, and I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. No. I don't understand. I never do, though.

"Fine," I say, shrugging. "Nothing happened."

He stares at me for a moment longer, as if assessing me, and I lift my chin, glaring at him.

He nods and smirks. Some of the tension eases out of him. "Let's go, then."

We stop for coffee on the way out of the Embassy, and I inhale the warm steam as I follow him out of the hotel. I'm more than aware of the dirty looks we're getting, and I glance sideways at Finn. "Where were you, yesterday?

Did you get in a fight with an infect?"

"Nurrin. You know that one infect hardly makes a fight."

I snort, and a smile flashes for a second. Finn looks away, and startles me when he answers. "Went to the clubs. I needed to work out some anger, and it seemed a better idea than beating Kendall to a pulp."

"Why do you hate him?" I ask, again. Finn gives me that blank stare I know so well, and I sigh, sipping my coffee. "He really isn't so bad, O'Malley. A bit arrogant, but I'm used to sharing the front seat with an ego the size a person."

"He works too closely with the Order. He's the first president in our history to appoint the Order to his cabinet. Do you realize that half the czars we're talking to are Priests? I know you want me to tolerate him, and I'll try. Mostly to make you shut the fuck up. But he's dangerous and would happily see you dead. That means he will never have a big fan in me."

"Does that still matter?" The question slips out before I can assess the wisdom of asking it, or the reasons.

Finn's gaze darts to mine. "It is the only thing that matters."

My heart twists, the idiotic thing.

“Any word on the house?” I ask. Awkward change of subject, check. Finn’s shoulder’s shake, amused, and then he shrugs. “I’m going there after the meeting. The Embassy probably won’t tolerate me staying there for much longer.”

I should ask why, but I don’t. “Am I going with you?” I ask softly.

He pauses on the walkway, the coffee halfway to his lips. Cocks his head to one side as he stares at me.

“You tell me, Nurrin. Are you?”

I get the feeling that we aren’t talking about leaving the Embassy, and it pisses me off, a little, that he would doubt for a second that I’m committed to finding Collin. And anger is easy—it’s a natural state, when dealing with Finn.

“You aren’t the only one who cares about Collin, O’Malley. You don’t have a patent on that—he’s my brother, remember?”

His eyebrow goes up, that classic expression of disdain.

“Don’t forget, Nurrin.”

The office that serves as Kendall’s seat of power is a plain building. A few Walkers patrol outside, and there is a receptionist at the front who gives me a frosty look as I stride up with Finn. We’re both dressed down, something that maybe wasn’t the best choice considering we’re meeting with the leader of the United States.

But dresses seem inappropriate after last night, and my leathers make me comfortable— less vulnerable. I need all of that I can get.

“We have a meeting with President Stiles,” I say, and she wrinkles her nose.

“You can have a seat in the waiting room. He’ll be back soon.”

My mouth falls open, and I start to sputter something, but Finn catches my elbow, drawing me away from her and into the small waiting room. I shake him off and glare at the tiny, neatly appointed room. “Who the hell has a fucking waiting room?” I demand, pacing the little room.

“Sit down. He wants to get a rise out of us—and you are playing directly into his hands.”

I dart a glance at him and meet the cool gaze.

How did I think, ever, that he was unemotional and detached? There is so much brewing in that familiar stare. He nods at the seat next to him, and I take his lead. Sit quietly, hiding behind a façade of composure.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and I almost preen under his soft approval.

“Why is he making us wait?”

“Because he can,” Finn says quietly. He leans back in his chair, his arm brushing mine. I should move away, but I don’t. I stay exactly the way I am. “Kenny is obsessed with having what others don’t. He always has been.”

That isn’t fair.

"It's been a long time, O'Malley," I say. "You've changed since you left 1. Isn't it possible that he has too?"

He looks at me, his eyebrows raised slightly. "No. He hasn't. If he had, chasing you would not have been his first choice of action. He would have respected that you are with me." I blink. "I'm not. We aren't together, Finn. We're together for now because circumstances dictate it. But we're not—" I break off. I don't know what to say, don't know how to say this. How to put up the barriers between us that have always been there.

"I hated you," I whisper. "It was easier, to hate you."

He touches my hand with two fingers, gently. "I know, Nurrin. Keep hating me. If that's what you need, keep hating me."

His touch is hot, like a brand, and I want to catch it in my own, wrap my fingers in his.

Is hating him easier? Because this, the idea of being with him—it seems very easy, and impossible, all at the same time. And how is that even possible? I shiver and look away.

"What happens next?"

"We take whatever information he can give us, and we go find Collin."

I roll my head to look at him. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. It's long enough now that some of it spikes up in the front. "Let's worry about Collin. What comes after that will depend on how long we take to find him."

It's the first time he's even hinted that we might not. I think we both have been avoiding that, but it’s inevitable that we'll have to deal with it.

The longer it takes, the slimmer the chances of finding Collin alive becomes.

"What do you think happened to Dustin?" I ask, my mouth dry.

Finn shrugs. "He was infected before we left Hellspawn. We all knew it. I think we were hoping for the best, but it's hard to hope for that when infection is raging like it was. That Collin kept him alive long enough to get to 9 is a miracle. He wouldn't chance Dustin turning—he would have put him down before he could." I want to argue.

"Why can't you ever say something that doesn't make sense," I grumble, slouching in my seat.

He laughs a little, and my lips twitch. Footsteps sound down the hall, and we both straighten.

It hits me that whatever else is between us, we're in this together. We're partners. And maybe it's not the partnership I would have chosen, but it's the one that keeps me safe, and he’s the one who won't give up on my brother.

"President Stiles will see you now," the receptionist says, her expression borderline hostile. I flash her a smile as I stand, and stalk out of the room. Finn is watching my ass—I can feel his gaze on me—but I don't particularly care in this moment.

Kendall is in a large room, sitting at the head of a table. There are four Gray-robed Priests, one Priestess, and two men in suits sitting with him. The familiar fear of the Order simmers in my veins, but I keep moving.

Half the battle is pretending until it's real.

Kendall is wearing a suit, his hair combed back, a file open in front of him. Right now, he looks like a president. It's a little disarming how much.

"Oh good. So glad you were both able to make it this morning. Sit down." He barely looks at me as we enter, as Finn nudges me forward, toward a seat. I move by instinct rather than actual intent.

He puts himself between me and the priests. Even if these aren't particularly interested in finding new Firsts to sacrifice, they are the Order. Finn doesn't trust the Order any more than I do.

Kendall makes a final note then fixes his brown eyes on us. "What do you know about the Horde's behavior pattern?"

I lean back, letting Finn have the floor. He understands the science of it better than I do, which probably stems from being the son of the world's premier scientist.

But the science isn't making an impression on Kendall. His gaze is uninterested and wandering—he doesn't care what Finn has to say.

"You aren't listening," I interrupt, "which means this is a waste of time. And I'm sorry— maybe you’re okay with wasting people's time, because you’re the president and you think that's okay. But I'm looking for someone, and every second you waste ignoring the warnings we don't have time to give is another second I've wasted not looking for him, and is another second closer to losing him." I cock my head. "You lost a sibling to the infects. You should understand my worry."

Kendall's gaze is cool. "We have all lost someone, Nurrin. You're being willfully ignorant if you think otherwise."

"And you’re being stubborn and childish if you ignore O'Malley's warnings just because of a childhood grudge," I say softly. There is a sharp intake of breath down the table, and O'Malley whistles at my side. I didn't mean to say that. I wasn't thinking.

Kendall fixes me with a icy stare and says, almost absently, "Everyone get out. I'd like a moment with Nurrin."

Finn laughs, an ugly noise, and Kendall's eyes flash. "Go," I murmur, quietly enough that only he hears me. The others are already leaving. I think a few are actually eager to go. "Talk to the czars. Make them listen."

"Remember what I said, Nurrin. He's dangerous."

I force a smile, and Finn heaves a sigh. Then he follows the science czars from the room, and I'm alone with Kendall.

Chapter 43.

Empty Warnings

Some of the coldness drops away when we're alone, and I relax a little. "What the hell are you doing, Nurrin?" he asks quietly.

"I could ask you that," I shoot back. "You're playing games, and I don't have time for that, nor the inclination. My brother will die if we waste time, and we gave some that we don't have to tell you what the Horde is doing. And you don't care. Why?"

"Because the Horde isn't my problem. Finding a cure—that has to be our goal."

"A cure isn't feasible. You heard O'Malley—the virus is too volatile and unstable. There's no way you can get ahead of it long enough to create a cure."

"Finn doesn't know what he's talking about."

I laugh. "Even you know that's not true, Kendall. If anyone is qualified to talk about ERI, it's him."

"Because his mother created the plague? Do you think that's actually something we should value him for? The entire family is cursed. From his uncle Keifer right down to Finn O'Malley."

It's dirty—and Finn will probably kill me for it—but it's finnformation, and that is too rare to pass up.

"Tell me what you mean," I demand.

"What will you give me? Why should I?"

"Because it's the right thing to do, Kendall. Not because you'll get anything."

A smile twitches the corners of his lips, and I sigh. "Dinner. Tonight."

He nods. "Keifer was arrested twenty years earlier—when Sylvia was in her freshman year of college. They’d know for years he was a violent person. According to the files, he was prone to depression and fits of rage. When Sylvia left home, he snapped. Mass shooting at a mall in Scotland. Ten injured, three killed. He was arrested right after. And Sylvia, brilliant mind that she was, immediately went to work on a drug that could suppress the violence. Except, that's not all it did. You know what happened—she created ERI, and our government got their hands on it. That was through Griffin O’Malley. He was friends with my dad. The drug was perfect for the military, wasn't it? It was great—until it wasn't." That's usually the way it works.

It all started with him. The brother of the scientist, the uncle. It really was the story of a family, love that was just too little, too late.

No wonder he was so distant from the rest of the world—everyone who had ever been close to him had done something completely unforgiveable.

"Just because his family did horrible things, doesn't mean he's wrong," I say. "And those horrible things weren’t done with this in mind."

"Do you think that matters?" Kendall demands furiously. "They unleashed a fucking apocalypse, but because that wasn't the intention, it's okay? Do you have any idea how wrong you are?"

"Do you? Sylvia created something for a brother she loved, who did something horrible. She took that violence from him. If ERI had been left there, would we be living in this world? Or would it have died, and died again, with Keifer Cragen? But it didn't because Griffin was friends with a general in the United States, a war hero who heard about this amazing drug, and thought about how it could benefit his own soldiers. That wasn't something Sylvia pushed on us. Taking it to Stanlos—that wasn't something Sylvia came up with."

Rage colors his cheeks, and I murmur the last bit. "Sylvia didn't order those bombs dropped on Atlanta."

Because that's the simple truth of it. Finn's family can be blamed for a lot. But the Buchman family played their own part in the end of the world, and not all of their choices were good ones.

"It's very easy to judge someone when you aren't in their shoes, and you don't have to make the choices they do."

I tilt my head to the side, studying him.

"Yes. It is."

Kendall flushes and looks away. "What does he think is so fucking important?"

"The Horde is growing. They aren't traveling in packs of ten anymore. They're moving in herds of hundreds. And ten—a few Walker's can put down ten infects without much effort. But when a Horde four or five thousand strong hits a Haven’s walls? They can't fight that—and that's when it's a small horde. If they continue to move like that—in a horde that just grows with each death—the Havens will fall. Every single one of them will fall. Even this one."

He shakes his head. "We haven't had a breech in over three years. 1 is unassailable."

I stare at him, and I wonder if he has any idea how incredibly arrogant and naive he sounds.

"We thought that the dead rising was impossible. But they did. If you sit behind these walls, content to believe that they will always protect you, they will fall. And you will die. And even if you don't, you'll be the leader of a country of the dead—because you're doing nothing to protect your people. Seven havens have already fallen."

"It's not unusual to lose a Haven occasionally."

"It wasn't unusual, when the Havens were first being built. But now? Losing seven? That's unheard of, and you know it. Don't bury your head in the sand on this one. If you do, they'll remember your name, just like they remember Keifer and Sylvia and Emilie."

That's harsh—maybe it's too harsh—but it's out. I turn away, stalking to the door.

"I'll send my man to escort you to the white house at eight." I freeze and twist to stare at him. There's a thin smile on his lips, and he shrugs. "A minor disagreement doesn't mean I don't want to see you, Nurrin."

I almost point out that this isn't a minor disagreement. But I don't—I nod once then go to Finn. "Let's get the hell outta here," I mutter to him. I feel his surprise, the way he starts to turn, to look at Kendall. "No. Just. Let's go."

"What happened?" he asks softly. A Priest is eyeing us, and Finn gives the man a tight smile, steering me toward the exit.

"Always with the fucking questions, O'Malley," I parrot back at him, mocking.

It startles a laugh out of him, and I smirk.

It helps, hearing him laugh.

Chapter 44.

The House on the Edge of the Wall

Finn’s house is something of a shock. Because it’s not a house. It’s a turret, on the southeastern corner of the Wall. I stare at it, squinting against the sun still bright in the sky.

“I don’t get it,” I say finally.

“What is there to get?” he asks, annoyed.

“Why on earth would you want to live on the Wall?”

He sighs. “This is one of the few remaining structures of the original Haven walls. Do you get that?”

“I’m not an idiot,” I snap. “I can see that it’s old as fuck. What I don’t understand is why you got so pissy that Kendall moved your shit out.”

He gives me a dirty look—which, honestly, is a step up from his blank one—and steps into the tiny house. I heave a sigh and follow him.

It’s…cozy. Or cramped. Cramped is actually more accurate. The room is maybe ten by twelve, enough room to fit a bed and a table. The windows have been bricked over, with only thin slits to shoot from. There is no view of the sun, not on either side.

There is nothing that says Finn, nothing that tells me why this place matters to him more than any other. He walks the length of the room—a few steps—and then twists, peering out the slit window.

“Why is it special?” I ask. I expect him to ignore me. Because that’s what O’Malley does. I ask questions; he ignores them. It’s not exactly a working relationship, but it’s ours, and we make it work. Most of the time.

“We grew up here,” he says, startling me.

“I spent the first seven years of my life exploring Scotland. The whole world was mine. Kelsey had nine years of it. And then everything changed, and this haven became our entire world. Back then, it wasn’t what it is now. It was a hovel. We were attacked all the fucking time. This was our place—it wasn’t attacked a lot. So we spent our time here, and the Walkers kind of adopted us. We grew up in the middle of a war our parents started, and we were forgotten the best of times.”

I move, and he jerks, blinking at me. There are so many questions I want to ask, but I don’t want to do anything that will make him quit talking. So I stay silent. He stares for a long minute before he shrugs.

“When she died, she gave me this place. Andrew formally gave it to her when she took her post in the army. And when I came back, he offered it to me. But I left, and I guess Kendall doesn’t much care about what his family wanted, now that they’re dead.”

“He has a lot of anger, doesn’t he?”

Finn snorts a laugh. “He’s survived this long. It’s kind of inevitable that he does. I have my own share of anger.”

“But you channel it well.” I step up to the window slit, peering out. There are a few infects darting along the road. One snaps at her pack mate then screams, jerking around and throwing herself at the Wall.

“I fight, Nurrin. And I kill.”

I shrug. I don’t want to argue with him about why that works. “When are you talking to Omar?”

“This evening. Kendall didn’t have any information?”

“No. But maybe he will tonight.”

Finn goes very still, and I freeze. Shit. I didn’t mean to let that slip out, not like that.

“Why would he have anything for you tonight, Ren?” he asks, his voice silky.

“Don’t get pissy,” I huff. “It was an exchange. Information, and I’ll have dinner with him.”

He doesn’t move, but I can feel him pulling away from me, his icy walls going up. I sigh. “Just what the hell kind of information do you think is so valuable that you’ll spend time with him,” Finn demands. “Did you forget the conversation we had about him being dangerous?”

“I didn’t forget anything, O’Malley,” I snap, furious suddenly. “I did what I had to.”

“What. Information?”

Oh, he will hate this.

I bite my lip, and Finn growls, jerking me around to face him.

“You,” I yell. “It was information about you. Because I can’t get it from you—and I’m tired of being the only fucking person in this god-forsaken country who doesn’t know who the hell you are.”

“Goddammit, Nurrin!”

“What?” I scream, shaking him off and slapping his chest. “What the hell does it matter? Why do you hide who you are?”

“Because it’s not who I am,” he yells back. I go quiet, shrinking away from his sudden outburst. Stare at him as he struggles to rein in his temper. “That’s where I came from, and shit that happened that I can’t control. It’s not me, Nurrin. It never was. I thought you knew that by now.”

There’s something in his eyes that bothers me—disgust. Disappointment. “Finn,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t.” He walks over to the door. “I asked for one thing from you. Trust. And you couldn’t fucking do that—you couldn’t just wait for me, you had to know, on your terms, in your time.”

“Trust goes two ways, Finn,” I say, my voice shaking.

He stares at me. “I trusted you with my life, Nurrin. I trusted you to protect me when we were in the Wide Open, and to keep your mouth shut in the Stronghold, and to not shoot me when you thought I had a live virus in 18. I trusted you in that Clean house, to keep quiet and not give us away. Don’t tell me I haven’t trusted you.”

I’m quiet, speechless. Because I can’t—no. That wasn’t trust. That was necessity. That was circumstance. He shakes his head. “I’ll see you after you meet with Kenny. I hope it was worth the information you bought.”

And even though logic tells me he’s just going searching for information, it feels much more final when he walks away this time.

Chapter 45.

Offerings

I’ve cleaned the room—I can’t bring myself to call it a house—top to bottom and swept the floor five times. I’m going stir crazy, and it’s only been a few hours since Finn abandoned me. There’s a tap on the door, and I jerk, almost lunging off the bed to yank it open.

A street urchin is standing there. He’s chewing on a slice of apple, a damp rag in his hand implying there are more. My stomach rumbles, reminding me loudly that I haven’t eaten today. The boy eyes me curiously, and then, “Ms. Claire wants to see the O’Malley.” “Finn isn’t here,” I say automatically.

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Come on then.”

I hesitate, and he gives me a fierce scowl. “I don’t get my chocolate if I don’t bring someone back. So get moving.”

I glance back halfheartedly, but there’s no reason to stay. Not really. Finn isn’t here, and I’m learning nothing. So I grab my gun and knives then follow the boy as I tuck the weapons into my holster.

He gives me a few curious looks as we walk, and the second time my stomach rumbles, a faintly disapproving look. Grudgingly, he extends an apple slice and gives a snort of disgust when I try to turn him down. Feeling strangely guilty, I take the fruit and munch on it as he leads me into a small neighborhood.

The house we finally approach is small, a dull green, with a neatly tended plot of grass. The street boy darts up the stairs, and I follow a little slower as he banks inside, bellowing out that he brought someone back. I hear the warm, high tones of a woman, and then he comes darting past me down the hall, clutching a bar of dark chocolate, a wide smile on his face.

“Come on in,” she calls. I take a few tentative steps into a small kitchen.

Small, my ass. It’s a kitchen, and it’s almost twice the size of Finn’s entire house.

“So, you’re the lovely bit he brought home. Haven’t been able to find out much about you, except you caught the President’s eye.”

She’s a thin, older woman with bright eyes and a wealth of lines around her smiling mouth.

She looks like someone’s grandmother, a shrewdly assessing one.

“He’s done every fucking thing he can to protect you. So why don’t you tell me why?”

A grandmother with no tact and a potty mouth.

“Who are you, exactly?”

She smiles, a toothy grin. “Claire Donal, of Glasgow. I got stuck here when the virus broke and planes were grounded. O’Malley the senior found as many of us as he could and tried to give us a home.”

“Did it work?”

She shrugs. “This isn’t about me, girl.”

“Why did you want him?”

Her eyes brighten. “He was looking for a few things. And I found them.”

My heart jerks. “Where?”

Her eyes widen. “What is so important about this?”

No. She isn’t playing games, not now, not when my brother is so close. “Did you find him?” I demand, lurching forward a step.

Her gaze goes soft and apologetic. “No, sweet girl. I didn’t. I may have some leads—and Finn will want to check them out. But there are no promises.”

She pulls a notebook off her table. It’s a ratty, overstuffed thing, with notes and pieces of paper sticking out of the top and sides. She handles it with practiced familiarity, without the caution I would use, and flips toward the back. Plucks a slip of paper from the pages and hands it to me. “Finn left the house full of his belongings. This is where he’ll find it—Kendall didn’t have it thrown out. I don’t think he had the guts.”

I nod, taking the paper. “But—“

She sighs. “A priest came into the Haven three nights ago. He wasn’t in robes, so most don’t know he’s associated with the Order. He met with a few of the Reds and spent two nights in the brothel. And he had a meeting with a few government officials.”

“How do you know this?” I ask, my mouth dry.

She smiles coolly. “It’s my business to know things, sweet girl. Just like I know that you matter to Finn for some reason, or he would have not gone to such lengths to hide you. How many in the Haven know you are a First?”

I freeze, and Claire smiles. “That’s what I thought.”

“What do you need that information for?” I ask weakly.

“I don’t,” she says. “I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity.”

I stare at her, and she smiles gently. “Sweet girl. Finn is a Scots. He’s my kinsman, because we share that. If he wants you protected, no one will learn anything about you from me.

And the more I know, the more I can misdirect.” “Why does Finn not trust people?” I ask. Logic and our most recent argument tells me to shut my mouth, but I’ve never been very good at listening to logic.

Claire frowns a little. “You are a First— you’ve never known a world different from this one. And I’m—well, I was grown. I didn’t have the magic of childhood wrapped around me, buffering me from the world. Finn did. And then, in one day, his mother was dead and the world was falling apart, and nothing was ever the same. He wasn’t born to the world, but he was shoved into it as a child. Back then, a lot of promises were made—good intentioned things, but shit that could never be kept. Finn heard a lot of those and watched those promises be broken. He stopped trusting because the world doesn’t give him much reason to.”

“Does he ever lie?”

“O’Malley? On rare occasions. If it will help him keep his word. But if he’s ever given you a promise, he will walk through hell to keep it.”

I look away, thinking.

“What was it?” she asks quietly.

What is the only thing that matters? “He’ll keep me alive. And find my brother.”

She makes a soft noise, slightly surprised, and I give her a sick smile. It’s all I’ve got at the moment. “I have to go,” I say.

She watches me for a moment, and then, “Go see the Commander of the Wall. He might not be able to tell you much, but tell him I sent you and what I said. He owes me a few favors.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Claire waves me away then walks me to the door. “Go on then. And try to stay alive. O’Malley has lost more than most in this world, and I’d hate to see him lose you.”

There’s a final question, burning on my tongue. “What happened, to Kelsey?”

Surprise flares across her face, and then her lips clamp shut and she shakes her head. “Sorry, sweet girl. There are some things even I won’t trade in. When Finn is ready, he’ll tell you his secrets.”

No, he won’t. Not after what I did today.

Chapter 46.

The Commander of the Wall

Commander Orwell likes his lunch in a neat little tray, a sandwich on wheat bread, with an apple and a paring knife, and a small block of cheese.

I stare at it and think about that. A commander—the authority on military matters in the capitol—with such a simple lunch. It’s not far from what we would eat in the orchards, back in Hellspawn. He catches me staring and gives me a small smile. “I’ve spent too many years in the field to be comfortable with the excess here. I don’t judge our citizens for enjoying it—they should. We’ve fought hard to carve a life out of the apocalypse. But I don’t forget the way my soldiers lived—the way I did.”

“How did you become so powerful, here, of all places?”

He flushes. “I’m good at my job. I might not play the same game as everyone else, but I am good at keeping the Haven safe and the Walkers in top shape. When there are zombies at our door, that counts for a lot more than game playing. It’s probably the only time skill is more important than game playing.”

He cuts his sandwich in half and pushes half of it toward me. “I hate eating alone,” he says.

I pick it up.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here,” Orwell says, a not so gentle nudge.

“You know why we’re here. We’re looking for my brother.”

“And I told O’Malley that if I came on any information, I would pass it along," he says mildly.

"Claire Donal sent me. She said you were looking for the wrong thing." His eyebrows go up, and he sits back, using the paring knife to skin the apple. I can smell the sweet fruit, and it reminds me of home. I shake the nostalgia and explain what Claire told me. A frown forms between Orwell's eyes.

"The only individual we had come to the Haven was a week ago," he says. "He was alone—you're looking for a pair."

"I don't know what he did with my brother, but the Priest was here." I fidget then ask a question that's been bothering me. "Why would the Order send in a Priest undercover?"

"They wouldn't—not for any of the other sects. But the Black doesn't have a foothold here. They won't, as long as I'm Commander. I won't let them."

"Why?"

"The Order is unpredictable and dangerous. They don't have the interest of the nation at heart. They have their own. I don't want that here. I can't do anything about the other sects—but as long as I control our military,

I'll keep them at bay."

"So what would be so important that the order would smuggle one of their priests in?"

"The change in the Horde?" he suggests. I blink, and he smiles, amused. "You are not the only one to watch the patterns. We're aware of the changes."

"Then why aren't you doing anything?"

"Like what?" he says. "We can't evacuate all of the Havens. We've done that before—there is nowhere else to go."

"But if you stay," I say, "the haven will fall."

He stares at me, and I see the knowledge and acceptance in his eyes.

"Accepting it is accepting a death sentence," I whisper. "It will mean extinction, for all of us."

"Not everyone. There are a few—people like O'Malley." He cocks his head. "And you. Survivors. We'll go on, as long as we have people like you. O'Malley won't die because of an infect. He's too much of a survivor."

"A handful of people can't sustain humanity," I say.

He laughs, a little bit bitter. "We've been an endangered species since Emilie died, Nurrin.

We've just been ignoring our own mortality. Build a wall high enough, build it thick enough, and people will begin to believe it's impregnable. But believing it doesn't make it true."

"Does Kendall know this?"

"Of course. He's the president."

"Then why doesn't he do something to stop it?"

"Because knowing and believing are two very different things."

Chapter 47.

A Room of Regret

The turret is full of boxes. Apparently, Claire was handing out chocolate again, because there’s a note from her.

Thought a delivery would be easiest. Stay alive.

C~

I’m vaguely tempted to delve into the boxes, but decide against it. I’ve pushed Finn’s patience far enough—and I still have that stupid dinner with Kendall tonight. Maybe I can leave early.

There is a tap on the door, and I peek out. A Walker, wearing Kendall’s symbol. Carrying a thin box.

“The president sent this for you, ma’am.” I take the box and give him a blank look. The Walker steps to one side of the door, assuming a loose military stance.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m to take you to President Stiles, when you’re ready.”

I open my mouth to argue with him, but I close it again before I can say anything. He’s following orders—nothing more or less than that. Instead, I close the door quietly and move to sit on the bed. Boxes dig into my knees. I want to sleep—for just a while, I want to forget everything, the fight with Finn, and Orwell’s words, the zombies—everything. Sometimes, I just want Collin, and our dirty apartment in Hellspawn, and the knowledge that as long as he was there, I wasn’t alone.

I twist on the bed, staring out the window slit. The pack from earlier is dead now. A lone figure is standing out there, and I know he’s human—he is too still to be anything else. I release my breath and stand.

Finn and Kendall have something in common. Both of them enjoy dressing me in ridiculous outfits.

The dress is pretty—a form fitting black sheath with a low v-neck and geometric designs cut out of the back, wrapping around my sides. The skirt is tight and short, with a sheer red overlay that is short in the front and hangs almost to my feet in the back. And heels. The man sent me fucking heels. Black boots with corset lacing up the back, that wrap to just past my knees, with a spiking heel that gives me an extra four inches of height. I touch up my makeup and leave my hair down. And run into a problem. There is nowhere for my gun. My knives are tucked into my boots, and a garrote wire is wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet.

But the dress has no room for hiding.

Biting my lip, I put the gun on the bed and open the door. The Walker’s eyes go wide when he sees me, and he swallows. “I’m ready to go,” I say softly.

I feel like I’m on display, following the solider. In a way, I am. The other Walkers see, and I can hear the murmurs. They know where I’m going. Soon the entire Haven will.

I see Finn when we reach the base of the Wall, just before veering off toward the government district. His eyes trace over me, going dark, but when he meets my gaze, he’s blank. Perfectly blank and quietly furious.

How could you?

I want to say I’m sorry. That I fucked up. I do trust him.

But I don’t. I look away and follow my escort to another man. I leave Finn behind.

Chapter 48.

Presidential Dinners

Kendall is in his office, which is where I am delivered. The Walker is dismissed without a second glance, and I’m alone with him. Kendall smiles at me. “That dress looks amazing on you.”

“Thank you. I don’t dress up often—there wasn’t a lot of need for it in Hellspawn.”

“A beautiful girl should always wear beautiful clothes.”

I cock my head at him. “Not very practical for fighting, though.”

“Which is why you have people to do that for you.”

I blink. It’s not me. Letting someone else take care of the infects, to not fight—that is anathema. Even in Hellspawn, my workouts were heavy on defensive maneuvers.

“Enough of that. Give me just a moment and I’ll be ready.”

I nod and take a step away. A few pictures are hanging on his wall, and I step closer to one. He’s standing with a blonde haired girl, his arm wrapped around her waist. They stand in a room that looks vaguely familiar.

“Ready?”

I nod, pulled from my thoughts to face Kendall. His gaze flicks past me to the picture, and then back to me. He smiles and says, “Come on, then.”

There is a car waiting to drive us, and I arch an eyebrow at it. Kendall catches the expression and gives me a smile. “Privilege of the job.”

He helps me into my seat, and I smile at him. “How did you get the job, anyway?”

“Well, it’s something of a family tradition. My father wasn’t the first to be president—there was Grandfather Stiles, about ten years before him. We’ve always been heavily involved in politics and the military. When it was time to elect someone, there weren’t many volunteers. I was asked, and I thought I could do some good. So I said yes.”

“And have you? Done good?”

Kendall gives me a bashful smile. “Some think so.”

It’s a non-answer. My lips curve into a smile, matching his, but I feel off. The argument with Finn is too present in my mind, his warnings and insistence that Kendall is dangerous.

“Why do you hate Finn so much?” I ask.

He’s good. Nearly as good as Finn. And if I were used to anyone else, I probably wouldn’t catch the small tells—the tightening of his lips, the anger flaring in his eyes. There and gone so quickly.

“How did you come to be with him?” he counters.

I shrug. “Finn was around when Hellspawn fell. We wouldn’t have made it out without him.”

“But why did you stay with him?” Kendall presses.

I stare. “Because he survives. Because the people around him survive.”

“But he killed an Alderman.”

The car comes to a gentle stop. I barely realize it—the statement is too shocking, too unexpected. Why is it unexpected? Kendall is the president of the Untied States, and even in the fractured state that we are, he knows things that happen. Things that I don’t necessarily expect him to know.

Kendall helps me out of the car and holds my hand lightly as we enter the brightly lit restaurant. A few Walkers are scattered around the room. I glance around.

It’s a restaurant. We had one, in Hellspawn, but it was for the wealthy—not for an orphan and her Walker brother. I’ve never been to a restaurant, unless you count the kink club in Vegas. Which I don’t.

Vegas. The sacrifice.

I stumble, missing a step, and Kendall’s grip on my hand tightens, steadying me. I want to shake him off. The pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place, and my stomach is heaving. I want to bolt.

Finn said he was dangerous, and I dismissed it. Because even though I know he’s right—even though I know to trust him—I thought it was jealousy.

I’m a fucking idiot.

“Are you ok?” Kendall asks softly.

I nod, too sharp and jerky. “Of course. Sorry—these heels. I’m used to flat shoes.”

“Not much farther, darling,” he says, smiling and wrapping an arm around my waist. He tugs me into him and guides me to a small table. Two glasses of wine are already waiting for us. Kendall waits until I’m sitting then circles to sit across from me. I sneak a glance around—a few other couples are here, but the restaurant is mostly deserted.

What the hell is he doing? What game is he playing?

“I had the chef prepare a steak. I hope you don’t mind,” he says, looking vaguely apologetic. I wave it away and sip my wine.

“Nurrin. I know you came here for your brother. And I want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to find him—to help you find him. But if we can’t—what will you do? Have you considered that?”

I stare at him blankly. “Not finding Collin isn’t an option.”

“But you must understand that he could be dead. That there are no guarantees.”

I pick at the chain around my neck, lifting the tiny vial so that it hangs between us.

“You know what this is?”

He looks uncomfortable, but he nods. Of course he nods. He knows, just as well as anyone—we are children of this world, after all. “This was my first boyfriend. Dustin. Collin was with him. So yes. I know—I’m aware of the lack of promises and that even when people make them, they can’t be kept. I know that Collin could be dead. But I won’t quit looking. Finn won’t quit looking. Do you understand that as long as there is hope—as long as there is no dead body—we’ll keep looking?”

“So you’ll leave with him. That’s what you’re saying,” Kendall says quietly. He’s staring at me, a little too hard for my comfort. I sigh and toy with my wine glass.

“Yes. Because I trust O’Malley to find Collin.”

Kendall’s eyebrows go up at that, and I shrug. “You don’t have to understand or agree with me, Kendall. I don’t really expect you to. But I know why I’m staying near him.”

“He’s ruthless.”

“He’s also effective,” I say, my voice even. I shake my head. “We could argue all night about this. But Finn is a non-negotiable. I might have my own issues with the man, but he’s who I’ve trusted to find my brother. You can accept that or you can not, but it won’t change. So,”—I lift my glass, and arch an eyebrow—“why don’t we enjoy what’s left of the evening?”

Kendall smiles, and if it seems a bit thin, I can understand that. I’m don’t expect him to like my stance. I just expect him to back off his attack.

A server approaches with our dinner, and I stare at the red meat. Juice is swirling around the plate, too fast. My head spins, and I feel my stomach lurch dangerously.

“You gave her too much,” a voice says.

“Shut up,” Kendall answers. I look up and see him, still staring. His gaze is clinical, and that is more disturbing than anything else.

I forgot. For just a few seconds, I forgot, and how fucking stupid is that?

“She won’t do the Priestess any good if she’s dead.”

“I said shut up,” Kendall says, snarling now. I try to stand, and the room sways drunkenly. My lips are too thick, and my voice comes out garbled when I try to speak. It doesn’t make sense—nothing makes sense.

Finn.

Oh god, I forgot his warning. How stupid can I possibly be, that I would forget it, even knowing?

“Sacrifice,” I gasp. Surprise flares on Kendall’s face, and he laughs as the world tilts away. A tunnel of black wraps around me as I fall.

“She’s a smart little bitch. Go ahead. Get it done.”

Something slams into my head. Pain explodes through me. I fall into the dark.

Chapter 49.

The Dark

My mouth is dry when I wake up. My mouth is dry, and my head feels like it’s about to fall off. It doesn’t ache—it literately feels like it will separate from my body and roll across the fucking floor, and I almost wish it would.

I can’t see anything.

An unfamiliar voice murmurs, “She’s awake, sir.”

I hear a soft shuffle, and then, “How did you know?”

I almost scream, but I manage to keep the noise from escaping. The pain is too fierce, roaring through me, and I whimper, curling onto my bare legs. The silk of my dress is almost obscene now. “How,” Kendall’s voice, disembodied and too loud, repeats.

“I watched her die, you sick fuck,” I gasp, and he laughs. The bastard actually fucking laughs at me.

“He actually took you to the Stronghold.”

Finn will murder you for this—slowly,” I hiss.

“Finn has wanted me dead for years, Nurrin. And yet I’m alive. I’m alive and powerful while he wanders from Haven to Haven, and no one fucking cares. No one remembers that he was a hero—they only remember his mother started the apocalypse.”

“Fuck you, Buchman. Your hands are just as fucking bloody.”

The lights flare, and I do scream, pain lancing through me, exploding in my head. I clamp my eyes shut, willing the pain away, tears squeezing down my cheeks, until spots form behind my closed eyelids and everything fades away.

The lights are on when I come to. Kendall is sitting in the corner of the room, on the only piece of furniture—a hard-backed chair. There’s a small file in his hands. I lick my lips. I’m thirsty. So thirsty. I wonder how long I’ve been out this time.

“What did you give me?”

“Cocktail we give all sacrifices,” he says, not bothering to look up. “I’ve known about you for a while, Nurrin. When Priest Matthew came here with Collin, I knew it was only a matter of time before you would come here with Finn. We were prepared. I’ll admit, though—I didn’t expect you to be so reminiscent of Kelsey. That startled me.”

“It’s kind of sick, you know,” I say, conversational. Kendall finally looks up, an eyebrow raised. “That your sister’s look-alike is such a turn on.”

Amusement flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue with my assessment.

“What happens now?” I demand.

“Now? We wait for the Reds. They won’t be long,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

“Why do you do this?” Nothing is making sense, he’s spinning, and I frown, trying to make the world settle. Why is everything spinning?

“Why are you working with the Order? What’s in it for you?”

Kendall smiles. “I’m president, Nurrin. Who do you suppose made that happen? You don’t really believe a bunch of war heroes decided a boy who has never Walked would make a good president.”

I throw up, suddenly, and he sighs. “I hate this part.” He stands, and I listen to his footsteps recede as the world twists around me.

Chapter 50.

Waiting

Not long is a relative term. Kendall doses me with the cocktail of drugs four times, and each time, I do the same cycle—blinding pain, burning thirst, and a disorientation. Long stretches of time are lost. I wake screaming, my throat raw and sore.

In my rare moments of lucidity, I focus on Finn. He knows—by now, he must know. He’ll find me.

What is the only thing that matters?

When I drift on pain and scream through the delusions of disorientation, I can’t remember why I think he’ll come. The guards change, and I see Kendall less frequently. Sometimes I wake sore, finding bruises I can’t account for.

Why hasn’t he found me? Where the fuck is he?

We fought. We fought, and he left— maybe he’s decided that he’s had enough.

Maybe he’s left me and 1 behind, washed his hands of Collin.

I’ll keep you alive. I’ll keep Collin safe.

Where is he?

Finn once said hope is the great lie. It’s what we used to rally. What kept humanity going when we should have laid down and accepted our fate. I wonder if that is true.

I don’t have hope. I don’t need it. I have knowledge. It may take time, and I might hate every moment of the wait, but Finn will come. He will find me—and when he does, he’ll wash these rooms in blood.

Hope doesn’t keep me alive. Faith in him does—and the burning desire to see every last one of my tormentors dead.

Chapter 51.

The Order

Something is different when I wake the sixth time. The pain is gone—but I’m not thirsty, and the only thing that moves is the ground, a steady sway.

I’m being moved.

I shiver and shift in the room. Or whatever the hell it is that I’m in. Tentatively, I reach out and touch the walls. Cool metal, vibrating slightly.

“What the hell,” I murmur.

“It’s a train.”

The voice is weak and tired, thin with exhaustion, hoarse. But it jerks me around, so fast I hear my neck pop. The room is dark, but light flickers from overhead occasionally—a thin gap in the roof. I catch the occasional glimpse of him, and my breath catches in my throat. A sob works its way up, and Collin gives me a wry smile. “Come here, idiot.”

I make a noise, and his face spasms, and then I’m across the small space, buried in his arms. And I’m crying—all the tears I haven’t shed, all the ones I didn’t cry over him when I first realized he was missing, or when I found Dustin dead.

“Hush, shhh.” Collin shifts me so I’m resting against one arm, petting my hair awkwardly as he lets me cry myself out. And I do. For so long that I lose track of time. My eyes feel puffy, and my nose hurts, but I finally look back at him and give him a watery smile.

“Where are we going? Where’s Finn?”

Hope flares across his face. “You were with Finn? What happened?”

I blink. “Wait—Collin, where are we?” “Where is O’Malley?” he demands.

“1,” I say, my lips numb. I feel empty, hallowed out from crying and the sudden crash of knowledge.

I knew Finn would come for me. I knew he would find Collin. So to have one, without the other—it’s unfathomable. But it’s my reality.

“Where are we?”

“The Order has us, Ren. I don’t know where they’re taking us.”

Which means…I shift, away from Collin.

“He lied,” I whisper.

“About what?”

I can’t answer. Everything from the past few days is crashing over me, every moment I lay, drugged and hurt, believing that he would find me.

“Why did you ever trust him?” I demand, furious suddenly.

“Because there is very little in the world that he wouldn’t do to keep you—and me— safe,” Collin says softly. There is something off about his voice, something in those words that I can’t quite fathom.

I turn to look at him, put my hand down.

He flinches, and everything freezes inside me.

“Collin?” I whisper, a little girl begging for reassurance. He shifts, and I can feel tears burning in my eyes. I don’t want to see this—I shake my head, and he laughs, that hoarse noise that is so off.

“How many weapons do you have?” he asks.

Not enough. Not for this. Not a gun.

“Where? How?”

He grunts, and I look behind me. It’s lying on the other side of the train car, rank and rotten.

I can’t bear to look at it, so I turn away. Light flashes above us again, illuminating the truth.

His leg is mangled, a mess of bloody bite marks.

I’ve found him, and it’s not fair, because I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready to do this.

Not again.

Not ever.

“Don’t hide from it, Ren,” he says, and I hear Finn in his voice, disgusted with my dissembling.

I take a deep breath and stare.

Collin’s been bitten. My brother is going to turn.

The End.

The Future Without Hope

Book 3 of The World Without End

Nazarea Andrews

Part 1

The Girl Without Hope

*

Once you choose hope, anything is possible.

Christopher Reeve-

**

Hope is the one thing that will fuck you up, every time. It’s the thing that keeps humanity going when we should have died. In the end, it’s what will kill us.

Finn O’Malley-

Chapter 1.

Pretty Lies

Each of us has a moment where we hit rock bottom. Where nothing makes sense, and going on—fighting to live—is just too much. Each of us have faced that kind of devastating loss.

Before Emilie, and everything changed, life was easy. Not for everyone. There was disease and poverty, abuse and death and war. There was loss, in its way. But for so many, it was easy, and difficulties, when they came, faded just as quickly. Life was good.

And then the dead rose, and Atlanta fell, and nothing—not a fucking thing—was the same.

We tried. We tried to build our cities with the Haven walls, tried to keep our lives what they were with our false government in 1, and companies that tried to pretend life wasn’t shattered beyond repair.

But it was. And when the dead are screaming, there is no pretending. When you have the very last thing you believe in stripped away, there is no way to look at our pretty falsehoods and see anything but the fucking lie that we’ve built out of the ashes of our dead.

We all have that moment.

And sitting here, in a noisy train, huddled in my brother’s arms—this is mine.

Chapter 2.

Old Wounds

There isn’t much light—just what breaks in when the train rattles under a decrepit light the feds put up to keep the dead back.

Idiots. Light doesn’t deter the dead. Only a bullet to the skull can do that with any certainty.

That is an unassailable truth. There is one other—that there is no immunity. No cure. Everyone bitten turns. Everyone.

That is a constant refrain in my head as I stare. Even when it’s too dark to see, I can—there are few things imprinted in my memory.

Mother’s body, jerking as the zombies fed. The nameless sacrifice, screaming as her blood enraged the zombies. Finn shaking me on an empty beach.

My brother, his leg bleeding and bitten.

Some things you can’t unsee, you can’t forget. You can’t change, and that’s the bitch of it.

“How did this happen?” I ask, my voice hoarse. I’ve screamed myself out by now. Screamed and sobbed until I gagged and retched, dry heaves that do nothing but make my stomach ache and my mouth burn with the aftertaste of bile.

There’s nothing left—just a shell of myself, hollowed of emotion.

His eyes go distant, remembering. “The Order found me. Both of us. Dustin is—”

“I know,” I say, my brow furrowing, cutting Collin off, because time is precious and running out and we aren’t going to spend it talking about Dustin of all fucking things. “We found him. What happened after that?”

The train rattles around us, wind shaking the metal we’re leaning on. Collin shifts, uncomfortably. “He babbled. In the fever, he talked. And the Lone Priest found out we knew you—and that you were a First.

After that, it was just a good business decision to keep me contained. He checked in with a few of the

Black Priests, but no one was stopping him. They’re desperate to find sacrifices.”

“So they’re kidnapping our families now?”  “It worked, didn’t it?” he asks.

I snort. “That isn’t because I knew they had you. It’s because I was too stupid to listen to Finn.”

Collin’s grip on me, already tight, tightens more. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”  “Because Kenny didn’t fucking invite him on a date,” I snap.

Collin jerks back, the first time since I collapsed in his arms that he’s let go of me. “O’Malley let you go on a date?”

There is a comical level of disbelief in his voice that makes a giggle bubble in my throat, completely inappropriately.

I’ve always laughed at the wrong things, at the wrong times.

“Finn doesn’t give a fuck what I do.” I poke him, annoyed. I remember something suddenly. “Do you know who his mother was?”

“Of course,” Collin says absently, catching my hand as I poke him again. “Ren, what the hell happened between you two?”

“Nothing,” I say, absurdly defensive. “Why are we fighting about Finn O’Malley right now?”

“Because right now is all we’ve got, baby girl. And he’ll protect you when I’m gone.”

Impossibly, tears burn in my eyes. How can I still have tears to shed? “Finn doesn’t care about me, Collin. When you’re gone, he’ll have no reason to stick around. I’ve already dragged him back to a place he hates. He’ll be happy to be rid of me.”

Collin laughs, and I scramble away from him. I know my brother, and I know that laugh. It’s the one he uses when I’ve done or said something he thinks is fucking stupid. I crouch a half foot away from him, almost lost in the darkness of the train and glare.

“Get back here, idiot,” he says, still laughing. I let him tug me back and he kisses the top of my hair. I lean against his side, even as he’s careful to position me away from his leg.  “I always thought I would protect you from the Order. Turns out I’m what you need protection from. How is that for irony?”  “Shut up, Collin. You would never hurt me.” I snap, trying to keep my fear off my face.

Even as I say it, I know it’s not true, and I expect him to call me out for the lie. Finn would. Finn never tolerated lies. Not from me, not from himself. I always knew just how much he hated me, and how much he wanted me, and how much he hated wanting me.

What is the only thing that matters?

I blink away his memory, his phantom. Stare at my brother. Ask the question I’ve been dreading. “What are we going to do, Collin?”

Chapter 3.

Cruel Truths

“Do you have a weapon?” He asks, and his voice is remarkably calm. Collected in ways mine isn’t. I shiver and shake my head. All the times he’s asked me what weapons I carry—all the times I’ve double and tripled checked my ammo and knives while he watched. All for this moment, when it matters and

I’ve failed.

I gesture at the dress.

It’s been days—who knows how long—since I was taken from that empty restaurant. But no one has bothered to replace my dirty dress with anything. It’s filthy, and hangs around my legs in tatters. I’m trying hard to ignore the stains—vomit and blood and other things I can’t think about without losing my shit.

His fingers tap lightly on my boot. “Give it here,” Collin says softly.

I don’t argue. Just wrestle the damn thing off. I hiss, my toes stretching for the first time in god knows how long, and tears sting my eyes. Collin takes the boot, and scoots away from me. He makes a quiet noise as I rub my toes, and I twist to look at him. My hair is hanging in my eyes again—I’d do just about anything to pull it back.

“This will work,” he says softly and my stomach drops. I don’t need to ask to know what he’s talking about. The spiked heel is sharp—not blade sharp, but it’ll do the job if I hit the right soft tissue.

My stomach heaves, and I gag. There is something very wrong about thinking that in association with Collin. He isn’t a target.

“Collin, I can’t,” I whisper.  “I can’t kill you.”

“You won’t have to,” he says, his voice full of false confidence. I know when my brother is lying to me, and I can read it in his voice now. “The Order needs you alive for the sacrifice. There aren’t so many Firsts left that they can let you die by my hands.”

I shudder. He is so matter-of-fact about it—and I know he’s right. That those are my options. The Order or death at my brother’s hands. I just don’t want to face that reality yet.

“Why did you never tell me who he was?”

Collin doesn’t bother asking who—there is only one person I could mean. “Finn’s story is his own. It wasn’t my place to share it.”

“Not even with me?” I ask, twisting my dirty skirt in my fingers.

“Especially you,” he says, sharply. “You disliked him on sight, and you would have never accepted him if you knew his history—and you know what it’s like, to be blamed for something that you had no control over.”

I flush, and look away. I do. It’s the curse of every First—even people who aren’t part of the Order blame the Firsts, a taint that we carry because of their vicious rhetoric. I grit my teeth. “You should have told me. Especially since you know he doesn’t tell me shit.”

A smirk. “He doesn’t trust easily.”

I laugh, a short, bitter noise. “The bastard doesn’t know what that word means.”

Collin shrugs, a quiet motion of his shoulders, and pain squeezes his face closed for a moment. I glance at the bite on his leg. “Collin?”

He squeezes my hand and shifts against the wall. “Need you to promise me something.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, fear fueling my words. “I’m not making any fucking deathbed promises. We’re going to get out of this.”

“Quit it,” Collin snarls, and that’s the brother who has done whatever it took to keep me alive, the one who was by turns stubborn and fierce and gentle. The one who wouldn’t tolerate my excuses in school or workouts, weapons practice or the orchard. “You know how this plays out, Ren. Don’t fucking lie to yourself. Because it will play out, and I need you alive when it does. Do you understand me? You do whatever the fuck it takes to stay alive. That’s what you do—what you’ve always done. You’re a survivor, sweetheart. And I need you to hold onto that.”

My lips are numb, and I bite down on my bottom lip to still its quiver, and to keep from sobbing. It won’t change anything.

If tears had the power to turn back the dead, the world would never have changed.

“How long? How long do I have to survive?”

A smile, cold and satisfied, tilts his lips up and he tugs me against him, settling me into the curve of his body and kissing my hair. “Until Finn gets here. He will come for you—he promised, didn’t he?”

I glance at him, startled that Collin would know that. “He’d keep me alive. Get me to you.” What is the only thing that matters?

Collin nods and leans his head back against the side of the train. I can see the strain of the bite, working across his face. It’s changing him, already. I swallow that thought and my tears, and lean against his side. “Then that’s how long—you stay alive until he comes for you.”

Chapter 4.

The Nature of Waiting

Waiting is the worst. It’s what takes all our time, chewing away at the hours. Collin sleeps, and it worries me, because the infection is burning through him and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it. I can’t do anything but wait for the Order to decide what to do with us, and for the infection to run its course.

I try to cling to what he said because the waiting is killing me. We rattle though the fading night, and light pricks weakly at the gaps in the roof. Rusty gaps—a good fucking way to catch tetanus, but if it keeps me from being bitten, I’ll take it.

Because even though it’s a truth I don’t want to face, there is no denying it. Not really.

Collin will change, and Finn can’t protect me—not from my brother or from the Order.

It’s easy to hear the conviction in my brother’s voice. But as the train rattles into the night, taking us farther from 1 and Finn, it’s hard to hold on to the belief. I lean against the train wall while Collin dozes, and I let the fear come. I’ve been too buried in that fucking drug cocktail Kenny gave me to feel it much before.

But it’s a big ass world and there is nothing working in Finn’s favor. His influence and the strength of his name isn’t what it was, and the Order will close their doors to him, without Omar’s help.

I know Finn. Even without knowing what happened between him and the Black Priest, I know he would rather die than ask Omar for help.

The question is—will he let me die before he does?

Part 2.

The Rage of Loss.

*

Death is our new world. And death breeds fear. With very little effort, fear can morph into rage.

Sawyer Russell-

**

Rage is my natural state of being.

Finn O’Malley-

Chapter 1.

Promises Broken

It took twelve hours to decide something was wrong.

It took eighteen to decide I wanted nothing to do with it.

Twenty-eight to realize I had no choice.

Thirty-six to realize I might have fucked up too badly to fix it.

I will protect you.

It’s the only thing I ever told her that mattered. She focused on shit that means nothing—my name and my family, my war record and Kelsey. But in the end, the only thing that mattered was the promise I couldn’t be bothered to keep.

Was it for the best? She was an emotional handicap, a memory. A way to redeem— Fuck.

I can’t do that. Can’t put that shit on her. And I can’t break the only promise I’ve made in seven years because I don’t want to face her. I grit my teeth.

After ERI-Milan, promises became temporal things. Mothers promised their children easy, painless deaths. Husbands promised to never turn. The government promised to keep us safe.

Father promised we’d go home.

No one keeps promises. Not those misguided ones made in love. Not the ones whispered to those clinging to a fucking idiotic hope.

Not the ones that were lies before they were told.

Why should this promise matter? I swallow hard and stand, reaching for my weapons. The house on the edge of the wall is a memory—a relic of a life I left behind. It’s not my place anymore. It hasn’t been since before Kelsey died. This entire Haven is a memory and I feel like I’m a ghost walking the walls.

Isn’t that how you should feel, when everyone is dead but you?

Not everyone. Not Nurrin. I hook my katana over my shoulder, and leave the room.

She isn’t dead. I refuse to believe that. She’s too stubborn to die—she’d still be arguing about it. A savage smile ticks up my lips and I leave the house of memories behind.

Chapter 2.

Closed Doors

Here’s the thing about a war hero—no one knows what the fuck to do with them in peace time.

The real problem isn’t that doors were closed in my face—it’s that these fucking idiots in 1 thought we weren’t at war. How do you convince yourself of that, when the dead are screaming at the door? How do you live with your head that fucking deep in the sand?

I don’t know why it surprised or annoyed me. 1 has always been very good at ignoring the obvious.

After the third inquiry about a missing girl is met with a blank stare, I swallow my pride and go where I should have from the start.

The white house was built for the Buchman family when ERI-Milan broke out and swept the nation. It wasn’t the White House—it didn’t even pretend to be. It was a two bedroom shotgun guard house that was appropriated from the warden and painted white to cover the graffiti. With a flag planted in the front yard, and the first family inside, it became the de facto headquarters for the new world government—or the American one.

We still don’t know much about what happened beyond our borders.

The streets are still and quiet—only the distant screams of infects provide an eerie counterpart to the night. The small café’s and stores with second hand clothing—boutiques to amuse the wealthy bored in 1—are closed and shuttered against the night. The vice club will still be busy, but the apartments are quiet and so is the homes in the neighborhood.  It means I’m unobserved as I move through the streets, approaching the white house quietly.

I know he won’t talk to me. But I’m running out of time and options.

Four of his guards are patrolling the house—two lean near the door, while the other two make lazy sweeps of the perimeter. There will be at least one more inside.

The thing about guards is that they only think so far ahead. And these don’t expect an attack by the person Kendall has known his entire life. He’s changed—we all have, in the years since the East fell—but not so much that I believe he’s anywhere but Kelsey’s old bedroom.

I wait patiently in the shadows as the guard makes a pass around the backside of the white house, and then I dart across the moonlit lawn. A scream from the Wall breaks the night, and I can hear the muttered agitation from the guards as I push up in a jump, catching the windowsill and pulling myself up. I hang there for a moment by my fingernails, the weight of gravity pulling on me as I dangle. I take a breath, and shove upward, straining for the handhold in the brick. Splinters dig at my nails and I hiss furiously as I scrape against smooth stone.

I lunge up again, and my fingers catch in the small handhold.

I hang there, suspended between the top of the window frame and a precarious stone ledge, and it occurs to me that doing stupid shit is one thing I am very good at. I bare my teeth in a grimace and pull up hard. Tiny shards of rock dig into my fingers as I swing up, scrambling for the windowsill of the second floor window. My feet kick hard once against the glass below me, but it holds and gives me just enough leverage to pull myself up and through the open window.

Andrew always liked to have the windows open. He said the wind made him feel less trapped. Less afraid.

It was a stupid fucking delusion, but I liked the man well enough. A lot of people need delusions to keep going, back then. Most people still do.

I let out a disgusted breath as I roll to my feet. Too many years patrolling the wall and out of recon have me rusty and I can't afford that right now. I unclip my knife and hold it, blade flat against my wrist, as I creep through the house.

There’s a guard sitting outside the closed door I know leads to Kelsey’s old bedroom. For a moment, I am caught between then and now, memories overtaking me. How many times have I crept down this hallway, while Kenny and Buchman slept a few doors away and Kelsey paced and worried in silence?

I hit the guard with the hilt of my knife, a vicious blow that contains more of my anger than he probably deserves. It appeases a petty part of me and I roll my shoulders, pulling my gun before I ease the door open.

There is something almost wrong about finding someone you hate passed out.

Kenny is sleeping, his mouth parted and snoring slightly. He’s surprisingly alone—I don’t know if that irritates me more than it pleases me. Where the fuck is she, if she isn’t here?

I kick the bed, hard enough that Kenny startles awake, his eyes flying open. I lift the gun, and give him a manic smile, all the rage I’m feeling spilling into that one expression.

Fear flickers in his eyes, just for a moment, but it’s enough to convince me he knows something, and that makes me want to cut him open and toss him over the wall.

I swallow hard, tamping down on my rage. It won’t do me any good right now.

“What the hell are you doing, O’Malley?”

“Where is she?” I ask, my voice a soft noise. He goes still, and that fear flashes again. I saw this little jackass grow up—I can read fear in him and right now he’s scared shitless.

His voice is sharp and biting, though. “No fucking clue. Maybe she finally got smart and cut her losses.”

A fist of doubt squeezes tight but I shake it. “Nurrin doesn’t give a fuck what it takes to find her brother—and she knows I’m the best chance she has of doing that. She wouldn’t disappear. Where the fuck is she?”

Rage twists Kenny’s face, “Maybe she’s dead. Maybe you kill all the women you make promises to.”

I move fast, faster than he can react. Because when shit get real, this is the truth: Kenny is a soft politician. He isn’t a solider, has never Walked, and others kill for him. When it comes down to it, I have blood on my hands and no problems shedding it. Especially his.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” I snarl, pressing a knee into his chest and my knife to his throat.

He glares up at me, his eyes furious and mutinous. “Fuck you, O’Malley.”

I lean down, and whisper, “If she’s hurt, if anyone has so much as looked at her wrong, I’ll fucking flay you. I’ll skin you slow and feed you to the goddamn horde. Do you get me, Buchman? I don’t give a fuck who the hell you are.”

Fear is stark in his eyes, and I push down harder on the blade, until blood wells under it and his eyes bulge and he squeaks in alarm. A pitiful noise from a shitty excuse of a man. Then I jerk back, and he takes a deep breath.

“Find me the information I need. Stay the fuck out of my way—I swear if I come back, only one of us will walk out alive.”

“You could go to prison for threatening me,” he says.

I laugh, and turn, a deliberate insult. Kenny doesn’t have the balls to attack me, even with my back turned. “You fucking arrest me. I’ll still kill you.”

Without waiting for him to respond to that, I slip out of the bedroom, down the hall. At the end, I turn back and shoot his door. The noise echoes, and I hear him cursing as the guards outside shout at each other. I duck into the hall closet Kelsey used to hide me in when Buchman surprised us by coming home early, and wait for them to pound into Kenny’s room.

Then I slip out and into the night, letting the darkness take me as 1 comes awake to the sound of gunfire and the screams of the dead.

Chapter 3.

Favors and Friends

I knock on the door, and wait for the querulous voice of Claire to reach me. She isn’t sleeping—the light is her living room is on. And Clair has insomnia—she has ever since she survived the siege of New York, when the dead swept the city like sewer rats. They killed sixty percent of New York City before the evac teams could clear it. We didn’t bomb it, but only because at that point, we knew it didn’t do any fucking good.

If the dead get up and walk, what good does a bomb do, but create more of the problem? Atlanta taught us that, and we are still paying for the mistake of dropping dirty bombs on American soil.

The door swings open and Claire stares at me from behind the barrel of a surprisingly clean shotgun. I lift one eyebrow. She stares for a long heartbeat, just long enough for me to worry, and then the barrel dips, and she relaxes, stepping back a little. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

I take the silent invitation and step inside, closing the door behind me. “I need help,” I say softly.

Claire’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. In the twenty years since the zombies rose, I’ve never once asked her for help. I’ve come to her with and for information. Once, I got drunk and passed out in her living room. And I ran from 1 and her and all the memories of everything that couldn’t be changed.

But I’ve never said those three words to her.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“Nurrin is missing. She went to dinner with Kenny and she never came back.”

“How long ago?”

“Three days.”

Claire turns wordlessly and limps into her kitchen.

She doesn’t limp much anymore—it came from a break when Da was moving the ex-pats from Chicago to 1. A small horde caught them outside Des Moines and she broke her leg in the skirmish. She hated that little handicap—coming into 1 on crutches instead of her own feet—and she worked hard to cover that perceived weakness when her leg healed enough.

“Sit down,” she says, her accent thick. She ignores the tea that is usually so close at hand and pours two glasses of Scotch instead. She slides one to me and sits heavily in the chair. “Sit down, Finn.”  Knowing that appeasing her is the best way to get what I want, I obey.

She sips her Scotch for a moment, and then blinks at me. “Why was she with Kendall?”

“He’s been courting her since we arrived.”

“He suspects she’s a First,” she murmurs, softly. To herself. It draws my spine straight and I glare at her. She gives me a dismissive snort. “Stop posturing, O’Malley.”

“Why the fuck would Kenny care if she’s a First?” I demand.

“Because he’s in the Order’s pocket. They put him in that pretty white house. We all ignore it because he’s a Buchman, and we like the familiar. But he doesn’t make it a secret.”

I sit up, my eyes narrow. “Why the hell haven’t I heard about this?”

“Because Kenny knows how you feel about the Order. Not everyone outside of 1 tolerates them—hell, not everyone here does. But we understand they’re a necessary evil.” “Where would they take her?” I demand.

She shakes her head, “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to get any info on the Order—they keep their own secrets. No one will trade on them.”

I give her a skeptical look and she slaps the table, making the Scotch jump. “I’m not lying to you, O’Malley. I’ve never done that, and I’m not going to start now over the fucking Order. You can accept that and I will do what I can to help, or you can be a distrustful ass and chase your own goddamn tail.”

I glare at her for a long minute, and then mutter a curse. She relaxes, the tension I hadn’t noticed slipping from her abruptly.

“I can’t break another promise, Claire,” I mutter, grabbing the Scotch and tossing it back.

She’s staring at me sympathetically when I bring myself to meet her eyes. “This isn’t a repeat of Kelsey,” she says, softly.

She’s right. It isn’t. This is a whole new kind of fucked up.

“Will you reach out? Find out what you know?”

Claire gives me a slightly offended look, her lips tightening as her brows furrow. I nod, and stand, leaning down to drop a kiss on her forehead. When I reach the door, she calls after me. “What will you do? If they have her, what will you do?”

I glance back. She’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, backlit by the rising sun and the kitchen lights. She looks impossibly old, in a world where the old don’t survive. “Whatever it fucking takes.”

Chapter 4.

The Underground

I go to the underground. It’s deserted this early, but I know some of the acolytes will be there, and a few priests. It’s a gamble, but it’s what I have.

I could go to Omar. It would take very little to reach out to the High Priest, and I know him—he might be loyal to the Order, but he’ll do whatever he can to destabilize the Red Priestess. Even helping me steal back a sacrifice.

But that would mean trusting him. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

So I go to the vice clubs.

The doors are locked. I bang once, and wait impatiently until two acolytes pry open the door. “The clubs are closed until sunset,” the one in green robes lisps.

“I’m not here for the vice clubs,” I say. “I need to see the High Priest of the Haven.”

They exchange a quick look, and then the Red shakes her head. She’s familiar—the same acolyte who attended me when I fought. The sweet hospitality in her eyes from the previous night is gone now, replaced with a cool reserve that borders on hostility. She isn’t a woman impressed right now. She’s a fledgling priestess protecting the Order. And that makes me smile, slow and amused.

“He isn’t here.”

“Tell him that Finn O’Malley needs to see him. He has two hours to meet me at the house on the edge of the wall and return what he took from me. If I don’t have her by then, I will start killing his priests—and I won’t stop until every member of the Order in 1 is dead.” I pause, and stare at them. Their eyes are wide, fear mixing with anger and shock.

They don’t believe me. And because of that, they won’t deliver the message. I lean in and murmur into the space between them. “If you think I wouldn’t do it—I want you to know, I fought for Kelsey

Buchman in the war. There is nothing I wouldn’t do. And if she isn’t there, in two hours, yours will be the first blood I spill.”

Chapter 5.

Familiar Places

The thing that Kendall likes to forget is that i know 1 just as well as he does. I grew up here, years before I left with Kelsey for the war.

It’s changed—grown in ways that make me vaguely annoyed—but at the heart of it, the haven is still a prison converted into a city, and it has weak defenses because of those conversions. The Wall will hold—until it doesn’t—but there are holes in the haven’s security, and I use them now, slipping out of the haven to check the ZTNK.

There are four infects between me and the RV, and I whistle, once. Best to deal with them with my back to the Wall and some safety.

Nurrin likes to think I’m reckless and don’t pay attention to danger. She’s wrong. Most of the time, I just don’t give a fuck that it’s there. Today is slightly different, and I shift, balancing my weight as the infects realize I’m here.

They hesitate, one jerking forward before stopping with a screech. The other three scent the air, and one snaps jagged, broken teeth. They aren’t attacking, though. And that is disturbing in ways I don’t want to think about. I can’t afford that to think about that right now. I slice my palm with the blade of my long knife, and the first one screams, breaking into a sprint. The others follow and I release a sigh, fear mixing with relief. The scent of blood is still a catalyst. The world hasn’t changed that much.

I snatch a throwing star from my belt and let it go, and the infect closest to me shrieks furiously as it embeds in its eye The other three snarl as they push past him and I grab the dead body, shoving the star deeper and putting the putrid body between me and the other three, using it as a shield as I stay out of reach of their teeth while putting them down. It’d be easy to reach for my gun and take care of them that way. Easy and not what I want—it would draw Walker attention.

The second and third infect are scrambling at the dead weight of the first, desperate to reach me, and I shove it to the left, unbalancing one while I stab the other with an arrow. Fear zings through me, and I laugh as it sharpens, makes me better. It makes a garbled noise, and falls, and I slam my boot down, swallowing hard at the crunch of brain and bone. The other two hiss at me, and I smirk, pushing the dead shield aside and grabbing the nearest infect.

She snarls, and I drive an arrow up through the bottom of her jaw, into the soft tissue of her brain. Her body goes limp and I feel the other one, too close as broken fingers grab at me. I slam an elbow back, catching it high enough to daze. Skin rips as it stumbles and I mutter a low curse as I whip around and drive my knife into its skull.

The body goes limp and drops.

Too close. Too fucking close. Risking my life is one thing, but with Nurrin in danger, I can’t do stupid shit like that. I swallow the fury and break into a jog.

The ZTNK is three miles away. I settle my weapons against me and start running.

I’m tired and dirty when I climb the staircase to the house on the edge of the wall. But the ZTNK is safe and untouched, for now, and I can barter my truck for a bike. If I need to chase her, it will be easier with that versatility.

A Black Priest is standing sitting on my bed, playing with Nurrin’s revolver. My stomach twists at the reminder that she’s unarmed, wherever she is. She’s alone, and I’m here, facing one of the maniacs who want her dead. I swallow the sick feeling rising in me. I fucking hate feeling helpless.

Not the time for that. I keep my face blank, and strip off my weapons belt, ignoring the priest as I let my katana and crossbow and knives clatter onto the small table. Then I strip out of my shirt, and the priest hisses slightly.

I know why. The tattoos and scars covering my back are pretty fucking epic. I give him a cool stare.

“Where the fuck is she?”

“Nurrin Sanders. The girl you came here with.” The priest’s eyes are watching me, calculating.

I don’t respond and he shrugs, standing. “You would know better than I what happened to her. We don’t bother ourselves with haven girls unless they’ve joined the Order. Did she?”

“She’s under the High Priest’s protection,” I murmur and his gaze darts to me, too quickly. “And I will find her. If you return her to me now, we’ll leave and that will be the end of it.”  “The Order doesn’t have your girl, O’Malley,” he says.

I smile at him, savagely. “They told you what I said. What would happen if you kept her from me. You wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

“The threat is empty—you can’t start a wholesale slaughter in 1 without causing an uproar, and President Stiles would never stand for it.”

I laugh, my teeth bared in a parody of a smile. “You believe that, if you want. Or ask your priest what Finn O’Malley will do, if pushed. But the Order will begin dying tonight—I’ve waited long enough for her to be returned.”

“We will kill you both if you do this,” the priest says, his voice sharp and angry. He looks furious as he threatens me—but he doesn’t look like a threat.

I look at him and grin. It’s been too long—too many years in 8, Walking and existing, away from the war and any real threat. Too long since I’ve faced a real challenge.

The Order will definitely be that. “You are welcome to try, priest.”

Part 3.

The Inevitability of Despair.

*

Disappointment is inevitable.

Unknown-

**

Our path is not easy—but our success is inevitable.

Sawyer Russell-

Chapter 1.

The Numbness of Time

Even the fear and grief give way eventually to exhaustion. I slump against Collin as the train rattles on down the tracks. I don’t know how long I sleep, or where we are going or if they want me dead. I don’t know anything—only that Collin is here, and turning. And Finn will find us.

The train shudders, and I come awake, blinking in the gloom. Collin hasn’t moved and I feel a moment of blinding panic, my hands shaking as I reach for him. I hate that I hesitate, not quite brave enough, my heart twisting. Collin makes a low noise, his eyes blinking open. “Where are we?” he groans, shifting to sit up.

I make a half-choked laugh, and he gives me a knowing look. “You weren’t ready to kill me,” he says.

“Go fuck yourself,” I say back, my voice lacking heat. He smirks. It’s enough for now.

“We’ve stopped,” I say softly.

He nods, and I scoot away, leveraging myself up until I can stand. My legs ache—too many days drugged up in 1 and motionless on the hard floor of the train. The constant rattle has me shaky and I stumble for a step or two before I get my balance.

The door swings back, and I swallow a curse as the light floods in, my eyes watering. Collin doesn’t bite it back, and I hear him moving. Without looking away from the people silhouetted by the sun, I reach out a hand and pull Collin to his feet. He’s panting, and his hand in mine is too hot but he stands without wavering.

“Where the fuck are we?” he snarls, and one of them laughs. It’s a mocking noise. Now that my eyes are adjusting, I can see the robes. All four of them are wearing robes—one in gray, and two in red. One black. My heart drops and I squeeze his hand. Lori promised she wouldn’t hunt me down—she swore it, but it appears her word means less than I thought. The black, though. They answered to Omar, and—

“Are we at the Stronghold?” I ask, my voice raspier than I like. It sounds weak and broken, and I’m not. I can’t fucking afford to be.

“No, little First. The Stronghold is just a public face. This—this is nothing like the Stronghold.”

That terrifies me. Because I don’t know where we are, and because no one has ever heard of the Order having a seat of power outside the Stronghold.

Finn will never find us—and he won’t do it in time.

“Get out,” one of the Reds says, her voice eager and lisping in her robes. I shudder. I don’t want anything to do with her. She makes an annoyed noise in the back of her throat, and the Black grimaces, making a motion with one hand.

Blue-robed acolytes swarm forward, yanking at us until I land on the stony ground at the Black’s feet. He frowns down at me. “Don’t fight us, First. It’s much easier to just accept the Order’s will for you.”  “Fuck you,” I spit, and he sighs.

“Take her, Amy. But try not to damage her before the High Priestess arrives.”

My blood runs cold and I jerk backwards as the acolytes fit rope cuffs over my hands. I form a fist and swing upwards with both hands, catching the Blue across the cheek. He makes a pained noise and falls away, grabbing for his face.

The Black makes an annoyed noise and grabs my cuffs, yanking me to him and slapping me. Hard. For a moment, everything spins, and I can’t see straight. Distantly I can hear Collin cursing, feel him lunging for the bastard who hit me, but it’s very far away.

He punches Collin carelessly, and my brother stumbles back a step before he straightens and lunges again. Surprise flickers in the Black’s eyes, there and gone before he kicks Collin, squarely in the bite. Collin’s scream is eerily similar to the infects and he goes down like a stone. I jerk on my bonds and the Black sighs, waiting a moment as Collin writhes on the ground.

“Get them processed. And keep them apart—I don’t want the sacrifice tainted because you let her visit her brother.”

The Blue nods and grabs the lead to Collin’s rope cuffs—they cuffed him while he was writhing from the kick—and pulls him away. “You can’t do this,” I breathe, jerking against my cuffs. The rough rope bites into my skin, stinging and real—all of this is so fucking real. It shouldn’t be. Why can’t this be a dream? A horrible fucking dream that I can wake up from.

The Black priest gives me a lazy look and shrugs. “This is the Order’s outpost, First. We’re outside Haven authority, a hundred miles from the nearest Haven and backed by the president. We can do literally any fucking thing we want.”

He turns away, and the Red—Amy—yanks on my cuffs, rubbing my wrists raw as she leads me into a new hell.

Chapter 2.

A Fresh New Hell

The outpost is organized. Ridiculously so. I’m pulled into a small building that looks like a stiff wind will knock it over, and coated with dust. She opens a door, and pushes me into a small, neat stairwell. Four flights down, we emerge in a pristine, white-walled hallway. It’s lined with doors, each with a heavy lock, with a large open room at the end and a bathroom across from it. “Shower first, and then we’ll assign your room.”

I stare at her, not quite sure I believe her. She gives an impatient sigh. “Just do it, First.”

“Where did they take my brother? What will happen to him?”

“A lot of that depends on you,” Amy snipes and my temper snaps.

I drop the small stack of white clothing and cross my arms. “I’m not doing a single fucking thing for you, until you tell me where the fuck my brother is,” I snarl. “Your High Priestess wants me whole. Will you piss her off, or will you answer a fucking question?”

She stares at me, furiously, but I don’t move. I won’t until I know Collin isn’t being put down in a back room somewhere.

“The Grays will stabilize him, as much as they can. There isn’t much to be done, but we’ll keep him alive and the infection at bay.”

“Why?”

She frowns. “Because Day One is a year away, and we need you cooperative until then.”

I knew that’s why I’m here—of course I knew. What else would I be here for? My throat goes dry and I try to keep from showing the panic I feel.

The sacrifice in Las Vegas flashes before me, her long hair red with blood.

It will never happen. It’s a year away, and Finn will find me long before that. I swallow and reach down, picking up my white clothes.

Step into the bathroom. Two cameras swivel in the wall, focusing on me. I look back and Amy shrugs. “We had a girl suicide—this keeps those losses to a minimum.”

“What the hell does it matter? You’ll kill us eventually.”

She gives me a patient sort of look. “Because how you die is as important as you actually dying. And when matters—if it didn’t, we would have killed the Firsts years ago.”

I don’t respond to that. Because there is nothing to say that will change her mind, and arguing with a fanatic is pointless. I strip and step into the shower, and try to ignore the cameras focused on me. The water is surprisingly hot and I let out a soft noise of surprise.

“Five minutes, First.”

I swallow my response—cursing my captors might make me happy, but it won’t actually achieve anything. Instead I focus on scrubbing myself clean, rubbing shampoo into my scalp until it tingles and I’m halfway convinced it’s bleeding. The priestess raps on the shower panel and I shiver as I twist the water off.

The towel she hands me is rough and scratchy, but it smells like bleach and clean laundry, and I dry myself quickly before slipping into the drawstring white pants, a sports bra, and a white tank top. She glances at my wrists and makes a quiet tsk in her throat. “Those need to be treated.”

I glance down. I didn’t realize my wrists were that torn up, but they are, blood beading impressively in a few spots. I shrug and pull my hands away from her. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Displeasure flicks across her face, and then she turns, leading me down the hall to a locked door. She pushes it open. “This is your room. If you need anything, push the blue button—an acolyte will make sure you have whatever you want. Free time is from nine to noon.”

I blink, because this isn’t the prison I expected. It’s not lavish—but it’s nicer than my apartment in Hellspawn was. The bed is wide and clean, and a small bookshelf is lined with books. A desk pushed against one wall with a high backed chair. There is a small comfortable-looking couch. I twist to stare at Amy, my confusion evident.

The Red priestess shrugs. “We don’t want you miserable, and there is more waiting than there is anything else.”

I lick my lips. “How many are here?”

Amy smiles, a beatific smile of the religious zealots. That smile will haunt me, more than the infects’ screams. “Enough that you will not be needed for years.”

Without letting me respond, she pulls the door shut and leaves me there.

I pace the tiny room, until sweat beads on my back, and sticks my tank top to my skin. Nothing happens except my legs, weak from my captivity, get shaky and I get tired. Finally, exhausted, with angry tears in my eyes, I drop on my bed and curl on the disgustingly comfortable mattress.

For a moment, I consider dragging the sheet and pillow to the floor but then I can picture Finn, and the irritated amusement in his eyes, telling me not to be an idiot as he got comfortable. So I snuggle into the pillow. “You better get your ass here soon, O’Malley.”

As I drift off, lulled by exhaustion and the warmth of the shower and finally being comfortable, I cling to the words he’s repeated to me, his eyes patient, and furious, and determined.

What’s the only thing that matters?

The tightness eases. I’ll keep you alive. I’ll keep Collin alive.

I just have to stay alive long enough for him to keep his promise.

Chapter 3.

The Nature of Survival

A rap on my door pulls me from my sleep and I blink sleepily as the door opens to reveal Amy, a blue acolyte, and the Black priest from the day before.

Even knowing that they won’t kill me today, my blood runs cold. It’s instinctive around the Order. The Black priest glances over the room, checking it briefly for damage or God knows what, and then nods at me. “Come with me.”

I clutch handfuls of the bed, and snap back, “Fuck you.”

Amusement fills his eyes for a moment—just a heartbeat and then it’s gone, and his gaze turns severe. “Fighting is not a good idea, First.”

“I have a name, Priest.”

His head dips, quiet acknowledgment. “And I would like to learn it. If you would join me, we can get to know each other.”

“Do you get to know all the women you kill?” I demand, bitterly.

“And the men. Yes. That is part of my duties here.”

The calm way he admits it makes my stomach flip. But it also settles my nerves. Because he isn’t lying to me, and he isn’t immediately threatening me.

I might want to be as far away as possible, and he might want to see me eaten alive by infects, but I get the disturbing feeling that I can trust him. I scoot forward on the bed a little, and ask, “Can I see my brother?”

He eyes me for a moment, and Amy twitches irritably. She wants to say something—I can tell from the way she almost vibrates with annoyance. That she doesn’t is telling—it tells me where she is on the chain of command.

“Walk with me, First,” he says, instead of answering my question.

Finn would. If only to get information. Finn would play them until he was in a position to kill them all. I paste a smile on my face, and step past him into the pristine hallway.

“Priest, her bonds,” Amy says, sharply.

“She is already damaged from the bonds. And you don’t really think she could escape the Outpost—or me. Do you, priestess?”

Amy flushes, and looks away. It’s probably true, but he’s an idiot to underestimate me.

Here’s the thing: People survive. After that initial change, we all found a way to survive. Some of us did simply by the grace and good wits of the people around us—that is the only reason a First lived long enough to see their fifth birthday. Blind fucking luck.

But after the chaos of the change, after we fled the East, and settled behind our Haven walls—we all found a way to survive. Working in the plants, and if you were desperate, the fields. Walking the Wall, and raising the next generation.

Some found peace and the will to carry on in the mundane—raising children and keeping house and making sure everything was right in their small worlds. It was a coping strategy—a way to deal with the constant threat of death hanging over their heads.

But denial isn’t dealing. It’s burying your head in the fucking sand and hoping your ass doesn’t get bit. It’s a luxury some get to indulge—the small children who have parents to protect them, the wives whose husbands Walk, the very rich who still seem to think money can buy them safety—and who aren’t far from wrong.

Those are the people who make up our society—what remains of it—and they are why society can continue. Because they refuse to believe anything else. We need people like them. They balance out the ones like Finn, and me. Who know we are living on borrowed time, in a world that is already dead but too stupid to accept it. We survive because we don’t bury our heads, because we know the risks and say fuck it. Finn is one of those people—it’s one of the reasons I hated him when Collin dragged him home. I saw myself in him. And I hated him, because it was easier than hating myself.

The Black priest is staring at me, and I see myself reflected in his eyes. A pretty girl with a dying brother, dressed in white and waiting to be killed. And even though it pisses me off, I let my eyes drop.

Stay alive.

Let him think I’m meek and docile, a quiet little sheep ready to be pampered before the inevitable slaughter. Let him think whatever the fuck he wants, right up until the day I kill him.

Chapter 4.

The Way of It

I follow the black priest through the outpost, trying to see everything at once. He moves us slowly enough that I can—and I see why. There isn’t a way out. It’s all brick and concrete, long tunnels, locked doors, a military efficiency that makes my blood run cold.

“What is it?” I ask, finally.

He gives me a toothy grin, and it occurs to me that he isn’t that much older than I am. He couldn’t have been much older than five during the change. I wonder who he knows, what life he led to be given a position this influential so young. “A government bunker. We picked it up when a contact infection hit and wiped out the people inside. The feds couldn’t wait to hand it over.”

My skin crawls as I look around, and he laughs. “We cleared the compound years ago—before I took my acolyte robes. We haven’t had a breach or uncontained infection in four years—which is better stats than any Haven, including 1.”

I blink, and he smiles. “Impressed?”

I’m not—I’m still snagged on one word. “What do you mean by uncontained infection?” I ask hoarsely.

His eyebrows go up. “You picked up on that, did you? Interesting. Most are too impressed with the track record to notice the details.”

I laugh, a short, unamused noise. “Your details add up to me being killed, and my brother somewhere in this ultra-clean hell hole. So maybe the details matter a helluva a lot.”

He nods and leads me down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, and into a small office. I step into the room, and my shoulders drop. It’s messy, the desk cluttered with paper and a few knives. The air smells of gunpowder and oil and steel—the distinct scent of weapons well cared for that takes me instantly back to my apartment with Collin in Hellspawn, hiding behind the curtain while he and Finn cleaned weapons in that quiet camaraderie they always shared.

Tears sting my eyes unexpectedly and I roll my eyes up, trying to get my shit together before the priest notices.

I still haven’t learned his name. “Who are you?” I ask abruptly, looking at him.

“My name is Silas Lark.” He sits across from me, all casual grace and comfort—silent reminders that this is his place, not mine. “And you?”

“Nurrin Sanders. Of 8.”

He flips open a thick file. “Ah. Yes, we’d heard about you, but you were under the protection of two Walkers. Deemed inadvisable to attempt retrieval.”

I stare at him, the comfort from a moment ago vanishing as suddenly as it came. My voice is remarkably steady as I force out the words. “You have a file on me?”

He smiles, a little knowing. “We have a file on every First, Ren.”

That name on his lips seems so wrong—almost an insult. I force that feeling down, and keep my voice even. “You do realize that I’m still protected by two Walkers?”

“We realize that one of them is in our med wing, fighting an infection that will eventually kill him. As for the other, well.” He shrugs. Looks around.

“You idiot,” I breathe, and his gaze snaps to mine, anger obvious, suddenly. It seems I’m not the only one wearing a mask here. I lean forward. “That other isn’t going to forget he was protecting me just because your presidential puppet stole me.”

“The other is not my concern anymore. He has no idea where you are or how to find you. No one does.” His tone is sharp. I’ve managed to piss him off.

And I don’t give a fuck. “You keep thinking that, Silas. If that makes you happy, keep on thinking it.”

He frowns, and I shift in my seat. I’m done playing nice with him for today. “Where is my brother?”

Annoyance flickers at the question, and I almost grin, because Finn hated my questions. He’d give me that—I shake my head, shake the memories, and swallow. “He’s in our med wing. The Gray Priests are doing what they can to stop his infection.”

“I want to see him.”

“We don’t expose sacrifices to a live infection. You should be able to understand that.” “I want to see him.” I repeat.

A smile creases his face, and he leans forward. “You should learn this lesson early. We don’t care what you want.”

I flush and he smiles, slow and toothy. His boyishness is almost offensive. “You are here for one reason, First. And we will do what we can to keep you comfortable and happy. But in the end, it doesn’t matter what you want. Just what your purpose is.” Silas stands abruptly and nods. “Here’s the way of it. We will keep you fed and safe, away from infections. Our Gray Priests will keep your family as healthy as they can. And you will die, when the time comes. It’s a simple thing, really.”

“Easy for you to say,” I rasp. “You aren’t the one doing the dying.”

“I’m not a First, Nurrin. That is your unique blessing and burden.”

“That’s an accident of fucking birth, idiot,” I spit, and he smiles again.

“Time to return to your room, then. Until you can find a little civility, you’ll remain there.”  The door swings open behind me and two acolytes sweep in, flanking me.

“I want to see my brother,” I say, the third time.

“Then learn some fucking manners,” Silas says, his smile and voice even.

They jerk me back by my arms and I fight them, all of my fury bubbling up suddenly. “Where the hell is my brother, you bastard!” One of the acolytes backhands me and I wheel on him, teeth snapping. He shouts, falling back as my teeth lodge in his hand, catching and yanking on the meaty palm.

“Control her!” Silas snarls and a blow slams into my temple. I bite down harder, and blood floods my mouth. The acolyte screams, a high shrill noise that makes me grin. I lift my head and smile, and I can feel the blood dripping down my chin, feel the horror in Silas and the acolytes.

And I love it. I spit out the blood, and it hits Silas’ desk with a wet splat that makes the acolyte flinch.

Silas stares at me for a long tense moment, and then, “Take her to Containment, and have the Grays test her.”

“Sir, she bit me,” the blue-robed acolyte whimpers.

Silas spares him a cold look before he looks back to me. “Then you better hope like hell she’s clean.”

Chapter 5.

Containment

Containment is containment, either in a Haven on the coast, or a government bunker underground. The unbitten acolyte shoves me roughly into a barred little room with nothing but a thin bed and bright lights.

The taste of blood still coats my mouth, copper pennies and rust and salty swat. My white tank top is bloody and sticking to my skin. I’m surprised no one has shot me—except they won’t. Even now, with the behavior I’m showing, the Order won’t kill me until they’re very sure I’m infected and impossible to save.

And I’m not. I’m just furious and using a cultural taboo to freak them the fuck out.

No one bites. Mothers will be shunned for their babies biting—it is too similar to the infects, too much of a death sentence, and no one will tolerate that. The acolytes slam the door behind him, his eyes wide as he watches me, and a Gray priest hurries in. “What happened?”

“She bit Charlie,” the acolyte babbles, pointing at his companion. Charlie looks decidedly gray, leaning against the wall, cradling the injured hand to his chest.

I smirk, leaning against the bars, my hands dangling. “Don’t worry, Charlie,” I taunt. “If I were infected, they could still save you through amputation.”

The Gray priest gives me a sharp look, and I bare my still-bloody teeth. His eyes narrow, and I see dislike there, before he turns away. “Charlie, with me.” He grabs a test kit from the wall and hands it to the uninjured acolyte. “Make sure she’s clean, Luke.”

His eyes bulge but the Gray and Charlie are gone before he can protest. I wave with one hand. “Let’s get it over with. I would rather not be shot by an overzealous acolyte trying to keep your clean record.”

He inches over and I can see him holding his breath as he catches my hand and pulls my arm straight. I don’t object—I’m not so set on fighting that I’ll fuck with a blood test—as he quickly draws a small vial of blood and drops in the test dye. For a moment, the color wavers, and then the dye vanishes and the blood deepens to a rich, dark red. I let out a tiny sigh. He stumbles to the door, his robes twisting around his feet. As the door bangs shut behind him, I hear him shouting, “Don’t shoot him—she’s clean!”  I swallow my laughter and go to sit on my bunk, drawing my legs up and hooking a hand on my knees.

Finn would be so proud.

Part 4.

The Monsters We Become

*

Syntherix will be the cure for all of the monstrous acts that are committed by the emotional unstable. It’s a miracle in a tiny package.

Dr. Heller-

**

There are no miracles. There are only monsters and death.

Sylvia Cragen-

Chapter 1.

The Living and Dead

Before the change, people killed. Every year, thousands of people were murdered by each other, and others died in accidents that were reckless and easily avoided. Death was easy and commonplace.

But it wasn’t the kind of commonplace that it is now.

It wasn’t every fourth person dying, turning, and rising to join the horde of hungry dead. Back then, people died, they stayed in the fucking ground. It was as it should be—a natural order. Aside from the rampant killing of each other.

It changed after the zombies. Everything changed, but murder—murder vanished overnight. What’s amusing is that everyone is a killer. Every fucking person alive has blood on their hands. In this world, there are no options.

Before, we were told that it takes a certain kind of soullessness to take a life. Not every man could, because not every man was a monster. And to kill, to be willing to end someone so completely—that was a monstrous thing. It is still.

And then monsters came, and they made monsters of us all.

Chapter 2.

The Death of the Order

Someone is wailing, not far off. I swallow my smirk, and shift forward as the press of people eases a little. This wouldn’t be a problem—even in 1, people like to avoid crowds and trapped places. But there is drama, and that is sure to guarantee that here, people will cluster and gossip.

Sick fucks.

I see the edge of what’s holding their attention. A scarlet red robe, dark and wet. I lean in, and see the girl.

“Was she bitten?” a hushed voice asks.

“No. Murdered.”

The word ripples out, striking against the walls of the alley and echoing back. I can see the fear in the eyes around me, in the way they draw back and eye each other.

The red priestess lies in alley, her eyes staring blankly into the morning sky, face twisted in fear, marred by a single bullet hole to the temple. One side of her face is pristine and beautiful still, even in the repose of death.

The other is mangled, blown open by the Stopper—a modified .45 caliber bullet that S&W put out a few months after the change. It goes in neat, with very little mess or evidence. It comes out blowing a hole the size of a fist in whatever it punches through—all her blood and bone and brain are gaping bloody at the sky.

“Who would do this?” a bewildered sounding Walker demands. “She was a priestess.”

I keep my face blank, but I turn and push my way out of the growing crowd. Word is spreading, already.

Remembering the fury and fear in her eyes when I pressed Nurrin’s gun to the priestess’ temple, I swallow my smile and drift through the Haven.

Late that night, I slip through the streets. It’s been five days since Nurrin disappeared, and I’m no closer to finding her. But the Haven is in an uproar because of the dead red priestess. More Walkers are on the wall, and in the streets.

Part of being able to go anywhere is refusing to believe there’s somewhere you shouldn’t be. So even though I know there is a curfew in place—Kenny ordered it within an hour after the priestess’ body was found—I stride through the dark streets with my head up, and nod at the passing Walkers. If they think it odd that a lone man is out in the streets after curfew, they don’t press me for answers.

I glance down at the scribbled note Claire had sent me just after lunch. Going to her for information was risky—especially given what I was doing with that information—but I was angry enough and desperate enough to not give a fuck. But I still wanted to put some distance between us before shit went completely off the rails.

I had never dragged Claire through my personal hell. I didn’t plan to start now.

The priest lives in one of the apartment complexes. Not surprising—even the Order has to hang their robes up and be a Haven cog at some point. I step into the apartment building, and eye the staircase. He’s on the fifth floor, and I have a feeling this will be messy.

Death is part of our world. I don’t mind that. But it doesn’t mean collateral damage makes me happy. It happens—but I’d avoid it if I can.

I jog up the stairs, and push open the steel door. The airlock gives a soft hiss, and then opens. It’s not a great complex—but each floor is a secure zone. If a live infection broke out, the security strips in each apartment would catch it and lock down the floor.

It would be a death sentence for everyone else on the floor, but it would contain the infection, and keep the entire complex from being exposed.

The security sensor above the airlock blinks as it picks up my body heat, scanning me quickly for infection. They aren’t foolproof, but some people like to think they are.

People are fucking idiots. I shove the thought aside, and move to apartment 503.

There is a little movement inside—I smirk. They dismissed the threats. Because ignorance and dismissal will always be the choice people make until they have no alternative.

He won’t have one—but by the time he realizes that, it’ll be too late.

I knock lightly, and wait a moment. “Walker business, sir,” I shout, keeping my head down. “Open the door.”

It opens. Because in this changed world, very few things will trump Walker business. They’re our first and last defense against the infected, and most citizens worship them. In 8, there were whole groups of girls who filtered through the ranks. We didn’t need the Order-run vice clubs—a Walker merely needed a little interest and he would have a willing bed partner.

The green priest is little more than a child—one of those wretches born after the change. He isn’t wearing his robes now—he’s in a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt that points at how malnourished he is.

The Order isn’t protecting their own, if their priests look this shitty.

“You,” he breathes, and I nod, pushing into the little apartment. I lock it behind me and point at the couch. He’s still staring, shock in his eyes. “You killed Cass.”

“I did warn you,” I say, softly. I’m not apologizing. Not for doing what I warned I would do. Not when Nurrin is god knows where, and I’m being refused answers.

“You can’t just kill people, man,” he protests on a loud burst. “That’s not the way the world works.”

I push him toward the couch. He’s still standing, when I’ve been clear what I expect. “Sit down, Travis.”

His eyes go even wider, and I pull Nurrin’s gun. She must be furious that she’s unarmed. The first thing I’m doing when I find her is spanking her ass for going anywhere without her gun. Or a fucking knife. I shove that thought aside. Focus on the problem at hand. “Sit,” I say again. Motion to the couch. Guns motivate people. He drops like a fucking stone. “You can’t kill me. I’m not a zombie.”

“And you will be happy to know that when I do kill you, it’ll be traumatic brain injury. You won’t change.”

Relief flickers for a moment, before it’s buried by denial. “You don’t have the balls to murder in cold blood.”

I smile at that. “Cass thought the same thing, until I slit her throat. She was still alive when I blew a hole in her temple. She was bleeding out, but she was alive. She knew it was happening.”

“Why are you doing this?” he whimpers, and I straighten, annoyed with the tears and snot dripping down his face.

“Because your Order has something I want. And I’ll kill until she’s returned. I warned you and the Haven’s priest. This should come as very little fucking surprise.”

“No one believed you!”

“Then they’re stupider than they fucking look, and that’s pretty fucking stupid,” I snap.

“Killing me won’t get her. They don’t care about me.”

I give him a small smile. “You don’t matter. Neither did Cass. Neither will the three I kill after you. But by the fifth or sixth dead body, Kenny will be forced to act. 1 won’t tolerate bodies piling up in their haven.  And I’ll have the attention of the High Priest in the Stronghold. And they can give me what I want.”  “So you’ll kill us until the big boys pay attention?” he demands, his voice sharp and outraged.

I smile and nod. “You catch on quickly.”

I lift the gun, and pull the trigger, the sound echoing around the entire room. I can hear screams from the other apartments.

Travis’ body hits the ground as the apartment door closes behind me and I duck into the stairwell. No one has emerged from their apartments. No one will. Gunshots mean death, and death means infection and no one in their right mind will stick their head out for a zombie to notice.

No one sees me leave.

Chapter 3.

The Cloud Over 1

I’m tired. It’s been almost twelve hours since the last body was found, and I’m exhausted at the prospect of going back out to kill again. This might be necessary, but I hate it. Every fucking second of it.

I’m sitting on the bed. The house on the edge of the wall is too small to afford anywhere else to sit. My weapons are spread in front of me, the familiar scent of gun oil filling the tiny space. I go still when I hear footsteps outside—too many to just be Walkers. I summon a smile, and reach for a throwing star, tucking it out of sight before returning my attention to the gun in front of me.

She would hate it being dirty. There was blood splatter on the barrel, from the night before, and I know how much that would annoy her. Nurrin was a fanatic about keeping her weapons clean. I can’t remember how many times I arrived in their apartment for Collin to find Nurrin in a tiny pair of shorts and oversized t-shirt, cleaning her gun or sharpening her knives.

A solid banging on the door pulls me from my thoughts, and I blink to clear my head as the door swings open. Three of Kenny’s guards are with him, glaring at me as the current president steps into my tiny house. His gaze travels it quickly, and I see the subtle tightening of his lips. He doesn’t want to be here. Of course he doesn’t. Kenny has never been one to acknowledge the fact that I shared things with Kelsey that he didn’t—and that was never more apparent than in this place.

I check the slide on Nurrin’s gun, and give him a bored look. “What do you want, Kenny?”

“Give me a moment, gentlemen,” he says, and I smirk as the guards stiffen. They don’t know how far I’ll go—they don’t know anything about me except that I fought with Kelsey in the East. But they know enough to know that their boss doesn’t have a fan in me. They don’t want to leave him alone, unprotected.

Kenny gives them a sharp look. “He won’t touch me with you outside. Now go.”

The door closes softly behind the guards, and I return to polishing the barrel of the gun. “Don’t you have a country to run?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“Six dead, O’Malley, in four days. That’s fast work, even for you.”

My expression shifts, all false concern. “The murders? It’s awful. I hope you catch the lunatic behind it.”

“Fuck you, O’Malley. Why are you doing this?”

“I want Ren back, Kenny. That is the only thing I’m doing—trying to get her back. I don’t suppose you have anything helpful to add to that endeavor?”

Anger twists his face. “I don’t have her.”

“And I don’t have your killer,” I say coolly. “So I guess we’re both unhappy.”

Kenny barks a laugh, all pissed off indignation. “You can’t fucking tell me that someone else is doing the killings. No one else could. Two of them were in the Order’s clubs—and no one saw anything.”

I grin at him, a deliberate, lazy smirk that has his fists clenching. “I can’t imagine what kind of resources it took to pull that shit off, Kenny. But I’ve been out of 1 for so long—people here don’t owe me the kind of favors to pull that weight.” I pause, letting him think about that, and then add, “But whoever did it must be seriously determined. And mad as fuck.”

Kenny shifts. “Is that what you are, O’Malley? Mad? Because I’ve lived with the taste of rage for years— since you killed her. Don’t talk to me about fury.”

I shift. I know what he’s doing—it’s what he’s always done—push Kelsey up and use it to distract me. “Kelsey was a solider. Not just a solider; she was a commander. Do you know how many people we lost in the East?”

He pales. No one has exact numbers. Best estimates say that three hundred and twenty million people were in the United States when the zombies rose. A quarter of those died in the initial change—and then we sent our soldiers into the East, to facilitate evac, and kill the dead, and try to reclaim what we had lost.

Another twenty million were killed in the ten-year Battle for the East. The numbers were devastating, and no one—not a single person living today—could say that they walked through the apocalypse unscathed. Everyone had dead. Every child was an orphan.

“She knew her odds when she went to war. She knew them and so did your father. Blame me if you’re too stupid to realize anything else, but don’t forget that Kelsey never allowed anyone to make her fucking choices, and I followed her into that fucking war to keep her alive.”

Fury twists his face. “And you failed.”

I go quiet, because I can’t argue with that. I did. I walked away from the East, came home haunted and a hero, and she—didn’t.

“Where is Nurrin?” I ask quietly.

“Let it go, O’Malley. Take whatever the fuck you think you have a right to and go crawl back in your hole. She’s gone, and 1 doesn’t want you.”

“Fuck you, Kenny,” I say, my face blank. Then I let my gaze drop, back to the gun in my hand, completely dismissing him. Kenny knows me well enough to know that it’s an insult.

There’s a tense moment, and then, “You know they will never tolerate you murdering your way through their priests. Even you aren’t above the Order.”

I look up, and give him a bleak smile. “I’m sure whoever is doing these killings has considered that. If I had to guess, I would say it is probably motivating his actions.”

Kenny’s eyes widen but he doesn’t say anything else as he leaves me alone.

The knock pulls me from my light sleep, and I snatch up a weapon, rolling from my bed to flatten against the wall. The knock comes again, softer than I expect. Lower. I relax a little, and pull open the door. It’s a street urchin, bedraggled and dirty. “What?” I demand.

“Miss Claire needs you,” he says, and I nod shortly. Claire has always been fond of using the orphans to do her fetch and carry. She pays them in baked goods and fruit, and they bring her more information than any haven official. She gives them a warm place to crash that isn’t the state run orphanage.

It works for everyone.

“Tell her I need a few minutes.”

“You will come? She doesn’t like it when I don’t deliver,” the boy says, and I nod. I was one of Claire’s street rats, once. I understood too well this kid’s desperation.  “I’ll be there.”

I dress quickly and buckle on my weapons belt, snatching up my crossbow and katana before I leave.

The streets are quiet and empty. Even Walkers have deserted them in favor of the Wall—no one has been murdered on the Wall. No one will, if things go according to plan. I have no desire to see the citizens and defenses of 1 decimated. I just want Nurrin back.

I glance up. The moon is hanging low and heavy in the night sky, and I wonder if she’s somewhere she can see it. “Where the fuck are you, Ren? We’re going to lose Collin.”

And there it is—the fear that I don’t want to acknowledge. I can’t abandon her—he wouldn’t want or expect me to. Finding her will be my first priority until I have her safely back at my side, snapping with anger and demanding answers I can’t give.

But every minute I spend looking for her is one I don’t spend looking for him.

Collin will die because I have to find her, and she might never forgive me for that.

Chapter 4.

Old Allies

Claire is waiting for me on her porch, blowing on a cup of tea and staring into the dark. I notice her long before she notices me, and I swallow my irritation. She has spent too many years in 1 to remember that it’s dangerous to stand like that—backlit, smelling like a fucking buffet.

“Even 1 has the occasional breach, Claire,” I say, stepping out of the darkness. She flicks a look at me, and I see the knife in her hand, the tension in her body. I dip my head, a smile tugging my lips.

Of course she didn’t forget. Claire didn’t survive this long by making stupid decisions. “What happened?” I ask, climbing the stairs to stand next to her.

“If I help you, will you stop killing?” she asks.

I go blank, and let my gaze drift away. “I’m not controlling this, Claire. The killing will end when Ren is back where she belongs.”

“What if she did leave?” Claire asks, softly.

I give her a dark glare, and she nods. “I agree. That girl wouldn’t have left you unless she had a dead body to prove her brother’s death.”

She wouldn’t have left then. I wouldn’t have let her.

“Come inside, Finn. Let me help you, if I can.”

I give her a long look, but she’s not explaining shit and I’m desperate enough that I’ll take whatever scraps I can find. And if it doesn’t fall the way I want, I can walk back out. There is nothing stopping me from that.

A brief thought crosses my mind, that she could have Kenny’s men in there—but if I can’t trust Claire, there is no one left that I can trust, and that is too depressing to consider, so I follow her into the little house.

Orwell is in the living room, along with two older men I don’t know, and a girl young enough that she didn’t see the change, or life before the Walls.

I go still in the doorway, and Claire pokes me with one bony finger, pushing me to one side as she enters behind me. “You can walk into the damn room, O’Malley.”

I flick a look at her—I trust Claire. But these other people—I don’t know them, and I don’t have any reason to trust them.

“They can help you,” she says, softly. “Listen to them.”

I look at her, and then I step into the little room and take the single free-standing chair. Claire pats my arm as she moves past me, settling next to the dark-haired girl with wide, brown eyes. She sees me watching her, and her gaze drops, almost scared.

My lips twist. Little Haven mouse. She’d never survive outside the Walls. I let my gaze travel the other three, focusing on the two I don’t know. “Who are you?” I ask, tugging my katana around so it isn’t stabbing into me. Claire makes a snort, and I flick a look at her. I’m past civility.

“Luke Holts. I served as Andrew’s chief of staff during the turn,” one of them says. I narrow my eyes. I remember him and Kelsey’s father and mine huddled around maps, blacked out by the infected. Holts had been influential in getting the Havens in working order. He saved lives, by hiding us behind walls. But he kept the supply trains running in and out of the East for years—even after the initial evac orders ran, and civilians were safe.

He saved lives then, too.

I swing my gaze to the other man, a wiry man with gray hair, teeth too white and unnatural in his smooth face. He smiles, wide and smooth. A fucking politician. “Sonny Kamen.”

“You ran against Kenny in the election,” I say, cutting him off.

“I did. And I fought in the East, in Detroit and then Chicago.” I sit up a little straighter, my interest piqued. I don’t know everyone who fought in the East—there were far too many to keep track of everyone, but I know those battles and I know we barely survived them.

“Why did you lose the election?” I ask, softly.

“Because he didn’t have my support,” the girl says, her voice softly musical. I shift to stare at her. She’s leaning forward, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders, and I reassess quickly—she might look like a baby of the apocalypse, but this girl has more going on than I first saw.

“Who are you?” I ask, quietly.

A tiny smile turns her lips. “Holly. I’m the acolyte that Omar planted here to keep him aware of what happens in the Haven. I’m the one who controls our Order here—because with just a few words, I inform his opinion.”

“Why?” I ask and something sparks in her eyes. Respect. I’m asking the right questions.

“Because he kept me alive. When my parents were dead and no one gave a damn, Omar took me and made sure I was safe. When he joined the Order after Columbus, he rose quickly through the ranks. And then he asked me to be an acolyte. He had a dozen of us, and he scattered us around the country, so he could keep a finger on the pulse of the people, even when he was locked in the Stronghold.”

Conniving old bastard. “He knows what’s happening here?” I ask, and she nods. Licks her lips, and fear darts into her gaze for a moment.

“He’s coming here,” she says.

I nod, shoving down the familiar anger. Kenny will be pissed, having us both in his Haven again.

The president would just have to learn how to deal with the little disappointments in life.

“So why are we here?” I ask.

“If you want the Order to help you—even through the back channels that Omar can offer, you have to stop killing,” the girl says. I lift an eyebrow, and her expression goes fierce. “I won’t control them if you continue to slaughter us. The killing of the Order stops. Now.”  “Do you have her?” I ask, and she sits back.

“We don’t know. There are theories, but we can’t know—not for sure. Not yet.”

I look at Sonny. He’s the one who interjected, and I want to reach across the room and shake him. “Then what the fuck am I doing here?” I snarl.

“Listening for once,” Claire snaps and the girl gives a soft snicker that makes me want to pull my gun.

I force myself to sit back, and Orwell speaks up. “Every few months—Stiles has a personal truck delivery. It’s not cleared through the Walkers. It almost cost him the presidency, because I couldn’t justify the danger of exposing the Haven to god knows what to make him happy. I was overridden by the Order. But it happens. I think he smuggled her out of the haven in one of those delivery trucks.”

My heart drops. Because if she isn’t in 1, she could be anywhere. Chasing Collin, even knowing the clues he would leave, was hard enough. I had no hope of finding Nurrin—she had no idea what to leave to help me. And even though I knew it was a strong possibility, hearing it spelled out so certainly—it guts me.

“Where would he take her?”

Holly tilts her head. “Omar is reaching out. We aren’t as blind as you think—and being taken away from 1 isn’t a death sentence.”

“She’s with the Order,” I snarl. For Nurrin, that is a death sentence. Claire makes a noise in the back of her throat, and I shift, realize I’m clutching my gun. Her gun. When the fuck did I draw?

Holly studies me, and I meet her piercing stare coldly. “You look at the Order and see the killing. The sacrifice and vice clubs.” She says.

I hesitate. Something in her voice slows me. Amusement and a hint of pity. “If all we were was a cult that thrived on the chaos, we wouldn’t have grown every year since the change. We have. We went from one insane man feeding babies to the horde to an Order that touches every haven in the nation and controls the presidency. We are about so much more than a few vices and killing.” I think she means it to be comforting. But it’s not. It’s terrifying. Holly stands. “Will you stop killing?” she asks, and I hesitate.

“Yes,” I say, “but when you find who has her—I will kill whoever hurt her.”

She stares for a long moment, and then nods. “Gentlemen.”

We all watch silently as she exits the room, and then Holts releases a breath. I glance at him, and he offers up a tired smile. “She’s useful—probably more than I want to think about. But the girl is creepy as fuck.”

Sonny laughs next to him, and I assess them. “If Holly can find Nurrin, why are you here?” “There’s a horde on the move,” Orwell says heavily. “Our far scouts have see it moving this way.” “How far out are they scouting?” I ask, shifting.

“Twenty miles. The horde isn’t closing on 1, not yet. But it won’t take much for them to shift direction, and if they do…” He doesn’t finish the statement. He doesn’t need to. A horde will devastate 1. Even if the Walkers and the standing army did their job—something I’m not convinced they could do—I’ve seen the horde and what they do. They can’t be stopped.

“Evacuate,” I say, looking at Holts. “You’ve done it before—get the people out of this place.”

He looks old. That’s what bothers me. Andrew Buchman had a young administration. They ran on the youth vote—a family man with a young daughter and a beautiful wife and a finger on the pulse of the people—especially the ones under thirty.

Holts was thirty-eight when ERI-Milan broke, spreading like wildfire. Thirty-eight and fervent with the belief that they could do something, could save the world.

And in his way, he did.

But I don’t see that fanatic belief in his eyes now. I see resignation and death.

“We have nowhere to go, O’Malley. The Havens are ours—but you know the infection holds the Wide Open. We can’t reclaim it.”

“If you stay behind these Walls, you’ll die here,” I say.

“You know the infection. Teach us how to fight it.”

I laugh, a sharp noise. Fury and disbelief and hopelessness fill me. “I don’t know shit, Holts. I never did. I was seven when ERI mutated in Emilie. Seven fucking years old. I knew we were visiting friends and I knew my mum died. That’s all I fucking knew.”

“But you’ve survived,” Orwell says, desperation leaking into his voice.

“Because I don’t fucking rely on Walls to keep me safe,” I snap, jerking out of my seat. I can’t stay here— I need to find her and even if I tell them—they won’t listen.

No one ever fucking listens. Not when Mother told them not to use ERI, and not when I told them  the Havens would fall. Not when I said the virus was changing. Not when I told Buchman that trying to take back Columbus would cost too many lives.

I blink, shaking the memories. Fucking memories.

“I survive because I’m not hiding behind walls, hoping the dead don’t notice me. You can’t.” I stop, staring at them watching me. They don’t understand.

“Take them out of the Havens,” I say dully. “Put them in a place where they aren’t defined by their limits and fear.”

“Who?” Claire asks, her voice shaky with fear. I look at her. I’m so tired. I want Nurrin and Collin, and a quiet place to rest.

Even knowing it can’t last, I want it.

“Everyone,” I say. “Take everyone out of the Havens.”

Chapter 5.

Reluctant Trust

The lesson that I learned, in my years of fighting in the East and watching the world fall to pieces, is that everyone wants something. And really, for most of us, it’s basic. We want to live. We don’t even need to tack happy on. We just want to live our lives. Some of us need to buy the lie to do that.

And that’s my problem. Because I hate lies. I hate them when there isn’t a reason for them, and I really fucking hate them when they’re well-intentioned.

The Haven is a lie. It’s a promise of safety that can’t really be delivered. Walkers can patrol the Walls, and the far scouts can clear out any wandering infects. But in the face of a horde? They can’t do a damn thing, and the walls meant to protect and keep the civilians safe become the tool that keeps them from escape.

It’s a pretty lie.

But in the end, a lie is a lie, and it doesn’t matter how pretty it is—it’ll still kill you.

The day drags slow. Sonny and Holts leave shortly after I tell them to evac the Havens, and Orwell stays only long enough to murmur a few words to Claire before he gives me a searching stare and vanishes.

Waiting makes me anxious—I can feel her slipping away. Claire eventually banishes me from the downstairs, and I lock myself into the dusty bedroom on the second floor, lying on the bed.

I don’t lie to myself. And the truth—the ugly truth that I’ve been avoiding is this is my fault. All of it.

Nurrin is with the order, Collin god knows where, because I wouldn’t make the hard choices. I should have killed Dustin before it became a threat.

And I never should have left her alone in 1. I knew it was dangerous—knew Kenny would use whatever he could to hurt me. She was a First, in a town run by the Order, and I fucking left her.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back on the dusty pillow. She had been furious and gorgeous, demanding answers as she stood in my little room.

Maybe I’m the one who fucked up. If I had been able to trust her a little more, maybe this wouldn’t have happened—she wouldn’t have needed to go to Kenny for information. She would still be here.

I roll to the side, the thought making me sick.

Whoever has her—whatever is happening. I could have prevented it, if I had just fucking trusted her.

“Finn.” Claire’s voice is soft and jerks me from my thoughts. I drop my arm from where it’s resting over my eyes and reach for my gun. “Finn, you need to come downstairs.”

“Give me just a second,” I grit out and I hear her pad away, the distinct limp in her step heavier than usual.

I can’t think about all the shit that’s not right. I can’t think about anything except getting her back, and finding Collin. I sit up, methodically strapping on my weapons, and head downstairs.

Omar is standing in the small kitchen, listening to one of Claire’s Haven urchins chatter about a zombie pack that wandered too close to the Wall. His head is down, and he’s focused on the child like he holds the secret to the end of ERI-Milan.

I step in quietly, and Claire pauses in the midst of pouring a cup of tea. Her eyes dart to me, nervous and afraid, and I force a thin smile as I let my gaze wander of the Black High Priest.

He isn’t wearing robes. He’s dressed for combat, in dark brown cargo pants with tear-away pockets, and steel-reinforced fabric. His shirt matches, covering him to his wrists, slightly bulky over the body plates.

He looks like he did when we fought side by side for Kelsey.

Rage hits, hot and sweet and endlessly familiar, and I take a deep breath, trying to push through it. I’m not here because of a dead girl I couldn’t protect.

I’m here for the one I can.

Holly steps up to my side, and eyes me sidelong. “You know he’s taking a risk by coming here, don’t you? The Black Priest rules from the Stronghold. It’s been that way since Sawyer first created it. He controls our militant arm from there—and Omar has enough enemies that leaving the Stronghold could backfire. We can’t help you if he’s deposed.”

I give her an icy stare. “You don’t know your priest as well as you think if you believe he’ll lose his position because he took a few days away from the casino. If I know anything about Omar, I know he wouldn’t willing risk his position for anyone—especially not me. And he wouldn’t leave without safeguards.”

“O’Malley, don’t give the girl all my secrets,” Omar rumbles, without looking away from the child. Claire makes a small noise of displeasure, and steps forward, drawing the boy away and pressing a small bar of chocolate into his hand. She pushes him from the room, and the boy goes without complaint.

I stare at the Black Priest. Once upon a lifetime ago, he was my friend, the partner who kept me alive, the quiet rumble in our convoy that made shit make sense and settled Kelsey when she was furious and impetuous.

Which was more than it wasn’t.

And then he became something else, something so wrapped in tragedy and my own failure that I couldn’t separate my rage for it from my anger at him.

I still can’t. And everything in me—every fucking thing—screams that this is a bad idea, that trusting him will end with blood and death.

Omar straightens, giving me a searching stare. “Is she worth risking your life?”

I don’t answer, just lean back against the door and cross my arms over my chest. Omar mutters a curse.

Rubs a hand over his head. “You’ll need me to help you. She’s not going to be easy to retrieve.”  “How not easy?” I ask.

“Enough that I’m not convinced this a good idea,” Omar says, cryptically. “Walk with me.”

I hesitate, and his gaze turns hot and heavy. My lips tighten just a little and I push off the door, and move to Claire. Drop down to give her a quick kiss. “I’ll be back later.”

“Be careful. I don’t trust him,” she says, loud enough that Omar hears. I hide my grin in her hair, and hug her before I step back and nod at Omar. Holly takes a step after us and Omar turns, pinning her with a glare. Her lips compress, and I see what I saw the first time I looked at her—an apocalypse baby with no idea of the world.

Omar pushes open the door, and I follow him outside.

Chapter 6.

Ghosts of the Past

The first time I saw Omar, I was twelve. Five years after ERI-Milan broke in Atlanta, we were still adjusting to life behind Haven walls and the fact that there was no end in sight.

Then, we still believed in a cure. We were still fucking idiots.

Omar was larger than life. At eighteen, he was already fighting in the East. And in a battleground that spanned hundreds of miles and millions of lives, he rose to the top. He led the first foray into Atlanta after the bombing. He rescued as many survivors as he killed infects.

We had heard his legend before he ever arrived in 1. Kelsey was already slipping her handlers, disappearing with me to spar and train. Every time, it set the entire haven in a panic, but every time, I helped her.

Few things would make her smile—but that did.

When Omar first walked into our lives, Kelsey decided that he would be the soldier who would push us from training in secret to the frontlines.

He did. With his help, and her determination, we went from a couple of kids to an elite force.

And then we killed her.

Chapter 7.

The Assistance of the Order

Omar and I are enough to cause a stir in any place—but in Haven 1, where we both have a past and connections, we draw more attention than I’m comfortable with.

“Do you have ways out?” he asks, abruptly. I glance at him, and let a slow smile turn my lips. He makes a disgusted noise in his throat. “Your bolt-holes will bring down a haven one day.”  “They’re falling just fine without my help,” I say coolly.

He grunts, and we walk another stretch in silence. He’s steering the direction of the walk and the conversation, and I’m letting him. But when we finally reach the jogging track, where Walkers do PT and citizens can work out excess energy, I finally shift my full attention on him. “Where is she, Omar?”

“How much do you know of the Order?”

I think about the Grays in 6, and Holly here, moving the pieces to control a president. I think of Lori in 18.

“Not as much as I should,” I say, grudgingly. “Enough to know you don’t belong with a group of bloodthirsty fanatics.”

Omar’s expression sours, just a little. “They are a means to an end.”  “What end is that?” I ask, quietly.

Omar pauses, studying me for a long moment. “I spent almost ten years watching people die, fighting for the East, and then some bastard decided we couldn’t win, and everyone who died did it for no reason. There’s no fucking sense in that.”

I stare at him, not sure I believe what I’m hearing. “We can’t win that battle. You know that—we fought it. We know what the numbers were like. The population was too dense.”

That was the real problem in the East. For every one we evac’ed, another didn’t make it out. Too many died too fast, in too small a space. There was no way to put them all down, because every solider who died came back. We didn’t have the manpower or the weaponry to take it back. There was a theory that they didn’t migrate west as we ceded the battle because the dead were territorial—they died and stayed where they died.

It was a stupid fucking theory. They didn’t chase because they were dead fucking walking, and they didn’t have that kind of thought process. They only knew to chase flesh and when we pulled out, it was fast and clean—there was nothing left to chase.

Omar’s eyes gleam, fanatically bright. “We can take it back. The Order, the Walkers and the army. If we work together—we can win the East back.”

“Omar, the same thing that was true ten years ago is still true. We can’t face them with large numbers— it will mutate the ERI in us. That’s what started this in Atlanta.”

“You aren’t listening,” he snaps, and I hate that part of me wants to jerk to attention, a muscle memory even after ten years.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. If you want her back, it matters a helluva a lot.”

I go still, staring at him. “What the fuck is this going to cost me?”

He looks away, walking again, and I fall in beside him. “I know where she is. And I can retrieve her—but it’ll either cost me my position in the Order, and a chance to recover the East, or there will be a regime change.”

“What will that entail?” I ask, softly.

“One assassination,” he answers. “Lori is dead—we confirmed it. 18 fell a week ago. The Red sect doesn’t have a High Priestess, for now. But there is someone with enough power to threaten my hold on the Order.”

I stare at the track. “Is she safe?”

“For now,” Omar says, his voice blank. “But this offer has an expiration date, O’Malley. If we do this, we do it now. If not, I go away and wait for the right opportunity, and you walk away without the girl.”  One death. One person to kill, and I can have her back, can keep the promise.

In the end, it’s not even a choice.

I nod. “Who do I have to kill?”

Chapter 8.

Assassinations

I sit on the edge of the wall, my feet hanging down. The sun set hours ago, and 1 is shutting down, closing in on itself and the darkness.

Even now, twenty years after the zombies rose and took Atlanta, the fear of monsters in the dark is an instinctual thing.

There are few things I can say with certainty I am good at. I was seven when the world changed, and all my childhood dreams died with my mother in Atlanta. I never had the chance to be good at anything.

And in the changed world, the options are limited. I am good at surviving. I’m good at knowing what the hell is happening and getting the fuck out of the way. At annoying Collin and pissing off Ren and keeping my own council.

And I am good, very good, at killing.

I click my magazine into the gun, and let out my breath as I stand. The air is turning cool, early for the onset of winter, but not unexpected. It catches my mood. I glance up at the moonless sky, and I pray. For the first time since Columbus and everything went sideways, and before that, when Atlanta fell and my mother died, leaving me an orphan for all intents and purposes.

I pray that this one last life is enough to buy back Nurrin’s freedom. That trusting the Black Priest won’t prove to be as deadly a mistake as it did ten years ago.

That wherever and whatever Kelsey is now, she isn’t watching me now.

Then I shove all of my maudlin shit aside, and jog silently down the stairs, off to kill a president.

Chapter 9.

The Order’s Price

Even the president will stop for the order. That is how Omar set it up.

It’s not unusual for the Order’s presidential puppet to meet with a visiting High Priest. Kenny will hate to be manipulated into an unexpected meeting, but he’ll come. He’ll have no choice.

Which is why I'm crouched in a dim hall, waiting for the arrival of a man I hate. Doing favors and wet work for the man I don't trust. I always knew my life was fucked up, but this is a new low, even for me.

Ren's somewhere with the Order, though and every fucking time I think about that, my blood runs icy. One more death. One more, and it's over.

Down the hall, the door swings open, and I can hear the boots of Kenny's personal guards. I wonder, listening to him move closer, if he thinks they are like us. Like the ones who followed Kelsey into hell and back out again, damaged because we came out the other side without her to keep us whole.

Even the survivors died, in ways. None of us were the same, after.

And isn't that the fucking theme song for this world.

Kenny and his guards walk past me, into the room. I swallow the curse raging in me. I don’t want to do this shit with his people in the room. I want it clean and quick—but that’s why I’m here. Because Omar knew it wouldn’t be clean or quick.

The Black Priest had never been good at either. Messy was his specialty.

I wait until I can hear the voices from the other room settle into conversation, and then I slip from the empty hall.

This isn’t how I would have chosen to do this. I’d have slipped into his room at night, opened his throat and vanished.

That would be easy and clean. And for a moment, reaching for my knife, I hesitate. Because the whole setup rubs me wrong. Killing is one thing, and necessary. Making Omar’s statements—that’s another fucking thing entirely.

But this is his price, and I’ll swallow just about anything to find Nurrin. I pull my knife and slink out of the shadows.

There is a guard at the door, his back to me as I slip it open. Omar’s eyes flick over to me and then back to Kenny, his expression never changing. I slip in behind the guard, and I feel him stiffen, a heartbeat before my hand clamps down on his mouth, and I jerk him back, dragging my knife across his throat. The man makes a startled, muffled noise, and Omar shifts, speaking over Kenny as blood sprays in a wet arc. His body goes limp and I lower him slowly, keeping my hand tight to his mouth as I do.

I’m good at what I do. The man’s eyes are already drifting closed as I lay him out. Without looking away from the table, I stab him again, high in the thigh. The answering spread of blood is deep and red—I hit the femoral artery I was aiming for.

He’ll be dead before his boss.

I shift, coming to my feet silently. There is still one guard, at Kenny’s back, and I prowl forward, pulling my bow silently around. It will happen fast—so fast. And I’m not stupid enough to think Kenny is unarmed.

I crouch a few feet behind them, and release a breath, focusing myself. And release the bolt. The quarrel whistles through the air, and embeds in the guard’s skull. He’s dead before he hits the table.

“What the fuck!” Kenny shouts, jerking away from the table and I pull her gun, rising smoothly. My bow clatters against the ground, forgotten as I advance on the president.

I’ll be executed for this. Not even exiled—treason is still an offense punishable by death. An assassination is about as treasonous as it gets.

There is a smile on my lips, a sick certainty that I’m signing my own death warrant as I lift the gun and press it to Kenny’s temple.

“Where the fuck is she?” I growl.

I hate Kenny. And he has always hated me. Because I was the one Kelsey chose, every time there was a choice. Because I was the one in Columbus with her. Because when it all ended, I was the one who grieved, and the one the world—what was left of it—saw grieve.

Kenny was forgotten by me, and Kelsey, the world—his father. And he never forgave me for it.

“She’ll be dead before you get to her, O’Malley. My people will have her killed before you reach the fucking Walls.”

I punch him, and he stumbles into the table. I could shoot him. Put an end to all of this shit—but hitting him feeds a visceral need in me. I grin, and Kenny growls, lunging at me. I catch his weight and bring my elbow down into his kidney. For a moment, he freezes, and I grab him by the hair, slamming his head down on the table. I hear bone crunch, and Kenny shouts, a grabled noise as I pull back and slam his head down again.

Hands pull me back, and I snarl at Omar. “What? You wanted a dead president. Back the fuck off!”

I shake him off and Kenny rolls to his back. His face is a mess of blood and broken teeth and his hands are up, the universal gesture of surrender.

“I can help you,” he slurs. “Don’t kill me. I can help you. I’ve worked with your Order. I can give you a platform to further your sect’s agenda. You wouldn’t be the High Priest without knowing how to help yourself.”

Omar goes still, staring at the man I want dead. The one who kidnapped the only woman I’ve ever promised to protect.

“How can you help me, little president?”

Part 5.

The Edge of Hope

*

Hope rises from the ashes. It carries us to rebuild a world that the infection destroyed. It keeps us going.

President Andrew Buchman-

**

We all have it to start with. But hope dies in childhood—when we all learn that there is no cure. There is no way out. There is only this.

Nurrin Sanders-

Chapter 1.

Broken Girl, Broken World

I’m not infected. Of course I’m not. I’m a First. It would be too easy for me to die from ERI-Milan. The Order doesn’t believe in easy shit—it has to be painful. It has to hurt like fuck, and come only after I have tortured myself with the knowledge of what’s coming.

That’s the worst part. The anticipation.

They pump me full of drugs, and Silas orders me left in Containment. I’m not infected, but it’s a punishment. When I’m awake enough for shit to make sense, I know that it’s a punishment.

A few times, I wake, and I know someone has been here. My thin white clothes barely cover me, and it hurts to move. It hurts to breathe, and the knowledge that I’ve been touched, even under drugs, makes me violently and ill.

Occasionally he lets me see Collin.

Collin, who should be dead, and isn’t. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing to keep him alive, but I know it’s not a cure. It won’t work, long-term. Every time I see him, he’s a little worse—he’s skinny, clammy, pale. Shriveled. I can see the veins under his skin, dark with blood and infection. Every heart beat pushes him further into the sickness.

He screams, sometimes. I sit in my Containment cell, and I can hear their contained infects shrieking in hunger. I know them, the way they sound, how they move as a pack and individually.

And sometimes, when they scream, Collin does. That scares me more than anything.

No. That’s not true.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. Long enough that my brother should be dead, and I should be lost in the depths of the Order.

Long enough that there is no reason Finn has not found me.

Finn said once that hope is what killed us. Hope is what made us get up and keep trying, when logic said we were dead. And hope being crushed is what would kill us in the end.

I didn’t understand that, when he said it. It’s a stupid fucking emotion. Zombies kill. Emotions just make you weak.

I didn’t get it, because I was just a stupid fucking haven girl.

I get it now.

Chapter 2.

New Arrivals

I’m shivering when i wake up. The drugs don’t allow for much clarity at first, but I know I’m cold and naked under my thin blanket. I usually am, after a drug dose clears. I shiver, and tuck the blanket around me as I sit up. The rooms beyond containment are empty, which is unusual. I stare at them, and don’t hear any noise. I don’t hear anything.

“Hello?” I whisper.

An echoing silence greets me.

The Outpost never gets this quiet. There are always acolytes cleaning and whispering; there is always a priest murmuring prayers, the rattle of weapons belts. I shudder, a full body convulsion as I scramble for my dress, and that’s when I realize I don’t hear the zombies.

The pet infects are quiet.

My teeth clatter together as I grab the dirty scrap of material that is my dress, and the door to Containment bangs open.

The blood drains from my face as I watch Silas step into the room, his robes immaculate. A young girl in scarlet robes steps in behind him, and I swallow hard. Her eyes sweep over me, and she smiles, a slow tight smile.

“Found her,” she shouts. Silas glances at the younger girl and she smirks. “You fucked this all to hell, didn’t you, Priest?”

I don’t know what that means, but the flash of fear in his eyes sends a rare spark of hope through me.

Omar steps through the door, and his black eyes darken a little when he sees me. His lips tighten, and he glances at the red priestess. “Stay with her. Silas, with me. Now.”

There’s a bite of fury and authority in his voice that causes my eyes to widen, and then he’s stepping back. Silas hesitates, looking like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He follows Omar from the room, and I let out the half-held breath.

The red-robed girl glances around the room, and grabs a blue robe from the pile folded on a long table.

“Put this on.”

When I was first brought here, I would never have put on a robe. But that was before Containment. Now, I’m desperate for anything to cover myself with.

I shove my arms into the robe, and tighten it around me, and footsteps pull my gaze up.

Finn’s gray eyes are blazing when they find mine, fury and desperation coiling in his clenched fists. I make a noise, not sure he’s real, and stumble a step forward.

“Get out,” he says, his voice blank and flat. The girl in red doesn’t even complain about the order, just quietly slips out. Without ever looking away from me, Finn pulls the door shut behind him, and moves with careful precision to where I am.

I stand on my side of the bars, and Finn stands inches away. My heart’s pounding, suddenly, and my knees shake. The details of the room fades, until it’s only him, his  gray eyes sharp and hungry as they sweep over me. “Nurrin,” he rasps, and I shudder, the sound of my name on his lips making everything painfully real.

“You’re here,” I say, stupidly. “How the hell did you find me?”

A smirk turns his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, a blend of fury and relief darkening his gaze. “Always with the fucking questions, Nurrin.”

I laugh, a noise that breaks on a sob, and he curses softly. “What happened?”

“Where is Collin?” I demand, ignoring his question. It bothers me that even for a moment, I forgot my brother.

Finn had been relaxing. I don’t think I noticed, until he goes stiff and tense again. “Collin?”

“Did you find him?” I ask, desperately. “They had him in the labs.”

He grabs the keys and jerks the door open. For a heartbeat, as he grabs my hand and pulls me out of Containment, his expression stutters, turning almost painful.

“Finn.” I pull back. “You didn’t ask if I’m infected.”

His lips quirk into a mocking smile, and he lurches into motion. “I don’t need to. Now come on.”

The Outpost has been ransacked. We pass several dead priests, blood pooling around their limp bodies, their heads neatly severed or bullets between their eyes.

Omar and Finn took no chances, and left very few prisoners when they swept through.

A few Grays are huddled together, held back by a blue-robed priest I hadn’t seen before. His eyes are wary as he nods once at Finn.

“Anyone here?” he asks, shortly.

“No one,” one of the Gray priests mutters, looking away.

I lunge, and trip over my robes. Finn’s arm darts out, catching me and holding me up before I can hit the ground. “Where the hell is he?” I scream, fighting the arm Finn has still wrapped around my waist. He releases me as I find my feet and I jerk forward, grabbing the priest by the robes and smacking him across the face. “Where the fuck is my brother?”

Behind me, I hear Finn make a low noise, like a growl, and I drop the priest, stepping back. I know O’Malley, know that he’s put everything together and that he’s holding a gun on this bastard. I straighten, and Finn says quietly, “Check the safe rooms.”

I start to step away, and his hand—when did I take his hand?—clenches around mine, so painfully tight I gasp. His gaze goes blank, and when I tug slightly, he relents and releases me.

“If he’s dead, I’ll have no reason to keep you alive. You realize that, don’t you?” Finn says, almost conversationally.

“The High Priest won’t let you kill us,” one of the priests says, his voice shaking. I hear a low laugh, and then I scream.

“Don’t move,” he snarls, and then he’s moving behind me, until he’s at my side. I can feel him there. I don’t want to feel anything.

“Oh, fuck. No.”

That makes it real. In a way that I had been able to deny, even as I watched the infection slowly ravage my brother’s body, it had been there in the back of my mind—not Collin. He’d survive. He’d beat the odds, because he was Collin.

But hearing Finn, his voice breaking and stripped of everything that defines him—his fury and disdain, arrogance, and fucking blankness—all of it gone as he leans his head against the window, not touching me as we stand side by side and stare.

There is no illusion left to hide behind. No magic fucking cure the Order developed and secreted away in a bunker no one knows about. There is only this. Only death and infection and death again.

My brother is dying. He’s dead already.

And I can’t do a fucking thing to stop it.

Chapter 3.

A Fucked Up Reunion

“How long?” Finn demands, still staring at Collin. The bite is fully exposed, and I can see the black of his veins tracing along his legs, up to the thin medical gown they’ve dressed him in. A sheen of sweat and the paleness of his skin make my stomach turn.

“How long since he was bitten?” Finn snarls, reaching for me.

I yank myself out of his grasp. “How the fuck would I know? I have no idea how long we’ve been here.” Finn gives me a sharp look and I shrug. “It’s not like Kenny told me what the hell was going on or how many hours it has been since the last time his pet soldiers drugged me.”

“Kenny took you,” he murmurs. “I thought so. I’ll kill him.”

I smile, and his gaze shifts, just a little. Flares with a heat I don’t expect from him. Not here.

“I need you to stay here,” he says softly. “I don’t want you exposed.”

"Doesn't work that way, Finn," I say, and he sighs. "He's my brother."

Finn frowns, and then he nods. "Fine. Don't do anything stupid, though. I'd hate to have gone through all this trouble just for you to get your pretty ass bitten."

I grin--that is the Finn O'Malley I know and loathe. He pulls a knife and hands it back to me, and then pushes open the door.

The stench of infection is a unique thing. It gets in the clothes and stings the inside of the nose, clinging to you, long after you've been cleaned and taken away from the source of the infection.

But this is different. This is my brother who reeks of death and decay, the cloying sweet scent of warm, rotten meat. My stomach turns, and I struggle to keep from throwing up as the smell slaps me in the face, riding the wet heat from the room.

Finn takes a cautious step into the room, and Collin stirs, turning toward us.

I gag, and this time I do lose the battle. My stomach twists and cramps and I retch, bile and water splashing messily on the ground in front of me. I retch, my stomach heaving again, twisting my muscles until they ache and the back of my nose burns. A strong hand steadies on my back and I nod. I shove my hair back, forcing myself to straighten, my rebellious stomach to calm.

“Who’s there?” Collin asks.

His voice is wrecked, and he looks confused and angry and so very alien that I can’t help my tiny sob.

“Ren?” he asks, and his voice is desperate and so sad I stumble forward, almost landing against the bed.

Finn catches me, pulling me back.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Ren? You’ll be infected. Get out.” Collin says, furiously.

“Fuck you, Collin.” I sniffle. “Now shut up.”

He laughs. Even like this, he can laugh. His eyes are black pools of murky infection, his face so distorted by the discolored veins it’s hard to see him. And still, he’s laughing, smiling for me in that twisted, broken face. “Why are you out of Containment? Silas told me you’d be locked up for a while. Until some priestess bitch named Lori got here.”

“Lori isn’t coming,” Finn says, and Collin jerks hard enough in his restraints that they cut into his arms.  “O’Malley?” he breathes, and Finn’s name sounds like a prayer on my brother’s lips.

“Yeah, Collin. It’s me. Relax, brother, you’ll slip these restraints if you keep that shit up, and I won’t let you endanger her.”

Collin sighs, and drops against the bed. His eyes close. Like that, without the black pools to distract me, I can almost see my brother again. “That’s good. This is good. Fuck, man, you have any idea how fucking worried I’ve been?” Finn doesn’t say anything, and Collin nods. “Yeah. Of course you know. Do you know why I’m not dead?”

“No, but it’s an excellent fucking question. Omar is with me, and he owes me a favor. I’m going to get you answers.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Collin says. “It’s too late. I can feel it, you know. They didn’t tell us that—but I can feel the infection. It doesn’t hurt. But I can feel myself change—and I don’t know what the hell I want. I want Ren.”

I take a single step forward and Finn catches me, his hand like iron around my elbow. “No.”

“O’Malley, he won’t hurt me. It’s Collin.”

I can’t explain this. That Collin is my rock, my wall, the one safe thing in a world that has never been safe, the one place where I can set down my guns and shake my ass, be nothing more than an irritating kid sister.  Collin is safe right now because Collin has never been anything but safe, and I can’t wrap my mind around him being anything else.

“Finn,” Collin says, “you’ve got your gun.”

Finn nods reluctantly, and I stare at them, refusing to process this exchange.

“Then quit fucking worrying. You won’t let anything hurt her—not even me.” Collin’s smiling as he says it, and it makes me want to scream and sob.

Finn lets out his breath, and shifts, cocking his gun and moving to stand near Collin’s head. His gaze darts to me. “Be careful, Nurrin. We don’t know how contagious it is.”

I crouch next to Collin and his hand comes up, brushing my hair back. “You okay, sis?” he asks, his voice raspy.

I shake my head. “Not even a little bit.”

He laughs. “We always knew it would happen eventually. Can’t live through the end of the world forever.”

“We weren’t doing so bad,” I snap, angry at how fucking calm he is.

“You need to trust Finn when I’m gone—he’ll look out for you.”

I glance at Finn, standing stoic at my brother’s head, a gun nestled against Collin’s temple.

“Finn doesn’t want to be saddled with taking care of me, Collin,” I say, and I see that strange flash of emotion in Finn’s eyes. The one that I don’t want to name because even thinking about it terrifies me. I glance back at Collin. “But I’ll be fine. I’m not going to die, just because you aren’t able to ask me about my weapons supply.”

“I wanted to see you Walk,” he whispers, and tears flood my eyes. That stupid fucking plan. “You would have been a kickass Walker, sis.”

“I would never have gotten though training.” I sniffle

He laughs, and it turns into a cough, black, tarrish blood staining his lips. Finn tenses, and I ignore his order to stay back as I lean in and hug him. Because I don’t give a fuck, not right now. Not if I change. I only know that my brother is dying and I can’t stop it.

“Ren. You will survive this. Do you hear me?” Collin whispers into my hair.

I nod, even though I don’t believe him. I don’t know how to survive this.

I don’t even know if I want to.

Chapter 4.

The Inbetween

Omar finds us there. His eyes skate over me, and then to Finn. “All this and you let her hug an open infection? Idiot.”

Finn throws the knife before I can blink and Omar ducks to one side, laughing as the blade embeds in the stone behind him.

“Sloppy, O’Malley.”

“Fuck you, priest,” Finn says.

Collin is asleep—he passed out a few minutes earlier, in the middle of telling me how to survive alone and that the Havens were death traps. I couldn’t bring myself to move away from him, and Finn stood silent sentry over both of us.

“We need to talk.” Omar says

Finn nods, and glances at me. “She stays with me.”

If that surprises anyone but me, no one shows it. Finn waits for me to push to my feet, and then nods at Collin. “Leave Holly here.”

“You trust my people to watch your partner?” Omar says, his voice surprised and genuinely curious.

Finn shakes his head. “No. But I know she’s in love with you and if anything happens to Collin while I’m gone, I’ll kill you.”

The red-robed priestess’ eyes widen, and then narrow furiously and Finn smiles, tight and humorless.

“Lead the way, High Priest.”

I lean close to him as Omar steps out, and whisper, “What the hell, O’Malley?”

He gives me a flat blank look. “No questions. Let’s go.”

We’re back to this then. The momentary truce and understanding is gone.

I pull back, and glare at him. "You can't do that shit anymore. You can't push me to the outside and expect me to be okay with it. You have no idea what the hell I've been through."

His gaze tightens, furious. "I don't give a fuck what you've been through. Not right now. Right now, I need answers from Omar and the crazy bastards in charge of this hell hole, and then I need to get you as fucking far from here as I can. Do you understand? That is my goal. That's my only fucking goal, and I need you to shut the fuck up and keep the Order from remembering you. Do you think for five fucking minutes you could do what I need?"

I glare, but I don't argue. I've spent long enough with Finn guarding my back to know he's not doing this to piss me off.

I clench my teeth, and he nods, grabbing me and pulling me along behind him.

Omar has commandeered Silas' little office, and the younger priest's eyes widen when he sees me. I lean into Finn. "I want him dead," I whisper, and across the little room, Omar laughs. Clearly I need to work on my whispering skills.

"We'll do what we can to appease your bloodthirsty little savage, O'Malley. But she can't have all of my people." Omar's eyes skim me, and he gives me a slightly apologetic grimace. "I am sorry, Nurrin. This was never my intent. The alliance between Stiles and the Red High Priestess was beyond my influence."

A hundred questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I slide a glance at Finn, and sit in the chair he nudges me toward. I expect him to take the one beside me, but he doesn't. He straightens, and I can feel his tension as he stands behind me.

It's almost protective.

"What the hell is happening to Collin?"

Omar glances at Silas. The Black Priest frowns. "He arrived infected, which doesn't help us much. Ren proved pretty quickly that she would be difficult to acclimate. So we gave him to the Grays. They're working on a new serum—one of the CDC scientists said it would slow the infection. It's not a cure, but the medicine can slow it enough that the infected can live. Not well, and they'd need to be quarantined, but they don't change completely. They don't lose their brain function or bite."

It's more than anyone has ever achieved. But I saw my brother, and I'm not under any delusions. Even with that minor miracle, it's not a life I would want to offer to anyone.

“Living is more than not dying," Finn says, softly.

Omar's gaze shifts to him, and I struggle not to squirm under his intense stare. "It's not meant for people who have been bitten. It's meant for soldiers who haven't."

Finn slowly eases back a half step. "It prevents mutation. How?"

"How the fuck would I know?" Silas snaps. "I'm not a fucking Gray. I just repeat the shit they tell me. If you wanted answers, maybe you shouldn't have fucking killed the entire fucking Outpost."

I smirk at him, and snap my teeth. Silas hisses, and lurches forward. Finn's gun appears suddenly in my peripheral vision and I laugh, a dark noise even to my own ears.

"Don't fucking think about it.” Finn says, his voice a tight warning, “I want a reason to kill you, but Omar wants you alive. If you don't want me to ignore that particular request, you sit back and keep your fucking eyes off her."

The other man pales, but he does what he's told. Sits back slowly and swallows hard. "We don't get told what they're doing. And, Priest, I didn't know this First was under your protection. I would never have touched her if I had known. You know that."

Omar frowns. "I don't know anything. I know that you were given care of the Firsts and you let one be beaten, drugged. Who the fuck knows what else.”

I don't move. Can't move. Can't look at him, or Finn behind me, or anything but the rough weave of my borrowed robe.

I know what else. I've woken up with the bruises, the wet evidence that made me throw up in fear and disgust, once the drugs wore off. I know the answer, but I never wanted Finn to. I never wanted him to see me as that weak. I swallow hard, swallow my tears and my fear. Finn breathes a soft curse, and then he's moving, and Silas screams. I look up, and see a knife sticking out of his shoulder. "You fucking bastard," Finn whispers, his voice so blank and emotionless it’s terrifying.

"O'Malley," Omar snaps, "Not yet. We need answers first."

Finn stops, and glares at Omar. The Black Priest lifts a hand. “When we have the information, I will stand aside, and you can let the girl kill him however she wants. Give her that vengeance. But first, we get answers.”

I look up, and catch Silas’ gaze, terrified and beginning to understand how truly fucked he is. “I want his knife. I want to cut off every piece of him that could be used to hurt me, shatter his jaw so he can’t hurt anyone, and let the bastard change.” I murmur, my voice almost dreamy as I spin out his fate, and watch him pale.

Finn glances back at me, and I see respect and dark approval in his eyes. He nods once and I straighten. “Will Collin die?” I ask abruptly. Fuck Finn and his stupid fucking rules about questions and what I shouldn’t be doing. This is the only question that matters to me right now.

“Yes.” Silas says, softly.

I knew it, and it still hurts, to hear it so bluntly stated. I lean forward, huddling in my robe, and avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.

“We didn’t give him the drug before he was bitten. And we didn’t get him until almost 36 hours post infection. The Grays said that makes a difference. We did what we could—bought him a week—but he’ll turn in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“I need a few minutes, with Nurrin,” Finn says softly.

“No,” I say. I shake my head. “I need to go to Collin.”  “Nurrin,” he says, softly.

“Fuck you, O’Malley,” I scream. “I want my fucking brother.”

There’s a moment, long and tense and silent, and then the scrape of metal against metal as he slips his knife into its sheath. “This shit will need to wait, Omar. Keep that bastard alive, and find out whatever the hell you need to know before I’m allowed to kill him.” He grabs my arm, and pulls me up. “Come on, then.”

Chapter 5.

The Last of Us

I don’t remember the hours. I don’t remember falling asleep with my head on Collin’s chest, or even Finn at Collin’s shoulder, always ready.

What I remember is my brother’s laugh. The feel of his hand as it wrapped around my wrist, so familiar and perfect despite the ravages to his face and voice. I remember the way his voice rasped as he told me he loved me. That he was proud of me. I remember the black tar that stuck to my clothes. I remember the sharp smell of zom repellant, splashed around the room. I remember thinking I would never smell it again, without thinking of this.

I remember the way he sounded, his breath shaking as he laughed at Finn. I remember when they both forgot me—or Finn allowed Collin too—and the whispered promises my brother extracted from his friend.

I remember the way his grip tightened on mine, his body going tight and rigid.

I will never forget the sound of Finn’s gun, so loud as it cut though my screams and severed Collin’s spinal column, killing the disease before it could change my brother.

I will never forget my brother dying.

Chapter 6.

Fallout

Finn is crouching in front of me. I can see the specks of black, tarry infection on his shirt, and it seems absurd. I don’t know why he’s staring at me like that.

Finn has never looked at me like this. He’s glared, he’s cursed, he’s stared with amusement and disdain and mockery. But this—he has never stared at me with so much pity and grief.

"You killed him," I whisper. It's the first thing I've said since my brother died, and was put down before he could rise a second time. I shiver, suddenly freezing, and Finn stands, grabbing a blanket and tossing it over my shoulders. Then he crouches in front of me again.

"You know that's not true. I kept him from coming back. He wouldn't want to put you in danger—I wouldn't let him."

"You killed him," I repeat, and there's anger in my voice this time.

Finn rocks back on his heels, studying me for a moment. "If you need to be pissed, be pissed. I won't stop you or take that from you, Nurrin."

I crumple, and Finn catches me, holding me up as I sob. It hurts, to cry this hard. Hurts because I know Finn’s going to leave and I can't even blame him. Hurts because there is no one left anymore. My father died just after we settled in 8, and Mother died when I was thirteen. All I had left was Collin, and now that he's—

"I'm all alone," I whisper, and Finn shakes me, hard enough that my head snaps back.

He glares at me. “You aren't. You will never be alone, Nurrin. I'm here."

"I'm not your problem anymore."

"Do you think that changes because Collin is dead?" he demands, and I nod. I do. Of course I do. What the hell else would I think? "You idiot," he whispers.

"Fuck you, O'Malley," I mutter without heat. I can't summon any heat. I can't summon anything but grief and that one repeating truth.

My brother is dead, and I can't do a fucking thing about it.

"Nurrin, I need to talk to Omar," Finn says, softly. He's still speaking with that cautious edge and it annoys me, suddenly.

"I don't care," I say and shift away from him. "Go do what you have to do so we can get the fuck out of this hellhole."

Finn hesitates for another moment, and then he's rising, and moving away from me.

He stops at the door, and looks back at me. "What's the only thing that matters?" he asks, abruptly.

I blink at him.

It's what got me through the wait. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. But he’s staring at me like it does. So I say the words. "You'll keep me safe."

I can't bring myself to repeat the second half. I don't know what Finn is feeling, with my brother dead, but I can't—I shake my head and curl into myself.

"That's still true, Nurrin. I will keep you safe."

I nod and he gives me a searching stare before he ducks out. And I'm alone with my demons and dead.

Part 6.

The Brutal Reality

*

We live with the dead. It’s our reality. And because we live with them, we live with our own dead—they never quiet.

Claire Donall-

**

Reality sucks.

Anonymous-

Chapter 1.

The Dead at Our Feet

I don't need to go to Omar. The Black High Priest is still sorting through the shit that comes with a hostile takeover of the Outpost, and he doesn't have the time or inclination to deal with me.

I just can't be with her right now.

It wasn't supposed to go like this. I was supposed to bring her back to Collin, and they would both be healthy and we would find a safe place—not a permanent home, because that shit doesn't exist. But somewhere where breathing was possible, where we could close our eyes without fear of death and just be for a little while.

It feels, sometimes, like I've been running my entire life, staying ahead of the infects, never having a moment to breathe and live.

I can say as often as I want that Havens are only slow death sentences, that people need to let go of their fear to learn how to live again.

But I do it too. I survive. Because for ten years, that's all I had: surviving. I had thought with Collin and Nurrin, we could do more than that—we could live.

But I was wrong, and one more death is at my feet.

I think, sometimes, that my private mountain of the dead will shift, and bury me.

Sometimes—today, with my best friend’s blood on my hands—I hope that it will. I am tired of always being the one to survive.

Chapter 2.

The Way He Works

Omar leaves me alone, to be with Nurrin. He ordered a pair of rooms set aside for us in the Firsts Hall, and that’s where I take her after Collin is dead.

It’s where I leave her, furious and hurting.

I don’t know how to deal with that. I don’t know how to calm and quiet her, so I don’t try. I leave her, and I seek out the Priest.

There is still a price to be extracted—for his help and for Nurrin. I slip my katana over one shoulder, diagonal across my back, and jog down the stairs to where Omar has set up.

The Outpost isn’t deserted. We swept in quickly, and put down a lot of initial resistance, and a small host of pet infects. The Order is a fucked up thing, that they will believe and kill for the end of the apocalypse all while using the infected for their own purposes.

I step into the small office, and Omar flicks a look at me. Holly is sitting across from him in the only chair. She’s ditched her red robes somewhere, and she looks surprisingly competent in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, tight-fitting shirt. Her hair is pushed back, and a pair of smudged glasses are on her nose as she types into a small computer.

“Where is Kenny?” I ask.

Omar glances at me, reluctantly giving me his undivided attention. “You know you can’t kill him yet.” I bare my teeth, and Omar scowls. “I need him to force the Havens to fall in line. And to give us the military. I will allow you to kill him when he’s of no more use to us.”

“You have Orwell,” I say, not that I really care. Omar can march his band of merry psychopaths off to the East and let them all die a bloody, brutal death. I don’t give a fuck anymore. I have Nurrin back, and a brother to burn, and a few bastards left to kill. After that is done, the rest of the world can rot—it’s doing a wonderful job at that, and I’ve got other shit to concern myself with.

“I need you,” Omar says, softly.

I shake my head. “I’m done with suicide runs, Omar. Lost my taste for them in Ohio.”  “This isn’t the same thing,” he protests and my head whips up.

“It’s the exact same fucking thing, and you know it. You want to play on my attachment to her, just like you did then with Kelsey. Except Kelsey died, didn’t she?”

“And you said you’d never get attached again,” Omar says. “What happened?”

I shake my head. “I’m not fighting this war. Not again. It ended. No one believes we can reclaim the East.”

“But what if I could show you that we could? What if I told you that reclaiming it was the only way to defeat the infection?”

“I would still call you a lying bastard,” I say, shrugging.

Omar flashes a grin. “I need you to be patient. You still get to kill Kenny—but I need it to be after I’ve secured the military and Walkers.”

“And what about the Havens?” I ask, curious despite myself.

“What do you mean?” Omar asks. He’s already studying a map, and scribbling on a piece of paper.

“While you’re out reclaiming the East, and commandeering every able-bodied, trained solider to do it— what are you leaving behind to hold the Havens? To make sure that everyone doesn’t die while you chase this idiotic idea?”

Omar shrugs. “They learn how to survive. Or they fall.”

I stare at him, waiting for some kind of clue, some tiny tell that says he’s full of shit. But it’s been too long, and I can’t read Omar anymore.

Maybe, looking back on all the shit that’s happened, I never could. Maybe I lied to myself and Kelsey, and we were both stupid enough to believe those lies, and we deserved everything that happened.  “You would sentence them all to die, because you’re convinced you can achieve the impossible.”

Omar gives me a wolf’s smile, and I do remember that. It’s the one that says he’s got more going on than he’s telling, and he wants you to know it.

“If you want to know, then bring your First and listen to my plan. But I’m not going to give you bits and pieces, Finn. I’ll tell you everything or nothing.”

I laugh. “I don’t believe for a second that you’d tell me everything. I know you, remember. You’ll tell me what you think will get me to work with you, or what will best manipulate Nurrin.”

Omar grins, and nods. “Then you should be fine to hear my plan, right? If you know how I work, you can’t get suckered in.”

I stare at him, the man I once called friend, and hated for almost half my life. Without answering, I leave.

Chapter 3.

The Things We Expect

I never imagined what it would be like to find Collin, and watch him die. It wasn’t a possibility, so I didn’t allow myself to think about it.

Nurrin, I had. Because she’s reckless and has no idea of her own mortality—the girl is death walking. I’ve always known that one day I’d turn up, and Collin would tell me she’d died.

I don’t know what to do with the opposite being true. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know how to deal with the surge of relief, when I walk back into her little white room and see her sleeping.

I toe off my boots and unbuckle my weapons belt and then slip into the bed behind her.

She’s inches away, a strip of narrow mattress empty between us, and I can smell her hair, the scent of zom repellant on her clothes, and the touch of infection that lingers after so many hours at Collin’s side.

The tension eases out of me so fast, my muscles ache in the sudden absence. I swallow my groan, and twitch on the bed.

Nurrin moves, burrowing into her pillow and breathing out a single word.

And just like that, I’m hard, so fucking turned on I can’t think about the fact that two seconds ago I was tired and desperate for sleep. There is only her, and my name on her lips, and the fact that I want her.  That I’ve wanted her for longer than I will ever be willing to admit.

My dick presses against my pants, and I reach down, unzipping and cupping my cock. My breath hisses out at the contact, and I close my eyes, my head tilting back.

I’m ready to fucking come, and I’ve barely touched myself. She snuggles into her pillow and then shifts, curling close to me. This is a bad fucking idea, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I get a good solid grip and for a moment, with the smell of her in my nose, and the soft sound of her breathing, it doesn’t take much. I can feel her, her hot little mouth on me, and her hands rolling my balls.

I stroke, hard, and I know she could wake up and I want her to. I want this shit out on the table. I want her to fucking admit how much she wants me. I want to rip away that shitty white shirt, yank down her pants and lick her pussy until she screams my name. Until she’s sobbing and so wet and begging for me to fuck her.

I want one fucking honest thing between us.

She shifts against me, and sighs softly. My balls tighten, and I hiss a curse, coming hard and hot across my shirt, the pleasure white hot, blinding for an endless moment.

Then it fades, and I lie there panting, a cooling mess on my belly.

When I can breathe normal, I tuck my dick away and nudge Nurrin aside so I can sit up and pull my shirt over my head. I toss it aside and lay back down.

“O’Malley?” she asks, her voice warm against my skin. Shit.

“Go to sleep, Nurrin,” I say.  “What was that?” she asks.

I roll so I’m looking at her. And I fucking lie, because as much as I want her, I can’t put myself out there like that. Not again.

Not after—.

“Biological needs, Nurrin. Nothing more. Nothing less. Now go to sleep.”

I roll onto my stomach and wait for her to settle next to me. For a long moment she doesn’t. She just stares down at me, her gaze as hot as a brand. Then, quietly, “What if I have needs?” I glance up at her, not sure I’m hearing her right. A slow blush is crawling over her cheeks.

Yeah. I heard that shit right.

“Feel free to take care of it, little girl. I’ll be more than happy to be your audience.”

Her lips tighten, and anger fills her eyes. Rejection is never a pretty thing, even when it’s from someone you don’t really want.

“Fuck you, O’Malley,” she snaps, and falls back on her side of the bed with a little huff.

I want to tell her I want her. I want to kiss away the angry stich between her brows, and stroke down her back until she purrs.

But I don’t. Instead, I let her simmer in silence, until she finally gives in to sleep, and I lie, a silent sentinel next to her.

Chapter 4.

Explanations

Something hits me, and I jerk upright, scrambling for a knife. Nurrin is standing a few feet away, my weapons on the desk next to her. I find the wet rag she threw and toss it to the floor.

She’s changed out of the ridiculous clothing of the order, and into something that fits her a bit more— black jeans that hug her ass and sit a little low on her hips, and a close-fitting top. I can see bruises on her arms, snaking up under her shirt. They make my hands clench in anger, and I’m reminded I haven’t killed the bastards responsible for this.

“What did you do to find me?” she asks, softly. She’s looking at the ground, her wet hair hanging down to hide her face, but I know that question cost her.

“The same thing you did to survive, Nurrin,” I say. Her head jerks up, startled, and I force a smile. “What I had to. And there is no judgment in that.”

She bites her lip, and nods sharply. Straightens away from the table. “Can we trust Omar?”

“Of course not,” I say, immediately. I roll to the edge of the bed, and her gaze skates over my naked chest for a moment, before she flushes and looks away again.

“Why do you hate him so much?”

I drop my bag on the bed and pause, staring at her. “What did Kenny tell you?”

She shrugs, looking uneasy. I know why. The last thing we had done, before she was kidnapped, was fight over her underhanded ways of getting information. To call her on it now—

“Look, I get it. I get why you went to Kenny.”

Her gaze jerks up, startled. “You aren’t mad?”

“Of course I’m mad,” I snap. “But I get it. I’d have done the same in your position. It was shitty and underhanded, and I can’t blame you.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re being too nice.”

I laugh, and pull a shirt on. Her eyes skate low over my abs as I tug the shirt down, and I smirk when her gaze comes back up.

“See something you like?”

“Biological needs, O’Malley,” she says coolly. Smartass.

“So?” I nudge, refocusing her.

“He didn’t tell me anything. He drugged me and babbled about your mother. Claire wouldn’t tell me anything that matters—not about Kelsey or Omar. And I’m tired of being only one on this fucking train that doesn’t know what the fuck happened.”

I stare at her for a long moment. I’ve risked my life for her, and watched her grow up from a spunky, spoiled brat to a hard edged, determined woman who survived the shit the Order had to dish out. And losing her drove me to a violence even Kelsey’s death didn’t achieve. There’s something to be said for that.

“Kelsey was my best friend,” I say, softly. The words catch in my throat. I swallow hard, not sure I can get all of this out, but knowing I don’t have a lot of options. She deserves this. “Omar was our squad leader, but she was the one we all followed. It wasn’t just that she was the president’s daughter—it’s that she threw herself into every fight like there was no way to lose.” I pause. “Until she did. Omar led us into a mission that we knew was suicide, but he promised we’d all come home whole.” There’s more.

She can look at me, and my volatile past with Omar, and she’s smart enough to put shit together.

She knows damn well that there’s more to it.

But I can’t go deeper than that, not right now.

With Nurrin, maybe not ever.

“So why are we trusting him now?” she asks, and I let out a breath. Because even if it is a question, it’s one I can tolerate.

“Because it was the only option. No one in 1 was telling me shit, and the longer you were gone, the more desperate I got. So I got the Order’s attention, shook the tree a little, and Omar is what fell out.”  “How?”

I look up at her, and she shivers at whatever she sees in my eyes. Bites her lip and looks away. No one is okay with the kind of violence I embraced, to get her back. Even knowing why, I can’t expect her to be able to swallow it.

Her eyes narrow.

“I killed Order priests and priestesses until they finally took notice,” I say.

She stares at me for a long tense moment, and I don’t know if she’ll bolt or if she’ll accept this—me.

Nurrin shifts, and tosses me a stick of dried fruit. I catch it from the air and stare at it as she busies herself strapping on her weapons.

Her gun—the one I used to kill the Order—she hesitates over, and glances back at me once.

“It’s yours,” I say, and she nods once, shoving it into her holster and tucking a few throwing stars into her pocket. A shiny garrote wire wraps around her wrist.

She looks savage and beautiful, and like the girl I’ve come to know—not the one I watched and resented in Hellspawn, but the girl I’ve been forced to get to know and trust in the Wide Open. I swallow hard, a rush of arousal fighting the absurd pride I feel for her.

I have a hard time trusting. After Kelsey, it was almost impossible. I trusted one person—Collin—to watch my back. To protect me.

But I trust her.

“Omar is waiting for us,” Nurrin says, and she holds out my katana.

It’s not acknowledging what I did. She won’t. But I know what she is doing, and I’ll take it. I stand, and slip the sword over my head to rest on my back. “Then we should go. It wouldn’t do to keep the High Priest waiting.”

I can feel her laughter, a small puff of air on my back as I step out of the little room that has become ours, with her on my heels.

Chapter 5.

The Mad Priest

“We can take back the East.”

Behind me, Nurrin makes a choked noise. I don’t blame her much. It’s an idiotic claim, even if Omar does have the best intentions and goals.

He’s always been a fanatic. When we found him in the Stronghold, I thought he had channeled that passion into the cult. Stupid, deadly, but in the end, not my problem.

Now I realize I was wrong. He was still fighting the same war he had been ten years ago. But we lost it ten years ago, and we’ll lose it now.

“We can’t.” I shake my head, “You know we can’t—and even if we could, the loss of life is too extreme. We can’t afford to have another few million lives tossed aside for a coast we can’t keep.”

“As long as we let them have the East, we’ll never put this disease to rest. We’ll keep hiding behind our walls until there is nothing left. Until the walls fall and the hordes take every last uninfected life on the continent. You know it’s coming—fuck, you told us about this shit.” Omar is glaring at me, and I straighten, away from the wall I’m leaning against.

Holly, sitting next to Omar, stiffens, a little, and I smirk at her. Little apocalypse baby can keep on thinking she’s fucking big enough to hurt me.

Nurrin, miraculously, stays quiet at my side.

“We can’t do this, Omar. You know its suicide. We fought this war before—it’s not our fight anymore.

It’s no one’s fight.”

“We never should have conceded the battle,” he snarls.

I remember the day I heard we were conceding—the day Buchman took us aside and told me and Kelsey we were pulling out of the East.

Fast and clean. That’s what we were told. The evac would be flawless—trains were being specially designed, and we’d move out en masse. Without leaving anything for the zombies to chase, we had a chance to contain it.

Some would wander into Wide Open territory near the Havens. We expected that. What was left of the Marines—and by then, that was a handful of a once strong force—were tasked with keeping the unofficial border.

It was a crazy plan. After ten years, and hundreds of thousands dead, to leave it all behind—to say, “Fuck it. We can’t win this one.”

It was the only option, and I hated Buchman for taking it. Because it was the coward’s way out, and the politicians’. They didn’t lose men on the field. They didn’t watch friends get bitten, and eat a bullet because they refused to change. They didn’t clear dead towns, torching preschools of infected children, monstrous in their fury and hunger.

They didn’t fight the fucking war. They tallied the numbers and when it swung too wildly out of our favor, they said, “Fuck it. Come home.”

And like mindless sheep, we did.

It was clean, for the most part. The promise to extract quick and easy was kept—it was possibly the only time in history that the military did something efficiently.

There were two places the evac didn’t go as planned—a small foothold in Tennessee was overrun a few hours before their planned extraction.

And Columbus.

Nurrin shifts next to me, and I blink, focusing on Omar. Pushing my memories and my dead into the past where they belong.

“Nothing has changed, Omar,” I say, evenly. “There are too many of them and too few of us. We can’t secure the land we clear. It’s the same problem we faced ten years ago.”  Omar glances at Holly and she shifts, opening a small computer.

Before the world changed, they were common—everyday accessories that everyone used. And then the world fell apart, and we lost that.

We lost so fucking much.

She twists the computer, and I stare at the screen.

“For the past two years, we’ve been sending in small parties—units of three or five black priests—to monitor.” She clicks a few keys and the map changes, narrowing in on the west coast—the Havens.

“The red shows the uninfected. The black are zombies,” she says.

It’s slightly terrifying, watching the black masses moving outside the Haven walls, not pushing. Not threatening.

In small groups they aren’t. But they never stay in small groups. That’s where the trouble always comes.

“This,” Holly says, “is the East.”

The coast is almost empty. A few small, black clusters near New York and scattered in the south. Enough that they would need to be dealt with. A surprisingly large red cluster in Florida. But not the widespread horde I expected. I stare, and then I glance at Omar.

“What happened?”

Omar smiles, coldly triumphant. “They died.”

Nurrin pushes off the wall, and I can feel her vibrating with suppressed emotion. I give her a sharp look, and her lips thin, furiously. Then I refocus on Omar. “They’re already dead, Omar. That’s their defining characteristic.”

“But they don’t stay dead, right? They come back and spread the infection and that was the problem with the war because when the enemy stands up and takes a bite out of you, it’s hard to win anything.” Omar’s voice goes up in question, and I nod, grudgingly. “Except that we aren’t dealing with that. We know how to kill them, and the force we take in will be better at it than the mass army we took ten years ago. And the infects are at the disadvantage this time.”

I point at the little map, with its blinking, empty space. “Where did they go?”

“We left,” he says. “And the infects had nothing to feed on. And ERI-Milan reacts to outside stimuli—to the things in its environment.”

“Right. Which was the second problem.”

That’s why we didn’t win. Why we couldn’t. Because we all carried ERI-Milan, and when an army faced a horde, it changed—in everyone. It mutated, adapting to the new emotions in the brain and the external stimuli. It’s what spelled out our end when the Army clashed with the horde in Atlanta, twenty years ago, and it defeats us even now.

ERI worked because it changed to meet the moods and emotions of the host.

ERI-Milan damns us because of the same thing.

The infects changed us. And even now that we know how to kill them, we can’t fight them in large numbers without risking the same thing that spiraled out of control so long ago.

“Finn, the East could be what saves us,” Omar says fiercely. “Gives us a place to retreat to—you know we need that, with the Havens falling. And this—this is winnable. It wasn’t ten years ago, but they’re dead—they’ve decayed and starved to death. We couldn’t win and we left it to them. But conceding then, that doesn’t mean we have to forget our roots forever. We can take it back. We can take it all.”

I stare at him, and I shake my head. Because looking at this, I could believe him. And it’s still a lie. That’s what’s terrifying. That even knowing what I know of Omar and the way he works, even knowing that he’s manipulative and always hiding something—usually something hella important—I want to believe him.

So many of us who fought for the East never got over the loss. We couldn’t, really.

Everyone thinks that the zombies changed everything. They did. But it’s not about a single event that changes shit. Every generation has that. Every country has that. A moment in time that is a clear point, that marks before and after.

The zombies were ours, and it wasn’t for a generation or a country, it was for the world. But what came after—the way we allowed every goddamned thing to be changed—that is the worst part of this new world. The way we fought a battle we should have won, and gave up, because fear said we had to.

I straighten, away from the wall and Nurrin, and turn. There is too much going on for me to keep chasing my thoughts, here. I need a little space, to think. And that’s when Omar drops the coup de grace.

“ERI-Milan can be cured.”

Part 7.

The Truth Of The World

*

Truth is rarely written—its exposed in the world.

Unknown-

**

The truth is that this is it. We can’t get away from the infection. We can’t win this war.

Finn O’Malley-

Chapter 1.

Unshakable Truths

We all know some things without really needing to be told. Babies—babies have to be taught. They need to learn to walk, and that things on stoves are hot. That grass is green and the sky is blue and that we all bleed red.

There are very few things that we all know, without question.

But even little babies know to fear infects. It’s a universal truth.

And the thing about those few truths—they’re comforting. Even when they’re horrible. We cling to them, because having something that deeply fundamental shaken up—that’s as terrifying as infection.

I have never known a world without infection.

I never will.

That is my truth. My undeniable, unshakable foundation. It’s something so deeply ingrained in who I am, I’ve never even imagined another world.

I’ve tried. Collin told me stories, often enough that of course I pictured it. But they were stories. They weren’t my reality, and I don’t know how to reconcile that world with the one I’m forced to live in.

I’ve never expected a cure. Of course, there are moments when I want it. Watching my brother die, torn apart by the disease and on the edge of turning—that is a moment that will haunt me. If I have ever wanted a cure, it was then.

But there is a difference between wanting and reality.

And I’m a First. If there is anything we are very good at, it’s being able to face reality head-on.

Chapter 2.

The Lies We Tell

Finn’s whole body goes tense beside me, so still it’s almost painful. I still haven’t moved, so I can watch Omar. He’s staring at Finn with a desperation that scares me, a wild hope in his gaze. He needs O’Malley to believe this, and I don’t quite understand why.

“We aren’t going in blind or vulnerable,” Omar says. “It’s not like last time.”

Finn’s eyes close, and I see his chest rise with a deep breath, like he’s struggling to maintain that quiet control he’s so damn good at. When they open, he glances at me, and catches me watching him. For reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, I flush, a hot crawl up my neck. Amusement fills his eyes, even here. He loves to see me rattled. I arch an eyebrow and he smirks. Turns to the Black Priest.

“We aren’t doing this, Omar. I’m not buying your bullshit this time. You want to find someone who believes your lies and empty promises—by all means, go for it. I’m taking the girl and getting the fuck out of here and away from the hordes.”

“Where will you go?” Omar challenges quietly. “There are no clean places, and your bolt holes in the havens—your little ways of staying safe—will fall as they do. You’ll be just as vulnerable as the rest of us, O’Malley.”

Finn gives him a cold look. “Where I go and what I do to protect myself and my people—that doesn’t fucking affect you. I want Kenny and I want every priest who touched her. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I’ve killed them.”

He nods at me, and I step out of the office a few feet in front of him.

Omar lets us go, which is surprising. Finn and I walk silently though the compound, but I can feel the tension in him growing with each step. When we finally reach our room, and the door closes behind us, I expect him to explode. Instead, he drops on the bed, his shoulders slumped, staring blankly at the floor.

He looks lost. Finn O’Malley, who has never looked anything other than completely competent and arrogantly assured that he knew best.

“O’Malley?” I ask, cautiously.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, and my stomach drops.

I take a step back, and his gaze jerks up to collide with mine. I don’t understand the question. Not from him. Finn doesn’t ask for opinions. He tells you where to go and when, what to do, and expects unquestioning obedience. And because that logic has kept me alive, I go along with it, for the most part. But—“What the fuck is going on?” I blurt.

He nods, his lips twisting in a grimace. “Yeah. That’s kinda what I expected you to say.”

“Why the hell do you care what I think, now?”

He blinks. “Because I have to care.” I jerk, and he frowns. “Look, Collin wanted me to protect you. I’m going to do that. Before, he could tell me what was the best option for that—but he’s gone now.”

I stare at him, and I’m not sure I actually believe the words coming from him. Because even for Finn O’Malley, it’s a special breed of what the fuck.

“Hey, Finn?” I say, softly. He looks at me, his gray eyes wary. I give him a sharp edged smile. “Go fuck yourself.”

I make it two steps outside the room before he grabs me, an arm around my waist pulling me back against his body.

I remember the feel of him, braced above me on the floor of our hotel room, his fingers stroking me. His knee rocking against me in that tiny barracks room, splintering my world apart. And even though that isn’t what this embrace is about, I’m hot and turned on, instantly, the fight draining out of me so fast I’m dizzy and limp in his arms when he pushes me against the wall. After the separation, I’m desperate, drinking in the feel of his finger tight on my arms, and the heat that’s coming off him, even the feel of his breath in my hair.

I’m achy and needy, and so turned on I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from running them over his shoulders, and pulling him into me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Finn snaps, and I smirk. Because this, this I can do. This is the essence of who and what we are. All anger and sharp words and questions without answers. Hot flares of arousal tempered by long stretches of silence.

“I’m leaving. I’m not your problem, O’Malley. My brother is dead, and that’s the only reason I was with you—because he and I were a package deal.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes trained on mine. I lick my lips nervously, and they dart down, following the path along my lips without any shame, darkening just a little.

He steps away abruptly and I shiver, his body heat suddenly gone.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and his voice is low and even.

Once upon a time, I thought that detachment from him meant he didn’t care. I don’t think that anymore. Now, I’m pretty sure it’s because he doesn’t trust himself.

Finn is volatile, a hot mess of emotions one crisis away from blowing up. And he doesn’t trust that. So he locks it away under an iron-clad control and gives the world a cold, calm exterior.

I swallow and shrug. “I don’t know. I do know I don’t want you to take care of me because you feel like you owe it to me.”

My gaze goes to the ink I can see, peeking above the neckline of his shirt. “You carry enough dead, O’Malley. Don’t take on mine as well.”

“It was about you,” he says, softly. I go still, staring at him. “The fight that first day I met Collin. It was about you.”

The world bottoms out, because it’s not what I expect to hear him say. I have no place in their friendship. I’ve never understood it, always resented it, and—

“It’s always been about you, Nurrin,” he says, so quietly I could pretend I didn’t hear it.

Except not even I could imagine something that insane coming from Finn O’Malley.

Chapter 3.

The Impossible Reality

I run, because there is no other option. Finn hands out doses of reality carefully—as carefully as the CDC regulates neural inhibitors and anti-infection serums.

This is too much honesty. So I bolt from our little room, and he doesn’t chase me this time.

Omar put us on the same floor as the Firsts, and as I race down the hall, I eye the doors.

I’ve never spent much time with other Firsts. We’re a hunted breed, and tend to avoid drawing attention. Gathering in groups always seemed like the height of stupidity.

And, in 8, there weren’t any. I was the lone First in the Haven.

So part of me is curious about the people behind these doors, the people who are so similar to me.

I wonder why they are still locked in, and how long that will last.

The little room at the end of the hall is empty, a few white couches and a bookshelf with a stack of books spilling off the cluttered shelves.

A low beep fills the room, followed by a male voice. “Is anyone there?”

I stare at the tiny blinking intercom for a long moment, waiting for someone—anyone—to appear and answer the summons.

The beep comes again. “Look, I can hear you. And we’re hungry. Well. Maybe the others aren’t, but I’m hungry. And I need to piss. Can you get whoever the hell has clearance for that, and take care of this?”

Anger and curiosity bubble in my chest, and I grit my teeth. I jab the button and a loud squawk fills the room. There’s a soft curse from the intercom and I clear my throat. “There’s been a change of management here at the Outpost. But if you give me just a little while, I’m going to get this shit sorted out. Can you do that?”

The beep, and then, irritably. “Don’t have a lot of options, do I? Let’s move this shit along. I’m not happy about being here, but if I am, I’d at least like to be able to piss.”

I swallow the initial urge to snap at him and hurry down the hall.

Finn will be furious I’m wandering around the Outpost alone. He’ll probably kick my ass for it. But those are my people, hidden behind those doors and being forgotten.

Why is it that the small people, the ones who just want their normal everyday lives—those are the ones who are forgotten first? Fight your wars, and save the fucking world—that’s the big picture. Go take back the East, and wave your false hope cure around like some kind of fucked up white flag.

In the meantime, we live, just like we always do. Because the little people don’t have a choice. We don’t have the opportunity to chase greatness and world-changing events. We just want to live.

Chapter 4.

Things That Don’t Change

Omar and Finn didn’t come to the outpost alone. Naturally. There are about a dozen Black

Priests wandering the halls, containing what’s left of the Outpost personnel. A few give me assessing looks as I stride through the halls, but most ignore me. I may not wear robes, but I’m not dressed in all white sacrifice apparel either—I’m not quite their equal, but I’m not something they can kick around.

I find Holly first. I don’t know who or what she is in the grand scheme of things, but she seems close to Omar, which gives her some authority.

“The Firsts need to be released.”

She’s inventorying the med supply closet, and she frowns at me, distracted. “I’m sorry?”

I grit my teeth. “The Firsts. They’re still being held in their rooms.”

That gets her attention, and she stares at me, a little confused. “Of course they are. What’s the problem?”

“Why?” I demand, my voice rising in fury.

She huffs. “Because the Order still holds to our beliefs, Nurrin. I know you don’t like it—we don’t expect you to. But we can’t release twenty Firsts to make you happy. Especially since you and your partner aren’t doing anything to help us.”

I stare at her, stunned. “You still plan to kill them,” I say, my lips numb. She finally puts down the damn computer, and give me her full attention.

“Nothing has changed, Nurrin. The Order is still committed to eradicating the infection, and Father Sawyer’s teachings are clear what we must do to achieve that end.”

“Sawyer was a fucking lunatic. And you know that this won’t achieve shit—it’ll be twenty more dead at the hands of the infection, and they’ll die a horrific death, but nothing—not a fucking thing—will be accomplished.”

Holly shrugs. “It is their duty.”

“And mine,” I say, my voice silky and menacing.

Holly’s eyes narrow, and she seems like she’ll deny it, but then she nods. “Yes. And yours. You’re being spared, because keeping your protector happy is more important to the Order than killing you.”

She turns back to her inventory when I don’t respond. “Don’t worry about the Firsts, Nurrin. They aren’t yours to worry about. I’ll get one of the acolytes up to take care of them soon.” Then she goes quiet, and I’m dismissed. That easily.

I’ve always been protected. By my parents, when the Order was rising, and I was at my most vulnerable, a little baby in the middle of the end of the world.

And later, by my brother, who left everything in his life undone, so that he could protect me. By Dustin in 8, and Finn, after.

I’ve never been a First on my own, trying to stay ahead of the Order and alive. It’s one of my worst nightmares—and I am closer to it now than I ever have been. But even now, with my brother dead and my parents long since gone—even now I am protected, by Finn.

Which is why I go back to him. He’s sitting in the same place I left him, still staring at nothing. That’s vaguely disturbing, but I don’t comment on it as I strip off my weapons, and let them clatter down. I tuck a throwing star under my pillow as I crawl past him onto the bed, and curl there.

I don’t speak to him.

And he doesn’t speak to me. Eventually, my heartbeat—when did it get so fucking fast and unsteady— slows, and my breathing gets even. And later, as I linger on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, Finn shifts, lying down behind me. I feel the phantom touch of his hand as it hovers above my skin. Then he hisses a breath and drops it.

We lie like that for a long time, a thin, invisible line separating us, before I eventually give in to sleep.

Chapter 5.

The Things That Come Next

“What do you want to do?”

I blink, in the process of tying my hair back into a ponytail.

Finn woke up after a few hours of sleep, and the quiet confession from earlier—the almost-sad man who made it—are gone. There is just his normal brusque detachment. And random questions I don’t have answers for.

“What options do we have?” I counter.

Finn smirks. “We could go back to a Haven. I have residents in a few that are untouched. 34, 17. Even 43.”

I glance up at that. 43 is Canadian territory, and few Americans were given clearance there. The Canadians were very polite when they refused us—but they did, and no one could blame them for that. Their Havens were small and densely populated because of how few they had.

“How on earth did you manage that?” I ask, curious despite myself.

Finn’s lips flick up in a grin. “Always with the fucking questions, Nurrin.”

I snort, an unladylike noise and he laughs outright, before he straightens. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” I say, and his eyes widen. I make a face. “Finn, they’re death traps. Even the Canadian ones—they might be the last to fall, but that doesn’t mean they won’t eventually.”

“So you want to live in the Wide Open?”

I shrug. “We have the ZTNK. It’s not like we couldn’t.” I hesitate, and then, “I don’t want to be a haven girl. I don’t want to spend my entire life too scared to live. This is our world—I can’t hide from that.”

“If you don’t, you’ll die young,” he says, but there’s something about his voice that tells me he isn’t trying to talk me out of the idea—he’s trying to make sure I see all the sides of it before we commit to something this drastic.

“There’s another option,” I say carefully. Finn’s eyebrows go up as he stares. I take a deep breath. “We could help the Black Priest.”

His face closes off, going blank so fast it actually startles me. I lick my lips and hold up a hand.

“That’s a fucking suicide mission, and you know it,” Finn snaps.

“Why? Because it’s what we’ve always known?”

“Yes!” he shouts. “Because that shit doesn’t change just because a handful of fanatics want to believe it does.”

“You didn’t even listen,” I shoot back.

“Because he’s a lying bastard who can’t be trusted. I’m not going to let him get you killed.”

“I’m not her,” I scream suddenly, and Finn jerks, like I’ve slapped him. “I’m not that dead girl, and you don’t have to wrap me in wool to keep me safe.”

“It’s suicide,” he repeats, his eyes as furious as his voice is blank.

“The Firsts are still being held,” I say, abruptly, and Finn’s gaze on me narrows. “I talked to Holly. They aren’t letting them go. The Order will still kill them.”

“Did you expect otherwise?” Finn asks, his voice laced with surprised disbelief.

“I hoped. If Omar really has a cure, why do they need to kill the Firsts?”

“They never needed to. Sawyer was an insane drug addict, and people listened to his ravings. That doesn’t equal need—it equals mass hysteria and insanity. And you want to work with these people.”

"I know that they're crazy. But he's got to have something. He wouldn't wave a cure at you if he didn't have something to back it up."

He turns to stare at me, his eyes incredulous. "You want to play chicken with the fucking Black Priest?"

"I want to live," I say, exhausted. "I want to live without wondering if this time when I step outside for water, an infect is going to catch me unaware. I want a safe place. A Clean place."

Finn stares at me for a long time and I finally shift. "You don't have to do this, O'Malley. Collin is dead. You don't owe me anything else. Take the ZTNK and find a safe place—go to Canada. I hear it's gorgeous this time of year."

His eyes harden, and he reaches for the door. "Don't say stupid fucking things, Nurrin. You're better than that."

I bite down on my irritation, the instinct to argue, just because I hate his overhanded bullying. I lick my lips and he frowns.

"We'll listen.” He says, reluctantly. “I'm not promising shit—if I think he's going to put you in danger, I'm getting us out of here as fast as I fucking can. Do you get me?" He waits, staring at me with narrowed eyes, and I nod, a jerky movement. "Good. We'll listen, and we'll kill Kenny, and we'll decide what to do from there."

"Why is he still alive?" I ask, the question that's been bugging me since they arrived at the outpost. The question that is more bloodthirsty than I'm comfortable with, but that I can't help but ask.

"Omar sent me to kill him. That was the price he demanded for your location. I give him the president, and he gives me you. It wasn't that high of a price--I wanted Kenny dead anyway, so what did it matter if it benefited the Order?"

"But he's not dead."

Finn shakes his head. "He had a few of his people there. And they stopped me, at the last minute. Took

Kenny into custody. We were out of 1 in less than an hour. I didn't even have a chance to explain to Claire what had happened. She'll have put it together—she's not stupid and the information will have been valuable in trade."

"I like her."

Finn's gaze changes, almost softens. Finn, who is never soft. "She's a sweetheart. She's been a rock for me, over the years." His voice goes wistful. "I don't think I'll see her again."

"Why didn't you get her out of 1?"

"Because Claire is happy behind her walls. And at the end of the day, she's not the one I promised to protect. She has people who will keep her alive. My priority was finding you and Collin." I nod at him, slowly, and he gives me a quick smirk. "Come on, little girl. Let's get this done so we can move on with our life."

Chapter 6.

The Impossible

We know it's not possible. We know it's the hope that children whisper, and haven girls cling to. Apocalypse babies who never outgrow the stories of childhood.

ERI was a miracle drug that took a volatile world and turned it manageable. Calmed the worst violent emotions. But the beauty of it—the way it adapted to the body's shifting emotions, the highs and lows of the body's chemicals--that is exactly what fucked us so thoroughly when things went bad. It was too unstable to ever cure.

Every one of us learns the basics of ERI-Milan in second grade. We learn about Emilie Milan, the terrifying child, and the day she died. We learn about Sylvia Cragen and her psychotic brother, and the things she did for him. We learn about Atlanta and the dirty bombs and the horde that rose from the still burning city.

We learn about the way ERI worked, and the way it changed.

It killed every hope, except in the ones who are very blind. No one can listen to the history, and walk the Wall with our teacher and the armor-clad Walkers, and believe that there is any future but the one we are living.

A cure is a beautiful dream, a myth we whisper as children.

But that is all it will ever be.

Chapter 7.

The Cure

There are two gray priests still alive in the outpost, and they lead us into the lab. I freeze in the doorway, my gaze going to the empty room I spent hours in. I know it's empty, and clean. I know that the acolytes have taken Collin away and burned his body.

It doesn't make it easier to step into the fucking room.

Finn nudges me roughly into the lab, and I twist to glare at him, but he's ignoring me, looking over my head at where Omar is leaning against a bank of cabinets. The Black Priest has his hands tucked into his pockets, and he's staring at the tops of his boots, all relaxed confidence and nonchalance.

The two gray priests are a little less relaxed. One's shaking so badly his pen rattles against his clipboard. I wonder if they believe in this cure, or if they're merely indulging the fantasies of a madman.

I wonder why all the world seems run by mad men? Is it because that is all there is left in the dying world? Or is it the way things have always been, and we're too blind to see it?

"Tell me what the hell you're talking about," Finn says, abruptly. I give him a sharp look but he doesn't acknowledge me. Omar stares at Finn for a long, tense moment, and then nods to the priests.

"This is Dr. Hudson and Dr. Lucas. They can explain it far better than I ever could."

Finn turns his attention on them, and I see the wide terror in Lucas' eyes before he looks away, fumbling his pen.

Hudson is quietly collected, though. "We've been working on this for almost six years. We aren't sure it's foolproof. And the word ‘cure’—that's not quite accurate."

Finn tenses. Hudson smiles. "The threat from ERI-Milan came because it mutated. And it still is. Every infect we examine, no matter where they come from, the blood tests and infection come back a little different. They share similar markings—the infection is impossible to deny in them—but the fact is that we're fighting a battle that can't be won. The disease is too virulent and there are too many strains. Even if we cured one, it wouldn't matter because the mutation of the disease happens on a basic viral level, and we can't undo that."

"So the cure isn't possible. That's what you’re saying." Finn says, his tone dripping disdain as he frowns.

"What I'm saying is that I can't cure the infected." Hudson pauses. "We stopped trying two years ago. Because sometimes, the best course isn't being reactive—it's being proactive. We have walls to keep out the infected, and we live in fear of being exposed to an outbreak. But what if we made it so that it didn't matter? If the outbreak happens and it's not a threat, we can fight back without worrying about catching the disease. And we can win."

Finn stares at him, and I open my mouth, suddenly dry. "You've found a way to immunize against ERI-Milan?" I ask, not sure I believe him. As much as I want to, I'm not sure any of us can afford to believe him.

"We found a way to stabilize it. It can't mutate and if it doesn't mutate, the infects are only an enemy. They aren't a death sentence."

"And you know it works?" Finn says. "You know this miracle drug will actually do what you say. It'll stabilize the virus so that you can't turn?"  "Theoretically," Lucas mumbles.

My head swings to him, and then back to Hudson, furiously. "Theoretically?"

Hudson flushes, a slow crawl up his neck. "It works in the test subjects."

Finn stares at the man for a long moment, and then his gaze swings to Omar, furiously. "You lying bastard. You never change. I don’t buy your lies anymore, Omar."

"O'Malley, listen."

"No, you fucking listen," Finn snarls. "You won't put her life at risk. Not this time. You can't wave a cure and a life without infection at me and expect me to follow you down the fucking rabbit hole again. This isn't the war, Omar. I'm not your fucking priest. Stay the hell away from us."  "It kept Collin alive." Hudson says sharply.

I freeze, the blood draining from my face, and Finn curses soft and vicious next to me.

My voice is steady, surprisingly steady, when I say, "What are you talking about?"

"We can't use this to cure the infection," Hudson says, and his voice is almost apologetic. "But we can use it to stabilize the virus where it's out. And the sooner we do that, the longer a patient can live post exposure."

"How much longer?" Finn asks.

"Our longest has been six months," Lucas murmurs into the ground and I make a low noise in the back of my throat. This isn't real. This can't be.

I can't have my world shaken again, not this soon.

"We aren't doing this, Omar. Not until I see that the cure works."

I twist to stare at Finn, who’s watching Omar. A small, savage smile plays on his lips.

"How the hell do you want me to test the cure?" Omar growls.

"I believe there are a few people here who hurt her. I want them dead. We need to test this." Finn’s eyes are chillingly blank, and I know that this is for me. “Infect Silas, then give him the treatment. Give it to Kenny, and then have him bitten. If they survive, I’ll consider working with you.”

“Will you forfeit your claim on them, if they survive?”

Finn’s gaze slips toward me, and I don’t know what he sees, but it hardens and becomes brutal. “Not a fucking chance,” he says, softly.

“Yes,” I say, over him.

“Nurrin,” he snarls.

I ignore him, focusing on the Black Priest. Whatever Finn wants to think, there is more at stake than my vengeance. “I won’t demand their deaths. And I will fight with you, in the East. In return, I want the Firsts released, and allowed to leave. Without being tailed—you let them go, free and clear. Safe passage to wherever the hell they want to go. And I’ll do whatever damned thing you want.”

The Priest’s eyes narrow speculatively, and I can feel Finn behind me, cursing softly. “Don’t do this,” he mutters. I ignore him. It’s already done. We both know it. The Priest does too.

“Agreed. Holly, let them go. Finn and I will get us an infect—a fresh one, if we can manage it.”

The little red priestess stares at her boss for a long moment, and then she leaves the room, silently.

I look at the two gray priests. “I want my brother’s ashes. Tomorrow morning.”

“Ma’am, we’re studying—“

“Do what the lady said,” Omar interrupts, and I allow a smile, bleak and unamused, to turn my lips. He nods at me once, and then turns his attention to Finn. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”  Then he straightens and leaves the lab.

Chapter 8.

Silent Truth

We don’t talk on the way back to our room. I can feel the anger coiled tight in him, growing with each step, but he doesn’t speak.

Finn O’Malley is furious but he won’t let it out in public.

I glance at the closed doors on the Firsts hall, as Finn opens the door to our room. Holly will be here, soon, to open them, and let the Firsts out. And then what? What kind of life will they live? I want to think they’ll find a way to be happy and to be safe—but I know my world. Too well.

And I think that I haven’t bought them a future. I’ve bought them a death sentence that might come sooner than they expected. I shove that thought aside as I step into our room and Finn enters behind me.

But at least it will be their choice, when and how they die.

And maybe that is all any of us can ask for. The right to die in the manner of our choosing.

“Nurrin,” Finn snaps, slamming our door, and it pulls me from my musing. I startle forward a step and my gaze collides with his.

Maybe—maybe it’s not about dying in the way we choose. Maybe it’s about living the life we want.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice tight.

I shrug. “You asked me what I wanted. This is my next move, Finn. I’m going to help Omar.”

“You don’t believe that the cure is real.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? There are no choices here—we don’t live in a world that offers much in the way of opportunity. I stay in the West and get swallowed up in a Haven that will fall—and if it doesn’t, what then? I live a small, meaningless life. Maybe I marry a Walker and that’s how I remember the life I had. Or I can help the Black Priest, and I can live the way I want. Free. Meaningful. Not scared.” “You won’t live,” he snarls.

I shrug. “It’s not your problem.”

His eyes widen. “Do you really believe that?”

Everything in my life is shaken. My brother is dead, and the Order is offering a cure that puts the East in reach, when we have always known it’s lost. Nothing makes sense.

But Finn—Finn has never liked me. Finn tolerates me for my brother’s sake. He protected me to keep me alive for Collin.

“I don’t know what to believe,” I say, honestly. “I don’t know why you’re still here. You hate Omar. Collin is dead, and I’m not your problem.”

He stares at me, and I shift. The whole conversation has ceased to make sense—and the air has shifted, turned dangerous in ways I don’t understand.

Finn carefully removes his weapons belt, and lays it aside. “Nurrin. What’s the only thing that matters?”  “You’ll keep me alive.”

I don’t finish the promise, because it doesn’t matter—not anymore. Finn tried but there are some promises that even he can’t keep.

His eyes darken, and he nods. “That hasn’t changed.”

I open my mouth, but he’s kissing me. His hands are in my hair, and I even though I know there’s a wall behind me, I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything but the rough press of his lips, and the stubble he hasn’t had time to shave, the glide of his hot tongue against the seam of my lips, before his teeth catch and bite down, just enough to wring a gasp from me. Then his tongue is in my mouth and there’s nothing else. Not a fucking thing matters or exists beyond this—him and me, and where we touch. I make a noise, and he eats it up, his hands shifting from my hair to my ass, flexing on my hips and pulling me tight to him. It’s not enough, and I make a petulant noise against his lips, lost in the kiss.

He knows.

He's always known exactly what I mean, what I need. Even when I don’t know.

His grip shifts, cups my ass and lifts me, and my legs wrap around him, so that I’m rubbing against him, his hard to my soft, and there are three layers of clothing between us that infuriate me.

His mouth leaves mine, and I’m seeing stars, spots spinning in my vision as I gasp. Air. Oxygen is a good thing. His lips skim down my throat, finding the curve where my shoulder meets my neck. He places a kiss there, so soft I almost think I imagine it. And then his tongue, darting out and tasting the skin, followed by a soft hum of appreciation.

When his teeth close over the tender skin and bite down, pleasure flashes through me, mixing with the stab of pain, a white hot flare that has me shrieking and arching into him. Finn holds the skin between his teeth, drawing on it, and each tug of his mouth is a glancing blow that hits between my legs.

Finn lifts his head, and kisses me again, slower this time, his tongue flicking across my teeth, twisting with mine, licking into my mouth. He is all silk hair between my fingers and stubble against my lips, sharp teeth and warm lips and, god I want more.

I want him naked. Lower. I want his head between my thighs as his tongue works me, just like that. I groan, and arch into him and I don’t give a fuck how needy it sounds.

“What do you want, Nurrin?” he demands, biting down on my earlobe.

And even though I know—I want this—I can’t form the words. Can’t bring myself to be that honest with him.

He pulls back, and his eyes are blazing. He steps away, until I’m standing on shaking legs, and there is a foot of space between us. He pulls his shirt over his head, and I swallow hard. I’ve seen him naked before, but this is different.

No pretensions. No drunk fumbling or pills, no Order to fool—no president to make me forget. In this moment, all of that is stripped away, and there is only him. And me.

And this.

“What do you want?” he demands, his voice hoarse and harsh.

And because even that has me aching and desperate for his touch, I close my eyes, and whisper, “This.”  He makes a dissatisfied noise, and my eyes fly open, but it’s enough—he’s crowding me again, his hands on my waist, gripping me as he pulls me close, dipping down and forcing my head up for a kiss that makes every thought vanish and my fingers curl, in his hair. Then he pulls away, and drops kisses, so soft I wonder if I’m imagining them, along my jaw. “What do you want, Nurrin?”

“This,” I answer, breathless, and he shoves a knee between my thighs, and I groan at the friction, grinding against it as my sex clenches, tiny ripples. The barest-of-there orgasms. I whimper, riding his knee and then it’s gone, and he’s petting down my leg, soft, teasing fingers that drive me mad.

“What do you want?”

“Finn,” I almost sob, but he doesn’t move closer. Just hovers over me, his chest brushing mine when I breathe, his lips brushing mine as he repeats that infuriating question.

His fingers slip into my pants, working down, until his palm is flat against me, and his fingers curve, slipping through the wet heat.

Slipping, but not stroking. Teasing.

“Nurrin,” he almost purrs, “what do you want?”

I snarl. “I want you to quit screwing around and fuck me.”

Triumphant flares in his eyes, and his fingers plunge into me, the heel of his hand scraping against my clit. The orgasm slams into me, so strong I can’t scream, can’t breathe—can’t do anything but stand here, staring into nothing as Finn’s fingers fuck into me, pushing the climax up as it ebbs. When my muscles tighten again, and I’m scrambling against the door and him, desperate to hold onto something that resembles sanity, he unbuttons my pants with his free hand, and jerks them down.

He lifts me up with his free hand, his fingers rubbing in my pussy, and I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything but feel. The bed hits my back, and I arch up, a shameless offering.  Finn grabs me by the ass, one hand wet and sliding, and lifts me.

There’s no more warning than that.

And then there is his mouth, and I do scream. His lips cover my clit and he sucks, hard enough that I feel my world splinter, and then he’s gone, and his tongue is gliding over me, and he makes a noise I will hear every day—I will die, remembering that noise of satisfied pleasure as he tastes me. My hands are in his hair, and I moan, pulling him to where I want.

“Fuck me, O’Malley,” I groan, and he laughs, before he does. His tongue fucks me just like I imagined.

And I did. I’ve never been honest, because no one wants to want someone as dangerous and deadly as Finn O’Malley. A man who refuses to offer the basic courtesy of answering a question.

But what the fuck does it matter? I answer questions, and I lie. Everyone does. It’s the world we live in— maybe it was even before the infects. Finn doesn’t give a fuck about that. He cares about surviving and there is no place for lies in survival. There is only living.

And this—his hands on me, and his mouth fucking me, so slow and easy I want to sob—this is living. Fuck the zombies and the war and the Order, and every other thing that says life is fearing what might hurt you.

Finn could. I think that’s part of why I’ve run so hard from this. Because I knew, the day he came home with Collin, that he was different. That he was dangerous in a way none of the haven boys—boys like Dustin—could be. He could break me.

And it would be worth it.

His teeth scrape over my clit, and I scream, everything in me tightening viciously as I come. An orgasm that steals thought and breath and sight—everything but the pleasure, so sharp it almost hurts, and him, his tongue still working, pushing me. I make a noise that later I will hate myself for, a broken pleading noise as I pull him by the hair, and he laughs at me, two fingers thrusting into me. I’m wet, but tight from the orgasm, and his rough fingers rub against the sensitive walls of my pussy and just like that, I want him. Want more.

My hands twist in his hair, and I pull, yanking him away and up.

I’m not so stupid that I think I could force Finn to do anything. But he grins when I pull, crawling up my body, and I feel his erection, brushing against me though the rough material of his pants.

“Why the fuck are you dressed?” I demand.

He kisses me once, a fierce collision of teeth and lips and tongues, and I can taste myself on his lips, and it drives me fucking crazy.

He stands up abruptly, his hands at his belt, working his belt free. I get one glimpse of him as he shoves off his pants, and then he’s on me, the weight of him so perfect it stings tears to my eyes. He stares at me, and I don’t know what he sees, but it stills him, for a long moment. I whimper, and something in his gaze warms, a little.

He pushes into me, thrusting deep in one hard push. At the same time, his head drops down, and he kisses me, swallowing my low shriek as he fills me.

I’ve been with other men. Dustin, and others in the haven before him. Silly distractions.

They aren’t this.

His hips roll, a steady pull and push that has me moaning into his kiss as he pushes deeper, until his thick cock is fully inside me. For a moment, I can’t breathe, my eyes squeezing shut, and panic, irrational panic, swamps me, and then he breathes out, and my name is on his lips.

I stare up at him as he props himself above me, and I can feel the tension gathering in me, as he fucks me with long, strong strokes. Until I’m panting and arching to meet him and sweat is slipping over my skin, our bodies moving feverishly against each other.

“Finn,” I gasp, as he changes the angle of his thrust and hits a spot that makes me shudder. “Yes. Again,” I demand, digging my nails into his arms.

He grunts, and fucks me faster. His head back, eyes closed, hands tight on my hips. So gorgeous, so—

I scream, my grip on him tightening, and I come, harder than before, harder than I can ever remember, everything narrowing down to this—to pleasure, and him, and here.

Finn’s eyes open, and he stares at me, and his expression is raw and unguarded, open and heartbreaking as he comes, a silent wave of pleasure shaking his big body over mine. And even through the daze of my own orgasm, I know.

Things are different. I don’t know what the hell just happened here, between us. I don’t know why he let it.

I just know that it’s going to change everything.

Even more than Omar announcing a cure. Because that’s for the rest of the world. One more step in a twenty year apocalypse.

But this—fucking Finn O’Malley, and the things I saw in his eyes—this is my own personal apocalypse.

And I can’t bring myself to regret a single minute of it.

Part 8.

A Private Devastation

*

Everyone has a story. Everyone alive is a survivor, and has face unimaginable devastation. We survive despite it

President Andrew Buchman-

**

Surviving isn’t living. Hiding isn’t living. I want to live.

Kelsey Buchman-

Chapter 1.

What We Need

We all need something to live for.

This is the truth. The one truth that I find remains true no matter what happens.

A lot of shit has changed since Day One. So much more than hasn’t. The world we live in now—it’s a shadow of the world we had. We burned that world to the ground with dirty bombs in a southern city. Promises were made and broken, and nothing stayed the same. Nothing.

But there is still one truth. One thing that was true before, and remains true today, despite the razor wire and the zombies, and the general shit that is our life.

We all need something to live for. It doesn’t matter what it is. Family. A cure that will never be reality. A Haven you serve. A girl you love. An Order, mad as it may be.

We all need that.

I had it, once upon a lifetime ago. I had my reason, and I watched her die.

And I never wanted to give a fuck about anyone, after her. Being alone was easier. Lonely as fuck—but so much easier.

But we all need that one thing.

And lying naked in bed next to Nurrin, sweat still cooling on our bodies. I know it’s all been a fucking lie.

I’ve been lying to myself.

I found something to live for again, years ago.

And now that I have her, I’m terrified I’ll fuck it up again, and lose her.

Chapter 2.

Aftermath

I’m lying on my back, Nurrin a half-inch or so away. We’re both naked. I can feel her still—which makes the distance yawning between us so fucking disconcerting. She hasn’t spoken or moved since I slipped free of her and collapsed on my side of the bed.

She wanted this. I wouldn’t have touched her if she hadn’t. I heard it from her before I touched her.

“Why did you hate me?” she asks, and I blink, pushing up on my elbow to stare at her.

It’s very hard to not be distracted by her naked body. But I manage. Barely. Force my expression to take that smirk she hates so much. “Always with the fucking questions.” Her expression flattens with disbelief and I laugh, softly. “Because hating you was easier than wanting this.” Her eyes widen, and I fall back on the bed, refusing to look at her. Saying this is hard enough without looking at her. “I can’t keep you safe if I’m too close to you. It’s what happened with Kelsey—I took my mind off keeping her safe, and started to worry about how much losing her would devastate me. And that’s when I lost her. I was stupid and young and I fucked up.”

And she’s dead. There’s that inescapable truth—and I’ve tried, so often, to escape it.

“I’m not her, O’Malley.”

My heart twists, and I hear Kelsey again, so confidant and young as she smirked and told me nothing would happen to her. Nurrin sounds like her, in this moment. Fear flashes through me, icy cold and waking me up.

I nod, and sit up. We need to get dressed—there is still a president to infect, and her people to take care of. I frown. “Are you serious about going with Omar to the East?”

She nods, and pulls a t-shirt on over her head. It musses her already tousled hair, and I can see the press of her nipples through the thin material.

I want her naked and panting, squirming under me as I drive her mad.

Which is fucking ridiculous, since I just finished fucking her. This should be out of my system by now. My lips twist—she’ll never be out of my system. I knew that a long time ago. It’s why I never did—why I’ve kept myself away from her all these years.

The best way for me to keep her safe and alive is to stay away.

I grab my clothes and tug them on, zipping my jeans up and reaching for a shirt. I can feel her watching me, and I ignore it. I ignore her. I’ve become so very good at ignoring her—but this is different.

“Finn?” she says, softly. A question in her voice that pulls at me.

I know what she wants. Me to tell her that everything is fine, that we’re fine, that I’m not pushing her away—that this will change things.

But I can’t tell her that. I can’t lie to her—nothing will change. I can’t let it.

“Come on, Nurrin. If you’re committed to this insane idea, we should go ahead and get started with it.”  She opens her mouth, and I stare at her, my face blank. Her eyes harden and she gives me a single short nod.

Just like that, the lines are redrawn. She’s on her side of it, where I can keep her safe. And it feels like she’s as untouchable as she’s ever been—I grit my teeth and remind myself that this is for the best.

The hallway is filled with people, all of them young enough to be apocalypse babies, all wearing that damned white I found her in.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, pressed against my side. I slide a look at her.

At least twenty Firsts crowd the hall, some looking terrified, some looking confused. One—a guy with long, dark hair pulled back at the base of his neck—looks furious. “What the hell is going on?” he snarls, glaring at the little acolyte, trying to make sense of the madness.

I almost let her.  Almost walk away and leave this shit for her to deal with. It’s not our problem—and I don’t give a fuck about a handful of furious Firsts. Nurrin has other plans. Of course she does.

"Get them food and whatever else they need," she snaps, staring at the acolyte. The kid's eyes bulge. Firsts aren't normally the ones giving orders here. I shift a little, and her gaze flicks over me. Then she nods quickly, and hurries away, muttering under her breath.

I glance down at her, my face blank. "You're creating problems for us, you know."  Her tone is frosty. "Then take the ZTNK and get out of here. I'm not making you stay."  I wince as she turns away, and focuses on the small crowd of Firsts.

I knew she would be pissed that I fucked her and pulled away. Hiding behind my blank unemotional mask won’t work for long, not with her. I just have to get through this—and Nurrin angry with me isn't that unusual, in the end.

"Who the hell are you?" the kid with the hair snaps

Nurrin smiles at the gruff question, even as I stiffen. Part of me wants to break the kid's neck for his rudeness. I'm not allowed to hurt him. The instinct is prodded by that savage internal voice that the remains of our civilized society would tell to shut up. It’s the one that keeps me alive, so I don’t really give a fuck what civilization thinks. .

I rarely silence the things that keep me alive, and my gut feelings, the ones that really dislike this angry First staring at Nurrin, have kept me alive more times than I can count over the years.

I wish I could say the same for all the people I've cared for.

"I'm Nurrin Sanders, previously of Haven 8. Finn O'Malley." She nods at me, but offers no more information than that. Smart girl.

His eyes narrow even more, and then, grudgingly, "Ethan Matlock."

"How long have you been here?" she asks

"One hundred and ninety eight days," he says, "What the hell is happening?"

Nurrin's gaze slips to me, but I shrug. This is on her to answer—she let the dude out. She can handle his fun questions too.

"How much do you know about the Order?" she asks, and I step back. Most of the gathered Firsts are listening, even if they still seem absorbed in their own personal crises.

"Enough to know that they're crazy as fuck and I want to be as far away from them as I can." he says. "Much more than that is suicide for a guy like me. We tend not to care, as long as we can stay away from them."

Nurrin nods. "I understand that," she says, quietly.

Something shifts in the kid's gaze, and he straightens a little. "You’re a First," he says, a statement more than a question.

A flush is crawling up Nurrin's neck. Something I haven't seen in her since the night in 18, when she chased me into my shower.

Before that, it was because of Dustin and his bumbling, idiotic interest in her.

I grit my teeth and remind myself that I can't kill this shithead.

"I am. The Red High Priestess held this Outpost, until she was killed. Now it's held by the High Priest, and the Black sect has no interest in killing firsts. You’re free to go."

Her words are met with utter silence and then Ethan laughs. "Every sect wants us dead, Nurrin."

She nods. “But this sect wants something else more than it wants a bunch of blood on Third Day. I’m giving it to him. He’s giving me your freedom. You’ll each be taken to a Haven of your choosing. What you do—how you live—that’s up to you now.”

The Firsts are silent, staring at her for a long moment, and I touch her arm, ignoring the way she flinches away from me. They need time to process, and we have other places to be. “Nurrin, we need to go.”

She gives me a dirty look and I shrug. Just because she dislikes the truth doesn’t it make it any less valid.

“I’ll be back. And the acolytes will be getting you sorted out—you have some time to decide what you want to do next. Take a minute and figure it out.”

“And you? What are you going to do?” Ethan challenges, and she gives him a quick, darting smile.  “I’m going to do what I can to end this.”

Chapter 3.

Facing Our Past

Kenny Buchman doesn’t look like the same man who greeted me on the white house

LAWN, not so many weeks ago. His hair is dirty and hanging in his eyes, stubble covers his cheeks, and bruises—bright purple and blue—cover the fading yellow ones.

He looks like a man who’s been through hell, and that makes me inordinately pleased. Nurrin makes a soft noise of surprise when she sees him, and her gaze finds me.

“What happened?”

I shrug. "Kenny's life was the price I paid to find you. Omar wanted him dead before he moved against the Order and I was more than willing to help him. Especially since I knew the fucker had a hand in your disappearance."

She shivers. "But he's alive."

I nod, fury rippling under my skin. "Omar decided at the last moment that the figurehead was a good idea to keep around. I wasn't happy, but he was still giving me what I needed--you. In the end, that's what really mattered, so I let the matter drop."

She licks her lips, and I clench my hands to keep from reaching for her. Her eyes are glassy when she says, "He had a picture, of the sacrifice. The one from the Stronghold."

I know what she's talking about instantly. It's hard to forget the bloodstained blonde girl who mutilated herself trying to get away from the infected. She was drugged—all the sacrifices are, before the Order shoves them to their deaths. But in the end, no drugs are enough to kill the terror of being torn apart.

Watching her die would have been hard under any circumstances. But watching, knowing that Nurrin was destined for the same fate, knowing she was thinking the same thing as she watched that little girl being torn to pieces, that had been gut-churning and fucking horrible.

"He gave that girl to the Order," she says, and her voice is tight and violent. Furious. I touch her arm gently, and her gaze swings to me, irate.

"I want him fucking dead, O'Malley."

This is the thing that is most infuriating, and the thing that never fails to draw me in. Nurrin is a survivor. When push comes to shove, she'll always do what it takes to survive, and if that's dirty and horrid, she'll deal with that shit later, when things are safe.

But when there is a choice—when life isn't quite on the line and she can think about options, she will always champion the underdog. It doesn't matter if the underdog is already dead and turned. She'll fight for it anyway.

It's infuriating, because when she's like this, there's no reasoning with her—she's blind to the danger around her. But it always captivates me because I don't understand it.

I'm not that guy. I'm not the guy who survives, but has a good heart underneath it all. I know who and what I am—I'm a bastard. Manipulative and untrusting and impossible to work with under the best of circumstances, and let’s be honest—we haven't had those in a long ass time.

No. I'm not a good guy under a shitty exterior looking to be redeemed by an impossible situation. I'm just a guy trying to survive in a world falling apart, and willing to do whatever it takes to keep my promise.

I don't care who gets hurt, as long as it's not Nurrin.

She would hate me if I ever admitted it, but I’m glad that it was Collin I found infected. If I had to find one of them that way, I would always choose Collin before Nurrin.

Because it meant she didn't. He took that danger, and he eliminated it before it could threaten her.

And I miss him. The man was my partner for years, and we Walked together—I spent more time with him than anyone, including his sister

But I would kill him myself if I thought he was a threat to her.

He trusted me to do that. He expected it. And that kills a part of me. Because I knew I would. Because I embraced that savage side.

Because I would never be furious on behalf of a girl long since dead and betrayed. Never mind that the same asshole who killed that nameless girl had also kidnapped and sold her to be exterminated because of an accident of birth—that doesn’t bother Nurrin.

She's not furious because she went through hell. She's furious because someone else did.

In that moment, I understand why she's championing the East. Why she'll fight for something we can't win. Without letting myself think, I reach for her hand and squeeze it tight.

"We'll see him dead, Nurrin. Don't worry about that. I will see him dead and his head at your feet." I say, soft and intent.

She makes a startled face, and for a moment I wonder if I took it too far. Then she gives me a rare, approving smile and I know I didn't.

Omar is standing in the room, talking to Kenny. We can't hear him through the soundproof glass, but it doesn't matter. I know what's being offered.

A long syringe and needle lay on the table between them.

"Will he take it?"

"No. Not voluntarily. Kenny isn't stupid. He knows that the cure is a joke at best, and a death sentence at worst."

"But Omar," she starts.

"Omar will do whatever it takes to keep you happy. So he'll inject the serum. He doesn't give a fuck what a baby president wants." She slides me a glance, and I look at her, seriously. “I want you to stay behind the glass, and out of the way when we bring in the infect. Omar wants my help. I want you safe.”  “This was my idea,” she says quietly.

“And I’m indulging it because you want this, for whatever reason. But we’ll do it by my rules. You obey. No questions.”

Anger flashes in her eyes for a moment and then she nods. “Fine.”

I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, slow enough that she doesn’t notice, and I turn with her to watch the Black Priest inject our president with the cure.

Omar steps out of the room a few minutes later, and I hear Kenny screaming at him. Nurrin’s fingers are flexing and unflexing on her knife, and have been for a solid five minutes. I don’t think she’s even aware of it. “Does he know why this is happening?” she asks, suddenly.

Omar shrugs. “He thinks there’s been a restructuring of the power in the Order, and he’s a casualty of it. Close enough to the truth that I didn’t bother to elaborate on the finer points.” Nurrin makes a choked, furious noise. Dammit.

I catch her arm as she starts to push past me, and I shake my head. “No, Nurrin. It’s not happening.” “There isn’t a threat right now,” she protests, not looking at me.

I growl and shake her. Her head snaps back and forth and then her green eyes are boring into me, furiously. “No,” I repeat.

“Fuck you,” she hisses, and yanks herself free.

She’s in the room before I can catch her, and Kenny’s eyes widen as he stares at her, and then me, over her shoulder. He laughs, a hysterical noise. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not what you expected, Mr. President?” she asks, her voice sticky sweet and so fake. I swallow my laugh.

“This shit was you?” he demands. “All of this for her? Why? She isn’t Kelsey!”

Nurrin flinches, and I realize, suddenly, that being compared to a girl from my past has to sting. I wonder why she’s never bothered to tell me that. Or maybe she has with her actions, and I’ve just been too fucking stupid to pick up on it.

I think that’s probably closer to the truth. Nurrin is staring at Kenny, though, and right now there isn’t a dead girl haunting me or him. There is just her, and her fury. “You remember, when we were at that fucking restaurant, and I told you that he would kill you, slowly, for hurting me?”

I jerk, startled. She hadn’t mentioned that, when she skimmed the details of what happened to her in the time we were separated.

Fear is in his eyes, something that surprises me. In all the years I’ve known Kenny, he’s never been smart enough to be afraid. But this girl has managed to scare him.

She steps closer, careful to stay out of his reach. “I lied. He won’t. But he took your power. Your presidency. And now, you’re nothing. A fucking puppet for the Order. You’ll either die from infection, or you’ll live in chains and be trotted out when Omar needs a sound bite.” Kenny pales, and she leans down, and whispers. “I fucking did that, you shit. Remember that. Remember it was the girl you sent to die who destroyed you.”

Rage flashes across Kenny’s face, and I pull her away as he jerks in his restraints. “You might have destroyed me, but who will fucking want you now? Now that my men and half the acolytes in the Outpost have fucked you. Who the hell will touch you? I may have lost everything, First, but you have lost just as much.”

Nurrin sways, the ugly words—the truth we’ve both been avoiding—slamming into her like bullets.

It’s one thing to suspect. But to hear it laid out, that plainly—to know that she was raped. I make a low noise in my throat, and jerk forward a step. Nurrin catches me as I lunge for Kenny, and her little body is a heavy weight that freezes me in my tracks. Because no matter how furious with this bastard I might be, I can’t hurt her. I won’t set her aside while I beat the shit out of him—not right now.

“Stop,” she whispers. “It’s done. We’ve taken everything that matters. And the infect will take even more.”

She looks at me, and I see myself reflected in her eyes. Not my tiny reflection—but the darkest, dirtiest parts of who I am. The savage violence that repels so many. It’s there—fury and a yawning pit that demands revenge.

And a cold, cold stare.

I know this girl. I know her because I have seen that look in myself so many times before.

I nod, and Nurrin’s body loses some of the tension. “Out,” I murmur, and she nods. Follows me out of the little cell.

“Nurrin,” I say, reaching for her.

She jerks away, her expression sharp. “Don’t,” she snaps. I go still, and then I nod. Because there is too much fear in her eyes for me to push right now.

“Stay here. I’m going to get the infect in there.”

She hesitates, and then, “Make sure it doesn’t kill him.”

I smirk—I want to ignore that order, and everything I know we’re doing. Instead, I nod an acknowledgement of her words, and I slip from the little holding room. Giving her a little bit of breathing room.

Omar isn’t far. Of course he isn’t. The bastard has never been far, when my life went to complete shit. He’s always been far enough that nothing touches him—he always comes out clean as a fucking lily.

But he’s close enough to watch the devastation, and for me to hate, when none of it hits him. It happened in Columbus and it’s happening now. His Order kidnapped and tortured her, his people raped her, drugged her so senseless, she can’t even remember it.

But Omar—he steps in after all that, with a cure and a fanatical belief, and I’m supposed to let all the shit that’s come before go, supposed to forget.

Supposed to forgive.

Claire said I would, when I got a little distance from Kelsey’s death. When I had enough time to think shit through and realize that Omar couldn’t have known we were walking into a slaughter, a horde that rivaled the one in New York City.

And part of me knows that—logically.

But we told him. We staked out the city, and watched the movements. We knew long before the mission was ever approved that our people were dead, and that the odds of making it out whole were non-existent.

We told Buchman, and the advisors, we told Omar and the generals. We told fucking everyone. But when they gave us our marching orders, Kelsey didn’t even bat an eye. She smiled, the little idiot. And all of her men nodded and did exactly what we knew was a bad idea, because she wanted it, and we all gave her what she wanted, and trusted each other to get her out alive.

Omar knew that. And he used it—her stubborn refusal to see danger, and our loyalty to her—to push a mission that was fucking suicide.

And she’s dead because of it.

“Ready?” he asks, and I stare at him. All that anger and years of bitterness welling in me. I nod, and some of the tension in Omar’s shoulders ease. He beckons and I follow him up a narrow flight of stairs. The air tastes different here. Cleaner. We’re topside again, and I can hear the infected screaming outside.

I don’t remember much about the trip here. I know we followed the train tracks, and Omar had one of his black priests driving my ZTNK, while I sat in a windowless van, checking and rechecking weapons.

I don’t know where we are or how to get back to 1.

I’m not used to that kind of vulnerability. If it had been anyone else demanding it, I would have balked completely.

But it’s Omar, and I might hate him, but I know him enough to know he wouldn’t trick me when taking me to my death—he’d do it honest and clean.

"Where the hell is this place?"

Omar shoots me a look. "Somewhere safe."

Cryptic bastard. I swallow my annoyance, and follow him. The little building is dirty and dusty, and I can feel the wind rattling through the shitty walls. "How have they not torn this place to shreds?"

Omar shrugs. "We don't spend enough time in here for the infects to care about it—once we’re downstairs, they lose interest because the scent is gone. Any more questions, or do you think we can get this done?"

I flash a dirty smile and he smirks, and pushes the door open.

I'm out first, my bow up in front of me as I bring down an infect. The pack screams as they see me, and lurch into motion. They're on me fast—they've fed recently, their movements jerky and unnaturally quick. I dodge a reaching hand, and swing my bow over, releasing. The quarrel passes through smoothly, and the infect drops as it flies free to embed in the ground, covered in black brain.

A hand grabs me, and I roar, whipping my knife out and stabbing blindly at the zombie whose gotten too close. Then a solid presence is at my back, and all the shit we've been through, all the years of anger and silence, fall away as Omar positions himself behind me.

"Good?" he snaps, and I laugh, a wild, manic sound.

He grins at me over his shoulder, and we fight, the zombies coming thick and fast. One scrapes too close, and I slice down with my knife, cutting off its hand before it can get a grip on me. The infect screams and lunges forward, and my knife sticks as I drive it up into the brain from under its chin.

And there are still more behind it.

I pull my gun, and shout at Omar, "There's too many."

"Too many for you? We did this shit every day in the East."

I growl, and he laughs wildly, slicing an infect across the neck. I fire quickly, three times, and two infects fall.

There's one lunging at us still, and five more sprinting toward us. "You done, or want to stick around for the after-party?"

Omar grunts, and I grab the muzzle from my waist.

This is the tricky part—killing is easy. Bringing an infect in alive and still dangerous is a stupid fucking game to play, but there aren't a lot of options just now.

The muzzle was created by a family of morticians. After the dead started sitting up and eating the folks around them, the way we treated the dead changed. Even the dearly departed. Bullets to the head became standard. And with a new caution in most people about being around dead, funerals became a thing of the past. Morticians were quickly a superfluous thing in a world filled with shit we no longer needed.

But even in our world, a world ruled by fear of the dead, there were some who couldn't adjust. Who couldn't let go.

And there will always be someone willing to feed that.

The Clark family spent three generations caring for the dead. And when that changed, they went into business creating products to care for them. If you aren't quite ready to let go of your dead father--it's fine. Clark Company is sure to have the perfect muzzle for your pet infect, and chains to keep them contained.

It was a brilliant little business that preyed on the sick and desperate—and then one of those pet infects broke lose, and her muzzle came off. She infected fifty people in Haven 29 before she was put down.

29 still hasn't fully recovered from that massacre.

But the government seized the zombie gear, and muzzles became something we could fine tune, for our own use.

It is always better to study a live specimen, and this made that possible.

It was still dangerous as fuck, and I had always hated being part of the tag and grab.

"Ready?" I snap, and Omar grunts, whipping around and grabbing the infect. It screams and lunges at his face, and I toss the muzzle over its head. Another shriek and the infect goes crazy, bucking wildly in my grip as it tries to shake lose and do what the disease demands: feed. I hiss, and Omar catches my eye over the infect’s shoulder. "Hurry this shit up."

The infect snarls and jerks, hard. The muzzle slips, and teeth come close, too fucking close, to the Priest.

He snarls, and I yank hard on the muzzle, and it slides into place. I laugh as the lock engages, and Omar curses, letting the infect go. It lunges at him, and I grab it by the hook on the muzzle, yanking it backwards and into the Outpost.

"You know this is fucking stupid."

"I know this is the only way to get you to be my second in command."

I glance at him. "I'm not interested in working for you again, Omar. You know that." "But your First will fight with me," he says, simply.

And it is that simple. I swallow my curse, and shove the stairwell door open. "Don't fucking count on that. She hasn't left yet, and I can still talk sense into her."

Omar shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. But the first step is to show you both that the disease isn't something we need to fear."

I don’t argue with him. I don’t argue with lunatics, and as much as I wish it were otherwise, that’s the camp Omar is falling into these days.

“How does this go down?”

“We’ll put him in containment overnight. Give the cure time to work into Stiles’ system.”

I nod, and follow his lead as we wrestle the furious zombie into containment. Nurrin stands on her side of the walled room, eyes cool, face blank, as we work.

Cold fear pricks my belly. She’ll be in the same building as a live infection, all night. That thought makes me feel sick to my stomach. The zombie lunges suddenly, and I tighten my grip on the muzzle hook, shoving it into containment as Omar steps out of the way. The door swings closed, and the zombie screams, furiously battering itself against the door. I stare at it for a long tense moment, and then let my gaze swing to the Black Priest.

“Even if we can’t be infected—that? That isn’t safe. You’ll never be able to convince me that facing them is anything less than suicide. And I stopped going on suicide missions years ago.”

His lips quirk. “The problem is, you never went on suicide missions. You just followed the girl. And you’ll do it again now—she’s too important to you.”

Dread hits me in the gut, and I stare at him, my eyes dead as I keep from shaking by a sheer force of will.

“I’ll kill you, if anything happens to her. It will make what happened to Kelsey look like a mercy.”

Omar’s eyes cool. “Threats have never worked on me, old friend.”

“You know me, Omar. You’ve known me longer than anyone alive, but Claire. You know I don’t make threats—and I don’t make promises unless I’m damned sure I can keep them.”

Omar smiles, and nods. “I’m counting on that.”

Chapter 4.

Keeping Promises

“Come with me.” I say.

Nurrin is standing at the window, staring at Kendall. I wonder what she wants to see. The cure won’t work in any way that is visible—not until we’ve actually infected him, and see how the virus in his body reacts.

“Nurrin,” I prod, my voice sharp. Her eyes snap up to mine, fury written clearly in her gaze. I smile. That’s what I need to see from her—the anger that keeps her alive.

Some people shut down under pressure and anger. But some people—people like her—sharpen with it. They get stronger. It’s why I push her.

“Come with me,” I repeat. She hesitates, her eyes wary, but I don’t offer more than that, and eventually, as I knew it would, her curiosity pushes her into motion.

“Where are we going?”

I ignore the question and head to the fourth level of the Outpost. It’s here that Holly is organizing the supplies and weapons. Getting ready for a war that all sense says is lost.

It’s also where the kitchen is, with stores of MREs and fresh produce. Cans of veg and soup and weird desserts that became popular after the end of the world. A kitchen that’s better stocked than most Haven homes. I glance at her. “What do you want?”

Nurrin’s eyes are wide as saucers as she stares at the stock. I know why—of course I do.

She’s a Haven girl—and Collin did his best to take care of her before the Haven fell. But he was a Walker, and there was never enough to go around, especially when he tended to share with other orphans in the Hive.

Nurrin never went hungry, if we could help it. But enough and excess are two very different things. I’ve been lucky—my life has always been crowded with excess. The privilege of my parents’ name, and the benefits of being Kelsey’s favorite.

The perks that came with being the son of the plague-bringer didn’t outweigh the guilt, or the hatred people had when they found out who my mother was.

And nothing—not anything—could ever make losing Kelsey worth it.

“Anything?” Nurrin says, her voice calculating. I grin, and nod.

Ten minutes later, we’re headed back to our room. The flash of glee in her eye as she pulled fruit and soup and pudding and loaves of fresh bread from the shelves—it’s gone now. She’s withdrawn, her eyes down as we walk, almost ignoring me.

I want to shake her, but Kendall’s words are too present between us. Whatever she’s going through, I need to be quiet and allow her to process them. Even if I want to push until she breaks, sometimes, there is strength to be found in moments of weakness, and allowing those moments. So I stay quiet as we walk, following her to our small room.

The First hall is crowded, still. Nurrin goes still when she steps into the hall, and I brush up against her back. She hisses softly, and I smile, tight and amused. She dances away a step.

Silly girl. She can think whatever she likes, but this thing between us isn’t going away. Even if that’s what is safest and best—what we both want and need. I’ve been inside her now, tasted her, and heard the soft noises she makes when she’s falling apart. She’s dug her way into my defenses, and I’m not giving her up now—I can’t. And in a rare moment of honesty with myself, I will admit the truth. I don’t want to.

Nurrin pushes me, in ways no one has since Kelsey, and not even her. Because Kelsey knew me before the world stripped away all of the pretty lies. Before I realized that there was nothing but death. That is all the world has to offer.

Kelsey didn’t live long enough for me to reach that conclusion before her death. And in truth, I wouldn’t have. Her death was the nail in the coffin—the thing that stripped the last of who I was and shaped who I became.

Nurrin wouldn’t have recognized me before Kelsey’s died. Bitter and angry, but still stupid enough to believe that this could end in something other than blood.

It all ends in death. That’s all there is—it’s just a matter of how you pass the time until then. Hiding or fighting to live.

“What the hell is going on?” one of the Firsts demands.

Nurrin looks back at me, her eyes wide and a little scared. I shake my head and step back. This is her party. She wanted them free—she gets to deal with the upset people who just had their secure little box torn apart.

It’s an ugly truth of our world, that we’re happy in our little box. Even if it’s just a stopping place on the way to our eventual slaughter—because it’s familiar and it’s comfortable, and we’re creatures who value both.

A figure pushes to the front of the group, and I tense. It’s the one from earlier, with long dark hair and sharp green eyes that linger on Nurrin longer than I like. I don’t like this one. “We aren’t being told anything, First. And that’s a bad place for a group like us to be in.”

“Have you decided what you want?” she asks, shifting her bag. She doesn’t like being in the spotlight— common sense after a lifetime of hiding from the Order.

Ethan glances back at the clustered Firsts, and then looks at her. “Can we talk privately?”

My eyebrows lift, lazily, and I take the single step I need to brush against her, an arm slipping around her waist and pulling her tight to me.

Ethan looks at me, and for the first time, I think he actually registers what he sees. His lips tighten, but I don’t release her. He hasn’t earned the right to be anywhere near her and he sure as fuck hasn’t earned enough trust to be alone with her.

“No,” I say, softly. Quietly enough that only she hears the word, murmured into her ear. Nurrin twitches irritably.

“We can talk in my room, if you’d like,” she says, a compromise. I wait until Ethan gives a grudging nod, and then I steer her into our room, ignoring the mass of terrified-looking Firsts.

“What the hell are they doing?” she demands, tossing her bag on the bed. It clatters noisily, but I’m staring at the bed, and all I can think about is her. There. Naked with me.

“O’Malley,” she snaps, her voice a tart whiplash. I jerk from my thoughts and refocus on her.

“They’re sheep, Nurrin. And you just set them free. They’re wandering around bleating because that’s what sheep do.”

“Fuck you,” a sharp voice says from behind me, and I turn, flicking a glance at the First standing in our doorway. He’s glaring at me, and it pricks my interest. I don’t like the way his eyes skate over Nurrin, a little too interested. But he has more sense, and more anger than the other Firsts.

And anger might be destructive and people might hate it—but it does the job when it comes to staying alive.

“Don’t,” Nurrin snaps. “Sit your ass down.”

Ethan eyes her for a long moment, and then he perches on the edge of the desk. Smart. If he had moved toward the bed she’s sitting on, I might have broken his neck. I’m already pissed he’s in the same room as her.

“What do you think happens next?” he asks, abruptly.

Nurrin ignores him and cracks the battery pack on the soup, shaking it hard to warm the little can. She tosses one to me and I grab it out of the air. “What happens next is you go to a Haven, or you get your shit together and live in the Wide Open, or whatever the hell you think you should do. You get away from the Order and you live.” Nurrin says.

“Why?” he demands.

She goes still, the can forgotten in her hand. “Because we all deserve the right to live and die in the manner of our own choosing. The Order doesn’t get to decide that because we’re Firsts, we’re someone less, or merely here for their own use. We are people too. And we get to live the way we want—if that’s hiding behind the Walls of a Haven, or staying a few steps ahead of the horde. Whatever. It’s your fucking life. Live it.” I stare at her, and her gaze darts to me, for a moment. She licks her lips, nervously, and then refocuses on Ethan. “You aren’t bound by Walls or society or the Order. Do what you’ve never thought you could.”

Ethan stares at her. “What are you going to do?”

Nurrin blinks. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugs, and her eyes narrow a little. “I think it has a lot to do with everything. You gave us our freedom, not the Order. You say to live in the manner of our choosing, but for so many of these people they don’t know what that is. I’m curious how you will live.”

She licks her lips, and I see the shadows in her eyes as she darts a quick glance at me, then back to the boy who asked her the question. Her face is utterly blank, and her voice is cool and distant when she answers, “I’m going to live in a way that matters.”

Chapter 5.

The Only Thing That Matters

Nurrin is lying on her side of the bed, curled away from me. She’s been quiet and remote since Ethan left the room. And with each moment of silence, my irritation strings tighter. She’s spending too much fucking time in her head, but I don’t know how to shake her out of it.

I don’t know how to bring her back to me and the moment we shared last night.

I should be glad for the distance. Should use it to step away.

Stepping away is the safe thing to do. Because at the end of the day, surviving is what matters. It’s the only thing that matters.

“I want you to go. Take the ZTNK and get out of here.” Her voice is soft but firm, and she’s rolled on her side, staring at the ink on my neck.

My hands ball into fists, and I will myself to relax. Because I can’t snap at her for being honest with me. Not when all I’ve ever asked for is honesty. “Why?”

She sits up and shoves her hair back furiously, and frowns down at me. She looks like Kelsey, angry and determined, and so damn earnest. And she looks nothing like her, because there is a world of knowledge and fear and weariness in her that Kelsey never carried. I wish I could have kept that fear from Nurrin.

"Because this isn't your fight, Finn. It never was. I'm not your responsibility, and I won't be the reason you die."

I grin, lazily. "Do you think you could be?"

Nurrin bares her teeth, a parody of a smile. "I think that if you follow a promise made to my dead brother, you'll end up in the East, and we'll both die there."

I sit up abruptly, the joking gone. Because her words ring too heavy and full. "You know that going East will be a death sentence. Then why the fuck are you going to do it?"

She sits quietly for a long moment, and then shrugs. "Because what the hell else do I have, O'Malley?" So much bitterness. And no hope. Not a goddamned bit of it. She sounds hollow and empty, and I recognize that because it echoes in me. "I'm a girl who was born into a world of death, a girl born to die. And everyone who has ever loved me at all is dead. What the hell is there left for me to do, but to die?"

I roll, and come up on my knees, looming over her and grab her shoulders. Shake her hard enough that her head wobbles perilously. "You fucking live. You do what he knew you could do—you survive, despite every fucking thing that says you shouldn't. You keep going because you can, because he bought you more time with his death and because he would hate for you to die. Collin deserves more from you, little girl."

There are tears brimming in her eyes, and she yanks herself out of my grip, and slaps me. Hard enough that for a moment, I don't feel it, just hear the noise. And then white hot fire lights up along my face, and I smile at her, furious and savage.

"That," I murmur. "That anger is what you need. Hold onto it when you’re feeling lost and sad. And don't forget that even though Collin is gone, you aren't lost. I won't let you be lost."

Her breath catches, and I lean in, kissing her hard and fast. Her hands are in my hair, tugging, and she's crying. I can taste the tears on my lips, mixing with the taste of her, and it shouldn't be a turn on; it should make me back off and calm her down.

But we aren't like that. We've never been like that. We've always been fury and hot emotion and pushing too hard. So I push her, and she pushes back.

She yanks my shirt off over my head, and her teeth latch down on the muscle of my neck, so I hiss out a breath, and she laughs, a dark, erotic noise that makes me hard. I shove her back, and catch her pants, pulling them down and off her as she unbuttons her shirt with quick, fumbling fingers.

I'm on her before she can shove it off, my mouth closing over her nipple, drawing my teeth over it. She whimpers, her body shaking under me, and I do it again, just to fucking feel that.

For so long, I've told myself this wasn't possible. Because she was Collin's sister and because I knew, even in 8, that she would change everything. That having her in my life would devastate it. And I knew better—I knew that I couldn't survive something like that again.

So she was something I wanted. And something I hated for wanting. Until every time I saw her, I pushed. Sharp, biting comments and stares that turned dismissive, and ignoring her completely. Her jealousy over me deepened, and we hated each other.

But I've always wanted her. I've always wanted this. And as I prop myself up and push into her, taking in the deep groan and the way her teeth bite down on her bottom lip, her eyes dropping down to watch me push into her—I was a fucking idiot.

Her eyes dart to me, and I see those shadows, that fucking sadness. I can't get rid of that. It's part of who she is. But I hate it and I hate that it's here, now.

"Fuck me, Finn," she says, her voice teasing and throaty. "Fuck me."

So I kiss her, a hard, bruising kiss that is as much a battle as we have ever been, and I fuck her like I could lose her--because I know I could, and I don't think I could survive it.

Part 9

The End of Hope

*

Everything ends. Everyone dies. That is our truth.

Finn O’Malley-

**

Sometimes, you just keep going. Not because you want to. But because that’s the only option.

Collin Sanders-

Chapter 1.

The Nature of Change

There are only so many times everything can change. Only so many unshakable truths that can be shaken and shattered.

Then you just quit believing in anything.

I get it now—Finn saying that everyone lies. They do. Everything—the Walls, and the Walkers, and the brother who promised to keep me safe, the government who has our best interest at heart—every fucking thing. It’s all one big lie circling in on the next.

There’s one truth, and no matter what way the Order and Omar want to spin the fairy tale, it’s not changing. It’s too integral to who we are now, to what we’ve allowed ourselves to become.

The infection kills.

Chapter 2.

Mourning Things Gone

The outpost is quiet. So quiet it makes me shiver as I pad through the halls. The shower is unnaturally loud. I would worry about people being disturbed by my noise, if I could think past anything but the white noise in my head.

Too many things have changed. Too fast for me to process. Part of me wants to go back to the little room where I was locked away, the bed that Finn is in, and crawl back under the blankets.

Except that Finn was never supposed to be mine. He was never supposed to be anything more than someone my brother implicitly trusted, and someone I hated.

Even that truth has changed. Tears sting my eyes and I swallow hard to keep from sobbing. I’m tired of the tears. I feel like everything has been stripped away from me in the Outpost. Like I’m just a shell of what I was before I went to that fucking dinner with Kenny.

I throw up suddenly, his words repeating in my head.

Those bastards raped me. And the worst part—the fucking worst part—is I have no idea who. When or how often, or motherfucking who. I want, irrationally, every acolyte and priest in the Outpost put into the Wide Open, left to fend for themselves against a fucking horde.

I’ve never wished that—never even thought about it. My worst enemy doesn’t deserve to be left to the mercy of the zombies.

But they do.

Hair swings down, slapping my face as I crouch. I shut my eyes, the water mixing with my dinner and swirling down the drain. I can’t think about that—about them and what happened—right now. I swallow hard, and stand up. The water has turned cold, and my teeth are chattering as I scrub the vomit from the ends of my hair, and rinse the shampoo out.

I dry myself off quickly and slip into a bra and clean underwear, stolen from the Order’s uniform closet, before stepping into a pair of black leathers. They’re loose on me, which bothers me. I shouldn’t be dropping weight. I shove that thought aside, and pull a tank top over my head. The button-down I add after tucking a couple knives into my waist band.

My boots are too loud—they’ll wake Finn—so I carry them and pad out of the bathroom with my weapons belt over my shoulder.

Ethan is sitting in the hallway, his eyes finding mine as I step out. He fidgets a little, and then scrambles to his feet. “We need to talk.”

I shake my head, and motion to him. Confusion touches his eyes briefly, but he follows me out of the

First hall, and into the stairway. I plop down and tug on my boot. “Talk, First.”

“One of the acolytes told me you’re going to join the war. Why?”

I shrug. So easy to lie to him. And he’s stupid enough to believe it, because why would I lie? I shake the thought and shrug. “Because my family’s dead, and my Haven was overrun and why the fuck not?” It’s not the truth. And I’m not telling him about the deal I made. But it’s enough.

“I want to come with you.”

That makes me pause, my foot halfway in my boot. “You don’t know me,” I say slowly. “You don’t know anything about me or why I’m doing this. Why the hell would you want to come with me?”

“Because it’s my choice. I want to live and die in the manner of my choosing.”

I make an aggravated noise—it would be less annoying if they weren’t my words being tossed back in my face.

“When I said that, I meant for you to actually live.”

“This is,” he says, soft and even. “Isn’t it? If it wasn’t, why would you be joining the fight?”

My gaze drops, and I swallow hard. “Fine, kid. Whatever the fuck you feel the need to do.”

I push up off the step and start climbing, ignoring him completely. For a moment, there is only silence. Then a muttered curse, and him jogging up the stairs behind me.

It would have been too easy for him to go away after talking to me. Nothing is easy these days—why should this be? I swallow my irritation, and climb until we reach the labs. Ethan is quiet, watching, and I slide him a glance. For a moment, I consider telling him not to speak—that he can stay if he will only observe. Then I remember how much it annoyed the shit out of me when Finn did that, so I ignore the urge, and step into the pristine lab.

There is one Gray robed priest at a work station, and his eyes go wide when he sees me. He looks behind me, and some of the tension leaks out of him when Ethan steps in behind me. Not Finn.

I suppress my smirk. Finn tends to have that effect on people—smart people, anyway.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I want to see my brother,” I say, my voice short and even. The priest’s eyes widen, and at my side, Ethan makes a choked noise. I ignore it.

“The cremation is just finishing. It’ll be a few minutes longer.”

I stare at him for a long moment, while the priest twitches nervously, and then I nod. "I'll wait."

His eyes widen impossibly, and I swallow my smirk as I prop myself against the counter and cross one boot over the other. Ethan stares from me to the priest and back again, and I can almost feel the questions boiling up, begging to be asked.

How the fuck did Finn put up with my nonsense, all this time? I swallow that thought—I can't afford to think about anything but my brother—and stare at nothing as the priest mutters under his breath, and then scurries from the room.

The door he pushes open releases a wave of hot air, and the scent of fire and ash, and I have to clench my hands into fists on the lip of the table, to keep myself from bolting.

My stomach twists, and I swallow hard. There is nothing left to come up, but it doesn't mean my stomach won't try to revolt.

"What happened to your brother?" Ethan asks, quietly.

I fix him with a flat stare. "I don't know you. And an accident of birth doesn't mean you have some kind of weird bond with me. So maybe we can ease up on the life history."

A slow flush crawls up his skinny neck, and I watch, fascinated. “You’re kind of a bitch, you know that?”  I shrug.

The door opens and Omar steps into the room, trailed by Finn. Staring at Finn, for a moment, it’s hard to breathe. I force myself to do so anyway. His eyes crawl over me and then land on Ethan, scrawny and pale and nervous, fidgeting at my side. When Finn looks back to me, his eyes are hot, and angry, and demanding. I let my eyebrows climb, just a little. Acknowledging his question and dismissing it. Amusement flares in his eyes for a moment, before it flattens, and I let my attention drift back to Omar, some of the tension easing in my shoulders.

“Are they finished?” Omar asks, and I shake my head.

“He said he needed a few minutes more.”

“What will you do with the ashes?”

I study my fingers for a moment, and Omar shifts, silently.

“What I do with my dead, Priest, is between me and my dead. You haven’t earned the right to ask me that.”

Omar’s face goes stormy and I give him a cool smile. Because I don’t give a fuck.

“Ma’am.”

I turn. The Gray priest is back, standing nervously with a small, black cylinder.

So fucking much, reduced to this. I clear my throat, and blink back the tears that are blinding me. The room is utterly silent, and I’m too aware of them watching me.

My hands shake, and I hate that. I clench them into fists, before I touch that fucking cylinder, and then he’s next to me, taking the black container and murmuring something that makes no fucking sense past the roar in my ears. All I can feel is his hand on the small of my back, propelling me forward, and the tiny charm against my neck.

I never wore memoriam pendants. Not for my parents, or any of the friends we lost over the years. I wanted one for Mom, when she died, but there needs to be a body to burn, and ashes to harvest.

We didn’t have that. We didn’t have anything, except the gun she left behind that I still carry.  Dustin was the first time I was given memoriam jewelry.

Finn steers me until we’re topside, and he hesitates, glancing at me. “Is this what you want?”  “Where else would I scatter them?” I ask, my voice flat. “There’s nowhere safe that he loved.” “Nurrin,” he says, and I finally look at him.

“You don’t wear memoriam.” I shift, my head tilting in question.

It’s something I’ve always noticed, and never thought to comment on. But Finn has lost so much in the years since the infection spread. His parents, friends, people he fought with and respected. The girl he loves.

That thought twists in my gut, and I shove it aside. I don’t want to look at the reason why too closely.

“I carry them,” he says, and I know what he’s referring to. The tattoos that scrawl across his back, and up his neck. Thick tribal bands that, if you look closely enough, spell out names. Places.

He has always carried his dead, scrawled like so many scars on his skin.

I step outside, and there is nothing. No infects, no wind—nothing but empty space and my entire life, spinning out empty in front of me.

“I’m afraid I’ll forget them. I don’t remember, what Daddy looked like. He died when I was so young. Ten years from now, will I look back and wonder what my brother looked like? The stupid shit—how he teased me in the mornings before I had coffee, and the way he snored. His irritating habit of feeding every wayward widow and pretty orphan who smiled at him. I’ll forget that and he’ll be gone. And there’s going to be no one who will remember him.”

“I will. And I’ll remind you when you forget.”

I stare at him, and then laugh, because I can’t help it. Because I know he’s telling me the truth, but this is Finn.

“Keeping the memory of my brother alive isn’t important, Finn. Survival is. Right? Survival is the only thing that matters.”

Finn’s eyes darken, but he turns away, and I don’t see whatever is lurking there. For a moment, the wind rises, teasing my hair, and brushing across my skin, and Finn’s hand tightens on the lid of the cylinder. My chest squeezes, and I know that I’m not ready. Not for this. Not to see the last bit of my brother vanish into the fucking wasteland our world has become.

Graveyards never made sense to me. I know they were common—normal—before. But a place where they put all the dead seemed like a really stupid idea, in our world.

But now, knowing that he’ll be gone, his ashes scattered to the wind, leaves me gasping and panicky. I can’t. I make a small noise, and Finn’s eyes dart to me. He lowers the cylinder, and steps up to me.

“I’ll keep his memory alive, Nurrin.”

It’s a promise, and I know him. I know he doesn’t make those lightly. And this one—it has nothing to do with survival.

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because you matter,” he says simply. “And if this is important to you, then we’ll find a way to keep him alive.”

“You stay with me, you’ll die.” I say. I don’t want to be the one responsible for that. Even though a selfish part of me wants him at my side.

Finn stares at me, and a smile tips up his lips. He tucks the cylinder with Collin’s ashes into a pocket and his hand comes up, curving along the path of my jaw. “Some things are more important than survival, little girl.”

Then he turns away, ducking back into the Outpost. For a long moment, I stare at nothing, trying to work through that statement. Eventually, he calls me, my name a sharp command, and I shake my paralysis and go to his side.

Nothing makes sense. Not a fucking thing.

Not in a world where my brother is dead, and Finn O’Malley tells me he loves me.

Chapter 3.

Choices We Can Live With

“We can still leave,” Finn says, shoving some clothes into his bag. It’s not the first time he’s said it. It won’t be the last.

“You know I won’t stop you,” I say.

His eyes flash at me, angrily, and I smile sweetly. “Omar is waiting for us.”

“Omar is waiting to see how much you’ll let him control you,” Finn shoots back.

“And how well did that work for you?” I ask, dryly. A tiny twitch of his lips tells me I’m right. “Relax, O’Malley.”

He nods, once. “Fine. Let’s go do this. Are you good?”

I nod, even though my stomach is in knots over seeing Kendall. I want the man dead, and this whole experiment—testing the fucking cure—is designed to keep him alive.

Ethan is waiting in the hall, and falls in behind us as we exit the room. Finn sends me a look and I shrug. The boy has attached himself to me, for whatever fucking reason.

The lab has been emptied. The two rooms are side by side. In one, Silas is sitting on the floor, his legs crossed as he stares into nothing. He’s a Black priest, and knows that nothing good can come of being held by his own people.

He fucked up, and he’s smart enough to know it.

In the other, Kendall is screaming. Cursing. Spewing threats like he thinks they mean something. They don’t, and we all fucking know it.

The infect is screaming, too. It’s being held by three acolytes, long poles with leather hoops hooked around its neck, keeping it centered away from all of us. Omar is watching, and I see amused approval in his eyes before he allows his gaze to go blank.

“Ready?” he asks, crisply. Finn’s face is bored and empty, so I nod, nervously. “Which one first?”

“Silas. The Grays have the serum ready to inject as soon as he’s exposed.”

I swallow the disgust in my stomach, that I’m part of this. It goes against every instinct I have— everything that demands we fight the infection and avoid exposure.

“Get it over with, Omar,” Finn snaps, and the Black Priest nods to his people.

Silas scrambles to his feet as they push the zombie in. “No,” he shouts, and the zombie screams, scrambling for the meat in front of him. For a few seconds, I think it’s going to be a waste—that Silas will manage to avoid the infect. But the room is tiny, and the zombie is fucking determined.

Blood sprays in a high arc, and I hear a wet rip as skin tears. Silas screams, a wordless noise of rage and fear.

“Enough,” Omar snaps, and the handlers yank the infect back. He’s still got his teeth in Silas, and I hear someone—Ethan—retch as the skin pulls tight, and then rips sickeningly. Silas convulses on the floor as the handlers pull the infect back.

The infect is fighting now, furious and hungry. The taste of blood is in his mouth, and the scent of meat on the air. He screams again, and Omar shoves me aside. “Move him,” he snarls.

Something slams into me and I bite back a yelp. The Gray priest makes a muffled noise, and I hiss as he pulls away, scurrying back.

“Nurrin,” Finn snaps, “get back.”

I stare at him, and the infect screams again, a noise that grates against my nerves.

“What the hell was that?” I whisper, and I freeze. Because I can see Omar, and he’s not watching the infected. He’s not watching the president, the zombie now in the room with him. He’s watching me, and a sick smile is playing on his lips.

Finn follows my gaze, and I see murder in his eyes. “What the hell did you do?” he demands.

Two hands clamp down on me, and I scream, bucking in the grip of whoever’s holding me. Finn jerks, lunging toward me, but Omar’s pointing a gun at him.

“I need you, Finn. I need you with me in the East. You know the men follow you.”

“You fucking bastard,” he breathes. “Let her go.”

Omar shakes his head. “It’s too late for that.”

Something shuffles behind me, and I hear a noise that I’d recognize anywhere. The shuffle step and whining scream. Low enough that it doesn’t hurt my ears. But unmistakable and hungry.

I’m staring at Finn and I see everything—every emotion he’s never allowed me to see, every end and beginning and all of the fucked-up in between. The fear and devastation and sickening loss.

I see it all, in the heartbeat it takes for the infect to bite me.

The End

The Ruin of the World

Book 4 in The World Without End

Nazarea Andrews

Part 1. The Scout

*

Hope is the thing that fucks us up. Every time.

Finn O’Malley~

**

The East is loss. We cannot defeat the infected.

An anonymous Army report~

Chapter 1

The Only Thing That Matters

I have little left in life. Little that matters. Kelsey has been lost to me for almost a decade, and I have turned away from every door my family name might open. Even places where I could be accepted because of my prestige and the dubious favor of 1, it’s not real. The favor is bought with blood and people are fickle. So fucking fickle.

The man I called brother is dead, his ashes scattered across a nameless desert, a thousand miles in my past. Even that has been taken from me.

And I accepted it. I accepted every fucking thing, adapting and moving forward. Because that’s what you do. You move forward, and you adapt and you fucking get on with it, because the alternative is no better than death.

I don’t know how to move on from this. I don’t know how to let go of the only thing that matters.

What is the only thing that matters?

She always gave the answer I demanded, the one that hid the truth. The one that framed it in a way that made her comfortable and able to accept me. I can see her now, the annoyance and the desire she tried to fight, the resignation, the fierce hope.

What is the only thing that matters?

Her.

Chapter 2

No Man’s Land

The river is on the very edge of the west. It’s wider than I remember. I crouch on the bank, and my second steps up next to me. We’re in the stretch of land that is unclaimed—the river stands as the divider, and everything east belongs to the dead. But this close, no one living ventures—only the occasional far scouts with their death wishes.

We might have ceded everything east of the Mississippi, but the truth is, we gave the zombies everything. We hold the Havens, and everything else belongs to them.

“Sir? Rice and Payton cleared the bridge.”

I nod and shift, coming out of my crouch to stand. Fisher looks nervous—they all do. He doesn’t look like a priest, not dressed in the fatigues we commandeered from the Army when we swept through two months ago.

He is, though. Omar would never let me have anything less than a fully loyal Black Priest at my side. His way of controlling me, the situation. Fucking bastard.

I shake my head, shake the anger that wants to rise. I can’t indulge that right now.

Some anger makes you better. Sharper. But this anger is the kind of consuming rage that gets people killed and I can’t afford that right now.

“Move out,” I murmur. Fisher snaps off a salute and jogs away. I stay at the water for a longer minute, watching the steady glide of the river, and then I follow him.

The far scouts did a good job—there are no infects on the bridge to trip us up as we take the river. It’s eerie how clear the bridge is. Not because cars stopped moving on it, but because when we ceded the East, we cleared the bridges and barricaded them. Even from here, I can see the stone wall that spans the six lanes of traffic, bleached white and gleaming in the morning sun.

The infects who had wandered on the bridge hadn’t come from the East.

Fisher is back, his eyes worried as we cross in silent formation.

There are no threats here, not in front of us, and we have enough eyes to keep our rear covered. But all of us move across the arched expanse with tense caution that can’t be taught—it’s ingrained in the children of the change.

You don’t grow up with the dead walking and not figure out how the fuck to stay alive.

“Tuck,” I call, and a wiry solider—one from the Army instead of the Order—breaks ranks, jogging ahead. He hits the wall at a sprint and I hear an appreciative whistle from Payton as he scrambles up it. I admit, privately, that it’s impressive. The man is like a fucking spider, clinging where there is nothing, moving lightning fast and gracefully until he perches on the top of the damn wall like some G.I. Joe Humpty Dumpty.

I snicker, and Fisher’s head snaps around, his eyes wide as he watches me. I whistle, and Tuck nods, swinging his rifle around.

“There aren’t many, boss,” he calls back to me.

“Just clean it up. You know our orders.”

Fisher shifts next to me and Tuck sights down his rifle. There’s a soft puff of air and then a shrill scream.

Killing one is a surefire way to draw the attention of the others. I hear a body scrambling at the wall, broken fingers scratching, and my stomach turns.

I’ve had very little taste for killing since we left the Outpost four months ago. It’s still what I’m best at. But I can no longer lose myself in the fight—not when the screaming infects take me back to my own dead. There are three more shots, quick and silent, and the screams go still. I glance up at Tuck, grinning atop his wall, and nod.

“Bring it down.”

Chapter 3.

Opening Up The East

The trick isn’t blowing the wall. That, in itself, is easy. The trick is making sure we don’t blow the whole fucking bridge.

We did that on the last bridge and it put us back a week.

I lean against one of the support struts as Tuck places the charges and strings them together. He moves with negligent care, as if he weren’t fucking handling c4. The idiot is going to get us killed—but not today. My radio comes to life, a flare of lights, before Holly’s voice is in my ear. “Status update?”

I make a low noise of irritation. “About the same as five fucking minutes ago, Holly. My guy needs time to do this, unless you want a repeat of the last bridge.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and I wonder what she’ll say. Even now, four months after we abandoned the Outpost for the Black Priest’s wild plan to reclaim the East, his people walk carefully around me.

In retrospect, I suppose they would.

“We need to move. The success of the mission—”

“Relies on speed. I know. Believe me; I did get the memo the first two hundred times you shoved it down my throat. Now. I was given this assignment. If you have issues with how I’m executing it, I suggest you leave me the fuck alone and talk to your superior.”

I click the radio off and whistle sharp and shrill. Tuck’s speed increases as around us, the others start to fall back.

I will say this for my unit—they’re damn good at what they do.

Ten minutes later, Tuck jumps from the wall and jogs over to me. Everyone else is on the far side of the bridge, waiting for us. I glance at him as he fiddles with the charge, and finally looks at me. “We’re good, boss.”

I nod and he falls in behind me as we retreat.

From the far side of the bridge, we watch as Tuck triggers the bomb. It blows with a concussive force that shakes the water, and for a moment, the bridge sways, and I curse.

Then Lake pipes up, “Still standing. It’s clear, sir. The wall is down.”

I stare at her for a long moment, and then one of the guys gives a wild war whoop, and all of them are cheering.

Fucking idiots.

We just brought down the wall and the East is open. I lick my lips and thumb on my radio. “Hawk 1 to base. Move out—the way is clear.”

There’s a long moment of static, and then, Holly’s voice, crisp and clear: “We’ll be there in ten. Good work, O’Malley.”

I hand the radio to Fisher before I do something stupid. Calling her a bitch isn’t the way to keep on her good side.

“Ok, we’re moving out. Everyone alert. Guns on silent, and use them only if you need them.”

There’s a low grumble, but the unit moves even before the protest is fully formed, falling into a loose semi-circle that prowls forward.

We’re the vanguard, because if I’m going to be here, I’ll do it on my terms. And because there is no one better.

And because the unit is mine, we’ve managed to get this far east, clearing the way for the main force, and we’ve done it with only three casualties.

It’s not a bad record. It would be better if Holly would back the fuck off and let me work without being so damn controlling.

The Order has a very short leash for their pet killer.

Chapter 4

East of the Mississippi

I am the one off the bridge first. Lake is pissed. None of my people like when I take the lead; I can feel her bristling behind me as I step off it, into the East.

It is, surprisingly, disappointing. No screaming horde to greet us. The few infects we had seen we put down from a distance. But it is largely quiet, and that worries me. I don’t trust it. Tuck shifts next to me, and mutters, “It’s quiet.”

I give him a sidelong glance and feel the unit shift, tightening around me. They’re all feeling it.

“Focus, people,” I order, “Be on alert.”

The thing is that when we ceded the East, we didn’t go back. There were a few suicidal enough to do recon. Marines, or what was left of them. But most didn’t come back, and it’s too much—the expanse of land is too vast for a handful of lonely scouts.

We’re walking in blind. It’s what I’ve been worried about since we moved out of the Outpost and started sweeping through the Wide Open, on a path to the East.

We hit the horde four blocks from the bridge. I can smell them before we get there, but for a minute—the stretch of a block—I can convince myself that it’s just decay. Not the dead. Because I can’t hear anything. Just the wind in the broken remains of a deserted city.

Zombies scream. I fucking hear them in my nightmares. They’re the soundtrack we live our life to. But now there is nothing. Just the sound of our footsteps and the wind, and the pounding of my heartbeat, like a drumbeat in my ears.

“Oh, fuck,” Tex hisses, a few yards ahead of us. He ducks back, and I’m at his side in two steps. I peer around the edge, and my stomach drops.

It’s not just a handful of infects. It’s a fucking horde, packed together in still silence.

“What the hell are they doing?” he whispers, and I shake my head. Because I don’t know. I’ve spent years in the East, fighting the war, and years in the Wide Open, moving until I found Haven 8.

I have spent my life watching and killing the infects. I know their speed and rage and hunger. The screams they make and the blessed fucking silence when my sword severs their spinal column and kills the virus that reanimates them.

I watched the world end, had a fucking front row seat to the decision to drop a dirty bomb on Atlanta, the tipping point in the war against the dead.

I know zombies. It’s why Omar wanted me to lead the vanguard.

But I’ve never seen this shit, and I whisper the words through numb lips: “Fall back. We’ve gotta fall back.”

“The army is already moving,” Fisher says. I ignore him, looking at the rest of the unit. They’re my people. Not my second—he’s Omar’s. But the others are mine, and I won’t watch them be slaughtered for the fucking agenda of a madman.

“Fall back and radio this shit in,” I snap. “Now.”

They’re moving before I finish talking, ignoring Fisher as they smoothly retreat. There is a new urgency to the way they move, a tension to their weapons that reassures me.

Fisher holds his ground for a long moment, and then he moves with the others, his face tight and angry. “He’s going to be pissed.”

I ignore him. He’s right. But I’ll be alive, and I can survive a little bit of anger.

“Finn,” he snaps, and I shoot him a quick look.

“Shut the fuck up, Captain, and get your ass across that bridge.” I snap.

We're half way back to the bridge when Lake falls and her gun slams into the broken concrete with a loud clatter. I tense and shoot her a furious look.

The scream is almost faster than her mumbled apology. My gut drops and I swallow hard. “Run,” I order and I'm sprinting, fumbling for the radio banging at my hip as I move. Around me I can feel the unit keeping pace. McFadden outpaces all of us and hits the bridge as I bring the radio up. “There's a fucking horde, Holly. Get the guns up and move two units out.”

There’s no response but that went wide, so I drop the radio and focus on staying on my feet and moving.

Behind us, the screams are getting louder.

Something jerks at me and I hiss, flipping around and slamming my knife into the infect’s eye as I shove it backward. My blade rips free with a wet sucking sound. A crossbow bolt takes the next infect in the eye and I'm clear again, darting away from the pack.

The sound of gunfire and a woman's voice shouting orders fills the air and behind us. I hear them dropping as the snipers do their dirty work.

“Move your ass, O'Malley!”

I grit my teeth and shove my last straggling solider past the line of snipers. There’s a post waiting for me and I slide into it, as natural as breathing, and pull my crossbow around. The infects hit the bridge at the same time I release my first bolt, and I can feel the tension take the units—mine and the one waiting for us. “Thought they had you on the rear guard,” I say, reaching for another bolt.

I’m ignored completely, and for the first time in over a week, I grin. And then the infects are on us and I’m too busy staying alive to think.

It’s moments like this, when the screams are all around me and I can hear the almost silent sound of my unit fighting and the dead falling, I am almost glad I was dragged into this war.

But I know what the cost was. And I can't forgive that.

Chapter 5.

The Cost of the War

We hold the bridge. Barely, and lose a man to the infects. Then the main branch of the army sweeps in, and Holly shifts away from her personal tank to stand beside me. “Falling back wasn’t exactly the plan.”

I shake a spray of blood from my katana and give the priestess a dark look. Even now that she’s abandoned her robes, she is still a priestess. Omar’s trained acolyte. I ignore the comment and whistle sharply. My unit falls around me, all but Fisher. He looks at Holly for a moment, and I make a low, disgusted noise before pushing past him. “Tell the Priest I want to speak to him when his convoy arrives.”

Holly bristles in the corner of my eye, but I ignore her and stride through the tents that are being rapidly assembled around me. We’ll camp here for the night, and now that the infected have been dealt with, the army will waste no time setting up their camp.

“O’Malley,” a lazy voice drawls my name as I stalk out and slow, staring. Kenny Buchman. The once president of the fractured remains of the United States, and my best friend’s brother.

The first man bitten who didn’t change.

I pull my gun and have it pressed against his forehead before I can think about why I shouldn’t, can’t, kill him. A mad hatter smile turns my lips, and for a moment, I see a flicker of fear in Kenny’s eyes. It’s the first time in months I’ve seen anything but devil-may-care disregard for everything.

Then it’s gone, and it’s nothing but fury and fierce madness, burning and hungry.

Almost as if he wants the bullet as much as I want to deliver it.

I shift back and slide my gun away, and give him a dark, wordless smile. Then I push past him, and lead my unit to our camp. Holly’s people are clearing out, and one snaps off a salute.

A perk of being the Order’s pet killer is that they set shit like this up.

Its four tents, three people in each, and a fifth smaller one reserved for me. I rarely spend time there, but the main army carries it to each camp since we abandoned the trains and took to moving on foot and in bus caravans.

That was two weeks ago, and the army is already beginning to flag—and we’ve just now reached the East.

I wonder if any of them realize that the easy part is done. That from here on out, the fight will be every day, losing a step for every two we win, and death.

So much fucking death.

There is a First waiting in my tent, and I go still at the sight of her. A tiny slip of a thing, with dark hair cropped brutally short, perpetually wide, scared eyes, and shit aim.

I’m not sure how Abry managed to survive twenty years of zombies. Except that she was cloistered in a snowbound Haven, far enough north that even before the change, they didn’t have much in the way of population. It meant when the zombies rose, there weren’t many. And even now, that’s true.

Of course, there was the Order, and she hadn’t managed to avoid them.

I stare at her, silent as I strip off my weapons belt. She relaxes a little when it clatters down, and I swallow my laugh. Little idiot thinks I’m unarmed.

I’m in the Wide fucking Open, on the edge of the East. I would sooner join the Order and don robes than walk anywhere unarmed.

“She wants you,” she says, her voice shaking a little.

I go still, and level a hard stare at the tiny First. “Tell her I’m busy,” I say, finally. I refuse to snap at a girl who can’t even carry because of the weight of her gun and ammo. I’m a bastard, but I have my limits.

“She’s demanding,” Abry tries again and I let her see me smile, a feral grin. She pales, and I can feel the way she shudders. She wants to run. And I want her to, because I don’t want to deal with this shit.

“She doesn’t get to demand anything,” I snarl. She flinches and dips her head. I stand aside and she scoots past me, her robes flicking around her ankles as she retreats.

I pull my shirt over my head and drop on my field issue cot.

Kelsey would be amused as fuck to see me now. Back when we fought the war in the East, we didn’t have this. We had a pack we carried on our back, and everything that could fit inside. And if it didn’t, we went without and we survived.

Ten years has changed so much, and yet we’re still the same—fucked up and scared.

Tuck ducks into the tent. “The Priest is at HQ, sir.”

I nod and stand. “I need five minutes.” He doesn’t respond, just pulls his head back and leaves me to myself. I rubs some water over my face and into my hair—it’s getting long again, and starting to spike when it gets wet. I need to remember to have that shit trimmed. Pulling on a clean black shirt, I buckle my belt on and sling my bow over one shoulder. Might as well get this shit over with.

Chapter 6.

Our Natural Habitat

I have seen the Black Priest in a million places. I’ve seen him uncomfortable at a state dinner and tense at a ceremony to reward his bravery. I’ve seen him commanding on the field and careful with small children, coaxing on the practice fields and furious at a friend’s funeral.

But he has never been as at home there as he is now, leading an army, every inch of his body commanding and in control.

This is his field, his army, his batshit crazy fucking plan. We’re all just along for the ride, and hoping we don’t get killed.

I whistle sharply, and my men—Fisher and Tuck and Lane—fall in behind me as I stride into HQ. I can feel Omar’s stare, and Holly’s fury, as I stroll through the tent and finally drop into a chair at the field table, where a map of the East has been spread out.

I prop my ankle on the toe of my boot and eye my one-time friend, the man I fantasize about killing every night, and often several times a day.

“Your far scouts fucked up, Omar.”

"What the hell happened?" he growls, ignoring my show of insolence.

"You walked us into a horde."

He points at Holly's fucking map, absent of any infected activity. I shrug. "Don't give a fuck what your map says, Priest. I know what a horde looks like, and I know that my guy just died holding your damn bridge."

"This is a war, O'Malley. You know what the cost of war is, better than most of these recruits."

Because I'm one of the few who fought in the East.

Most veterans of the first war had died in the Havens, or retired. I wasn't dragging them out of that retirement, not for another bloody war we'd end up losing.

And Omar might be insane, but he wasn't so crazy he would consign all of the Havens to falling. The war vets and Walkers would hold the tide back, if there was any hope at all.

Fucking hope.

"What the hell are you planning on doing?" I ask, ignoring the comment.

"The First squad is leading a party tomorrow to clear the horde. For now, we'll hold the bridge, and—O'Malley!"

I'm moving. I can hear his fury behind me and I tune it out, snapping an order to my escort. "Get the unit ready to move out at first light."

"Sir," Fisher starts, and I wheel on him, furious suddenly. I shove him back a step and my hand twitches to my knife as he stares at me in startled silence.

"His or mine, Fish. You can't be both, and if you’re his, don't come back to camp. I won't keep you alive if you give that bastard loyalty. Remember that and make your choice. Now go away and follow your fucking orders."

He inhales sharply but doesn't try to stop me as I spin and dart back into motion.

Chapter 7.

Suicide Bombers

There was, before the end of the world, a thing called suicide bombers. They gained notoriety during the height of the war on terror—one of the stupider names I've ever heard--but the truth is, they were around longer. Kamikaze pilots in World War II, Chinese revolutionaries in the nineteen-twenties, and during the crusades.

They were a quiet part of our history, long before the dead rose and suicide became a thing that was not just senseless, but deadly to the surrounding community.

That was before the war, before Omar put us all back on a path of self-destruction. And now we have a new breed of suicide bombers. A special brand of insane, fearless soldiers.

It makes sense. When you spend your entire life under the threat of exposure and death, not just from the screaming horde, but from the people inside the Walls, the fucking Order, it's not such a stretch that death by service would be amenable. If not amenable, better than a life in a cell and death by sacrifice.

The army gives them a wide berth—wider even than the circle around me and my squad. Death clings to them like a fucking cloak, and even now, surrounded on all sides, they are given space.

I stride into their camp like I own it, and a few rise. Some curious, some angry, but all watching as I stalk past, into the heart of their camp.

The tent is immediately recognizable, the dark black that all the captains are given. A First is leaning against a support beam, and straightens when I approach, her eyes going wide and startled. I don’t give her a chance to protest, I just duck into the tent.

And pull up short.

There’s a long blade pressed against my chest, and I follow it, down the length of steel to Ethan’s furious gaze. And smile—a mad, cold smile. His anger falters for a heartbeat, and I laugh. Grab his wrist and twist until he grunts and drops the knife. He lashes out, too wide and open, and I block the blow, before kicking his ankle out from under him.

He slams into the ground and I have my gun to his throat before he can move.

He’s beaten, and mine to kill if I choose—and his eyes are still just as furious as when I first stormed into the tent. There’s a stir of movement from the corner of the tent, a boot hitting the ground as she stands.

“Fuck, O’Malley. Can you leave my guys alone just once?”

The question is almost petulant, and I swallow my smile before turning and extending the blade, handle first. “Always with the fucking questions, Nurrin.”

She smirks, and glances at Ethan. “Go on. I’m fine—tell them I don’t want to be disturbed.”

The First would argue with me, if I were to give that order. Hell, he’d argue with Omar or an infect. But he doesn’t argue with her. Instead, he inclines his head in a salute that looks almost like a bow, and slips silently out.

“Your boy is getting better. He almost managed to hit me that time.”

She makes a face. “He isn’t mine, and you damn well know it.”

I lift an eyebrow but let it go. Arguing stupid technicalities isn’t why I’m here. “You can’t clear that horde, Nurrin.”

She makes a low dismissive noise and turns to the weapons she was cleaning. “You generally think I can’t do something, until I do.”

With her head dipped toward the weapons, and the scent of oil and gunpowder in the air, her words ringing in the air like the challenge I know they are, I inhale sharply, and she looks up, glancing at me over her shoulder.

She looks so much like Kelsey. Even knowing the differences in the two—sometimes she will say something and all I can see is another blonde, another life, another war.

I know how that ended, and my hands curl into fists, furious. “You can’t. I saw them. I lost a man to them.  They don’t act like other infects. And your little unit of Firsts doesn’t know enough to take them. It’s suicide.”

Her shoulders draw up, and then a deliberate effort to relax them. She releases a slow sigh and turns to face me.

And for a moment, as she stares at me with tired eyes, I can really look at her.

It’s odd, because I feel like I’ve spent my life watching her. Stealing glances and half-there eye contact, and furious glares. Blank stares as Collin steered her out of the apartment in 8, and mocking smiles as she leaned against my throat, a blade pressed between us, and staring at her in a crowded room in the middle of the desert as her blood spilled and a zombie lay at her feet.

I shove that thought aside before she can read it in my eyes.

And I stare. And it is only her and me, and the endless space between us.

She’s thinner. Not so much I need to yell at her, not yet. The things that worries me most are the dark circles under her eyes that seem to grow every time I see her.

No veins showing, black and livid against her skin. Not yet.

“Finn,” she snaps, and I blink, pulled from my thoughts to see her staring at me, her expression somewhere between annoyance and sympathy.

Fucking idiot. Sympathy for me, when I should—I shove that aside too.

“Your people aren’t good enough yet. And you aren’t suicidal.”

She makes a low laugh, and it strokes along my nerves. “Haven’t you heard that? My unit is made up of psychotic maniacs who don’t have the sense god gave them to be scared of the infected.”

I shrug. “It doesn’t make sense to be afraid of something like the infected. That gives them power, and they’re too stupid to know what to do with it. But you do need to be aware of the threat. You’re a lot of things, Nurrin, but you aren’t stupid. You know how dangerous this is.”

She shrugs.

Fury licks through my veins like fire, a familiar burn that I throw myself into, and I flick the case of tiny vials sitting on her table. They rattle together and her gaze latches on them before darting to mine, shocked and angry.

I’m playing with fire, and I like it because I’m so fucking tired of seeing nothing staring back at me from her eyes.

“If you want to kill yourself, little girl, there are ways that are easier than the zombie horde, and it will keep your Firsts alive when you’re not.”

“Fuck you, O’Malley,” she snaps, spots of furious color appearing in her cheeks.

“You don’t want to die,” I say, soft and low. “If you did, you’d be dead. You aren’t a martyr, and you don’t care about the Black Priest. So why don’t you tell me why you’re really doing this? There are others who can clear that horde.”

She’s silent, staring at me, for a long moment. Then, finally, she says, “Because I need to. I can. Trust me.”

I mutter a curse under my breath, and turn. “What is the only thing that matters?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “You’ll protect me.”

I nod and give her a grim smile. “My unit will meet yours in the morning. Oh-six hundred.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she says, stopping me before I leave the tent.

I don’t respond to that. Because we both know I do.

Part 2. The Bitten Girl

There are a few things that are irrefutable in our world. One of those is a bite means death.

Andrew Buchman~

The bite of an infect is not just painful and deadly—it’s the ultimate nightmare. The slowest killer we know.

Anonymous~

Chapter 1.

Inevitable Hope

When I close my eyes, I see a kaleidoscope of nightmares.

My brother's face marked by infection and pain. Kenny leering from the other side of a candlelit table.

The disgusted fury in the acolyte’s gaze as I bit him, and the quiet, knowing stare in Omar’s eyes. The impression of a bite in my shoulder, and the sound of my skin tearing under an infect’s teeth.

And his eyes, wild and furious and devastated, and so fucking full I can’t forget.

It’s been four months since I saw anything in his eyes but amused resignation and annoyance. But I can’t forget that heartbeat.

It keeps me awake at night, and pulls me from nightmares screaming, and it makes me get out of bed every morning. Because no matter what I feel—how the infection burns in my veins and the crushing grief, all of it—Finn fucking O’Malley looked at me like I was the key to survival. Like I mattered.

It keeps me moving. Because Finn wouldn’t look at me like that if he didn’t believe in me, and I want to be that girl. Not the weak one protected by her brother, a First hidden in a haven full of idiots, settling for hiding behind white-washed walls and calling it a real life.

I want more than that. So much more. And the hope of seeing that look in Finn’s eyes, of being that girl—it’s what will kill me.

Not the infection, or the Order or the war.

Hope. Fucks you up every fucking time.

Chapter 2.

The Middle

There is an unspoken rule to our world—nothing happens when darkness falls. Not because the infects have an advantage during the dark—they don’t. But because we don’t either. With daylight, we at least have sight on our side.

So, when Finn leaves, I order my unit to clean their weapons and pack their gear, and Ethan to give me space. I can feel his anger and reticence—Ethan doesn’t like or trust Finn O’Malley. He hates it every time he comes near me.

Of course, Ethan doesn’t have that much to be jealous of. Finn has kept his distance from me since we left the Outpost four months ago.

My skin itches, a familiar tightening that I want to ignore. Want to and can’t—it’s too dangerous to ignore.

But right now, I will. I listen to my Firsts cleaning their guns and knives and zom gear, laughing with each other.

And something tight in my chest loosens. Because I gave them that. A place to go, a reason to keep moving.

Not all of them. Some fled the Outpost, and some couldn’t function without the idea of being a sacrifice. But enough. Mine. I gave mine something more, and even if they all die in this fucking war, they will have done it on their own terms. On their feet, and not their knees.

The tent smells, faintly, of Finn, and I curl on my bed, alone in an army of thousands, and I let that familiar scent lull me to sleep.

And with his scent around me, I don’t see my nightmares.

Chapter 3.

The Morning

I shift, and tiny rocks crackle under my boots, ground into the broken asphalt. The sun is beginning to lighten the sky, but hasn’t actually made an appearance. My unit stands at attention behind me, and I feel an absurd ripple of pride that these talented, disciplined Firsts are mine.

“You’re early.”

Even now, even here, he is smug and a little bit annoyed. I shove my hair back, and give him a quick grin. “Or maybe you’re late,” I shoot back.

Finn gives me that dry disbelieving look that he does so often and so well, and I swallow my smirk as I let my gaze crawl over him.

Black leather pants, a tight shirt and metal bracers on his arms up to his elbows. Two guns are strapped to his hips, his katana rises over one shoulder, and he holds his small crossbow loosely in one hand.

He’s ready for battle and with a short whistle, his unit fans out, threading into mine as he comes to stand next to me.

Some of my tension immediately eases. And I glare at him, because I hate that he has that kind of effect on me.

“Focus on the infects, Nurrin,” he mutters without looking at me.

“Don’t see any, do you?”

Finn’s quiet, watching the far side of the bridge, where the vanguard is holding the breached wall. The sky lightens from a dark blue to a pearly grey and finally he looks at me. “They’re not normal.”

“Lissa,” I call, and one of the Firsts startles, almost leaping forward at the sound of her name.

I glance at her. “You knew a Gray priest, before you were taken to the Outpost.”

She nods. “He was our teacher in 17. I watched his experiments sometimes. He gave me a paper he had written once, on infect behavior.”

Good girl. She’s paying attention and I flash Finn a smirk. “Let Lissa watch them before we put the horde down. And then we’ll listen to her speculations.

His gaze lands, briefly, on the plain little scientist from 17, and then comes back to me, and I see what he won’t say.

He can’t keep her safe.

I tilt my chin, a silent challenge, and nod at Lissa. “Go back. We’re moving in two minutes.”

She obediently falls back into formation and I give him a tight smile. “You don’t have to, O’Malley. She’s mine. I’ll keep her safe.”

Finn watches me for a moment, and then nods. “We go in fast and hard. Don’t give them time to start moving. Got it?”

I nod, and he pins me with a hard look. “Stay close, Nurrin. This isn’t the day you die.”

My stomach twists at his words, and I swallow hard. Force a smile, fake and teasing, “Still care that much?”

He laughs, a tiny sound, and then whistles, and his unit flows forward, streaming onto the bridge.

I hate that his people are so disciplined. I glance at Ethan and give a short nod, and the Firsts move, flanking us as we cross the bridge.

And despite the fact that we’re about to fight a horde, and I can feel the eyes of the Black Priest, and every inch of me screams that taking the East is suicide—being back at Finn’s side like this feels undeniably right.

“What’s different about them?” I ask softly.

Finn glances at me and his lips tighten.

And then a low whistle catches his attention, and he shifts into a jog. I match him, and around us, the Firsts move in almost silence.

It’s eerie, and as the rising sun floods the sky with shimmering red, burning away the river fog, I feel tears prick my eyes.

Stupid, ridiculous tears.

Even here, there is still beauty in the world. Savage, untamed beauty that the dead rising couldn’t kill.

Chapter 4.

The Changing Dead

I see them, and I mutter a low curse. Finn nods and whistles sharply. The soldiers slow and still around us, and I press against the jagged hole in a wall that separated our world from the one we destroyed when Emilie rose.

“What are they doing?” I ask, watching them, fascinated and revolted.

“Nothing,” Finn says, shoving a hand through his hair. “They aren’t doing anything. Infects never do nothing.”

He sounds almost annoyed, like this horde’s uncharacteristic behavior is a personal affront, and I hide a smirk. Only Finn would be annoyed by infects’ behavior.

The horde is clustered close, silent and still. One shifts and the others move to accommodate it.

They aren’t moving, not with the startling speed that I’m used to in the dead. They don’t fight each other—barely seem aware of each other. And they are quiet, so quiet that I almost think they’re already dead.

True dead.

“Why?” I breathe, and Finn shrugs.

“Why will come later. For now—best course is to take as many from here as we can.”

I frown. “That means guns. We can’t use guns without knowing what’s around us that we’re drawing the attention of. They react to noise, right?”

Finn glances at one of his soldiers, and she flushes, her eyes dropping. His gray eyes flick back to mine, and he nods. “Yeah.”

“So how do we keep it quiet?”

Finn gives me a dark look and I shrug. “Fine,” he snaps. “Tuck, Lake, Fisher. Take point with two of the Firsts.”

“Ethan and Emily,” I say immediately.

He nods. “We’re doing this quick and clean, and fucking quiet—you got me? Knives and bats, but keep the guns away unless you have no options. Stay in pairs, and keep an eye on each other’s backs. Got it?”

There’s a quick round of nods, and I start to step away from Finn, when he hooks a hand in my elbow and drags me back to his side. “You stay with me,” he says without looking at me. His unit is moving without looking at us, dragging my people away. I bristle and glare at him.

“Fuck you, O’Malley,” I snap, and shake him off.

“Don’t flirt, Nurrin. We have to work now.”

I bare my teeth at him, a parody of a smile, and he gives me a bland smile.

Anyone else would probably falter at the sight of that smirk. But I know Finn, and I know what that bland expression is covering.

I’ve seen it before.

Chapter 5.

The Silent Dead

We hit the horde hard, and before they can react, our vanguard slams through the outer rim, slicing through like water and leaving a trail of dead.

And it flips a switch in the horde. Like fucking magic, they scream to life, and Finn hisses a curse that is almost lost under the furious screams of the horde as they twist to us.

The horde swallows a pair of the vanguards, and I jerk free of Finn to break into a run.

I throw my first knife as I sprint for the horde, and Finn keeps pace at my side, his bow up and picking off the infects in our way with deadly precision. Once, I stumble, and his hand catches in my shirt, jerking me back to my feet before he steps in front of me and slashes out, bringing down an infect. A whistle splits the air, and the units close in around us, forming a circle of weapons and human bodies.

“Sir,” one of the girls pants, “Fisher is still out there.”

“Tough shit,” Finn snaps. “Hold the fucking formation.”

I hear her start to protest, but the horde is slamming into us and she shrieks as one hits her, broken fingers scrambling against her body armor. She throws an arm up, blocking her face before the infect gets to her, and slams a knife into the dead's guts, shoving it back enough that the solider to her left can sweep a Bowie up and across it’s neck. The infect’s head snaps backwards, and the body falls.

It happens fast, so fast I barely can wrap my head around it before my attention is jerked away, to the zombies that are scrambling toward me.

They've fallen quiet, all frantic movement and silent hunger, and it's fucking unnerving.

“Duck,” he snaps, and without considering the wisdom, I drop. I feel the sting of sliced air as a sword hisses over my head, cutting through the zombies and clearing a small circle around us. I clutch a knife and jerk it from his boot, swinging back to my feet and slamming it into the eye of the infect charging toward me.

And then time slows, thoughts vanish, and there is only this. The silent dead, the sun rising, the grunts and curses of the soldiers around me, and screams—screams I'm trying so hard not to hear as we fight our way through the horde, the infected forming a pile of carcasses at our feet, at the edge of the East.

If this is what we will face at every turn, we'll never reach the Atlantic. Omar is a fucking madman, as insane as Sawyer had been when he threw that baby to the zombies and began their twisted ideology.

Something touches my arm and I swing out wildly with my knife, the third I've had to scramble for—the first two broke off in the rotted remains of infected brain.

I don't hit anything and I blink, clearing the haze of fight or flight from my eyes. Finn is standing a few steps back, a cautious look in his face. He's covered in tarry black blood, the viscous remains of the undead, and surrounded by a pile of dead bodies. His face is streaked with blood—red blood—and infection, and I want to skirt away because his eyes are wild and furious and concerned, and I don't know what to do with that look on Finn O'Malley's face.

“Is it over?” I ask hoarsely, without meaning to ask.

He nods and steps forward, pulling the knife from my suddenly nerveless hand. “It's over.”

He’s lying and we both know it. This one is over, but the war has just begun.

Chapter 6.

The Order’s Mission

When we get back to camp, the convoy is already being assembled. Tanks rumble through the camps that are being yanked down with practiced skill. Finn confers with the lieutenant at his shoulder, and the man whistles once before jogging off, the unit following him.

I give him a brief look, but he ignores me as the Firsts slip through the chaos of base camp, headed to our still-assembled tents.

No one will touch our tents. The other units are fluid and flexible—led by Black Priests and generals that Omar culled from the Havens when we swept through the West. They mix and borrow from each other, and when enough of them die, merge into a new unit. They talk to each other.

No one talks to us. No one but Finn’s merry band of suicide seekers.

“Tell them to get ready to pull out. Omar won’t leave us here long now that the horde is clear.”

I know he’s right. We’re already two weeks behind the Priest’s schedule. I glance at Ethan, and he moves away, spreading the word. “Where are we going?” I ask.

He gives me a flat stare and I nod.

Omar commands a huge army green tent, “HQ” as Finn refers to it. It’s the first thing to go up when we make base camp, and the last thing to be pulled down, and even when it is, Omar keeps HQ together and functioning in three armored RVs.

They make our ZTNK look like a casual vacation vehicle.

Finn lifts the tent flap, and two acolytes in black fatigues slip forward, weapons drawn. I giggle, and they both stop.

No one, not even Omar’s trained pets, will fuck with Finn O’Malley when I’m at his side. They learned the hard way that he is utterly savage when I am with him.

The Black Priest was waiting for us. He straightens from the map when Finn reaches the table, and his gaze tracks over me briefly before sliding to Finn.

Always. He has to ensure I’m healthy and whole, because dead doesn’t do him any fucking good.

Not for the first time, I want to pull my gun and bury every last bullet and every spare round in his smug fucking face. But I don’t. I keep mine blank and step away from Finn.

“Any casualties?”

“Fisher,” he says, and a chilling smile twists his lips.

Omar’s expression tightens and then smooths. He nods. “Take another—”

“No. We’re in the East now and I don’t want to worry about keeping one of your lackeys alive. You can keep them. I can’t bolt from here. You got your fucking wish, Omar. I’m leading your army. I’ll do it on my terms from now on. So. Tell me the fucking plan.”

Omar is quiet, staring at him for a long moment, and then he nods at me. “She goes first.”

Finn gives him a blank stare. “I think you missed a memo somewhere. We’re in the East. She doesn’t go anywhere without me.”

I shiver, because the words are spoken so evenly, so utterly emotionlessly—as if they are simple facts that are indisputable.

I told him, in those first few horrible days in the Outpost, to leave. Get the hell away from Omar. Finn had looked at me like I was the worst kind of idiot. He hadn’t even responded. Just closed his eyes on the spare cot in my cell and gone back to sleep.

If I changed—when I gave in to the virus that would eventually kill me—he’d be there. That was the second thing the Outpost taught me.

What’s the only thing that matters?

I blink hard, trying to push the thought aside.

I will keep you safe.

Apparently even from myself.

“The evac from the East was successful because it happened too fast for the infects to react. The army trains and convoys moved out without stopping for anything.”

Finn’s body goes tight and angry next to me, and I glance at him.

“That’s not quite true. There were a few stops.”

Omar nods, looking at him. “And that’s where we suffered casualties. When we got slowed down.”

“Kelsey wasn’t a fucking casualty,” Finn snarls.

Omar stares at Finn impatiently, and I shift, drawing their attention.

“We don’t have trains.” I say.

“We don’t—but we only need to reach the Atlantic. We can do that in a week—two at the most.” Omar says impeccably.

Finn barks a laugh. “Are you fucking insane? We’re not strolling through pre-change southern America. They aren’t rolling out the sweet tea and front porch rockers. We’re walking into a minefield of infected. We have no idea what the radiation has done outside Atlanta.”

“And I’m saying that none of that matters. We don’t stop. The vanguard will clear what they can, and reattach to the back of the convoy. We don’t bury the dead. We don’t clear the infected, and we don’t offer mercy. We keep moving.”

A ripple of nausea goes through me. I knew that Omar was manic and insane. I knew that he was intent on reaching the coast, and almost fanatical about reclaiming the East.

I knew nothing, not even killing, would slow him down.

Near his side, Holly looks at her mentor, and I see it in her eyes too—the knowledge.

He was a rabid dog and the only way to stop him was to put him down.

“She stays with me,” Finn says, his voice low and furious. “Understood?”

Omar shrugs, and his eyes skirt to me. “The First is free to choose where her unit goes.”

It’s not real freedom. I might not have a leash but I do have an electric shock collar, and it draws me up every fucking time I think about taking Finn and my Firsts and running.

I give him a bland smile, and tug on Finn’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“I won’t leave my people behind,” Finn says.

Omar cocks his head. His gaze is curiously assessing. Finally, “That’s why you’ll never keep her alive. I don’t care about the ones who fall behind, O’Malley. The weak die. That’s what is left for them in this world.”

Finn doesn’t argue any further, just stalks from the tent. I scramble to keep up and try to ignore the whispering truth—that Finn is only angry because Omar is a dark reflection of himself.

He would do the same thing, offer the same disregard, for the few people he cares about.

Chapter 7.

The Zealots of the Order

I’m only a little surprised to find the little First in my camp. The rest of my unit is ignoring her, and I understand why.

Abry leaves a bad taste in the mouth of any First.

I can understand the ones who bolted—they wanted a life, even a stale empty existence behind the Haven walls. And there are the ones who followed me, choosing to live and die in their own way, their own time. Both were understandable.

But Abry didn’t do that. Abry chose her chains, to be a held First, waiting to be sacrificed on Third Day. It makes my skin crawl, and it is impossible to ignore when she’s standing in front of me with her wide eyes and trembling hands.

“She needs to see you,” Abry says softly. “Both of you.”

I can feel the sudden tension take Finn, and I sigh. “Tell her—“

“Tell her yourself,” Abry says and shifts. A bald black man detaches himself from the shadows and Abry gives us an apologetic smile. “She’s not waiting any longer.”

“Your mistress will wait until I am ready to speak with her,” Finn says coldly.

“Finn,” I say, sighing. “We need to talk to her. Following Omar is going to get us all killed—and you know it.”

He stares at me for a moment, and then Finn laughs shaking his head, and I glance at Abry. “Fine. We’ll go with you. We’ll listen to your mistress.”

His head whips around and he glares but I ignore him. We’ve tried this Omar’s way. It’s past time we enlisted the help of his enemies. You don’t ally yourself with a rabid dog unless you have a way to put it down, and right now I would take the help of anyone who would bring him to heel.

Even the Red Priestess.

Chapter 8.

Strange Survivors

She’s in a white silk tent, a beacon in base camp for all of the zealots. It’s been an eye-opening and terrifying thing, to realize how many zealots there really are.

When we’re ushered into her tent, Lori looks, startlingly, like she did the first time I saw her, in the Underground of Haven 18.

Perched on a small table, her legs crossed under her, swathed in red. Her hair is shorter and her pale face is dirty and tired, but she looks calm and collected, as if the world were lined up to fulfill her every desire.

Not the truth—that she is here because Omar wouldn't risk leaving her alive in the west, that she is a captive to guarantee her people's behavior as much as I am to guarantee Finn's.

I would almost feel sorry for the fallen priestess except that I don't like her, and she arranged my capture after swearing to leave me and mine untouched.

The little priestess didn't stay in 18 when Finn and I ran, hours before the horde brought it down. She's a fucking survivor, and if I didn't call myself the same, it would be a curse. But there is one thing that makes her especially valuable, if dangerous. Omar loathes her. And he doesn't trust her.

The Order is rife with political maneuvering and backstabbing.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she says softly.

“Did we have a choice?” Finn says, his voice tinged with irony.

She inclines her head at that, and her black hair falls like a curtain before she brushes it back. “I would ask a favor.”

“Priestess. I'm still trying to get away from the last favor you asked for,” Finn says, and his voice is remarkably even.

She smiles, a tight little thing. “You would happily see me dead for that little errand.”

“What do you want, Lori? We have things to do, zombies to kill, a maniac to manage,” I say, snapping my fingers briskly. Finn's lips twitch, amused or annoyed—I can't tell.

“You don't agree with Omar, about the wisdom of taking the East. Do you?”

“It doesn't matter. We're here. And the dead in the West—we had a very short window of time to deal with the changes that were bringing down the havens. And we didn't. That ship has sailed. If we make it back to the West, we'll deal with that then. But it will be far fewer alive than we have now.”

“Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay and help the Gray find a cure?”

Finn laughs, and I shake my head. “You aren't that fucking stupid, Lori. Believe whatever idiotic nonsense you need to sleep at night, but neither of us believes for a moment that you’re stupid enough to buy the lie about a cure.” My expression tightens. “Or that you believe the sacrifices will eventually make the zombies poof and the world will return to what it was before the change.”

Anger spasms across her face, and I can feel her wanting to argue with me. I'm not just insulting her; I'm insulting her High Priest and beliefs. “Just tell us what the hell we're doing here," I snap.

Her pet priest stirs angrily and I flash him a bright smile, and blow a kiss.

Beside me, Finn chokes on his laughter.

It's very hard to be worried about a killer when the zombie virus is swimming in my blood.

“I want to bring down the Priest,” Lori says, cutting past the bullshit.

“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp. Finn is silent next to me, assessing her every move. “Omar might be insane, and he might have no line he's unwilling to cross—but he's not a fanatic. His kind of crazy is at least motivated by a cure. You just want to kill people with a shitty birthday.”

Lori's eyes latch on to me, and her gaze is furious and hungry and blind with religious fervor. “The High Priest said—”

“I don't give a fuck what that lunatic said,” I snap. “He was a drug addict and as batshit as you and Omar. Frankly, I think you're both the worst thing that could happen to the Order—but I'm willing to let you kill each other to make everyone's life a little easier. But don't ask me to be a part of it.”

She shifts and her gaze lands on Finn. It's assessing, and a smile tilts up her lips. “Do you all share that sentiment?”

He stands in quiet for a moment and I can feel the tension rising in Abry and the silent priest who shadows Lori, hear the sound of the camp breaking down around us and the rumble of tanks coming to life.

“I'll kill Omar and Kenny Buchman before I die, Lori. Don't for one second doubt that I will let him live past his usefulness. But for the moment he is still useful. Don't stand in my way, or I'll see you dead before him.”

The black man, her loyal hound, stirs, his robes a silent whisper as he does, and I slip closer to Finn.

Safe. That is all I have ever felt at Finn's side, and even here, I feel it.

“Fine. I offered. What happens next is on your head and no one else's,” Lori says, and I sigh. I've had more melodramatic bullshit from the Order than I ever wanted.

Finn gives her a mocking little bow and nudges me into motion. Without looking at the Red Priestess again, I slip out of the white silk tent into the chaos of camp. I look at Finn, alone in an army, and ask the question I didn't when we were with the priestess.

“Do you think she's dangerous?”

“Lori? She's the fucking Blood Priestess, Nurrin. She had you kidnapped and sent to the Outpost and the only reason we got you back is because of Omar and his fucking agenda. They're all dangerous, and the sooner we can be clear of them the better.”

I feel a hot flare of guilt. He would be clear of them. He should be safe in the West.

“Stop,” he snaps, and I blink, looking at him.

“What?”

“Stop thinking. It's not going to do any good or change anything. This is what it is. Get your unit ready and I'll be back in five minutes.”

He pushes me lightly toward my cluster of tents, mostly collapsed, and I see the conflict in his eyes before he jogs away.

Chapter 9.

The East

Omar pushes the convoy hard. We reach the Alabama border, in mid-Tennessee, by nightfall, and we've only had three skirmishes. The units that fought them managed to catch up to the convoy without much trouble but they're ragged. I don't know how many were killed in those battles—and I'm coward enough that I don't ask. Sometimes you just let shit go because there's nothing to be done for them.

At nightfall, Finn appears next to my unit's bus. It's a heavily armored thing, with metal grates over the glass of the windows, large enough for a gun to push through and fire, or even a knife to stab through the long slits, but not for an infect to breach. There's a collapsible staircase leading to the roof. A screen of razor wire circles the edge of the bus, with a metal crate coming down to protect the sharpshooters.

It's a rolling fortress, and it's covered in the black residue of infected blood and guts. We need to wash it down, but that won't happen here. I shove the thought aside, and push open the bus door. “What's going on?”

“Omar wants to push into the night,” Finn says.

“That's because Omar is a fucking idiot,” I say easily. “We stopping?” He grins at me, and I nod. “There's a lake about ten miles down. Good?”

Finn nods and drops off my steps, jogging across the road to where his own bus is. He salutes me as he swings back in and I tap Ethan on the shoulder. “Move out.”

He does, silent for a few minutes as we rumble down the road. We hit a particularly rough pothole and I slam into his shoulder. “Keep us upright, Ethan,” I say sharply.

“We should stay with the convoy,” he says.

I glance down at the First. He is the one who brought me the other Firsts, with his furious loyalty and sharp tongue. I don't know what I did to earn his loyalty—I actually don't think I did anything. Ethan isn't loyal to me, so much as he is loyal to the idea that I gave him.

That we are all more than just the labels we are given, bodies to be killed for the belief of another.

“We're staying with O'Malley. The convoy won't keep us safe; he will.”

“You need the medicine Omar has,” he argues.

There's a hiss of disbelief behind me, and then the bus goes very still, the kind of stillness that makes the hair on my arms rise.

“If you have a problem with my orders, Ethan, we can find you another unit. But my orders aren't up for debate or made by committee. So follow O'Malley and shut up.”

His cheeks go red, but he doesn't argue further.

The lake is right where I said it'd be. I grin as O'Malley's bus serves free of the convoy, throwing up a cloud of dust and grit in what remains of the parking lot. The black lot is broken by weeds and a sapling struggling to thrive in the remains of an old world. A bush edges one side, covered with tiny white flowers that warm the air.

Ethan mutters under his breath, but he swings the bus into the parking lot after Finn. The convoy rumbles on, and at my hip, my radio blares to life.

“What the hell are you doing?” Holly snarls across the line.

Finn drawls out, “The sun is falling. We won’t find a better place to break for the night, and I’m not pushing my unit into the night, in unknown territory. Call it what you like, but suicide isn’t my thing.”

“Ren, get your ass back in the convoy,” Holly snaps.

“I’m good,” I say. “But, hey. Y’all be safe out there.”

There’s a crackle on the radio and then I click it off and stretch. “Ok, we’re bunking in the bus tonight, so get outside, do what you need—Finn and I will set watch. Bring up some water to boil and I think we can make a stew out of that meat we grabbed from central caf, right, Kat?”

The First nods and I clap my hands. “Get to it, people.”

Finn’s unit is already moving, and I grin at him as I step out of the bus. “How mad do you think Omar will be?”

He glances at the convoy, which is slowing. The Priest is willing to sacrifice a lot—the whole fucking world, I think. But he’s not going to lose the fighter who leads his army.

“Pretty fucking pissed,” he says with a slow smile. I nod and open my mouth to ask about watch.

Pain roars through me and I scream, falling. I can feel myself convulsing, the tremors shaking my body until I’m nothing but a live wire of pain and twitching muscles. I hear him yelling my name, the startled shouts as my Firsts come running back to me, and the feel of gritty rocks digging into my face while I writhe.

And pain. So much fucking pain.

Then everything goes black.

Chapter 10.

Side Effects

When I come to, it feels like so many days that I woke up in the Outpost, with Finn sitting still and watchful at my side.

Back in Haven 8, I used to read all the time. And in books, when a girl woke up in the hospital or after some crazy trauma, she always had a minute. The guy was sleeping, or staring into space, or talking to the doctor.

Those girls had a second to wrap their heads around whatever had happened to them before they were pounced on with furious questions and angry concern.

Lucky bitches.

I’ve woken up in beds like this more times than I want to think about over the past four months. There were two weeks straight, where every morning was this, in a medical suite at the Outpost—a fancy, sterile cell.

And each time, I woke to the furious, intent stare of Finn O’Malley.

“What happened?”

I shake my head and try to swallow. He shoves a glass of water at me and waits impatiently while I force some of it down. It’s a little warm—they boiled it then. Good. Last thing I need is to catch some shit from the fucking drinking water.

“When did you take your last dose?” he asks, without preamble.

“Why do you always assume it’s that?” I ask, not looking at him, and he flips the light blanket off my feet. They’re pale and bare, and I need to trim my toenails. The barest hint of black veins are showing there. My heart stops in my chest.

No. This isn’t fucking happening. Not yet. I squeeze my hands in the blankets and Finn snarls my name. “How long?”

“Two weeks.”

He swears viciously, jerking from his seat and pacing the length of the bus and back. I watch silently and wonder where the hell our people are. I can hear them but it’s dark out, only a small lamp lighting the space between O’Malley and me as he finally resumes his seat and glares at me.

“You’re being reckless.”

“The med knocks me out. I can’t be weak out here—and you know that it makes me weak.”

“You can’t be dead out here,” he snaps, “And if you don’t take that shit, you will be.”

That’s the catch. The one Omar didn’t mention when we dosed Kenny in the Outpost and fed a bite of him to an infect. The cure he promised wasn’t really. It kept the virus from mutating once it was delivered—but if you stop taking a booster every week or so, it wears off, and the virus wakes up.

It doesn’t kill it. It can’t. ERI-Milan is too ingrained in our systems, a killer sleeping under our skin. The Order’s scientist found a way to sedate it, but not forever.

It’s how he leashes O’Malley.

Walking away from the Order would be easy, if we could. But I won’t. Not for long. I’ll die—not even die. I’ll turn, and Finn refuses to allow that to happen.

So we’re both here, dancing to the fucking mad priest’s tune.

Sometimes, I hate myself even more than I hate Omar, for being the leash that keeps Finn in line. It would be easy to—

“You’re doing it again,” he says and I blink, clearing my thoughts and looking at him.

I’m quiet, and he curses. “Get that thought out of your head. We both walk into the East; we both walk out. You don’t get to play the martyr.”

“You could walk out now,” I say softly.

He leans forward, and I see nothing but rage in his eyes. “I’m not letting you kill yourself to keep me out of the East. Collin would rise out of the fucking grave and kick my ass.”

“He’s dead. You made sure he’d never rise,” I snap, bitterly.

Finn flinches, a barely-there movement that tells me he’s not quite as over the death of my brother as he would have me believe.

I forget, sometimes, that Finn lost Collin too. He cared about my brother for reasons I don’t completely understand. For maybe the first time since Kelsey, he let himself care.

And now Collin is dead.

That, more even than Finn’s angry threats, is why I’m not letting the virus take me. Because he is Finn O’Malley, the son of the plague-bringer, and the war hero who lost everything. I won’t be the last thing that is taken from him.

“Nurrin,” he murmurs, and I blink, coming out of my thoughts. He’s staring, assessing me silently. I give him a weak smile, and his lips tighten. “You do something stupid that gets you killed, Nurrin, I swear to God, I’ll chain you in my basement just to kick your ass.”

I smirk. “Kinky bastard.”

That gets a rare flare of heat in his cool eyes, but he leans back. Away from me.

I swallow hard and nod at the darkness beyond our bus. “Where are they?”

“The ones not on watch are sleeping in the other bus. You needed space—even your pet agreed.”

“Ethan isn’t a pet,” I protest and he laughs. I flush. I knew exactly who he was talking about without him saying. Which speaks volumes—mostly that I’m lying to myself.

Ethan could never be described as a puppy. But a loyal, bloody thirsty pit bull? Yes. My very own pet attack dog.

“Tell the Firsts they can come back,” I say, shifting to sit up, and Finn pushes me flat.

“Calm down, Nurrin. You need rest, and one night of cramped quarters isn’t going to kill any of our people.”

I should argue. There are a thousand reasons why I should argue, and the most important one is that I want his hands on me, so much that sometimes it’s hard to fucking breathe. And I hate that I need any man that much. So I shove the desire aside and stare at the ceiling of the bus. It’s a tall ceiling, with dropped nets that store our extra gear. Weapons wink at me from there, more than we can possibly need.

A fucking rocket launcher is up there. If we ever get into a situation where we need a rocket launcher, I think it’s a safe bet that none of us will walk out of the East.

“What will you do when it’s over?” I ask, startling both of us.

Finn tenses, and I finally let myself look at him. I spend so much time fighting with him, and for him. Fighting is all we know with each other. Fighting each other and the world around us. Sometimes, I wish—

I cut the thought off and shove it deep in my mind, where it won’t reflect in my eyes, or trip me up unexpectedly.

Wishes aren’t for this world. They weren’t for the pre-change world either, but that didn’t stop maniacs from making them.

Sylvia Cragen wished her brother healthy, and broke the entire world in the process.

“When we get clear of the Order, I mean. After the war.”

“Does it matter?” he asks, curiously and I shrug.

“People dream, Finn. It’s what they do to keep themselves going. Even you.” I glance at him, and see the slow rush of color suffusing his cheeks. It’s similar to when he gets angry, but different, because it’s a slow crawl up his neck and into his cheeks.

Finn O’Malley can blush. The world really is fucking ending.

“What is the only thing that matters?” he asks, suddenly, and my gaze darts to him. He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the gun on the bed next to me.

Its plain, a black standard issue Glock. Armor piercing rounds, built-in silencer. The same gun every Walker is issued. It’s the gun my brother carried until he was infected, and Finn reclaimed it from the Order.

It’s my last link to my family—a gun from my brother and my mother. The weapon that killed my father. My fucking family legacy.

“You’ll keep me safe,” I whisper, and he nods, blinking.

“That is true today, and tomorrow, and next week when we walk through the East. It will be true the day I walk you out of the East. It doesn’t end there, Nurrin.”

My breath stalls, caught on something thick in my throat, and he finally looks at me.

For a moment, I’m a world away, on my back in a bed and the entire world is Finn O’Malley, his hard body braced over mine as he moved inside me, and whispered my name like I was the only thing in the world. That tiny slice of eternity, I could believe it was true, could believe he wanted nothing more than me.

For this tiny moment, I can believe it again, staring at his gaze, so bright and full that I can’t hold it. I look away first, at the stupid pattern woven into the scratchy blanket he’s covered me with, at the guns resting next to me. He lets out a small sigh, almost unheard, and stands. And I get the most absurd feeling, that I have disappointed him somehow.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead he leans down and presses a finger against my shoulder, where a crescent scar mars the skin. “Get some sleep, Nurrin.”

I don’t ask him to stay.

I don’t have to.

Chapter 11.

The Ugly Truth

It takes us two weeks to cross the East. I lose three of my Firsts the first week, and spend a night in a black hole of alcohol and tears.

Finn loses four, and he doesn’t drink with me. Instead he sits in almost scary silence, watching from across a fire pit as I drink my way through a bottle of whiskey and cry, big silent tears that splash into the bottle and turn it salty.

When I give in to the siren song of oblivion, it’s him who picks me up and carries me to the bedroll we’ve lain out. It’s him who tucks me into it and pulls me against his chest, muffling my sobs in the warm steady beat of his heart. His hands who hold me in the darkness while I rage against the deaths I couldn’t stop.

I tried. I tried so fucking hard. I just wasn’t good enough and in the end, they died. Horribly.

When I cry myself out and fall into sleep, Finn slipped away. I know because it woke me and I stayed still and silent as I watched him go.

When he came back, he smelled of disinfectant and soap. He curled against me, and pulled me into him, and I felt the raised skin on his back, the flinch he almost contained. I wake up in bed alone, with two vials of ash on the bed next to my guns, and Finn’s shirt sliding down his back to obscure the new swirls of ink on his back.

I don’t ask, don’t push. Instead I string the vials on my chain with Collin’s and rise to get ready for the day.

We all mourn and remember in our own way.

It becomes obvious, with almost sickening speed, that Omar lied to us.

The priest lured us and his army here with a promise of a grand battle for the East. Claiming the territory we never should have conceded.

It’s why everyone followed him. There isn’t a person alive who lived through the rise of ERI-Milan who doesn’t wish we hadn’t given up the East. Who doesn’t wish that we could reclaim it.

That brought us back to the East. His promise that it was different, and winnable.

But as we sweep through, leaving a trail of dead, I realize something—we aren’t winning anything. We aren’t even fighting for it. We have a goal—he has a goal—and just like it was in the Outpost, we don’t know what it is.

I don’t think we will until it’s too late to save anyone.

Chapter 12.

Mad Ramblings

“He called all the unit captains in.”

I shift, tugging my boot off and groaning as my toes uncurl. They don’t fit very well but they do their job, and I’ve yet to get bitten in the foot, so I don’t bitch. But god, it feels good to take them off. Then I glance at Ethan. My second in command has changed since we first left the Outpost—then I could still see doubt and the occasional slice of fear in his eyes. Now his dark gaze is cool and remote. He doesn’t even look curious that I am being called before the Black Priest.

“We’ve reached the border of Georgia. We have to decide which way to turn the army,” I say. I motion and he heaves a sigh, turning his back while I grab a clean black tank top and pull it over my head. I strip off my bloody pants and replace them with leather, skin-tight pants. Thin plates of steel clank together as I tug them up. They aren’t terribly comfortable, but the plates are thin enough to mold to my curves, and thick enough to keep an infect from breaking skin.

When he hears my wrist braces rattling together, Ethan turns and buckles them on to my extended arms. “What options are there?”

I have a few suspicions. But I don’t know, won’t know until after this meeting with Omar and the others. Which I’m late to. I slip my low boots on—not good for fighting, but this is an altogether different kind of conflict—and grab my gun holster, then shrug it over my shoulder and buckle it.

Ethan sighs, a put-upon noise that grates on my nerves. “You want me to stay behind, don’t you?”

“I want you to watch the Firsts,” I say evenly. “We’re in hostile territory. I don’t trust the army, and I don’t want the unit left without leadership. I’m not alone.”

“Because O’Malley,” he says, and I hear the bitterness he’s usually better at keeping to himself.

I nod. “Because O’Malley.”

His lips press together and I sigh, shifting on the balls of my feet. I’m late, and I can’t leave because this is important. Ethan is important. I let him become important when I forced Omar to free the Firsts, when I gave them my protection and used Finn to keep them safe.

“Don’t fight with me,” I say with a sigh. “Just do this. I’ll be back when it’s over. And I’ll know more.”

His eyes flash disapproval at me, and I swallow my irritation before pushing past him and stepping out of the van.

The Firsts are gathered in a loose circle and I can feel their irritation with me as Ethan steps out behind me.

“Celeste and Murphy, with the captain. The rest of you are off duty until she returns.”

I don’t argue, or point out that I don’t need babysitters—none of my people are about to let me walk through the main army without someone at my back, and Finn is conspicuously absent.

I try not to think about why, and nod briefly, striding away from our little circle of ground, trailed by Celeste and Murphy.

HQ is surrounded by the lieutenants of every unit captain, and all of them look as unhappy as my escort. I roll my eyes at the grumpy cluster, and cut through them for the entrance of the tent.

Two black-robed acolytes are stop me. “Surrender your weapons,” one says, and I go still and arch an eyebrow.

“Are you fucking insane?”

“High Priest’s orders,” he says. “Everyone surrenders their weapons before going in.”

I laugh. “Then I’m going to assume O’Malley isn’t here yet.”

A hush falls over the assembled lieutenants, and I feel someone moving at my back.

“Why?” I ask, ignoring Finn.

“Orders, ma’am.”

I shrug. “Fine. Tell Omar I’ll miss his meeting.” I twist and the acolytes make a muffled protest, even as Finn moves, smoothly blocking them. His voice is low and even. “Touch her and I swear to god, yours will be the next corpse to feed the horde.”

“The High Priest expects her.”

“We’re in the Wide Open,” I snap, “in the fucking East. If your high priest wants me, he’ll get my guns too. I’m not so eager to see him that I’ll forfeit them.”

“Nurrin, go inside,” Finn says, and the acolyte whose wrist he’s gripping makes a strangled protest. Finn doesn’t say anything, but the acolyte pales and I scoot past them and into the dark tent. Finn slips in after me.

“Glad you could join us,” Omar says, his deep voice rumbling with annoyance.

Finn ignores him and pushes me toward a spare stool at the war table. I drop onto it, and the other unit leaders give us a circle of space.

Kenny is given the same consideration, where he sits in a corner of the tent.

“There was a slight misunderstanding with your pet priests,” Finn says evenly, and Omar’s eyes darken, just for a moment.

At his side, Lori makes a dismissive noise. “Tell us why we’re here, Priest.”

He gives her a look of dark loathing, but when his gaze comes back to the assembled soldiers, the smooth expression is back.

I suppress a shudder, but only just barely. I would never give that to Omar. He can terrify me in the privacy of my own mind, but that’s where it will stay.

“We’ve reached the edge of Alabama. From here, we can turn north into Georgia and what is left of Atlanta, or we can go south to the human settlements our scouts say are along the eastern coast.”

That’s what I knew was coming, what I’ve been expecting and dreading. Omar’s gaze flicks over me, and then away.

“Why?” Finn asks, his voice cutting through the quiet of the tent. “Florida makes some sense—your intel says survivors are there. But what does Atlanta offer that would make the risk worth it?”

“The CDC was based in Atlanta. And the plague-bringer was there when the bombs fell,” Omar says, emotionless.

I feel the sudden fury that takes Finn, and I want to come off my stool, want to drag Omar to the ground and hold him there for Finn to beat the shit out of.

A hand is on my shoulder, holding me still, and I realize I was tensing, moving without ever realizing it. Finn’s grip holds me back, carefully restraining. I ease back. “There’s nothing there. The CDC was destroyed along with the city, and Sylvia’s research, if there was any, is long lost to us. Walking the army into Atlanta would be as stupid now as it was twenty years ago.”

Omar smiles, grimly. “I led the first forays into Atlanta after the bombs were dropped.”

“How many did you lose?” Finn asks quietly.

There is a shift in the room, Omar’s priests reacting to Finn’s argument.

“I’ll go north,” a young man says. He can’t be even as old as I am, a child of the apocalypse, a stupid fucking Haven baby. And he has no idea what the hell he’s doing. Omar barely glances at him.

His glittering dark eyes are still on Finn. “No. O’Malley and his unit will go north. He is in a unique position to know what to look for when it comes to Sylvia Cragen’s research, after all.”

Finn is a live wire of tension behind me, and I sit quiet and still. The other shoe hasn’t dropped. But it will. It’s the Black fucking Priest. It always drops.

His gaze drifts to me. Away to a unit leader we picked up in 1. He’s a good man. “You’ll accompany O’Malley. The rest of the army will go to the south, where you will meet us in two weeks.”

Silence resounds through the tent, as loaded as a gun, and I expect O’Malley to argue. I expect him to fight the Priest on this. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, just leans against a table and listens as Omar breaks down the plan for the two branches of the army, and my gaze is drawn to Kenny.

He’s smirking—the little fucker. Watching me with laughter in his eyes as Omar rips me away from Finn.

I’ve known since Collin died that I would lose him eventually. I expected it then, when his body was a small container of ash scattered to the wind, and he was free of his obligation to me. I expected it after I was bitten, and my life was tied irrevocably to the Order’s whims. I even expected it during the long months that led us to the East—any of the many times Finn could have slipped away and vanished into the Wide Open, and he didn’t.

And now—now that I am beginning to believe that he won’t, that he means it when he says keeping me safe is his priority, now is when Omar will pull him away and I will be left here, in an army of people I don’t trust, with a forgotten president and a mad priest.

And Finn is doing nothing to stop it.

Chapter 13.

The Disregard of Order

It’s early—still black outside—when a hand covers my mouth, muffling my scream as another hand efficiently knocks aside the knife I bring up and at his rib.

“Easy, Nurrin,” Finn says softly. I relax instantly, absorbing his weight as it presses me into the mattress. His hand releases mine, playing in my hair for a moment before he blinks and stares at me.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you want me to do?” he counters, and I release a sigh, too tired and too annoyed to do anything more than that. Finn smirks. “You thought I’d leave you behind, didn’t you?”

“The thought occurred, yes.” I bite down on all the reasons why it makes sense, and Finn laughs, a deep noise that shakes the bed and rubs against me in ways that are altogether too distracting.

“Nurrin.”

“You didn’t argue, O’Malley.”

“I don’t argue with zealots,” he counters. “It wouldn’t make any difference. I am aware of the dangers of leaving you here while I go to Atlanta, and I wouldn’t leave you unprotected. I’m not looking to repeat history, Nurrin.”

I flush. He doesn’t bring up the dead girl that he once loved, not often, but I’m not so stupid to think she isn’t here between us, weighing on him every time Omar makes an order.

I shove the thought aside. I'm very good at ignoring shit I'm not ready to deal with, and I might be curious, but I don't think I'll ever be ready to deal with the girl he loved and lost.

“What I want doesn’t matter,” I say.

A smirk twitches at his lips and I have the absurd urge to lean up and lick it off his lips, to kiss him until neither of us can think straight.

His gaze darkens, and his voice comes rough with warning. “Nurrin.”

“What?” I murmur, shifting.

It has been four months. Four months since my brother died, and I was bitten. Since we were drawn into this fucked up web and he pushed me away to protect me. Four fucking months since he’s touched me like this, but I see the hunger in his gaze sometimes, and I can feel it now, like a brand on my skin. And pressing against my hip, the hard arousal he can't deny.

I lick my lips and his gaze traces the movement, a low noise spilling from him, low and silenced almost immediately, like he regrets having made it. “Nurrin,” he murmurs, and this time it’s not a warning I hear.

I move, and he meets me, his lips hard and hot and hungry. Almost too hard, pushing against me until I'm pressed into the pillow. His hands are brutal on my shoulders as he licks and nips at my lips, his tongue a velvety glide against mine, licking deep into my mouth, everywhere, every fucking where and I can't breathe, but who the fuck cares because Finn is here, his entire weight pushing me down and down and down, his hips resting in the cradle of my legs. I rub against him, the delicious friction making me writhe as his tongue fucks into my mouth, and I want to scream. His teeth nip at me, and I do, a low throaty noise with no power, but it makes him groan and thrust harder against me, hard enough that I can feel myself riding that edge of orgasm, stars dancing in my vision.

“Nurrin,” he murmurs, and his lips cover my neck—open, wet kisses that are so soft, so sweet and dirty and—

I scream as his hips push against mine, the orgasm a hard hot wave that crests over me and pulls everything away, a fucking tsunami that shatters everything that matters until there is only his body and sensation, and pleasure, cresting and cresting and cresting, never ending as he thrusts against me, grinding and forcing the pleasure higher until I'm whimpering, squirming away from him. He finally laughs, and kisses me, soft and quick, before rolling away to sit on the edge of the bed.

I stare at his back, at the shoulders heaving under his thin shirt, and I can barely breathe, can barely wrap my head around—“What the fuck, Finn?” I demand, my voice shaky and weak.

“You're welcome,” he drawls, and stands, adjusting his dick in his pants. “Try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone, would you? I'm leaving Tuck with you.”

“Fuck you,” I snap, pushing myself up on my elbows and glaring at him. My bra is showing, but I refuse to tug my shirt into place—it's too much of a concession, a retreat, and I can't afford that right now. “You haven't touched me since the Outpost, and now you're going to get me off and leave for Atlanta? What the hell is that?”

“I'm following my orders,” he says, evenly. “And I’m keeping you safe while I do. Don’t question that.”

“Did Omar order you to fuck me?” I spit, and he glances back, fire in his gray eyes. I almost shiver. Almost back down. But I'm right, and we both know it.

“Go,” I snap. “Follow the orders of the fucking mad priest, if you think it's that fucking important.”

“You think I'm deserting you,” he says, watching me with curious eyes.

“I don't think anything,” I spit. “I know it.”

His eyes cloud, and I see something there that stops my anger cold. Because I've seen that look in his eyes before, when we lived in 8 and I did something especially asinine. Disdain. Disgust. Just the hint of impatience and anger.

He makes a low noise in the back of his throat. “I’ll see you soon, Nurrin. Try to stay alive.”

Then he stalks out of the bus and leaves me in a heap of blankets and rapidly fading pleasure and more fucking questions than I could ever expect to answer.

It takes me five minutes to make my decision, and I roll out of my bed, coming to my feet and nudging my sleeping Firsts. “Get up,” I whisper. “But quietly.”

I’m a not surprised to find Tuck at the door to my bus, leaning against it and smoking a cigarette in the darkness. His eyes are lit by the fire pit, reflecting the flames and dancing in the darkness. He looks at me, and I wonder what it is about him that drew Finn.

He’s quiet, patiently waiting for me to explain why the hell I’m standing in front of him in my pajamas and bare feet in the middle of the night, and for a moment, I flush, realizing just how young and vulnerable I must appear to him. Then I shove that aside, and nod at the bus. “Come inside. We have a lot of planning to do if we're going to pull this shit off.”

Part 3. The End of the World

*

The world is broken. We can’t fix it.

Nurrin Sanders~

**

We will find peace in the end of the Firsts.

The Red Priestess~

Chapter 1.

Where It Began

Emilie Milan, by all accounts, was a good kid, even if she was a little depressed. A little troubled, and a little violent, but a good kid. Sometimes, I lie in my bed or sit on the edge of the Wall, and I wonder what would have happened if her parents hadn’t been so quick to feed her a miracle drug. If they had taken the time to work through her shit, rather than just medicate it into submission.

She hadn’t killed anyone. She hadn’t even hurt anyone—just the family dog, and granted, that was a fucked up little tidbit the talking heads liked to trot out. She was a depressed, violent child, born that way and maybe there was no option.

There wasn’t for my uncle. And, I think, that’s why I know it wouldn’t have mattered. If it hadn’t been Emilie with the dog she sliced to pieces in the princess castle in her backyard, it would have been someone else. And it might not have been a dog.

We saved the world, my fucked up family, for a few blissful years. We offered them a cure to all of the messy emotions that complicated things and made people so unpredictable. We turned mass murders into passive school teachers.

And then we were stupid enough to believe it would stick.

She knew it wouldn’t. She told everyone who would listen. Long before Emilie died and rose to attack her morgue attendant, Sylvia was telling the world that it wasn’t real—Synthrix was merely a rotten egg wrapped in golden tissue paper, and eventually the entire world would know it.

She knew it—it’s why she sent me away when Uncle Keifer came to the house, why when he got sick, she was the one who went to him instead of Da. Because she knew that Synthrix was unstable and that the consequences were going to be devastating.

The problem was that she realized it too late.

She was right. But it wasn’t Uncle Keifer who started it—if it had been, it would have ended there, in our little piece of the world, a bloody end to a man whose sister loved him too much and too unconditionally.

If there is any fault in this new world, in the creating of it, it is that. She loved too much. Uncle Keifer, and Da, who took her research and sold it to the world.

And changed every fucking thing we knew.

The rest of the world saw the story of Emilie, and even Sylvia Cragen and her psychotic brother, and they made their judgements based on the snapshots of a life they couldn’t know, and the world falling apart.

I lived it, though. Even before the world ended, I lived the devastation of it all.

It is easy to forget, when you look at the end of the world, that every story is very small, and begins so very simply.

Chapter 2.

The Forgotten Army

Fort Benning was once one of the largest infantry bases in the world, and certainly the largest in the United States. It’s why ERI-Milan mutated so quickly and viciously—because the Army that was literally in the first horde’s backyard slammed into it, mutating it for the first time. After that, it was all downhill.

I whistle sharply and Greer ambles out of the bus to stand at my side. I pulled him from his unit because he had been a medic at Ft Benning when the outbreak happened, and deserted as soon as the bombs hit in Atlanta.

Can’t blame him too much for that, even if I can’t respect him very much.

But he’s handy to have now.

“Where are we going?” I ask, leaning back against the bus. The area is quiet, with the exception of a crow cawing from a nearby tree. It glares at us, beady eyes too shiny, and caws again.

“You know the armory has been picked clean, right, boss?”

I give him a bland stare and he sighs before he says, “The tanks are in Sand Hill and we can check the hospital for any research they might have. The scientists were always in and out of there.”

I don’t think there’s anything there, but we’ll investigate because I believe strongly in leaving no stone unturned.

“Take half the unit with Lake, and get the tank. Check the armory—just to set my mind at ease. Anything you think we can use, bring it with us. Atlanta won’t be easy.”

“Sir.” He snaps off a lazy salute, and whistles shrilly, pulling his half of the unit into action.

I can feel the others at my back, all nerves and anticipation, and I wish again that Tuck was here. He was a damn good second, and one of the few people in this fucking army that I trusted.

Which is why he isn’t here. Because there was no way I’d leave her with the Order without someone I trusted to guard her back. He’s not Collin but no one will ever be Collin, and I need to trust someone.

“Move out. Weapons ready, and don’t fuck around—we’re less than a hundred and fifty miles from Atlanta. We stay on our guard. Shoot first, questions later.”

It’s unspoken that there won’t be later—we shoot to kill, because there isn’t anything living this close to the hot zone.

Fort Benning is a two part mission. Three, if we can find a tank, which I'm not betting on. Weapons and research are important, but what we really need are the hazmat suits that got dumped here when the dirty bombs went off and the FEMA declared it unsavable.

It's what kept that first research team, led by Omar a decade after the change, alive and it's why we’re here today, what will keep us alive as we trek into Atlanta.

The fucking CDC. It's the siren song Omar knew I couldn't ignore, and he's right.

There's too much history for me to ignore it and even knowing there's not a damn thing there but dust and death, I'm going.

My mother died there, fighting a disease she created, knowing it was an impossible fight.

And I'm going back because I can't ignore that.

The quiet is grating, and I can’t help but wonder where Ren is, and if she’s safe. She’d been so surprising, coming to life under me in the darkness of her bus. Hot and hungry so suddenly, after the amused cool attitude she’d given me since the bite.

She’d been gorgeous, falling apart under my hands.

I should never have fucked her. It’s been four months, and I still can’t get the taste of her off my lips. I wake up some nights, aching for the touch of her skin against mine. Every time I see her, I fight the urge to push her against a wall and fuck her until we both forget everything that happened before and everything that happened after, and all the fucked up reasons we shouldn’t be together anymore.

I can’t protect her from Omar and the Order if she’s close to me. And I can’t let go of her.

“Sir?”

I mutter a curse and come to a halt. The hospital is a bombed out black hulk. The base didn’t escape the purge when Atlanta fell to the dead—it didn’t get hit as hard as Atlanta, and the bombs weren’t dirty, but it still wiped the base almost to nothing, and what was left was stripped as the army fled their post.

“Third floor,” I say simply and Estep whistles. He isn’t as agile as Tuck, but he does a good job and three of the units fall in behind him as they jog toward the abandoned hospital. Mercy, our best shooter, lifts her crossbow and sights, and then the bolt is flying and it slams into the side of the wall, punching through. She yanks on the rope dangling free, and my breath catches, waiting for it to pull free.

It holds, and she flashes a grin over her shoulder. Patrick grabs the end of the rope, anchoring it, and Mercy swings her bow over a shoulder, scrambling up the knotted length to swing into the third floor window. On the ground, Lewis and Patrick wait while Mariah climbs up after Mercy.

The girls vanish into the hospital as Patrick and Lewis follow them up the rope and I let out a breath.

This is the part I don’t like: the sitting and waiting for my people to come back. It’s the worst part of leading, and the part Kelsey was awful at—and it’s why she got killed. I don’t like it, but I did learn.

It takes ten minutes before Patrick reappears, and my shoulders drop a little, tension slipping from me as he whistles. Harper and Adam sprint forward, catching the hazmat suits they toss down.

It takes less time than I expect, and it still feels like an eternity. I’m not stupid enough to think there are no infects here—we’ve just been lucky enough that we haven’t found any yet.

Our luck holds, and we retreat to the bus with hazmat suits after we search the FEMA camp—there’s nothing useful there—in research or supplies—and I grit my teeth as we jog back to the bus.

This wasn’t a waste, even if it feels like it. We have the suits that mean we can get into Atlanta.

I hear the shots first, at the same time as the rest of my unit, and then we hear the screams. Patrick and Lewis break into a run, and I whistle shrilly.

They’re mine, and well fucking trained, so they come to an abrupt halt, wheeling to face me for their orders even as I see murder in their eyes.

That’s our people, our fucking unit out there, and I’m stopping them from helping.

“Be smart about it,” I snarl. “Mercy and Harper, take the high ground with extra ammo. I’ll lead the rest of you into the woods, but we aren’t trying to kill everything. We’re creating a distraction and getting them out of the fucking line of fire.”

“We’re wasting time. We know this shit,” Patrick snaps and I give him a bland stare. His mouth clicks shut, and I nod.

“Move,” I snap.

The unit scatters, and I feel a flare of pride as they scramble to obey my orders, naturally pair into fighting units, and pull their weapons, checking them as we sprint across the road, in the direction of the screams.

It’s worse than I expect.

Greer and the unit are surrounded, in a tank while a horde clambers at the side. There is nowhere for them to go. And the fucking tank tread is broken—they’re stranded there.

“Fuck,” I hiss. The pack isn’t quite a horde—but there are at least three dozen and I’m not stupid enough to think that’s all that’s out here.

“Sir,” Patrick says, his voice urgent.

We don’t have a lot of choices, and I sigh, swallowing my irritation as I lift my gun and fire the first shot.

It cuts over the screams even as it drops the first infect, and I know we just announced to the entire base that dinner has arrived.

Three shots drop two infects, and turns the horde’s attention. “Move,” I shout and the unit scrambles to follow my orders. “Keep up the noise.”

It’s a race—and infects are fast fuckers.

From the bridge comes a steady cover fire, and I hear the infects screaming their anger as they drop. As we hit the woods, I glance back and see Greer and his unit jumping clear of the bus, weighted down with weapons and bags. He meets my eye and nods once, and they silently fall back to the bus.

An infect is suddenly on me, scrambling and snapping at my face, eerily silent, and I shove an army knife up. Its teeth slide sickeningly against my arm braces. I slam my knife into the top of its skull and it goes limp, falling to the ground with a sick noise.

My people have slowed, and the infects are catching up--and we can't afford hand to hand conflict. Not against a pack this size. “Keep fucking moving,” I snarl, and shove Estep a step as I break into a sprint

A new whine fills my ears, breaking over the screaming infects, and the gunfire.

A motorcycle—a sleek, black crotch rocket—a sound I would know anywhere.

Omar fucking loves that bike, but what—

The rider whips out a gun and fires, and I flinch.

I fucking flinch as the bullet tears through the air, whistling past my ear, and I hear the wet gurgle of an infect a second before it hits the ground.

Another bike circles the first, and picks off the dead, draws their attention as we keep falling back. The bus is waiting on the overpass, Mercy and Harper in the top cage, providing extra cover. We break from the forest and the bikes slide to a stop, and open fire while we sprint for the bus.

I’m the last to hit the steps and it jerks into motion before the door closes. The bikers gun their engines and roaring away from the dead.

“Who is that?” Estep asks, breathing heavily.

I watch them and I'm not sure if I want to be more annoyed or relieved. Instead I ignore the question, and glance back at my unit, panting and tired.

“Check your weapons, stock up on ammo and check each other for exposure. Clean up and stay alert—Columbus is probably deserted, but we're in an urban area, and you know the drill.”

They nod, and Mercy shouts down from the top cage, “Tell me that little fuck fest got us some new ammo.”

Greer nods, a gleeful smile spreading across his face, “Got you a fucking rocket launcher, baby girl.”

She whistles her appreciation and I let them fuck around. It's good to blow off steam when they just faced dying. And because when they're focused on each other, I can watch the little bike keeping pace alongside the van and wonder what the fuck it's doing here.

Chapter 3.

Between Here and There

We stop almost a hundred miles outside of Atlanta. It’s still the safe zone, although a good wind could change that, and it’s far enough out that I don't think we’ll have any problems with a horde overnight, although there is no real way to guarantee that—not this close to the hot zone.

The entire bus is wired and nervous, the good-natured ribbing long silent.

No one, not even my unit, wants to attempt to retake Atlanta. Some things, common sense says is a bad idea, and this has always been one of them.

Not that Omar was ever one for common sense, or reason. Fucking mad priest.

“We’re all in here tonight. I want four in the top cage, and two on watch down here. Work that shit out—and Greer, Estep—get out the maps. We need to look at the best routes to reach the CDC.”

The unit nods, and I slap the door, annoyed it’s still closed. Mariah makes a low noise in her throat, almost a growl, and it strings a smile along my lips as I step out of bus.

The bikes cut off as I step out of the bus, and I watch as the first rider swings off.

Even with the helmet, I know. I’ve spent too many years watching her—even before I had her naked and under me, I knew every curve and plane of her body, what it looked like wrapped in armor and leather and barely-there sleep shorts.

Her hair tumbles free as she pulls her helmet off and despite the black blood that covers her from the dead, she is fucking gorgeous.

And she’s here. “Why the fuck are you here?” I snarl.

She grins, arching an eyebrow. “It’s good to see you too, honey,” she says sarcastically.

Tuck tugs off his helmet and gives Nurrin a narrow-eyed glare. “You bitch. You told me this was his plan.”

I shove down the urge to shoot him for insulting her—she’s mine to insult. Not his. Not anyone else’s.

She scoffs. “You believed that shit because you wanted to. If Finn had really told me to slip the Priest and follow him, wouldn’t he have told you?”

Tuck flushes and I snap my fingers, jerking her attention to me. “You lied to Tuck. You disobeyed the Priest’s orders. Where the fuck are your Firsts?”

A shadow of regret slips over her expression, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. “Ethan can handle the unit until I return.”

I grab her arm and haul her away from the watching bus. Nurrin tosses her helmet to Tuck. She huffs under her breath. “I can walk without you pulling on me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, so furious I can barely see straight.

Panic. That’s the icy thing sliding along my veins, pure fucking panic. I can’t remember the last time I felt this out of control and afraid.

I’m afraid, and I hate that. I hate that she can do this to me.

I drag her under an overpass and push her up against one of the concrete columns.

“What are you doing here?” I snarl, and she smirks.

She fucking smirks.

“Don’t,” I snap. “Do you think because I fucked you, I want you here?”

Her eyes narrow and the smirk dims a little, but she shoves into my space and I give a little ground. “I think you want me here because only one thing fucking matters.”

It’s like a blow. I haven’t been able to reconcile the choice to leave her with the promise I’m fighting every day to keep, and now, after months of ignoring it and refusing to believe me, she’s choosing to throw it in my face.

“Nurrin,” I start.

“You never asked me what matters to me,” she says, quietly.  Her eyes are watching me, bright and furious, and I go still.

I know what matters to her—Dustin, her idiotic Haven boy. Collin, the only family she has left. Staying ahead of the virus in her veins.

But with two of those things gone—“What matters, little girl?”

“You,” she says simply.

The world bottoms out, and I stare at her. The world could end, and it wouldn’t matter because she---

“Ren,” I murmur, and her eyes widen an instant before I kiss her.

Brave, stupid, beautiful girl. Fucking idiotic.

“Stop insulting me and kiss me,” she says against my lips and I realize I’m speaking, the words slipping from me.

“You die in Atlanta,” I murmur, before dipping back down and licking at her frantically pounding pulse point. “And I will kick your motherfucking ass.”

She makes a low noise of assent, and my hands skate up, hitting her zom-gear. Leather corset over steel plates, and a white tank peeking out from under it.

I need her in less clothing, now.

“Nurrin,” I growl and she laughs, her hands going to the corset lacing and loosening it easily. She sighs as I shove the material and metal armor to the side and her breasts spill out to fill my hands. I pinch her nipples and she whimpers, a low needy noise that has my blood boiling and my cock hard.

“Not the time for this,” I mutter and lift her up. She laughs, a noise that twists into a moan when I latch onto her hard nipple, drawing it deep in my mouth before raking over her skin with my teeth. Her hands are in my hair, demanding and painful, and I need to feel her around me.

“You never think it’s the time for this,” she says before kissing me, and her tone tells me just how much the four months of distance have stung.

I need to fuck her, need to know that she’s real, that what’s been silent and unsaid between us is real. Need to reassure her of that.

“Ren,” I whisper and she touches my face, her eyes impossibly soft, and it guts me.

No one has looked at me like that in over twenty years, since my mother died in this godforsaken place. Not even Kelsey had.

I lower her slowly and reach for the buttons on her pants, fumbling in my haste, and she laughs, a low, throaty noise.

Keens when I slip two fingers through the wet heat between her legs, and her head falls back. Eyes close as she thrusts against my hand, her clit grinding against the heel of my palm as she fucks herself on my fingers, and I can feel the tiny ripples of her pussy as she comes.

“What matters?” I murmur, my fingers buried in her, and she reaches out, works her hand into my pants to find my cock, hard and hot against her soft skin, and gives it a quick pump.

“Finn,” she whimpers and I slide my hand free, loving the way she groans her frustration when my fingers are gone. I bring them up between us and her eyes blaze as I suck them clean.

I want her against my lips, her hips rocking against me as I fuck her, but not here. Not now. So I’ll settle for this.

She drags my head down and kisses me, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, and I groan as she bites down lightly on my lip. She doesn’t seem to care that she can taste herself on my lips—if anything, it seems to turn her on.

I shove my pants down, and shove into her, swallowing her scream as my cock slides deep.

Wet heat, silky smooth, so fucking perfect I almost come. Not yet. Not until she does. I slip a hand between us and stroke her clit as I fuck her hard and fast, and she makes a noise I’ll remember forever, a halting little cry, that catches in her throat, over and over as I thrust into her and her hips writhe in tight little circles.

“What matters, Ren?” I snarl and her eyes fly open. “I’ll keep you safe,” I answer for her, holding her gaze, and she shudders, her hips bucking against mine as her pussy contracts. Her orgasm slams into her so unexpectedly it pulls mine out and I drop my head into her shoulder, biting down on her skin to muffle the roar that I want to make as I come, harder than I can ever remember.

Her grip tightens on me, and for a long moment, we stay like that, twisted around each other as the sweat cools on our bodies and her heartbeat slows.

I’m so fucked. I know it and I can’t even bring myself to care.

“You know you shouldn’t be here,” I murmur, licking the impression of my teeth against her skin.

“Because Omar said or because you did?” she asks, and her voice is more lazy than tart. Curious and not defensive.

“Because the last place I want you is the hot zone. You know we’re going on a suicide mission, and you could have walked away. Little idiot.”

She laughs, and I twitch, deep inside her. She whimpers but forces herself to the topic at hand. “You don’t get to decide what’s too dangerous for me, O’Malley. I do.”

I pull back to look at her and I see the determination in her gaze.

“And what does that mean?” I ask, shifting a tiny bit. She gives me an annoyed stare as her hips move, a gentle wave into mine. “It means I decide. How I live, what danger I accept, what I do to survive. When I die.”

The last makes me go still and my face goes blank, shutting away all of the anger that fights to rise. I pull out of her and she makes a sigh, either from the loss or from the sudden distance yawning between us.

“Finn,” she says.

“Don't, Nurrin. I've spent months keeping you safe and alive. And now you want to pull this shit. That’s fine. But don’t expect me to like it, or to be happy when you march into a fucking death trap.”

Her eyes go wide, and her mouth opens, a confused noise spilling out. Her shirt is still open, and her thighs glisten from our sex, her hair a falling-down mess from my fingers digging into it.

How the fuck did we go from sex to this so damn fast? Only Nurrin can push me that fast. It's annoying as all fuck and I think she knows it.

“I thought you would be happy, that I'm choosing—”

“To die. You want me to be happy about that?” I shout, too furious to care that we're not alone, that infects could be nearby. “Are you insane?”

“Fuck you, O'Malley,” she snaps, stung. She turns away, jerking her leather pants up over her ass, and I get a quick glimpse of the raw skin where I pushed her into the concrete post, before it’s hidden, and she's fastening her corset, hiding behind her armor and her clothes.

I don't try to stop her—don't argue at all. She's an idiot.

As she steps away from the post, and turns toward the bus and my unit, I catch her arm and wait until her gaze comes to me, reluctantly. “I told you a long time ago, I wouldn't thank you for risking your life.”

“That was another girl, in another life. Don't fucking coddle me,” she snaps and yanks away from me, stalking back to the bus and banging on the door furiously.

Chapter 4.

The Best Laid Plans

It's very hard to avoid someone in a bus that is only forty five feet and filled with fourteen people. I know because Nurrin does her damndest to avoid me, with very little success.

I ignore her as she sits across from the tiny table I'm at. The map of Atlanta is sprawled in front of me.

The problem with Atlanta is there is no way to know where we're going, or what we'll face when we get into the city. We have sixteen hazmat suits, and enough weapons to wage a small war, but the city was home to over four million when Emilie died, and almost all of them died in the riots and the bombs that fell.

Four million infects stand between us and the CDC and whatever might be found there.

It's a suicide mission, something Omar set on us to keep me busy and away from HQ. It's fucking stupid and utterly impossible.

I fought a lot of battles in the war, a lot of long odds. That I'm still alive, twenty years into the march of death, is a miracle in and of itself, especially after Kelsey. There are still a lot of people who want me dead because of what happened in Columbus.

Her brother certainly does.

But this. This is a new kind of fucking stupid, and I'm not marching into it alone. I'm walking into it with a unit of people who expect me to lead them in and out, and with Nurrin.

I am very tempted to turn the bus around and head for Florida, but I know my people will never tolerate that. And even now that Fish is dead, and I'm no longer certain of who is reporting to the priest, I know that one of them is.

“We do it fast,”" I say, finally. “I’ll take the bike with Tuck. No stopping, not for anything. We've got the sweepers, so we should be able to clear whatever comes at us. We get what we can and we get the fuck out again. Two hours in the city is going to be a death sentence, and we can't do it much faster than that.”

They watch me, eyes curious, and I nod. “Get some sleep, and we’ll leave at first light.”

For a moment, the bus is quiet and still, and then, “Sir?”

It’s Mercy, and I let my gaze rake over the petite brunette. She’s a small thing—could almost pass for a young boy with her subtle curves. I wonder if fucking her would make me forget the girl staring at me with wide green eyes and dirty blonde hair.

“What?” I ask, and my voice is rougher than I mean for it to be.

“Will we find anything?”

The truth, or the lie? Why do they still ask questions? They know I hate them. They know the answer is almost always a lie—even if the lie does not come from me, or if it’s well intentioned. A lie, no matter how pretty, is still a lie.

“No,” I say, finally, “we won’t.”

“Then why are we going?” she asks, and her voice is plaintive and scared. They are all scared. Only Tuck and Nurrin seem untouched by the fear that is rising and almost choking in the little bus.

Why indeed?

“Because hope,” Nurrin says softly. “The federal government bombed Atlanta to hell and back, but before, the best hope for a cure was in the CDC, working with the world’s best minds to find a cure. We all know nothing survived. No one could.” Her eyes find mine, and there is understanding there that makes me irrationally angry. “But we’ll go because we have hope.”

“And we’ll probably die because of it.”

Chapter 5.

The Dead City

Before the change, Atlanta was a beacon. It was a fucking metropolis, with a glittering skyline and steep heritage, and a population of millions. It was home to the world's largest airport, and the infection hit it like a fucking hammer.

It's easy to say we lost everything. But hidden behind the walls of the Havens, with the goods that are brought in and the commerce that's sprung up, despite everything, life goes on. Our world goes on.

Atlanta, though. Atlanta is still the worst thing we have ever done.

The infects didn’t destroy Atlanta. They might have. They were well on their way to killing a good percent of the population.

But fear is what destroyed Atlanta, what leveled the skyscrapers and burnt out the world class aquarium, killing millions in the blink of an eye and turning a city that once thrived into a toxic wasteland. The bus idles behind me on the remains of 75, and Tuck whistles softly.

The city lies broken and toxic in front of us, and my stomach turns.

I’ve seen a lot of fucked up shit in the twenty years since the dead rose, but nothing compares to the destruction of Atlanta.

I swallow hard and lift a hand, signaling the bus to ease forward.

The sooner we’re done here, the better.

It’s precarious and slow going. 75 is a wreck of broken road and deserted cars, although most of the long forgotten traffic has been cleared, by the army and scavengers over the past two decades.

Most of them were people from the south heading into the safety of the city to avoid the horde that was tearing apart Newnan.

They ran from one nightmare, into a death trap.

The bomb we dropped hit in Olympic Park. It leveled a five mile radius. The fires and damage went out another ten miles. The bomb wasn't supposed to hit that early—that was the secret that Andrew Buchman carried. But I was there, in that war room.

They were supposed to bomb the horde outside the city, when it was still between Newnan and Peachtree. But the president waffled, and by the time the decision was made, the horde and the army were the same thing and had turned back to Atlanta.

With one warhead, we leveled a ten mile radius in a fucking metropolis.

The skyline is gone—the arching towers and tangled highways, the fucking park and aquarium—everything.

The bomb leveled everything for ten fucking miles, and the destruction and fires raged for another fifteen.

It’s been talked about, before the bomb was dropped, and almost constantly since. People talk about why and what went wrong, and all the other fucked up bullshit. But here’s the truth.

The beginning wasn’t Emilie, or my mother, or even my uncle. The beginning, the thing that fucking ruined the world was when Carlos Perez took off the USS Minnesota in the Gulf, and bombed one of America’s cities.

That’s when humanity let the zombies win.

Chapter 6.

Changing Plans

We don’t move quickly, no matter what I said. It’s not like there’s a lot in the way, but it’s still slow picking a path through the blast radius, over the broken streets.

Tuck and I prowl the busted up concrete in the motorcycles, until we finally hit a roadblock the bus can’t get around.

We aren’t anywhere close enough to the CDC, but what we’re doing isn’t working. I sit on the bike for a long time, watching the desolation for some sign of movement, but nothing is out there. Nothing alive or dead.

“Sir?” Tuck finally murmurs from my side and I shake my reverie and swing off the bike.

“She’s going to fucking hate this,” I mutter.

Tuck wisely doesn’t comment, just rolls his bike back and follows me to the bus.

Nurrin is stepping out before I reach it, and I scowl, grabbing her arm and tugging her back on. “What did you not understand about ‘danger zone?’?” I snap.

“What the hell are we doing?” she counters, ignoring my question. Good. It was fucking rhetorical. I tug her up into the bus behind me and Tuck brings up the rear, the door swinging shut behind him.

“We need to get to the CDC,” I say without preamble.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Lane says softly, “Do we? Sir, there’s nothing. There’s been nothing—and the CDC was only twenty miles from the drop point, right?” Pity flickers in her eyes, and I bare my teeth at her.

“The bus won’t make it. So we’ll split up. Tuck and I will take the bikes and get into the CDC. Nurrin, I want you to take the bus and the rest of the unit and head to Macon. You’ll be clear of the radiation by the time you reach the state line—wait for us there. Forty-eight hours. That’s it, and then you get the unit to safety.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but Nurrin is not stupid and she won’t do that, not in front of the entire unit. Her lips press into a furious line, and she nods.

I’m surprised. Even knowing the stakes, I expected an argument. That’s as ingrained in Nurrin as breathing and avoiding the Order.

She doesn’t though. So I glance at Tuck. “Blades and bows, extra ammo. We’re moving quickly, so don’t bring anything that will weigh us down.”

Tuck grins and heads to the back of the bus to pillage the weapons locker.

I step out of the bus, only a little annoyed that she follows.

“What are you hoping to find?” she asks, and I swallow my sigh.

“Answers.”

“Obviously. The question is, to what? What questions are you asking—and are you prepared if the answer is a lie?”

I flinch and look at her, my eyes narrowed. She nods, as if to herself.

“Finn, don’t go there. You’ve buried her. Let her die.”

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” I snap and she laughs, a bitter noise as her hand comes up to touch the vials hanging at her throat.

“We all carry our dead.”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond to that, just climbs back into the van, yelling over her shoulder, “Try not to get yourself killed out there, O’Malley.”

Tuck emerges a few minutes later, and she gives me a mocking salute as Mercy shifts the bus into gear and they rumble away.

It’s hard to watch her getting farther away, harder than I expect, so I nod at Tuck as I take the weapons bag he’s extending to me.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, and he guns the bike. The sound echoes, eerie in the silence and desolate surroundings.

But there are no screams to answer, so I shove down my unease, swing onto my bike, and follow him deeper into the dead city.

Chapter 7.

Shifting Perspective

We reach the CDC late in the afternoon. By then, the heat has made it almost impossible to do anything but curse silently. Behind my face mask, sweat drips into my eyes and stings, makes it hard to see. The smell of my body is rank and I need to piss. It’s fucking miserable, and Tank is silent, a broody companion on the empty road.

The silence is almost suffocating, with only the sound of my breathing to keep my thoughts company as we ride.

I hear Ren, her tart voice, and the pity in my unit’s eyes.

They all know I’m Sylvia’s son, that I’m here because I was her son, and Kelsey’s best friend.

The ghosts of my past that I can never fucking get rid of. Sometimes I wish—I cut that thought off hard, and push the bike for a little more speed.

We’re past the worst of the destruction now, and it’s almost worse—the bomb didn’t level everything here, so there’s more shit to dodge, and places to watch for the dead.

But it’s good for keeping my thoughts out of my own crowded head, so I’ll take it.

It works, until we turn into the complex.

The CDC looks, depressingly, like every half-standing building we’ve passed in Atlanta. The metal fencing, more decorative than anything, is melted into the ground and the plate glass windows are long since shattered. The steel skeleton stands ominous, twisted and broken and forbidding.

Where was she, when the bomb went off? Where in that fucking death trap was she?

And why the hell have we come?

Da thought he could talk sense into Andrew. The usage of Synthrix was out of hand and Mum was convinced if we didn’t head it off soon, it would have devastating consequences.

She was right—it did. I think if she knew just how wrong things were going to go, she would have shot Keifer herself. Or locked us away in our highland home. It was a small fortress, and she would laugh with Da, that we could survive any apocalypse there.

It was a joke until it wasn’t, and we were too fucking far away, too scattered to survive anything.

Instead, she died in a southern city an ocean away from her Highland home, separated from her family.

Rage is familiar, and it licks through my veins as I stare at the CDC and Tuck idles next to me.

“Come on,” I growl. “Let’s get this over with.”

Part 3 Strangers of the East

*

The truth is often stranger than fiction

Mark Twain~

**

There are some weird ass things in the world. The dead are just one of them.

Nurrin Sanders~

Chapter 1.

Personal Apocalypse

We forget that the apocalypse wasn’t about the millions who died, or the city we destroyed, or the fact that we gave up the East. It was not about the countries that we never heard from again—the black holes of infection spread across Africa and South America.

That is the cost that is easy to tally, the one that we can point at, wave and scream, “The cost was too high!”

But it was never about that. It was about a sister trying to save her brother, a mother finding the best way for her daughter to live, soldiers putting their lives together as they kept the masses safe.

It was the mother who killed her husband to keep her infant safe during the change, the orphans shuttled into Havens as the evac orders rolled through the country, and found a family in the people they were forced to be with.

It is small, small stories. It’s not about the world falling apart—that is easy to put on the table and wrap your head around.

But every person has a story. Every single one of us has a personal apocalypse, and that—that is the true cost of the disease. The way it changed everything and nothing, and touched every soul living today.

We all have dead, and we all carry blood on our hands. There is no way to survive without both.

But it’s not the blood and the dead—it’s the scars we carry, that we don’t share. It’s the history and the scars no one sees that kill us.

Finn says we are more than the past. That it doesn’t define us.

But he’s wrong.

Our past is all we have.

Once upon a time, we had a future. A way to plan. Then the zombies rose and everything became not the future, but how to survive a day.

We gave up our future because we fought to stay alive.

And now, it’s been twenty years. Twenty fucking years of living behind Walls, in fear.

Twenty years of carrying our scars and our dead and running from the past because it’s too much, too heartbreaking, too devastating to face when we examine what we gave up.

So we live in fear, because fear is easier than facing the hordes, and it makes living behind Walls, living one day at a time, waiting to die—easier. Bearable.

It’s the true cost of the infection that tore apart our world.

Not the millions who died. It’s the personal apocalypse we each face, and the way we choose small, safe lives.

Chapter 2.

Strange Leader

I don’t know Finn’s unit. It’s odd to be with them, and effortless—Finn never tolerated questions, and his unit is well trained, enough that they follow my orders without much comment.

I see the looks though. Mariah, in particular, isn’t pleased that I’m here. Vaguely, I wonder if it’s because Finn isn’t here or because I am, and things between us are so clearly complicated. There are side-long looks and I feel the difference.

I ignore it. We have more to do than for me to concern myself with the speculation of a few soldiers, even ones as well-trained as Finn’s.

There is a deserted rest stop at the border of Georgia and Florida, and we stop there.

“Scout it,” I murmur to Greer and Estep, and they leave in a clatter of guns and boots. The rest of the bus seems to tense as we watch them jogging the perimeter, checking the cars left behind. There are a few green army convoys—I wonder if it was a staging ground during the evacuation or after, when the war for the East raged. It doesn’t really matter—it’s just relics from a lost time, and vaguely curious because of that.

Estep clears the last building, a falling down brick thing, and then he and Greer circle back. “Clear, ma’am.”

“Set up camp. We need three on guard duty, and I want someone in the cage. We leave as soon as Finn and Tuck get here.”

There are more sidelong glances and my temper flares in response. “What?” I snap.

“What if he doesn’t come back?”

I twist to look at Mercy, who flushes under my scrutiny.

“Get the camp set up,” I order.

“It’s a fair question, ma’am. We can’t stay here forever.”

I smile, and Greer falls back a step, paling. “It would be,” I say pleasantly, “if I had asked for questions. As it is, I didn’t. So follow your fucking orders.”

There’s a moment, a heartbeat, in which I think they’ll continue to press. But then Greer nods, his head dipping respectfully. As they begin to move away, breaking tents and gear out, I let out a small sigh of relief.

I know what they want—these are the soldiers Finn chose. They are pragmatic and capable and—above all else, survivors. They won’t be kept here out of hope that Finn might survive. They want me to agree to leave now. And that isn’t an option. Finn gave an order, and if there is anything I have learned since 8 fell, it is that he doesn’t do that without reason.

I might hate them, and I might not always understand his logic—but I know better than to argue with it.

I glance back, down the ruined highway, and hope like hell he arrives in time.

Chapter 3.

Watching Darkness

The darkness has eyes.

It takes me until sunset to confirm it—that someone is watching us. Someone living.

Zombies might be different here, but they aren’t thinking and they don’t stand around watching their dinner. They just attack it.

“Greer,” I call, and he shifts, standing to walk to where I’m leaning against the bus.

“Ma’am?”

“We have someone tracking us,” I murmur, and he goes stiff, his head jerking to the stand of trees behind the rest area. I shake my head. “Don’t. You don’t want to give us away. They aren’t here to hurt us, I don’t think.”

“What makes you say that?” he demands.

I shrug, and shift my bow more comfortably at my back. “Because he could have, if he wanted. We’re not exactly concealed here.”

He grunts his agreement, and I sigh. “Send the best tracker to scout. Who is that?”

“With Tuck gone, probably Little.”

Mariah. I grit my teeth in annoyance but nod. “Fine. Tell her to avoid contact if at all possible.”

He nods, and slips away and I stand there. Waiting.

Mariah glances at me as Greer talks to her, and her lips curl in disdain, but she doesn’t argue, just grabs her knives and vanishes into the trees.

“Do you think O’Malley will find what he’s looking for in Atlanta?”

I glance at Lake, sitting on her bedroll as she pokes at an MRE.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” Estep interjects. “The whole mission was designed to kill him. The Black Priest wants O’Malley dead.”

“If that were true, he’d have killed him months ago,” I say absently. “The Priest has an agenda, and whatever it is, Finn is part of it. But he needed us out of the way for a while, and here we are.”

“So you don’t think they’ll find anything at the CDC?”

I laugh, “No. It’s a tombstone in a graveyard. And its twenty fucking years old—what the hell would they possibly find?”

The unit is frowning, and I can feel their confusion. They wouldn’t understand—how could they, when I still don’t?

I know him better than anyone, now that Collin is dead. And I still can’t puzzle through all of the mysteries and questions that are Finn O’Malley. And I’m slowly figuring out that it’s okay. I don’t need to, to trust him.

“He’s not there to find something,” I say, because I have to explain this to them somehow. “He’s there to let go of something.”

“What?” Mercy asks, curiously.

I shift, and come to sit next to the others in a small semi-circle. Some secrets aren’t mine to giveaway, and those includes all of Finn’s.

“You should ask him, when he comes back,” I say instead. There’s a beat of silence, and I take pity on them. “We all have a past,” I say softly. Greer shifts. He’s older than the rest of the unit, and I focus on him. “Where were you?”

For a long moment he’s silent and then, “East Lansing. I was going to school at MSU.”

“Did you lose someone in Atlanta?” I ask, curiously.

“No. But my best friend was stationed at Camp Lejeune.”

There’s a low whistle. I don’t say anything.

Camp Lejeune wasn’t directly involved in the ground zero conflict. But it was close enough that it was almost worse—it handled the fallout.

When society falls apart, the way ours did so completely, there is very little one base can do. Camp Lejeune was overrun by refugees from the south, and then the infected.

It took two weeks for Camp Lejeune to fall, and it was bloody. No one knew what was going on, or how to fight back—or even that the disease was spreading every time the horde hit the massed army.

When it finally fell, it was a complete loss—every solider and civilian refugee was counted a loss, and Camp Lejeune was abandoned.

“We never found out how, but that’s where the infection took my first.”

“I was four. We weren’t affected until the evac orders came in,” Mercy says softly.

“My sister and her boyfriend were in Atlanta when it happened,” Estep says. “I was only four. Dad left as soon as the riots started, to bring them home. We didn’t see any of them again. Mom killed herself right after we were evac’d. The Haven took me into the orphanage. Grew up there. ”

I breathe a curse. Four years old, and an orphan in a new Haven. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle any of us survived this long.

An owl hoots in the distance, and I stiffen, sitting up. Some of the unit ignores me, still lost in the devastating memories. But some don’t.

“Ma’am?”

“When was the last time we saw wildlife?” I ask, casually.

The circle of soldiers goes quiet, and I nod. “That’s what I thought. Don’t let them know we’re aware of them.”

The unit is tense, and Jackson visibly jumps when a shrill whistle splits the gathering darkness.

“Ma’am, we’re sitting ducks,” he says, plaintively.

“And we’ll continue to be sitting ducks. Because they’ve been out there since we left Atlanta. And they haven’t attacked us. They’re not here to hurt us.”

“Then what are they here for?” Este asks, curiously.

I shrug, and lean back, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground and wishing we weren’t so fucking vulnerable here. “I guess we’ll find out when they introduce themselves.”

Chapter 4.

Eastern Strangers

Mariah doesn’t come back. I think that worries the entire unit more than anything else. My eyes feel gritty from exhaustion by the time the sun begins to peek over the horizon, and I shake Greer awake.

“Get them up. We’re going to find her.”

A look of relief slips across his face, and I clutch his shoulder roughly before ducking away to pee.

I fucking hate camp. If there is anything I miss about the Havens, it’s the fucking bathrooms. And showers. And beds.

Fuck, I miss a lot of things. My brother. I miss him so damn much it hurts when I think about him. I try not to, and it makes me feel like a bitch when I realize I’ve gone five minutes without that constant bone deep ache.

We do what we have to, to survive. Even if that means leaving our dead in the past long enough to breathe. Sometimes, that’s all survival is. Breathing, from one moment to the next.

Finn says it’s more. It’s about living. That hiding behind the Haven walls isn’t living; it’s surviving. I don’t know if that’s fair, or if I even agree with him. But I get the idea. I get why he’s so adamant about it. I know what my brother would want for me.

My choice.

I sigh and shove the thoughts aside as I straighten.

“Your people are getting ready to do something foolish.”

The voice is raspy and accented funny, shaping the words in a way that is different from anything I’ve heard before.

It’s a voice I’ve never heard, and I flush in anger. “Spying on me taking a piss is foolish.”

There’s a soft scoff. “I don’t give a shite about that. I do care that your people are forming a war party.”

“Where is our scout?”

“The wee girl? Safe. Not smart to wander these woods alone—dangerous things here.”

It’s my turn to snort. “We haven’t seen anything since we hit Atlanta.”

“The dead zone is called that for a reason. Doesn’t mean it extends forever. We share the South with the biters. Now. Let’s see if you can’t talk sense into your people, before mine slaughter them.”

I go still, rage whispering through me. I want to lash out, but I don’t even fucking see him. He could be a ghost, and lashing out doesn’t do anything.

His tone is amused, and that annoys me even more. “Now, girl.”

I snatch my bow from where it’s leaning against the crumbling wall of the rest stop, and stalk back to my unit.

“Stand down,” I snap.

Greer, shoving a punch dagger into his belt, freezes, and his eyes swing to me, wild and furious. “What the fuck, Nurrin?”

“Shut up,” I order, “And stand the fuck down.”

There is a slight rustle behind me and every inch of me tenses. I don’t like people at my back, and I sure as fuck don’t like it when it’s someone who threatens me.

“Do as the lass ordered.” The rusty voice is back, and I can see the shock in my men’s eyes as they watch whoever is behind me. I grit my teeth and the man chuckles. Whistles shortly, and from everywhere, every-fucking-direction, they appear.

Wild. Feral. Dangerous. The infected aren’t the only thing in the East that’s different. I watch them carefully as the strangers approach us in a smooth hunting glide. They’re all wearing rough, worn clothing that wasn’t made in any of the textile havens.

They are so clearly other that it takes every ounce of will to not reach for my knife.

Instead I turn to the leader, still standing at my back.

And the world bottoms out.

Chapter 5.

Strange Man, Familiar Face

“Finn?” I whisper, staring. My heart is pounding, so fast and hard it hurts, and I don’t know what to do—don’t know what to say or how to wrap myself around this new— “I don’t understand.”

He blinks, and his head tilts slightly, eyes narrowed.

“What matters?” I demand, suddenly and furiously. “What is the only thing that matters?”

A frown is twisting features that are too familiar, and still different, and I want to throw up.

“Right now, it’s getting away from this rest area before the biters get here. Get your gear and let’s move,” he says and the voice is warm, the reason it tickled at my brain clicking suddenly.

He sounds and looks like Finn. Which is impossible. Because he isn’t—Finn would only ever answer that question one way, and he didn’t.

I move without thinking, luging at the Finn-poser and slamming him into the brick wall. He makes a sharp noise as my punch dagger swings up and nestles at the base of his throat. I bare my teeth in the parody of a smile.

Behind me, I can feel the movement of his people and mine, and I jerk, my dagger sinking in a hair’s breadth.

“Hold,” he snarls, and immediately they fall still. His storm cloud gaze never leaves mine, and I want to claw his eyes out of his fucking face.

Who the hell is he?

“They’ll kill you,” he murmurs, and it’s said so simply I know it’s true. I’ve heard another voice state brutal truths in that same tone.

“Not before I end you,” I snap.

“Violent little thing, aren’t you?”

I am. And I’m not boasting. His people might slaughter us for it, but it wouldn’t be before I killed him—I was trained by Finn O’Malley, and I’m damn good at killing. Not as good as Finn—no one is as good as Finn. Probably a good thing. Zombies are one thing, but Finn O’Malley in multiple would be a new breed of hell.

“Who the fuck are you?”

His eyebrow arches lazily, and I want to smack that look off his face. “Don’t know that I want to be offering you more information, lass. Seeing as you attacked me without provocation.”

The bolt comes from nowhere, a sharp twang registering as it slams into the brick next to his head. The Finn-poser’s gaze darts past me, sweeping the trees, and his lips pull back in a feral expression. It’s disturbing, so much so that I almost release him.

Almost.

“Answer the fucking question,” I snap.

“Josiah,” he snaps. For some reason, that relaxes some of the tension coiling tighter in me—the name. Or the arrow. Either way, I relax a fraction. “Who the fuck do you have out there? We searched the area.”

“Fuck you,” I say absently, and whistle shrilly.

I know Finn and I know he’s coming slow and easy—he wouldn’t run into a hostile situation without taking the time to figure out the dynamics.

But I see Josiah’s face when he registers Finn and Tuck and I see the flicker of doubt, the way his face pales and his eyes dart sideways, away from O’Malley. I mutter a curse, and fall back as Finn flanks me. I flick a glance at him and try not to let my panic show when I see him covered in black gore and blood. His gaze is fixed on the man in front of us, so I shove the questions aside for later.

“Who are you?”

“Josiah Flannery. Base commander of the Last Holdout.”

“What the fuck is that?” I ask, shifting. My temper is riding a fine edge and I want to kill him. Cryptic half answers aren’t soothing it any.

“Not the way this works. Give and take, lass. Tell me why you’re on the edge of the dead zone.”

I hesitate. I want to look to Finn, but something tells me that’s not a good idea—not with this bastard watching.

“Scouting. It occasionally happens.”

He snorts, a low, disbelieving noise that reminds me that he might bear an eerie resemblance to Finn, but they are different.

Finn would never make a noise like that.

“We haven’t seen Haven scouts in four years. So, no—it doesn’t occasionally happen. You fled the East. You don’t get to decide now that the biters are going dormant you want it back”

Finn shifts at my side, and his voice is tight. “What do you mean, about the infects?”

“Dormant. The mutating t-gene won’t let them die. But they’re out of food. So they go dormant. Like bears in winter.”

“Where is the Last Holdout?” I ask, and Josiah laughs, disbelieving.

When I don’t share his amusement, his face empties. “What the bloody hell are you doing this far East if you aren’t headed for the Holdout? It’s fucking suicide.”

A smirk turns my lips and I slide a glance at Finn. “Told you,” I mock and he gives me that empty stare I know so well. The one that tells me to shut the fuck up before he kicks my ass. I’ve never been very good at heeding those looks. “We’re here with a larger force,” I say.

Josiah glances around and his gaze is amused when it returns to mine, “You’re very alone for a larger force.”

I bite down on my response and Finn touches my hand, a barely there brush on the inside of my wrist that eases the tension gathering in me.

He steps clear of me and nods at the men behind us. “Why are you taking them? We weren’t hostile—we’re just passing through.”

Josiah shrugs. “There’s a balance to things here. We keep an eye on who is in the East to maintain that balance.”

“And what was the plan with them? Kill them quick or take them back to your Holdout?”

Josiah’s face empties, a smooth blank sheet, and I shiver. Finn curses softly.

“We could break your hold,” he says. “We don’t have to submit to this.”

“You could,” Josiah agrees. “But then what? My men pick you off in the forest. You die, and rile up the biters while you’re at it, and I’m left to clean up your mess.”

Finn stares at him, and I almost feel bad for him—being on the receiving of that look sucks.

“Nurrin. Take five minutes to pack. We’ll accompany Josiah and his men back to the Holdout.”

I open my mouth to protest, to argue that the Order and army are waiting for us. Finn knows—and for whatever reason, he’s willing to walk away from the people who have the medicine I need to stay alive, if only for the moment.

I might not understand why, but I know better than to argue.

“Break camp,” I yell, and the unit dissolves into a flurry of activity.

Chapter 6

Strange Allies

I don’t get a chance to talk to Finn privately until we make camp later that night. The unit is anxious and I’m in a shitty mood, snapping at every question. Josiah has settled in my bus while Finn and Tuck take the bikes, their engines a buzzing counterpart while Josiah’s gray gaze tracks my every move. He’s almost relaxed, watching with half-lidded eyes and a small smirk.

After the first hour, most of the unit seems to forget him, resting against the pile of gear and quiet as they banter and clean their weapons or sleep.

I don’t. I spent too many days and weeks with Finn O’Malley to be fooled by this man who wears his face and mannerisms. He’s watching us under those lazy eyes, and I don’t for one second believe that he misses anything.

And there is the fact that he looks like a man who he had never met and even with my wild imagination, I can’t think of a logical reason for that.

The sun is crawling toward the western horizon when I finally settle, and sink into a seat at the back of the bus. My fingers twitch against the strap wrapped around my knee, holding three short blades in place. “So why are you here?”

I look up slowly, my gaze crawling over him. I still have that feeling, the one that screams wrong. Other. I shove down my unease and shrug. “Told you. We’re part of a larger force.”

“Then why were you in the dead zone? Your force isn’t.”

I hesitate for a moment, and then shrug. It won’t hurt. “You said your infects are dormant. In the West, they’re changing. We were looking for reasons why.”

His gaze narrows a little. “Looking?”

“The CDC,” I answer shortly, and something flashes in those too-familiar eyes, there and gone too quickly for me to read.

He nods and looks away, examining the barren land we’re passing for a long minute. “Did you find anything?”

I don’t respond, and a smirk turns his lips.

“Who is he?”

My breath catches, and I look away. “Finn. That’s what you called me, when you first saw me. Pretty clear why you were confused. So who is he?”

I wait until his eyes find mine, and I smile, and say, softly, “He’s the only person who matters.”

It doesn’t matter that the answer confuses him. That his gaze turns questioning—it’s the truth.

I have no idea what we’re about to walk into, what the Holdout is, or when we’ll reconnect with Omar.

The virus is in my blood. It’s what we aren’t saying—none of Finn’s unit has breathed a word about it since Josiah and his people appeared from thin air. It’s being held back—but for how long? Without the medicine the Priest controls—

I shove that thought aside and glance at my map again.

“There’s a lake, about thirty minutes south of here. We should stop there.”

I bristle, and he lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not trying to trap you, Nurrin. I’ve already got what I want. But the Holdout has a base camp there. We keep it clear and supplied. It’s fresh, clean water—we won’t find much of that the farther south we go. I want to get home alive. Let me help you.”

I give him a hard stare and then flick a look at Mariah. “Flag him.”

She nods and swerves the bus, just enough to get Finn’s attention. Stomps on the brakes twice and he revs his bike in response. I swing my legs up into my bunk and close my eye.

“Give Mariah directions, Josiah. And if you fuck us over, know that nothing will keep me and Finn from killing you. I don’t care what it costs us—I’ve looked at death before and frankly, you aren’t that fucking impressive.”

I feel his gaze on me for a moment and then a soft breath of laughter, so unlike O’Malley I almost look at him, just to see what Finn would look like, wearing amusement. I don’t. Whatever I want to believe, whatever he might look like, Josiah isn’t Finn.

And I need to remember that he’s dangerous.

Chapter 7.

Still Waters

The lake is gorgeous—a pristine mirrored reflection of the wide, sun-streaked sky, shimmering with color and fluffy fat clouds. A breeze stirs the grass as we pull through the barbed wire gate, and Josiah shifts in his seat, a smile turning his lips.

“Base camp?” I say dryly.

He laughs and shrugs as he stands. “A sizeable base camp. You should see the Holdout.”

The base camp is made up of six brick buildings and a gun turret. It’s bristling with weapons, and I can see four of those vaguely other soldiers prowling toward the bus. It’s a war camp, set against a lake that looks as peaceful as the world before the change.

Finn’s bike glides between us and the soldiers, Tuck flanking us on the far side of the bus. I have a moment of panic to wonder what Josiah’s people will think about Finn, and then I shove it aside and clatter down the stairs. That’s not for me to worry about—it’s Josiah’s problem. He brought us here, and he can guarantee our safe passage.

The alternative will be decidedly bloody.

Finn kicks free of the bike and straightens as I step up to him. “Do we have a plan?”

“Stay alive,” he mutters back, pulling off his helmet.

The soldiers freeze and Josiah steps off the bus. “They’re given passage. Stand down.”

Instantly, they relax, slipping away. One grins and breaks ranks to jog to Josiah. “Picking up strays, sir?”

“They were at the edge of the dead zone. You know how much we dislike that.”

“They need bunks?”

Josiah nods, “And rations. Just for the night—we’re moving out in the morning. Send word to the Holdout.”

The kid snaps off a salute and darts away, still grinning.

Base commander.

“You’re younger than me,” I blurt, and Finn goes stiff at my side. Josiah lets out a sigh that sounds vaguely annoyed.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re young to be a base commander,” I say simply.

Josiah eyes me for a minute, and then points at Finn. “He’s younger than half your unit. You’re younger than all of them. And yet you both lead.”

“I fought in the East,” Finn says simply.

Josiah snorts. “That might mean something to a Haven rat, but I live in the East. It doesn’t mean shit to me. Now do you want me to show you where you’ll be bunking or should we compare birth dates?”

Without waiting for either of us to respond, he wheels and stalks to one of the long buildings. I glance at Finn, who is watching Josiah thoughtfully.

The question itches on my tongue, and Finn’s eyes slide to mind, a little bit mocking. “Question?”

“Anyone ever told you you’re an ass?” I ask sweetly and he makes a half-there noise of amusement before we follow Josiah.

The building looks like a barracks, a long row of neatly made beds and open crates for personal storage. “Your people can stay here,” Josiah says, waving at the long room. “Through there, we have private quarters for commanders. You’re welcome to it.” His eyes skate between us and I flush. Finn doesn’t say anything—it’s beginning to concern me how much he isn’t saying, but I don’t push.

“Thanks,” I say simply.

“We leave at first light. Keep your people inside tonight—this much live activity, we’re going to get biters.”

“Can you hold the perimeter?” Finn asks, his voice almost clinical in its detachment.

Josiah flashes a deadly smile, and takes a few steps backward. “Tell your people to stay inside. And be ready at first light.”

Without another word he stalks away and I twist to stare at O’Malley. “What the fuck, Finn?” I hiss.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and his tone is almost absent as he rolls his shoulders. He’s still wearing the hazmat suit, a thick, form fitting suit that could keep out the fucking plague.

Zom-gear, the tight plates of malleable metal we wear in the Wide Open, was modeled after the cutting edge hazmat suits used during the first wave of infection.

I grit my teeth and step outside, whistling to draw our unit. Not for the first time I wonder how my Firsts are doing, if Ethan is doing his job and keeping them alive.

“We’re in here tonight.”

Tuck hesitates in the doorway. “One of us should be patrolling. I don’t trust these people.”

I glance back at Finn but he’s vanished into the private room. Bastard.

“Leave it. I don’t think they mean us harm. And if they do, one scout isn’t going to make much difference in this camp.”

He nods, unhappily.

Finn is stripping when I slip in behind him, and I feel a band of tightness I didn’t realize was there loosen as he reveals smooth, unbitten skin. I let out the breath that’s caught in my throat, and ask, “What happened?”

“Ran into a horde. We got clear of them.”

He tosses the hazmat suit to the ground without looking at me, and I stiffen. He’s being dismissive and curt. And after the long night waiting and wondering where the hell he was, after the day sitting under the eyes of a man who isn’t him—my temper flares to life and I reach out, yanking hard on his arm.

He jerks away, his eyes furious when they find mine. “Be careful, little girl,” he murmurs the warning, and I sneer.

“Throwing that in my face doesn’t work so well now. Not now that you’ve fucked me.”

“You keep thinking that,” he smirks, and turns back to shedding his gear.

I grab a glove he’s just discarded and chuck it at his head. “Fucking talk to me, O’Malley.”

Disgust flares in his gaze, something I haven’t seen in long enough that seeing it now makes my stomach drop.

I didn’t think I’d ever see that kind of disgust in Finn again.

“Why the fuck does it matter? Nothing was there—it was a fucking graveyard. Omar wasted our time. The fucking savages are wasting our time. And you’re wasting mine now.”

“Because I want you to treat me like a fucking equal?”

“Why do you presume that I don’t?” he asks, very softly, and I inhale sharply. His eyes aren’t angry now—they are tired. Sad. “I can’t do this right now, Nurrin,” he says. And when he shoves his leather pants down, and kicks free of them, I don’t push. I’ve done enough of that for tonight. I stand silent and still as he turns the shower to scalding and steps under the spray.

For a long time, I stand there, watching as he lets the water wash away the remains of Atlanta.

There’s a knife on the ledge of the shower, balanced there for easy access. But his back is to me and his shoulders are stooped in, quietly exhausted. I swallow hard, and move before I can talk myself out of it. Strip quickly and quietly and step into the shower behind him.

So often, when I look at Finn, I see a creature of myth. The plague-bringer’s son. The man who fought at Kelsey’s side, the war veteran. The walker who made my brother smile every once in a while.

The man who brought the Order to heel and dragged me out of hell, who refuses to let me wallow in my grief or depression.

The one who keeps me alive.

Those are the things that are easy to see. Those are the things he wants the world—or me—to see.

But the tired, lonely man who has lost everything to the horde? The one whose skin is black with the names of the dead, who refuses questions but gives nothing but honesty—that man is hidden behind sharp words and disinterest and blank stares.

His eyes open as I slip under one arm, and press against his wet skin. I can see the tired desire flare there, and I feel a slow stir that inevitably answers him. I ignore it and let my arms snake around him.

Finn is stiff and startled against me, his arms hanging at his sides as I lean against him and the water pours over both of us, washing my hair down into my eyes.

It feels wrong, being this soft toward a man so damn predatory. But it’s Finn, and that soothes my worry as I rest there and whisper against his skin. “I was worried about you.”

He makes a low scoffing noise in his throat and my grip on him tightens a little.

For a long moment, we’re silent, the sound of the water against us the only noise. Then, his voice, a little bit raspy: “Didn’t realize you cared, little girl.”

I swallow my laugh at his words, the same thing he spat at me in 8 when we were running for our lives.

The first time he did whatever it would take to keep me alive.

I tilt my head back and meet his eyes. No masks. No sharp retort. Nothing but us, skin and water and honesty. “Yes, you did.”

Heat flares in his eyes for a moment, and then his lips come down on mine, and it’s everything—savage and hungry, and desperate, furious—a fucking typhoon, sweeping in and destroying everything I was before he retreats.

I’m shaking when he lifts his head, and I can feel the sting in my eyes. I’m grateful, absurdly, for the water beating down on us, hiding my tears.

Being naked, unarmed, and vulnerable for this man is as far as I’m willing to bend for today—crying in front of him is a step I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready for.

“Ren,” he whispers, and I shudder. He’s looking at me, and I’ve never seen this look on his face before. It’s almost helpless. I reach up, touching his cheek, where a thin white scar has faded almost completely away, and he flinches, a minute retreat.

“I don’t need your history, or explanations. I don’t need to know about Atlanta or Kelsey, or where you’ll go when I’m sleeping and you can’t.” His eyes go wide, and I smile, slightly. “What’s the only thing that matters?” I whisper and his mouth drops down again, covering my response  as he lifts me. He’s everywhere, his hands hot brands against me, the water coursing between us as he pushes inside me, his tongue licking into my mouth. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. Every inch of skin, every nerve, everything I am is wrapped up in Finn O’Malley, until there is no me, no him, just us, moving together, apart, a wave of flesh and feeling. His lips are moving against my ear, against my neck, and I feel his lips, so fucking gentle on my scar, and I scream into his shoulder, biting down as I shatter. Finn groans, thrusting against me, and I shudder as he comes, spilling inside me.

We’re both quiet when he pulls out, and I steal the soap wordlessly.

Dry and clean for the first time in I-can’t-remember-how-long, I slip back into the private room. He’s silent as he enters behind me, pulling me onto the bed and covering me with his body.

I lift a silent eyebrow. “What now?” His eyes are laughing when he leans down and kisses me, slow and thorough, until I’m panting and rolling my hips against him.

“Always,” he murmurs against my lips, “with the fucking questions.”

I laugh and his eyes are warm and amused when he slips inside me and fucks me until my toes curl.

Chapter 8.

A Tour of Sorts

There is a part of me that would like to never leave this little room. Even now that Finn lies quiet, sleeping next to me, I don't want to stir. Don't want to do anything to break the fragile peace that's here, in this cocoon of blankets and skin. His arm is tossed over my waist, holding me in place where I'm lying.

I'm not stupid enough to think I'm going anywhere without his knowledge.

There's a soft tap on the door, and Finn's grip tightens briefly, and he reaches for the knife.

That's when we both realize that the weapons aren't in reach, and I see shock in his eyes for a brief moment before he scrambles out of bed and grabs a gun. “What?” he demands.

Tuck's voice is muffled and distorted by the thick wood. “Josiah asked if you'd like a tour.”

Finn looks at me, his eyebrows arched in question, and I know what the right answer is—we need to know who we're dealing with, and neither of us will in here. But I don't want to do that.

He smirks. “Of course. Tell the commander we'll join him in a moment.”

I rise wordlessly and dress in tight jeans and a fitted shirt, before pulling my tangled dry hair into a bun on my head. Finn eyes me as I strap on my weapons belt. “You're going out there like that?”

“Problem?” I ask.

He stares and then shrugs and grins. “You look recently fucked. Which, no. Not a big problem with that.”

Without waiting for me to respond to that little tidbit, he opens the door and steps out.

The unit watches us, and I flush as I realize they know exactly what happened.

Until I see the anger in Mariah's eyes, and irritation flares. I step to Finn's side and he gives me a sidelong look before he addresses the waiting soldiers. “Stay here, and stay alert. We'll be back shortly. I don't trust these people, and we know next to nothing about them. Until they've shown that we can trust them, and they mean us no harm, we stay armed and alert.”

There is a murmur of assent, and Finn glances at me. “Ready?”

I nod.

Josiah is leaning against the building when we step out, and I feel his gaze track over us, quick and assessing, before he lifts an eyebrow.

“You want to show us something?” Finn asks, ignoring the implied question.

“You said the infects are changing. I thought you might appreciate a perspective of our biters. They aren't the same kind you have out west.”

“Is it safe?”

Josiah gives a slow smirk, and pushes off the wall. “Come see.”

The camp is almost deserted. There are two soldiers loitering in view, but other than that, it’s almost eerily quiet. Josiah notices me looking around. “Looking for something, Nurrin?”

At my side, Finn bristles. “My name is Ren,” I say shortly. “And yes. You don’t hold this base with three soldiers. So where are they?”

He glances at me, and nods at the path we’re walking down. “Things don’t work the same way here as they do in the West.”

“Because that’s an answer,” I retort and Josiah glances at Finn.

“Is she always this difficult?” he asks.

Finn shakes his head, and offers a smirk. “Usually she’s worse.”

I shrug. I can't really argue with that assessment.

The path he leads us down is headed into woods, and for the first time, my steps slow. Josiah doesn't even look at me. “It's a little late now to start worrying, Nurrin. If I wanted you dead, I could accomplish that easily enough and without putting my men at risk.”

“How do we put them at risk?” I ask, curious despite myself. And because this is what I do. It's taken a long time for me to figure out, but I am slowly coming to realize how this works.

Finn doesn't ask questions. He doesn't answer them. Because for whatever reason, he doesn't trust the answers. But I can. Not because I trust Josiah—but because I'm just the curious little First, too stupid to live, and too lucky to die. Because every question I ask feeds information to us, even if the answer is a lie.

“Our biters are different from yours. It's something we've known almost from the beginning, although the changes have become more pronounced over the past five years.”

He rounds a corner, and I swallow my scream as an infect careens out of the trees, impossibly fast on its broken legs. Its fingers are open and reaching, and then it's drawn to a brutal stop, a few feet short of us.

There is a chain around its neck, holding it in place, and I turn furious eyes on Josiah.

I've seen infects used as a defense before, but always, it was an empty threat—an infect rendered almost harmless by its broken, toothless jaws.

These are so far from harmless it's terrifying. “What the fuck?” I spit.

“I did tell you not to wander. There is no telling what's in these woods.”

His tone is blatantly unapologetic, and I stare at him, furiously.

“Why are they quiet?”

The question comes from Finn, and I glance at him. The infect is silent. There is no hissing, screaming counterpart to its rabid fury.

“That's a side effect of the dormant state. Yours aren't dormant, so they call. That’s what the screams are—a call to the others in the pack, and outliers.”

“When did this start?” I ask, softly.

“When the food source dried up. Really, we noticed the difference about five years ago. More and more of our scouting parties reported that they were seeing new behavior.”

“What else?”

Josiah glances at me, and then his gaze flicks to Finn. “Walk that way, about a hundred, two hundred yards. Ren, stay here.”

I watch nervously as Finn paces away, and only barely hear his low curse when he reaches a tree about a hundred and fifty yards away. There’s a low clink of metal, the sound of something pulling at a chain that covers the noise he makes as he tramps back to our side, and he stares at Josiah, revulsion mixed with wonder in his eyes. “Explain,” he snaps.

“They're dormant,” he repeats. “They've got no food. So the virus shuts down, until the Synthrix is keeping them alive, but in a suspended state. Not actually threatening, unless they have stimuli.” He pauses. “You know how Synthrix works, right? The way it muted emotion?”

Finn's face is tight, and he mutters, “I am very aware of the way the drug worked. But nothing in Synthrix explains this.”

“It does, though. The virus mutated outside Atlanta because the horde hit the army, and it was too much stimuli. That’s what changed it, and what continues to change it today. Right? At least, for you out west.”

I nod. “What does that mean, though?”

“When the Army evac’d and forgot the East, it left a hole. You thought you left just the dead, but the government knew that wasn’t it. There were a few missions, trying to clear cities, right? A few in Virginia. Maine, although the Canadians offered them more help than their government. The one in Ohio that went really wrong. You knew when you left that you were leaving survivors. And for a while, that kept the biters busy. But their odds have always been in the favor of the dead. There are so many more of them than there will ever be of us.”

Finn’s face is empty and I clench my hands together to keep from reaching for him. “The dead decimated what you left behind. And then they killed the wildlife. And then—there was nothing to kill. So they went dormant. And as long as we keep our numbers low, we can keep them that way. The only time we don’t observe that rule is in the Holdout.”

“Explain that to me,” Finn says sharply.

“No.”

Josiah’s voice is empty and brooks no argument, and I feel Finn go stiff and wary at my side. “You’ll see what we are, when we get there. But until you do—you aren’t us. We don’t know shit about you, except that you’re living and that means you fall under the cardinal precept of the Holdout.”

“Which is?” I ask, curious.

Josiah turns away, headed back to the base camp and where our people wait. Both our people. For the first time it occurs to me that by bringing us in, they put themselves at risk.

“To preserve all life,” he says casually.

“All?” Finn says, his voice a silky question. His gaze flicks back to the chained infect, still and silent now.

“All life,” Josiah says, and for the first time, I see a manic gleam in his eyes that chills me.

I’ve seen that look, in the eyes of cult priests as they fed a First to zombies.

Finn’s lips press into a thin line, and he asks a question, one that makes me stop, because I never expected to hear it. Not from Finn, who refuses to be defined by his past.

“Who are you, Josiah Flannery? Who are you really?”

Josiah looks at him. “You mean, why the bloody hell do I wear your face?”

Finn nods and Josiah shrugs. “Who knows? We live in a world of the walking dead, man. A few familiar strangers isn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen today.”

There’s no real way to argue with that, and Finn falls silent as we follow him back to base camp.

“How will you keep the infects at bay with this many living in one place?”

“The water fucks with them. So that’ll help. And your people being behind those cement walls won’t hurt. But my people are on the lookout. If we get enough activity that we hear them, we’ll evac and head south. But we’re hoping for the best.”

He flashes us a humorless grin and stops in front of our building. “Will you share your reasons for being in the East?”

Finn stares back, unreadable, and I give him an apologetic smile. “Like I said. We’re part of a larger force.”

“Which tells me nothing, since you’re not with that force,” Josiah snaps back, temper flaring. “And with a larger force, you will fuck up the balance here.”

“That isn’t our goal,” Finn answers.

Josiah shrugs. “This fucked up world wasn’t the plague-bringer’s goal, was it?”

He walks away before either of us responds, not that there is a response to that. I stare after him for a moment, and then, “We don’t trust him, do we?”

“Ah, Nurrin,” Finn says, mocking. “You can learn.”

Chapter 9.

The End of the World

We drive for what seems like forever, deeper and deeper into the wild that is untamed, forgotten swamp land. Tuck takes command of the bus while Finn and I ride his little bike at point, Josiah keeping pace at our side. His people are scattered around us in small clusters, in tiny compact cars and derelict old motorcycles.

I lean against Finn, silent under the roar of the wind and road, and watch the strange, savage beauty of this land.

It goes on and on, unending, and I feel a hint of peace, like a soothing balm. That we could live in a world so big, so beautiful. It’s similar to the feeling I got when Finn took me to the ocean in Haven 6

As brutal and ugly as the world is, there is still beauty. Something that stretches past the blood and death.

The Holdout, Josiah tells us, is at the bottom of the state. There was a bridge, leading to small islands that ran off the end of the peninsula—and the Holdout settled there, surrounded on three sides by water.

Staring at it now, I feel a pang. I’m a thousand miles and a lifetime away from the fallen Haven I called home, and this—the barbed wire fence, the gun turrets and brick walls and the sound of laughter in the air—it makes me miss home, with a suddenness that makes my eyes sting.

Which is fucking ridiculous.

“It’s the end of the world,” Finn murmurs.

It’s a poetic but accurate sentiment, and it chases chills down my spine as Josiah revs the other bike and screams toward the main gate.

There is a full platoon of soldiers there, and they aren’t the kind of Walkers we see in the West—these move with the kind of savage feral hunting glide that reminds me of a hunting cat I saw once outside the walls of 8. Confident and assessing every damn thing for the kill.

I don’t care what precept the Holdout might espouse—their Walkers are killers. I can recognize my own.

“Each of them need to be checked, sir,” one of the guards says as Josiah pulls his helmet off.

“No. I vouch for their clean bills of health.”

Finn tenses in front of me and I wonder what a blood test will reveal. “Sir, the council has ordered all outsiders left beyond the walls, until they’ve been checked.”

Josiah frowns. “Has there been a recent influx?”

“Yes,” the other man says simply.

Josiah swears softly. “I vouch for these. The council has a problem, they’re welcome to take it up with me.”

An unhappy expression settles over the other man’s face, but he nods. “They will surrender their weapons.”

I laugh at that, and Josiah shrugs. “You can keep one blade, one gun. The rest will be returned when you leave the Holdout.”

“You realize that asking us to be unarmed is ludicrous, right?”

“You are more than welcome to join the army outside our gates, ma’am. But if you want our protection, you’ll abide by our rules.”

I jerk, looking at the guard with wide eyes. “The army?”

“Let me guess,” Josiah says, his voice dry. “A larger force.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Make your choice, Finn,” he says, and grudgingly, Finn strips off all but the semi-automatic rifle and his sword. I swallow my laugh. Josiah did say one blade.

“I need to see that army,” Finn says as Josiah leads us into the Holdout.

“Soon. For now, you need to get settled, and the council will want to see you.”

“What is that?”

“Our board of leadership,” he says. A few people are calling greetings, but no one approaches as Josiah leads us down a street that looks different from anything I’ve seen.

It’s idyllic. Spacious.

Not the kind of space that we have in a Haven, where everything is carefully plotted out and planned, and the space is dedicated to gardens and farm land or training. There are no sharp corners and stone walls that have been painted and bleached and smoothed to hide the fact that it is a converted prison, and one of our own choosing.

This—it’s different. It reminds me of the world my brother described.

A world not bound by razor wire and walls and death.

“Finn,” I whisper, and he nods, his hand squeezing mine once as we follow Josiah into the Holdout.

Chapter 10.

Townhall

We’re given two hours in the temporary quarters Josiah shoves us into—just long enough for the unit to settle in, clean up, and get nervous—before they come back. Josiah is accompanied by a thin, nervous-looking man a few years older than me, and I watch him curiously. Despite the nerves, there is a familiar air between the two that makes me think they are close. The way they move in response to each other, silent glances that communicate effortlessly. A relaxation in Josiah when the other man is near.

It reminds me, vaguely, of the way Finn and Collin were, silently able to read each other’s cues.

“Where are we going?” I ask, and he flicks me a look before sliding back and letting Josiah lead the conversation.

Interesting.

“The council called a townhall. Lots of things changing, and you seem to be the center of it.”

“Not really. You want Omar; he’s the real spearhead of this venture,” I offer and Finn makes a low noise in his throat. More info than he wanted me to share, apparently.

Josiah’s gaze flicks between us, and he gives me a lazy smile.

It is so fucking weird, seeing Finn’s face that relaxed and open.

“Either way, Omar is not who has been vouched for. You are. You’ll speak with our council, and the Holdout will make a decision about what to do with you.”

“Why do you need to do anything with us?”

“You said your biters are changing,” the thin one says, and I look at him.

“My partner, Parker Lee,” Josiah says by way of introduction.

“If your biters are changing, you will need to speak to the council. They’ve spent most of the past twenty years studying the disease and its effects. Every change is important.”

I almost ask why, and what they’ve learned—how they can help us—but Josiah slows, jogging up three steps to a wide pair of doors. He offers a quick grin at us, and says, “Ready?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pulls the doors open, and we step inside.

It’s packed, a thousand bodies crammed into the small space. Most sit on the wood floor. A few older people occupy rickety chairs. They are all pointed at a circle of six stools in the center of the room, and as we enter, a cheer rings through the room. They’re chanting, almost screaming his name, and I realize suddenly that Josiah, while not lying, wasn’t completely honest.

“He’s part of the council,” I murmur.

Parker is on the other side of me, and his gaze tracks Josiah as the crowd pulls him to the center of the room. We follow slower, an almost forgotten afterthought.

“Of course he is. The council is the leaders in our most important fields. Bishop Flannery for religion. Marie Peterson is our chief of education. Captain Ahab runs our boats,” he offers a small smile. “And no, that is not his real name.”

“Josiah is the base commander,” Finn murmurs, and Parker nods.

A dark-haired man with a wide smile stands and calls for order as Josiah slips onto one of the two unoccupied stools. “Welcome home, son.”

Parker makes a low noise in his throat and I look at him curiously. He shakes his head and I look back to the council.

“You brought home a unit of fifteen strangers. They come from the West and you found them on the edge of the dead zone. Care to explain that?”

“Who is he?” Finn asks, watching intently.

“William Boyd,” Parker almost spits, and Finn flinches, his eyes wide as they dart to the other man. Parker doesn’t notice, watching the circle of the council. I do, and I don’t understand why that name is so disturbing to him.

I shift closer to him. “What?”

Finn doesn’t respond, just shakes his head and stares.

“They were well-armed, and well-trained. The Holdout can always use trained soldiers, and the precept doesn’t exclude people from the West.”

“The precept says preserve life,” Marie says. “It does not say interfere. Were they in a life-or-death situation?”

“No,” Josiah says, his voice clipped.

“Then your interference was premature and unnecessary. We are not equipped to sustain the unit you found, Josiah, much less the army we have at our gate.”

He raises an eyebrow and a murmur sweeps the crowd as he straightens. “You are not putting the army on me, are you, Bill? That army came from the panhandle—even your plants in my army will support that because it’s the fucking truth. If they’re here, it’s not because of something I did.”

“Then explain it,” Marie snaps, and Josiah makes a dismissive noise in his throat.

“My job is not to explain every person who appears at our gates,” he says evenly. “It is to ensure that those people do not intend to harm to the citizens of the Holdout, and to secure the camp if they do.”

“You cannot assure us that they do not mean harm,” Boyd protests, and the Bishop stirs. His eyes are bright and not terribly inviting when he fixes his gaze on the politician.

“Perhaps we should hear why the commander brought them here, before you decide that he erred. As it stands, Josiah fulfilled the precept and has not harmed the Holdout. He has done no wrong.”

There’s a ragged cheer, and Parker makes a low noise of amusement. “Bishop just threw you under the bus. Get up there,” he says.

I give Finn a panicked look, but we’re being pulled toward the circle now, and all five have their gazes fixed on us, curious as we approach. There’s a trail of low conversation as we step into the circle.

I understand Haven politics, and even the twisted political systems in 1 and the Order. But this—it’s like they govern by committee and with the immediate approval of their people. And right now, that approval seems rather thin.

“Why are you here?” Boyd demands without hesitation.

“Because your boy brought us here,” I throw back. Behind me, someone makes a choked noise. Something that sounds, suspiciously, like a laugh.

“Why are you in the East?” Marie clarifies.

“A mad priest thought it would be a good idea to investigate what had happened in the past decade. We did try to tell him it was a bad idea and that we had enough problems at home. But”—I shrug—“you try reasoning with fanatics.”

“The army is led by a Priest?” The Bishop’s voice is sharp and almost victorious. “I believe that puts them firmly in my purview. Mine and Josiah’s.”

“Not until we know what the motivation is,” Boyd counters.

“The infected in the West are changing,” Finn says, the first he’s spoken since we were thrust in this circle, and Boyd goes very still. Finn looks up, and I feel the wave of surprise go through the clustered people as they take in the eerie similarities.

“They’re moving in larger groups. Hordes that can overrun our Havens. And they’re moving with intelligence—this isn’t a bunch of thoughtless infected. They’re thinking and working together.”

“How many have you lost?” Josiah asks, and Finn looks at him.

“How many people or Havens?” A low noise of surprise ripples out of the crowd. “We’re dying. The Priest is here because he’s insane. I’m here because we’re dying, and we need to know how to stop them. How do we stop the infected? We need your scientist.”

The council stiffens, and behind him, Captain Ahab says, softly, “And how do you know we have one?”

Finn gives him a flat, unfriendly stare, and a clear voice comes from the edge of the room. “They’re mine.” The crowd rises, parting to let the woman approach the circle. She looks past both of us to give Boyd a strained smile. “You can relinquish your claim. So can Siah. They are here within my purview and the Holdout will support them until I say otherwise.”

Boyd nods, reluctantly, and I stare as she turns to face us.

Finn is shaking at my side, almost swaying, and I touch his shoulder. He flinches away, violently.

“Hello, Finn,” she says, her voice very soft and full.

“Mother.”

Part 5 The End of Truth

*

The world is drowning in a sea of blood, an ocean of death.

Finn O’Malley~

**

We’re orphans. Even with what we have left—we are all of us, orphans of the world that died.

Kelsey Buchman~

Chapter 1.

All Things End

The curious thing about humanity is that we can adapt to any. Fucking. Thing.

The world can adapt to terrorists burning and killing. Can get used to the idea of nuclear weapons being every day. Accept the idea of a pill that can wash away emotion. We can even accept a plague of dead.

We can adapt to anything. We might flail around like fucking lunatics for a while, screaming that the world is ending and the end is coming and all the other bullshit, but at the end of the day—or week or month—we all accept it as the new normal, and we fit it into the pretty little picture we have of the world, locking it away with the rest of the ugly bullshit that we try so fucking hard to ignore. And we get on with life, because the alternative isn't worth thinking about.

Because there isn't an option.

We can, as a people, accept almost anything.

But for every person, there is that one thing that is unacceptable.

It's why so many kept their dead in those first few years. Because there were whole waves of people who couldn't accept that the people they loved were dead, and trying to eat them for dinner.

A lot of those idiots died.

But for me, it's never been accepting the dead, or the fact that every person I loved is dead. It's always easy to accept that. There is no alternative. There is only the dead.

We all have the thing we can't accept.

The end of the fucking rope.

Mine is my mother. The woman I have mourned and hated and loved, for twenty fucking years, standing across from me in a circle of light and rickety stools, with a thousand pairs of eyes watching as she greets me. Like the past twenty years never occurred.

Chapter 2.

Coping Mechanisms

The crowd is still parted, a narrow path open, and I bolt. I can hear Ren shouting my name, Josiah’s confusion and the general bedlam—everything but her voice denying it. Denying that she is another ghost of my dead.

And I can't fucking handle that.

The Holdout streets are almost empty as I race through them, and I know it won't actually fix anything. That leaving Nurrin behind with that fucking council is not fair or safe. And, in a distant sort of way, it bothers me.

But I can see her eyes.

Fuck. I'd forgotten. Mother was still gorgeous. Weathered, and tired and old—so fucking old—but those eyes I remembered instantly. Sweet and a little amused, a little biting as she stared at me after all the years.

How the fuck did this happen?

I break clear of the buildings, and in front of me, an eternity of ocean stretches out.

I want to dive into it, and swim until I can't anymore, then drift into nothing.

It's a fucking death sentence, because no one can swim a fucking ocean, and I still want it fiercely enough that I take the half-step toward the water before a hand lands on my arm, jerking me still. I stare at her, my eyes wide and almost unseeing. She's staring, worry in her familiar green eyes that makes me laugh, a little hysterically.

“Talk to me,” she orders, and it shakes me back to sense. I pull away, and see the acceptance in her eyes. New, that. I file it away for later contemplation.

“Don’t you ever want to leave? Leave it all behind and find a new life, somewhere else. Anywhere else?” I ask, and I can feel the startle of surprise that goes through her.

She’s quiet, and then, tentatively, “Finn?”

“She should be dead. I've spent twenty years knowing she died in Atlanta, the victim of Andrew's bombs. I grieved her, and grew up alone. Da was too busy to have time for me, and Mum was dead. It's why Kelsey was so fucking important. Because at the end of the day, all we had was each other.”

Nurrin's eyes are wide startled, and I know that I'm shocking her with this rare honesty, the kind I never share with her. She blinks, locks it away, and takes a breath. “What do you want to do?”

“I can't face her,” I say, and it stings a little.

I haven't run from anything, not since Kelsey died.

“Then we won't. Let's go see the mad priest.”

She doesn't reach for me, and I stare at the water, the waves restless against the shore, for a long moment, as the fucking panic recedes. Until my heartbeat settles. And then I flank her and we go see the Priest.

Chapter 3.

Disorder Within the Ranks

Omar’s army is encamped a mile outside the Holdout walls, spread across a marshy plain. And getting out of the Holdout is easy, much easier than getting in. We’re quiet as we walk. I don't recognize the recruit on watch when we approach, but he recognizes us.

I suppose most of them would. Nurrin is distinct with her bright eyes and her long blonde hair so often pulled into a ponytail.

I remember suddenly, a time I saw her in 8. She didn't realize I was watching, and was spitting mad as she sprinted along the wall. One of the Walkers had yelled at her, and she had flipped him off as she continued to jog, all lean limbs and fierce expression and thrashing blonde hair getting fucking everywhere.

It was one of the first times I saw her wear it up, and I remember thinking that it transformed her. A beautiful girl made fucking flawless, going from sweet to untouchable, soft to deadly.

Then she wrinkled her nose and ruined it.

She’s grown into that look now.

Word ripples out as we stalk through camp, and I see when the pet approaches. I'm only a little annoyed.

“Ren!” Ethan shouts, and her head snaps up, a smile blossoming. He snatches her into a hug, and I can hear his voice, muffled in her hair. “You fucking idiot went and got picked up by the locals. Only you. I've been out of my mind."

I make a low noise in my throat, and Ethan lifts his head, giving me a fierce glare as Nurrin wiggles to get out of his rough embrace. “She was with me. There was no need to worry."

Ethan makes a low, dismissive noise, and fixes his stare on Nurrin. “The Priest is furious.”

“Why?” we ask and she shoots me a startled look.

“You both slipped his leash. We kept your disappearance under wraps for that entire first day.”

She grins and nods. “Good. And the unit? Any casualties?”

“We're good.”

Relief makes her shoulders wilt but she nods, and refocuses on me. “Ready?”

I nod and we push deeper into the camp. She's relaxed, somewhat. A tension I hadn't realized she'd been carrying has drained away.

Until we step into the Priest's tent.

Omar is speaking—shouting—when we enter, and there is a split-second where he continues. But Holly's wide-eyed hopeful stare makes him turn.

I see rage flare in his gaze for a moment, and then he lunges.

At Nurrin.

He slams into her and she makes a little choked noise, a half there scream as he pushes her down, pinning her to the table, a bug splayed across maps and weapons.

"What the fuck are you doing alive?" he snarls, leaning down, into her space.

I move without thinking, my sword free and swinging through the air before I even realize I'm reaching for it. The blade is shoved up against Omar's throat before his pet soldiers have time to draw, and he goes stiff and still for a heartbeat.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” I say, so softly.

He straightens slowly, and twists, his neck pushing against my blade until it slices just a little, a red line snaking down the silver metal.

“Will you kill me now? You've wanted to for so long, O'Malley. Is now the day?”

“If you don't get your fucking hands off of her, yes. It will be. And fuck the consequences,” I say, my voice even.

Omar stares for a moment, and then he laughs and his hands slip from where they've been wrapped around her neck. She coughs and I stand there, the sword still pushed against his throat as Nurrin rolls off the table and comes to my side.

Her throat is red—she'll have bruises in the shape of his big hands.

The thought makes me see red, and I push slightly, just a hair’s breadth of pressure.

He laughs again, and I let out the breath I'm holding, stepping back.

“Why?”

“Because I’m here because of him. He’s here because of me. I wasn’t going to allow him to go to Atlanta alone,” she says, and Omar makes a soft grunt.

“Did you find anything?”

At the CDC? “No,” I answer shortly. “But you knew I wouldn’t.”

He shrugs, and Lori steps forward. “You’ve been inside their settlement.”

I nod once. “They’re different. And their infected are different—and they know why.”

Her eyes are bright with that creepy as fuck religious fervor that makes my stomach turn. “Will they tell you? Do they trust you?”

I weigh the question, considering it.

“Yes.”

Chapter 4.

Bonding over Blood

I’m on the beach again, alone this time. Leaving Nurrin should get easier each time, and in a place like this, where I know she’s safe.

It doesn’t. I’m coming to realize that it never will.

I don’t have to wait long, standing on the beach, kicking sand and watching the water.

“You made quite an impression, especially with that exit.”

It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my hands from moving instinctively for my weapons. He is too familiar, and too unknown, for me to ever trust. But I can use him.

“Sorry,” I say unapologetically.

Josiah stares at me silently for a long moment and then shakes his head. “No, you aren’t. So. Tell me. What the hell are you doing here? Who the fuck are you?”

I laugh, a noise that sounds as bitter as it tastes. “Why the fuck do people ask me that? It doesn’t matter.”

“Our scientist knows you by name. A man she could not have seen since before the fall. You called her mother. So I would say that’s bullshit, and that you know it.”

My blood is boiling but I can’t argue with that. We both know it’s the truth.

“Do you have any infects we can clear?” I ask abruptly. He blinks, startled, and I make a vague motion with one hand. “I’m not good at talking. I am good at killing. Let me do that.”

“The precept.”

“You aren’t here to follow the precept. You’re here to keep the Holdout safe. Surely somewhere along your border, some infect is threatening it.”

A look of indecision flickers in his eyes for a minute, and then he makes a low noise. “Come on. And stay quiet for fuck’s sake.”

I grin, and follow him to down the beach. A few of his soldiers see us, but no one offers any word to stop us.

Josiah’s people are well-trained and very loyal, it would appear.

Then I hear it—a noise that is instantly familiar.

I never fucking thought that hearing the dead scream would make me feel better.

But this is where I’ve always been the very best. Because the dead ask no questions, demand no answers. The exchange with them is easy—kill or be killed.

My blade hisses slightly as I pull my sword free and Josiah glances at me.

I give him a Mad Hatter smile, and the zombies scream, lunging out of the darkness and onto the beach. And with this stranger at my side, I surrender to the siren song of oblivion found in killing.

He’s good at it—keeps perfect pace, falling into a natural rhythm as we slice through the zombies. And as much as I dislike admitting it, he’s almost as good with his long knives as I am with my sword. He twists to meet their attacks when they get past my sword and lets me handle the screamers before they get too close. I swing, smooth as butter, and a head spins into the air, landing with a splash in the ocean. It’s working, and the dead are falling around us, but they’re still coming and we’re losing ground.

“Josiah,” I snarl.

He doesn’t respond, sliding under my guard to slam the blade through the eye socket of one who breaks from the pack to charge us, teeth snapping.

“The water fucks them up,” he answers as the blade slides in, and the infect goes limp and drops. “We want to let them have the beach.”

They’re milling slower, uncertain.

I’ve always known infected don’t like water—fuck, that’s why Ren and I got trapped on that damn boat—but I never realized how much it could slow them.

A scream jerks me out of my thoughts, and Josiah grins at me. “Stay with me, O’Malley.”

Fuck that. I shove the kid back a step and drop the infect lunging toward us with a smooth stroke that splits his head in two. “You stay with me,” I snap.

He laughs, and that mixes with screams and the soft song of my sword as I kill.

Chapter 5.

The Boy Soldier

“You don’t talk much,” Josiah says, later. I’ve just emerged from the ocean, dripping and mostly naked, and his gaze is sharp, friendly but probing.

“It gets old, lying. And no one wants to hear my truth.”

He gives a grim smile. “Being the one to protect your people from the ugly truth doesn’t always win you popularity contests.”

I side-eye him. He’s leaning back, hands at his side, a loose smile on his face, and I wonder what he’s seen. How he’s managed to stay so fucking optimistic in the face of it. Because being the military commander of this place, in a community this size—he’s seen hell. There’s no way to avoid it.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, and he smirks, lazy and arrogant.

“I’m the base commander. Child of the apocalypse. Nothing more or less.”

I shake my head. “There is always more.”

He shrugs, not arguing with my assessment. “She wants you.”

“Ren comes as well,” I say immediately. I knew the summons was coming—I’m only surprised that Josiah ignored his orders long enough to let me work off some of my aggression.

Or perhaps I’m not. I wouldn’t take a violent temper waiting to explode to someone I cared about either.

“Your girl is already there,” he says, and I swing a furious look at him. His face is blank now, and I nod.

“Let’s go.”

He leads me to where a four-wheeler sits and I give him a flat stare. He swings onto it and shrugs. “The doc doesn’t live close to the beach. She likes her seclusion. So get over whatever you’re thinking and let’s go.”

She always loved her seclusion.

I shove the memories down and swing onto the damn ATV and he guns the engine. It’s too dark to see much beyond the city as it blurs past us, and the sound of the water against the shore fades to a distant roar.

It reminds me of home, sitting in the garden with Uncle Keifer while Mother muttered over research and nibbled on burnt biscuits.

The ATV is slowing, and I blink out of my memories to study the dark house.

It’s on a narrow road, alone. Small and unassuming, with a small bit of light spilling from one window. A small, practical, covered porch that is crowded with potted plants and a single straight-backed chair.

She never had any use for frivolities. The chair is so damnably practical.

“How long has she been here?” I ask, and Josiah stills, his foot on the first step. He glances at me, and then climbs the stairs.

“She helped found the Holdout. She’s been here since the very beginning.”

Chapter 6.

The Past That Divides

I follow Josiah into the house and I’m greeted with a sight I never thought would happen—Nurrin is perched on the edge of a faded blue couch, her foot bobbing restlessly as she clutches a chipped cup of murky tea.

My mother sits across from her in a plain wooden chair, her legs crossed neatly, fingers toying with a long loop of black beads.

They both turn when the door opens, and Sylvia’s expression eases into a smile when she sees Josiah. Nurrin jerks out of her seat when I enter behind him, her eyes wide with relief and questions. I give a minute shake of my head and she eases back into her seat, a patient expression settling over her.

Good girl.

I look at Sylvia. “Explain how the fuck you’re alive,” I say, without preamble.

“Finn,” Nurrin hisses, but Sylvia just smiles.

“You’ve grown quite tall. And the mouth on you,” Sylvia says, shaking her head slightly.

“We aren’t fucking doing that. No walk down memory lane. You explain what you’re doing alive and here. Tell me how to keep the Havens alive. And we go our merry fucking ways.”

She frowns, a tiny thing that bugs me a little. I don’t like disappointing her, even if it’s completely unreasonable to think I would want anything more than information and a one way ticket back to the West.

“We got word the bombs were coming. Your Da managed to get a call to me in the confusion. The CDC had a few helicopters on the ground, but it wasn’t enough to evacuate everyone. Boyd knew I was at the CDC—the UK embassy was keeping tabs on me. You know they did that.”

They did. The UK government was intensely aware of one of their most prodigious scientists and her increasing interaction with the United Sates military.

“He got me out. And then it was chaos and trying to stay alive. I tried to contact your father, but the bombs changed everything—the horde grew so quickly, and communicating was virtually impossible. The only thing that mattered was staying alive. Florida got cut off, with the fallout spreading. So we fell back, and we kept the people we could alive.”

“Why didn’t you leave with the evac orders?”

She gives me a small smile. “Those were for the living and the legal citizens. A woman from Scotland with no papers wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You could have told anyone who you were, and you’d have been—”

“Killed. During the Turn? Don’t be daft, Finn. You are the plague-bringer’s son, and everyone needed to blame someone in those days. I was that someone. You and I both know it. I kept it to myself, stayed alive and started working. I created this mess. I would do everything I could to end it.”

“And fuck the son and husband you left behind, right?” I say, soft and bitter. She doesn’t react at all, just stares at me with that patient, sad stare.

“Finn,” she says.

“Who is Josiah?”

Anger flares in her eyes, and she pulls back a little. I push. “He looks like me, Mother. And he’s young—born after the change. Who is he?”

“O’Malley,” Nurrin says, her voice warning.

“I’m her son.” Josiah says, and I go still, everything in me rejecting the truth I knew was coming. “That’s what you want to hear. It’s the truth. I was raised by Bishop because no one thought being raised by Sylvia was a good idea.”

She flinches, a tiny motion, and I look away. “Why?” I whisper.

“Because they tolerate me. Some even might like me. But no one is stupid enough to forget I am the creator of Synthrix. ERI-Milan would never have happened without me.”

“We thought you were dead.”

She stares at me. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, and turn. “You don’t need to be anything. I’m not here for you. You being here changes nothing. We’re still here for answers.”

“I can’t help you,” she says, quietly, and Nurrin makes a soft noise. She pushes up against me, and her breath is hot on my shoulder as I realize I’m straining against her hold.

“You’re fucking lying,” I snarl.

“Finn,” Nurrin snaps, “back off.”

I glare at her, and she shoves me, hard enough that I stumble back a step. “Growing fangs, little girl,” I taunt.

“Shut the fuck up. You aren’t helping anything.”

She’s spitting mad, her eyes dark and furious, her shoulders bunched for a fight, but her voice is easy when she turns back to Sylvia. “We’re here. The longer we’re here, the longer the infected will be an ongoing threat. You know more about the virus than anyone—and if you don’t help us, Havens will continue to fall. People will continue to die until you really are the last holdout, the only fucking thing left. You think about that shit, and decide if it’s something you can live with.”

Sylvia laughs and it’s a cold, bitter fucking noise. “Child, I’ve lived twenty years with the deaths of millions. With the death of my son. You will be very surprised by what I can live with.”

“Sylvia,” Josiah says, startled, “what about your precept?”

“We can’t save the entire world, Siah. And the West forgot us. For ten fucking years, we’ve been left here. Now that they’re dying, they want help?” She makes a dismissive noise and my blood boils.

“We’ve been dying for twenty years. Because of your fucking plague. Because of the insane cult outside your gates. Because the world is too fucking broken to be fixed.”

I look away from her, unable to stomach it any more. Maybe I had never thought to hope she was still alive. But I also never imagined that she would greet me like this, if she were.

“Nurrin, let’s go. There’s nothing here for us. And you need to get back in the Priest’s good graces.”

She glances over at Sylvia. “Thanks. For the tea.”

Then we leave.

Chapter 7.

Acceptance of Things

She’s quiet as we walk through the sleeping Holdout, a few steps away from me. I remember all the times Collin and I walked like this silent and apart, but together. Giving me space to wrap my head around what’s just happened, while still being there.

It helps, relaxes some of the tension in my shoulders as we walk. By the time we reach the barracks they've lodged us in, I'm almost calm again.

“We need to talk to the Priest. He's going to be pissed.”  I say, finally.

“The Priest doesn't care about the cure,” she says. “All he wants is to reclaim the East. There's no reason he can't, if he could do it intelligently like the Holdout has.”

I slide a glance at her. “When has he ever done anything intelligently? Omar has a long fucking track record of doing things the hard way and getting people killed in the process.”

She turns, staring at me hard. “Like Kelsey?”

I go still. She hasn't pushed for the truth behind the mission that killed Kels in months. Long enough that I had begun to believe she didn't care—or had forgotten.

“Yes,” I say simply. “Like Kelsey.”

“You won't ever tell me what happened, will you? That's just something I have to accept is always going to be a mystery.”

“You know I'm not good at sharing things, Ren,” I say softly.

“I do. But you do, eventually. In time and on your terms. But not this. Every time she comes up, you shut down, and it's like we regress to asshole 8 Finn.” She looks away. “I didn't like him.” Something loosens in my chest. “I can accept that, you know. That there are things you won't share. I'm not the same girl who left 8. You aren't the same guy. And that's ok. I just—I need to know, if this is one of those things.”

I nod, without hesitating. “It is.”

She offers me a small smile and nods. “Okay.” As she walks into the barracks, she calls over her shoulder, “We need to meet with Omar.”

Chapter 8.

The Mad Priest

“What do you mean, your mother is alive?”

The outburst comes from Kenny, and I flick him an annoyed look. I hadn’t wanted him included in the conversation, but I was overruled by Omar.

“She died in Atlanta.”  Omar protests.

“We thought she did. There was never confirmation of that. We never considered we needed confirmation. No one survived Atlanta. Millions died in the bombing. There was no way to verify that Mother was one of them. But she got out.”

“Are you sure it’s her?” Omar demands, his eyes bright and calculating.

I give Omar an incredulous stare. “Yeah. Pretty fucking sure.” Nurrin coughs and I grit my teeth. “She doesn't have a cure. That's the end of it, Omar. You have to know that if Sylvia Cragen doesn't have a cure, one doesn't exist.”

“Doesn't matter. We have the serum,” he says.

“Oh. The one that delays the inevitable—if you keep taking it?” Sarcasm drips from her tone. Nurrin is pissed. “You need to cough some of that up, Priest.”

“That medicine was offered in exchange for your cooperation,” Holly protests. “You disobeyed orders.”

Nurrin cocks her head and grins, a smile that looks faintly deranged. “Sweetheart, I’ve been through a lot of shit in the past few days and I'd really like to kill something. If you keep talking, I'd be happy to make it you.”

Holly's eyes narrow. “You could try.”

Nurrin laughs. “Your Priest might have saved your life, but he didn't train you. Finn O’Malley taught me. Are you sure you want to tangle with that?”

Hesitance flickers in Holly's eyes and Nurrin nods.

“Enough,” Omar snaps. “You will be given one dose. And we will leave tomorrow. If they can’t help us, we’ll take the East on our own."

“You can’t, Omar. Fucking hell, man. Listen to what I’m saying.”

“The infected are not active enough to be a problem,” he says, shrugging.

“Because there's no one here!” I shout, my temper breaking. “Because the fucking infected killed and ate everything they could find, and there's nothing here. You bring your army through, they’ll wake up. They’ll wake up and they’ll devastate you because you’re fucking underestimating them.

“You don't know that,” Omar snaps.

“I do, you fucking lunatic,” I snarl. “I was in Atlanta, and I watched them come out of their dormant state. I was in Benning and saw the same damn thing. They'll come here, too. You’re going to kill your entire army. Who the fuck will protect the Havens then? What the hell does your high priest say about fighting an unwinnable war?”

“You have no idea what Sawyer taught,” Lori hisses, and I laugh.

“Doesn't matter. This has nothing to do with your fucked up faith. It's all about his obsession. Be careful, priestess, or he'll destroy the Order you care so much for.”

Holly shifts, and I glance at her. She’s listening to me—Omar might not, but Holly is listening and hears my warning.

“I want to meet her. I want to hear from her that she can't help us,” Omar says, abruptly. “I don't have enough medicine to sustain the entire army if they're bitten.”

“Then take them home and remove them from danger,” Nurrin says.

“And what?” Omar finally shouts, throwing down the gun he’s holding. It lands with a clatter among the bullets waiting to be loaded and he glares at us. “What then? Sit behind the walls of the fucking Haven, or locked in the Stronghold, and pray to a dead priest that the infected won't come to our door? That worked so well for the Havens that already fell. How many fucking survive a Haven falling? Lori and four from 18. The four of you in 8. That's all I've ever heard walking out of a Haven that was overrun. We don't have any options. We need the East because we're going to die if we stay in the Havens. And you fucking know it. We need to find somewhere safe.”

“There isn’t a safe place.” I say, softly. “There hasn’t been in twenty years. Maybe there wasn’t before that. All we can do is survive—live and die the way we choose. Fuck the risks. If we can’t do that, we’ve already lost.”

“O’Malley,” Omar growls, a warning, but I shake my head, step back a little.

“I will get you a meeting with the council, if I can. But don’t expect any help from them. And it will cost you.”

Omar hesitates. He knows me well enough, long enough, to know what I’m asking for. I’ve waited, keeping the peace for the sake of his fucked up war.

But I’m done dancing for the Order. I’ll stay if Ren refuses to leave—but it will be on my terms.

Chapter 9.

The Final Council

The hall is empty this time, a far cry from the crowds that greeted us the first time we were here. There are a few lights still burning, and I glance at Josiah, who escorts us. “How do you get power? The grid went down before we left the East.”

“Solar and hydro power. Sylvia came up with the plans, and Ahab put people to work until we had a reliable source. They tried turbines for the first few years, but there was no way to ground the towers in the ocean so we gave that up after a while. It keeps us comfortable and we can produce weapons and the essentials.” He shrugs. “It’s not what most were used to, but it does the trick.”

It’s not even what we’re used to in the Havens, but I don’t mention that as he pulls open the door to the townhall.

The council is already gathered—only Josiah’s stool waits empty. He breaks into a slow jog, nodding to Ahab as he takes the free stool.

Marie and Boyd are whispering as we approach and I slide a glance at Omar. “Follow my lead, for once.”

He gives me a hard stare, but stays quiet as we step into the circle.

“You need to move your army,” Marie announces without any lead-in and Omar’s expression goes startled. “It’s disruptive, and will attract the wrong sort.”

“Biters,” Ahab says, unnecessarily. “It’ll attract the dead. And the kid is good at his job, but we don’t need the threat of a horde outside the Holdout.”

“We need your help before we leave,” Omar says. “You have to understand what we’re facing in the West. The sheer numbers—we can’t match them, and even if we could, the infection is spreading too rapidly. We’re killing our people to keep them from turning. There isn’t a way to get ahead of the disease.”

“That isn’t our concern. You surrendered the East. We’ve found a way to survive.”

“It would become your problem,” Omar says softly, “if the balance changed here. If the infects weren’t dormant—and if we move the Havens to the east to keep them alive…”

He trails off, but it doesn’t matter—he has their attention now.

“You aren’t very smart, are you?” Josiah says, staring with barely concealed dislike.

“I’m the fucking High Priest,” Omar snaps.

“He’s got a title. Someone give the man a medal. We don’t give a fuck—we know what your Havens are like, what your fucking Order is. Being a priest doesn’t mean shit here.”

I think it’s the first time since the zombies rose that someone has failed to be impressed with Omar. I tilt my head. “You should have listened.” I tell him. Then to the council, I say, “We respect that you have your own priorities when it comes to the East. But the West is falling. We can’t hold it, and the Havens—they’re all that we have left in the United States. You can’t expect us to walk away from that.”

Boyd makes a low, dismissive noise, and I glance at him.

He was a low ranking aide at the UK embassy in the years before ERI-Milan broke. He was friends with Mother—one my father loathed.

“We aren’t Americans. Some of us never have been.”

“But,” Sylvia says, her voice soft but stilling the room. “We are humans. And we have never limited the precept to only the East. That would be as bad as what they did—worse, because they at least did not know we were being left here. To abandon them would be knowingly violating the precept.”

Boyd’s lips tighten. “You would have us aid them?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, finally, “We’ll die here. If we stay, we will. Maybe not in our lifetime, or even Siah’s. But the generation after—the resources will fail and we will die. And they will, if we don’t help them. I’m not willing to accept that. And the science—that is in my purview. I claimed them when they first entered the Holdout. I claim them still. If the Holdout is to offer help, militarily, is not my decision. Josiah will speak to that.”

“We can’t do much—and what we do will not weaken the Holdout’s defenses. But yes. We will help the West.”

“You’ll help us reclaim the East?” Omar says, and everyone can hear the shock in his voice.

Sylvia shakes her head. “You being in the East will solve nothing. The problem is the infected in the West. ERI-Milan is still mutating. What you need to do is stop the mutation, and stabilize your own infection—in the human populace, as opposed to the biters. If you’re immune, you can fight them.”

Nurrin inhales, a sharp noise. Almost painful. “You can immunize us?”

Sylvia shrugs. “ERI-Milan was born from Synthrix. Which was a neural inhibitor. The long-term use changed the users, and the widespread usage made what could have been a few isolated events a worldwide pandemic. But if Synthrix caused it, and the people who used Synthrix are dead or dying out—why is it still spreading? Siah was born almost a year after the change and never had a dose of Synthrix. But he is just as vulnerable to it as Keifer would have been. Why?”

She waits and then smiles. Says, “Because the bite spreads it. ERI-Milan mutated. The way the original pill worked was it infected you, targeting the emotional centers of the brain. It got in your blood. And when Emilie died, it mutated, trying to find emotional response. And when it couldn’t—it jumped. Through the bite.”

“So we need to immunize not against Synthrix, but the mutation that spreads in the bite.”

“There are too many mutations,” I argue. “That’s always been the problem—you can’t cure it because you can’t stabilize it.”

A smile turns her lips, and she glances at Josiah. “Siah, if you’d be so kind.”

He makes a face. “Object lessons are not my favorite thing.”

She shrugs. Muttering, he strips off his armor and tugs his shirt off.

At my side, Nurrin sucks in a breath.

He’s covered in scars. Some old and faded, some still pink and shiny. But every one is a familiar crescent shape.

Josiah has been bitten.

Chapter 10.

Blood Price

“I want him. Now.” Omar stares at me outside the council hall. “That was my price. You get to save the West and I get to kill the bastard that hurt her. You knew what I was asking for all along. I kept him alive for you in 1, and in the months since this shit started—but it’s over now. I want Kenny.”

Omar nods. “Fine. I’ll have him ready by nightfall. Sylvia will give us her stabilizer. And then we will take back the East.”

I jerk, and Nurrin laughs.

“Omar, you can’t. They won’t allow it,” she says.

He shrugs and I feel a chill as he stares at me blankly. “When have we ever let what people allow stop us from doing something, O’Malley? We make the rules. We always have. Because when it comes down to it, we’re the ones willing to kill to uphold them.”

Without waiting for me to respond, he stalks away and I shudder. He would kill the entire Holdout, to claim land that we don’t need. Not if Sylvia can deliver—and I know she can. Josiah is a testimony to that.

“Finn,” Nurrin whispers. “What—“

“Not our problem. We tell Josiah and Sylvia and we get out.”

She makes a startled noise, and I realize it might not be the best way to spring the end game on her. I turn, watching the emotions play across her face. She’s better, now, at keeping her thoughts to herself—but when we’re alone and she feels safe, she is still an open book.

“With Sylvia’s cure, we don’t need the Order. We don’t need their medicine. You’re free—we can go anywhere.”

“Maybe,” a familiar voice says and I swallow the curse. Twist to look at Josiah.

He has Da’s eyes. My eyes.

Sylvia’s smile, though.

He isn’t smiling now. Worry is shining from his familiar gaze.

“We have a problem.”

Chapter 11.

The Coming Dawn

The boat skips across the marshy swamp with a dull roar. Parker steers us, sitting next to what looks like a giant fan as we dart through the murky water and trees.

I can feel a thousand eyes on us, and suppress a shudder.

The infected might have killed the wildlife in the East, but even the zombie apocalypse was no match for the swamplands. Snakes and alligators slip through the water, eyeing us with disinterest.

“There—see them,” Josiah says sharply, and Parker banks slightly, the boat rocking as we skid sideways and slow.

It’s impossible to miss. The infected are a dark mass, moving too fast, too intent. Silent, streaming through the trees. They’re moving with purpose and unerring direction.

“How long?” Nurrin asks. “How long before they reach the Holdout?”

“They’ll hit the swamp first—it’ll slow them down, but won’t stop them. Twelve hours. Maybe more.”

“So how do we keep it secure?”

Josiah grins, a grim expression that reminds me of the man who captured Nurrin on the road, the one who is a threat—and who can protect a settlement the size of the Holdout. “It’s never been about keeping the Holdout secure.”

Chapter 12.

The Better Part of Valor

We watch the horde, tracking their progress for another hour before Josiah signals Parker to return to the Holdout. The boat is barely docked before he’s barking orders at the waiting soldiers. “Light up the alarms. They have four hours to evac. Get it started. And bring Omar’s army in.”

Josiah glances at me. “Your people will be better off evacuating.”

“The main force can, but my unit will stay and hold the city.” I say.

“My Firsts will as well.” Nurrin adds.

Josiah goes still, his wide eyes searching Nurrin. “You’re a First? Traveling with the Order? Are you insane?”

“Some think so,” she admits, shrugging.

A droning alarm shatters the morning air, echoing out across the city and the ocean beyond. “Where will they go?” I ask, looking at Josiah.

He grins. “When we came here, it was for a reason. It’s why we survived so long. The natural defenses—the ocean protects us on three sides. The swamp slows almost anyone headed toward us. And the islands give us a place to retreat.”

I give him a blank stare and he grins. “You’ll see. Right now, get your army moving.”

“Nurrin,” I say, twisting, and she meets me halfway, coming on tiptoes to kiss me quickly.

“I’ll go to Omar. You stay here.” She gives me a reassuring smile and jogs off.

“Park,” Josiah says. The other man nods, stalking after her, and Josiah grabs my shoulder and steers me deeper into the Holdout. “She’ll be fine. Park won’t let anything happen to her—and the horde is far enough away there is no real threat.”

There is. “She’s a First, and they are the Order,” I say, and he slows. Nods, watching me. I let out a slow breath. “What do we do first?”

“We empty the armory.”

Chapter 13.

Defenses

In the Haven, we had a very simple strategy for surviving: walls large enough to keep out the infected, use zom repellant to keep them away, and hide if the walls are breached, in bolt holes that were meant for short term use. Hale Halls in the more affluent homes.

Hiding has never been an effective strategy. That we lost so many Havens so quickly proved that.

Maybe that’s why the Holdout hasn’t fallen. Because they don’t hide. The alarms that would send the Havens into a panicked bolt for the closest Hatch are met with a kind of calm that makes my teeth clench. There is no panic. Just a quiet practical efficiency—as if this is just another day in the Holdout, and gathering food and weapons before evacuating is as normal as digging a garden in the backyard.

Fuck; for all I know, it is.

All I know for sure is that the soldiers are broken into two groups—one guiding the citizens toward the bridge and the others pouring into an armory.

“Every citizen between the ages of sixteen and forty is required to serve in our defense force,” Josiah says. “We couldn’t hold the city without help from everyone. Of course, there are some exceptions to that. But most able-bodied people serve. And then, my people are dedicated to it. That’s all we do.” He grins at me as we step into an armory that looks almost medieval. “And we’re very good at our job.”

For a moment, all I can do is stand and stare at the weird assortment of weapons.

And I realize something.

As fucked up as life is and can be in the Havens, we kept our shit together. It changed—everything changed—when the zombies rose. But we still had life. Commerce. Trade. There were still massive factories that pumped out the cutting edge in anti-infected killing machinery.

And for all of that, we are still losing the fucking war.

I pick up a small glass bottle, and shake it. A girl near me yelps and snatches it from me, tucking it into a pocket. “Are you fucking insane?” she snaps.

“Johnston,” Josiah says, a soft croon, and she flushes, muttering as she falls away.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s loaded with shrapnel. Coins mostly—so many fucking coins. Little mixture Sylvia cooked up—not sure what, but if you mix them, the damn thing makes a pretty little fire cloud.”

I frown at him. “Why? Fire doesn’t kill them.”

“No, but it slows them down. And I don’t need them dead—sometimes distracted will do the job. For a time, anyway.”

He nudges past me, pocketing a few of the fire bombs, and I follow him. On the back wall of the armory is an assortment of sharp metal objects, make shift knives.

“What you’ve built here—it’s incredible.”

Josiah nods. “It is. And we’re going to do everything we can to keep it safe. Now don’t be so fucking maudlin. We’ve things to kill.”

He whistles sharply, and even I know it’s an order; his people react instantly. “Come on. Our post will be the bridge.”

“Where are they going?” I ask.

“To the Keys.” I make a startled noise and Josiah laughs. “O’Malley. The people you see here? It’s a fraction. The Holdout isn’t this little city—it’s what we’ve built on the Keys. That’s what we’ll protect.”

Chapter 14.

Waiting

By noon, the city is empty, the last few people clearing the bridge. Nurrin is pacing behind me, and I can feel the tension in the Firsts and in my unit.

“I don’t understand why we don’t fall back. If we can.”

I twist and look at Kenny with disgust.

“Because I don’t want to live on the island the rest of my life. And because fuck you,” Josiah says, his voice even and pleasant. Parker, standing at his side, laughs, a noise that dies almost as soon as it’s born. Kenny flushes, and I can see the outrage brewing there, the argument forming before he says it.

“Don’t,” Nurrin says, lazily. “Borrowed time, Kenny. You should sit back and accept that you don’t mean anything anymore—you never did.”

“Fuck you, Ren,” he snaps. “I’m still the fucking president.”

She laughs. “Of what, you stupid little shit? We’re not in your West. And you’ll be lucky if you see tomorrow, much less 1.”

He swallows hard, pales, and shakes his head. “Omar won’t let you kill me. He swore—”

“Omar needs me far more than he’ll ever need you,” she answers, glancing past the sandbag barrier to the empty city. “I’m really not a fan of the whole quiet dead thing.”

Josiah shrugs. “Sorry. It’s not my favorite thing either, First. Sylvia has a theory that with the decrease in food source, they had to adapt to hunt successfully. And the virus is very adaptable.”

It makes sense.

An explosion to the north jerks my attention back to the empty city, and I glance at it, going tense.

“We should be holding the front lines,” Ethan says, taking a step toward the explosion.

“We do as we’re told. This isn’t our territory, and they know the best way to hold their city.”

“How do we know that?” Kenny snaps. “This could be a fucking death trap.”

“Why the fuck is he here?” Parker demands, finally. “We could put him with the others on the island and actually be able to focus.”

“Kenny stays with me.” I say, emotionlessly.

Parker makes a dismissive noise. “I don’t follow your orders, O’Malley. I follow his.”

I move instinctively. Because the infected are coming at us and the waiting is setting my nerves on edge, because everything feels perched on the edge of something—because Park has been questioning my authority since I got here and I’m fucking tired of it. My gun is at his head, a punch dagger shoved up under his chin.

“The fucking president stays with me. Until he’s dead.”

“If you want him dead, we can do that easily enough. No need to inflict him on us first,” Park answers evenly, as if a knife isn’t digging into his throat.

I smile, ice cold and fucking insane. “What’s the worst thing you can think of? So fucking bad you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemies?”

Parker’s eyes go wide, and I laugh, stepping back. “Kenny is mine—has been since he touched Nurrin. How and when he dies has been my choice. And I’ve chosen.”

“Back off, O’Malley,” Josiah says, his voice low and tense. I haven’t heard him sound like that before, and that, more than anything, is what backs me up.

I flash an unfriendly smile and say, “Kenny stays.”

Parker makes a furious noise, and Josiah says his name, sharply. They exchange an angry look, but Parker backs down, stalking away.

“You have to know I can’t allow you to kill him.”

I look at the man who, in another world, would have shared my life. Grown up down the hall from me. Vied for Da’s attention and stolen hugs from Mother, and gotten into shit in high school—a brother. It stings a little, that we will never have that. That the infection took that from us, along with so much else.

“If Parker was kidnapped. Abducted, tortured. Raped. Watched his brother die, and was deliberately infected. If you found him in a cage, beaten and starving. So fucking feral that you almost didn’t recognize him—if you could see every fucking bruise every time you closed your eyes, the fucking shape of another man’s hand on his skin. If that happened to him, what the fuck would you do to the ones responsible?” I ask, my voice very soft.

Fury flares in Josiah’s eyes, and he bares his teeth, a feral expression. I nod, relief making me dizzy. “Exactly.”

He stalks away and I ignore the feel of her eyes on me as I return to watching the city.

The waiting is driving me insane. A part of me wants to fire up my bike and go find the fight. But the better part of wisdom says to follow the plan Josiah has laid out.

“How did you know Park was important to him—that they were together?”

I glance at her.

She’s wearing a tight-fitting shirt, a corset of fitted metal that is made for practicality more than the unexpected sexy way it cups and cradles her curves. A weapons belt hangs low on her hips, and steel-toed boots wrap around her legs, all the way to her knees before they give way to leather pants.

She’s gorgeous and so fucking deadly.

And mine.

“How could you not?” I ask. “He looks at Park the way I look at you.”

Her eyes go wide, and for a moment, I think she’ll respond. That everything between us will finally be acknowledged.

We hear the gunfire first.

Part 6 The Ruin of the World

*

We all of us deserve to choose. How we live and how we die.

Nurrin Sanders~

**

What is the only thing that matters?

Finn O’Malley~

Chapter 1.

The Lie of Hope

Hope is what fucks us up. It’s why we keep going, every day, despite everything that says we should give up. The infected scream at our door, and twenty years into an apocalypse that will never end, we still cling to our illusions of hope.

Standing here, on a bridge between the world I’ve known and the one Josiah has built and killed to protect, I stare at the boy who changed my life. Ripped me from the false security I’d bought, shoved me into danger, and taught me to be strong enough to survive.

He’s got a tiny smile on his lips and a rare raw vulnerability in his eyes, and it hits me hard.

Hope isn’t what kills us. And it’s stupid, so fucking stupid to trust anyone.

But it’s who we are. We can’t fight it. We never could. Hope is what drove Emilie Milan’s parents to medicate her, what drove every person to swallow Synthrix. What pushed Sylvia Cragen to create it. It pushed my brother every time he made a stupid decision that kept me alive.

It’s driving me today.

And it has always driven Finn O’Malley.

Chapter 2.

Battle for the Holdout

The vanguard is smaller than the force we left behind. As they hit the bridge, vaulting over the sandbag barrier, I catch Park doing a head count, his eyes bleak as he ticks off who didn’t make it back.

“Report,” Josiah snaps.

“The horde was thinned by the swamp. Maybe an eighth didn't make it through. We took out more with the firebombs and hand-to-hand combat. Some made it through the traps. They're following us. We lost ten.”

“Twelve,” Parker corrects.

The soldier pales, and swallows hard, a sick look coming over his face. “Twelve. But the damage to Holdout was insignificant. We’ll hold.”

“Good. Get across the bridge and take your positions,” Josiah orders, and the soldier snaps off a salute before he follows the rest of his unit across the bridge.

“We're going to hold the bridge alone?” Finn asks, a hopeful grin on his face. Of course he would want to do something insane and risky.

Josiah gives him a fierce grin and the infected burst out of the city, slamming into the wall of spiked poles, scrambling at it. It takes an effort to not flinch back from the silent desperation in them, but I manage, and line up my bow.

“Wait,” Park murmurs, and Josiah whistles. There's a hissing whirl, and a small glass ball goes flying.

Fire erupts when it lands and the infected screams as shrapnel explodes from the firebomb. Five more land in quick succession and Park nods, his bow swinging up and arrows flying. Putting them down as fast as the bombers distract them. Some ignite, consumed by the fire as they go down.

For a heartbeat, I think we're winning this fucking thing. We're holding the line, the infected on the far side of the pike wall, and I let out a giddy laugh as my arrows find their marks, killing as fast as I can.

And then the line breaks.

It happens with a startling suddenness, the zombies crashing through their dead and the wood, and one screams, breaking the silence as they pour forward, through the bottleneck of the broken wall.

“Fall back!” Josiah screams, and I stare, shocked. This isn't how it was supposed to go. This isn't how it's supposed to end. Not trapped like a fucking rat, not a stupid little Haven girl waiting to die on an island.

“Fall back, Nurrin,” Josiah screams again, but it's distant, and I make a broken noise that I will hate myself for later. The infected are streaming forward, and I realize, too late that they're too close. Too—something grabs me roughly, throwing me back, and I scream as I feel the zom resistant material of my shirt jerk and rip, torn by broken fingers clawing for my skin. Too fucking close.

“Get her the fuck out of here,” Ethan yells, and I feel familiar arms as I roll to my feet, wrapping around me as the stench of the infected hit me. Too close, too close. Ethan is in danger, and panic spikes through me.

Ethan is standing where I was, and I scream. He fires into the face of the infected closest to him and twists, finding my gaze. “GO!” he snarls, and without giving me a chance to argue or fight him, Finn heaves me up and runs.

“No!” I scream, “Stop! Put me down, you bastard!”

Finn doesn't hesitate, ignores my frantic blows on his back, and I watch Park hesitate.

He moves almost in slow motion as he twists at the hips and the world has stopped moving. Everything is so fucking clear and impossibly slow.

The infects are on Ethan, and I see the blood spraying as he swings that long knife I gave him a few days after I was bitten. He was the only one besides Finn who refused to leave me. Who visited me and reminded me when everything seemed so fucking bleak that I was still human.

The blood is spraying. Black, tarrish blood that reminds me of when Collin died. And bright red—the blood that I know comes from my friend. “Ethan!” I scream, and Finn's grip on me tightens as I thrash in his arms.

He turns, and I see him smile, wild and wide and so fucking heartbreaking.

A gun fires, and his body jerks, a hole forming in the middle of his forehead. He starts to fold, but the dead are holding him up, tearing him apart even as he's gone. Park is running again, and I know that I should be grateful. No one deserves to die like that.

Not the First that I saved from the Order, saved from this very kind of death.

Tears are blurring my eyes and I'm aware that I'm still screaming, a hoarse wordless noise that sounds like the dead, still fighting Finn as he carries me to safety. I should stop, but I can't.

Ethan is dead. And it's my fault.

Chapter 3.

Falling Apart

“If I put you down, will you calm down?”

“If you don’t put me down, I will shoot you,” I say. Finn makes a dismissive noise, but he lowers me to my feet and I scramble a few steps away, and throw up.

All I can see is Ethan as the zombies tore into him, that fucking bullet ripping into him.

I’m falling apart and I don’t have time for it. But the rest of them give me the time I need to drag myself back together, circling me and conferring while I shiver on my knees over a rank puddle of vomit. “We need to get across,” Josiah says.

“And then what?”

“We hold. That’s what we do, O’Malley. We don’t need to defeat the dead to survive.”

There’s a moment of silence and I scrub my face, wiping away my tears as I straighten. Finn is standing near me, and he shifts, giving me a searching look. Wordlessly demanding. Silently supportive. I nod, and shove my hair back. “So we retreat. How? The bridge is down.”

“We downed it,” Park says, and I flinch. It might have been mercy—fuck, I know it was mercy, but he killed my friend and that’s a big fucking hurdle to get past. “The rope bridges. Now.”

Already, we can hear the pounding feet behind us. Two thin rope passages hang between us and the far side of the bridge, maybe ten yards away. Josiah’s people are already on the other side, and Finn shoves me, gently. “Go.”

“Finn,” I say, terrified suddenly.

A rare unguarded smile twists his lips, and he leans down, kissing me quickly. “Right behind you, Ren. Go.”

I go.

Chapter 4.

Finn’s Justice

I’m halfway across the bridge when I hear the scream, and everything in me wants to turn around to see why, but I force myself across before whipping around.

“Finn,” I breathe, stunned.

Kenny is lying in the middle of the bridge as Josiah and Park retreat with the last few soldiers. Finn stands over him, watching the infected.

His hands have been chopped off and he’s unconscious, lying in a pool of his own blood as Finn watches the dead approaching.

“Finn,” I scream and he nods. Kicks Kenny, hard. He mutters something, and then he bolts across the bridge, and my stomach twists, painfully, as the bridge bounces and sways under his weight. As soon as he’s clear, one of Josiah’s soldiers cuts the rope ties and the bridge falls away. An infect plunges into the ocean with it. I’m barely aware of it—my gaze is on Kenny as the zombies tear into him, a wet ripping sound that makes me smile.

“What the fuck?” one of the soldiers breathes. “What the hell was that?”

Finn gives him an arrogant smile. “Justice.”

Josiah stares at his brother for a long moment before releasing a breath. “Ok. Everyone to their stations. Let’s dig in.”

“What happens now?”

“We pick off what we can, and we wait.” Josiah says. “They’ll go dormant and we’ll clear out the Holdout. But until then, we’re safe.”

I swallow my first response. That the retreat and fallback strategy might just be brilliant. Look to Finn. “You know there’s going to be hell to pay for killing him.”

He shrugs. “They’ll get over it. I’ll kill Omar and give them something to really be pissed about.”

Josiah laughs, a startled noise, and I glance at him. He believes Finn—well, of course he does. They’re brothers. And he just watched Finn feed a president to the horde.

Chapter 5.

The Blessed Order

“We can’t just stay here forever!”

It’s the same argument they've been repeating for two weeks. I rub my head. After two weeks of listening to the Holdout's council argue with the Black Priest and Red Priestess, I'm ready to cross the fucking rope bridge myself, just to get a few minutes of peace.

“We aren't proposing that,” Boyd interjects.

“You'd just have us hide until the infected wander away, distracted.” Omar demands, his words dripping sarcasm.

“I’d have you remember that the horde followed you to our city. We wouldn’t be hiding if not for you. I'd remind you that the Holdout has stood since Atlanta fell. We’ve never fallen to the infected and we won’t now. You’ll do as you’re fucking told, because you don't have any fucking options,” Boyd says.

Marie makes a low noise in her throat and the politician leans back.

After two weeks of siege, everyone’s tempers are riding a sharp edge. I’m only here because Finn doesn't trust Omar to tell us the truth about these meetings. Both he and Josiah were called to the bridge to assess the status of the dead, and I’m here, babysitting the Order.

“We appreciate your hospitality in allowing us to shelter with you,” I say carefully. “But what the Priest is trying to say is that while we wait here, the West is unprotected and falling.”

“We can't help your people if we die trying to reach them,” Marie points out.

“But there are ways to clear the dead. We all know that. Josiah admitted it. So why aren't we employing them? Why are the boats docked, and the soldiers waiting with their wives and children, instead of reclaiming the Holdout?”

“Are you questioning our strategy, ma'am?”

I grit my teeth.

“I don't give a fuck about your strategy,” I say honestly. “But he does. And you won't contain him much longer. Omar has a loyal army at his back, and you are trapped here with it.”

I flick a meaningful look at Sylvia and her lips purse in silent consideration. Boyd makes a dismissive noise, and I shrug.

Turn away and leave, flanked by Park. He's quiet, not pushing me—something he hasn't done since that afternoon on the bridge.

“Thank you,” I say, abruptly. He glances at me, eyebrows raised, and I offer him a weak smile. “It was mercy. One I couldn't have offered, even if I wanted to. And I did. He deserved better than that. No one deserved that.”

“Kenny did.”

I laugh, and it twists in my throat, turning into a sob. “Kenny was a fucking monster.”

He's quiet for a long moment, and then: “Ethan cared about you, Nurrin. What he did—that was his choice. Because he knew the Firsts needed you. Finn needed you. You're the linchpin, and he knew that.” I go still, staring at him, and he smiles, sad. “Why do the important ones never realize it? He lives for you. And he keeps the peace between your people and ours. He is the reason Sylvia will help the West. And if you had died on that bridge, he would have too. Finn won't exist long or well in this world without you.”

I stare at him and then I laugh, a sharp, startled noise. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

He grins. “Maybe. But I’m with Josiah. I speak with some experience.”

As I trail him back to my tent, I have to wonder if he’s right.

We meet Finn and Josiah coming back, and I see him before he sees me. I watch the way he moves, a tense prowl. I see the way it changes when he sees me, loosens and becomes almost a lope as his face relaxes.

What is the only thing that matters?

I let out the breath that’s stuck in my throat, and shove all those thoughts and feelings down.

I have never been more aware of the virus in my blood than in this moment.

Chapter 6.

The Plague-Bringer's Bargain

Sylvia Cragen could look immaculate in any situation. She's sitting on a log in front of a fire pit, her graying hair twisted into a knot on her head. I bite my lip and glance at the women following me. “Just. Let me lead. Trust me.”

Black eyes narrow, but they both nod, and I take a deep breath.

Gray eyes watch me as I approach the fire pit and sit down across from her.

A guard is standing behind her, and wears a double helix on his left shoulder. I learned quickly that only a handful wore that mark, and they belonged, mind and soul, to the scientist and Josiah. Every soldier did, but they were true believers. They swallowed her precept and drank the fucking Kool-Aid. They would die for her.

I am okay with that. Right now, I need the true believers.

"What can I do for you, Nurrin?"

“You have a problem,” I say, sitting down.

She's quiet, watching me, and I motion at the Red Priestess. “You've met Lori.”

“Ma'am,” Lori says and I’m startled—surprised that the Priestess can manage to sound so subservient.

“And this is Holly. A Black Priestess.”

“You belong to Omar,” Sylvia says. “All the black robes belong to Omar. And I'm not particularly fond of the man. So why are you bringing me two robed priestesses?”

“Because of the first precept,” I say, and Sylvia stills, a watchful stillness I recognize.

Finn does the same damn thing. That must be where he learned it, when he was just a baby.

“Omar doesn't care about the West. He'll sacrifice every Haven in the West if it means he can reclaim the East.”

“He knows our help is dependent on him returning to the West,” she says evenly.

“And he doesn’t care. You only have to look at him to know that, Sylvia.”

She pauses, and studies me. “What would you have me do, Nurrin?”

“Follow your precept. Let these ladies help you do that.”

“You want to remove the Black Priest,” she says plainly, and I wince. Her gaze swings to Holly. “Why?”

“Because he isn't what I thought. He would kill millions for an obsession. There is nothing worth that.”

Vaguely, I wonder how much that has cost her.

“Omar won’t just kill the Havens. He’ll kill the Holdout. And that won't be through neglect; that will be an outright act of war. You can stop that,” Lori says, softly.

“And I will replace him with another mad robe. Is that what you’re proposing? What Finn wants?”

“Finn isn’t going back to the West,” I say, softly.

Sylvia goes very still, her eyes wide and searching. I meet them, without flinching. The virus is screaming, running through my blood and I know what this means. I lick my lips.

“The Order, the Havens, the whole fucking thing. That’s for you to figure out. Or don't. Kill them and walk away. Stay here and slowly die. It’s your choice. But Finn has lived his entire life trying to save others. And I won’t let him die that way. He’ll live and die in the way he chooses.”

“You'll take my son from me,” Sylvia whispers. I stare at her, and she makes a low noise. A laugh. “You will need help, then. And after he is safe, we will take control of your Order, ladies.”

Chapter 7.

The Way We Choose

The boat is big. Bigger than I expected.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Josiah asks, stepping up next to me. I shrug. It might not be. It might be the worst idea I’ve ever had. But I do know that our path is set. Park steps on behind us, and drops a bag of weapons and rattling supplies.

It had been Sylvia's idea—the thing she insisted on. If one son left, they would both go.

Finn is not the only one who deserves better than this constant cycle of protecting and loss and killing.

And, because I was at the mercy of an old woman who terrified me, because agreeing was the only way she would also help the West—because I owe Park for his mercy killing on the bridge—I agreed.

I liked Parker and Josiah.

What surprised me was that they agreed. Even knowing it meant deserting their Holdout, they agreed.

“Ready?” Finn says, stepping up behind me. I take a deep breath and Josiah flashes that lazy smile that looks so odd on Finn’s face. Nods once and Ahab throws off the mooring. The boat drifts away from the dock and Park brings the engine to life, steering us toward deeper water.

“Nurrin, weapons,” Finn says.

Because on a routine scouting mission, checking the Holdout for remaining infected, we would need weapons. And that's what he thinks this is.

“Finn,” I say, and he goes still.

Damn him and his ability to read my tone. He's always been too fucking good at being able to read me.

“What’s the only thing that matters?” I ask. His eyes go stormy and he reaches for me. I step back. “What?”

“You. Keeping you safe,” he answers impatiently. “What are we doing?”

“Keeping you safe,” I whisper.

“No,” he snarls. “Nurrin, turn this fucking boat around. You need the medicine the Order has. Do it. Josiah!”

He's frantic, pushing past me, and I'm shocked because I've never seen him like this. Not even when Collin died and he found Sylvia was alive.

“Finn,” I call, grabbing him. Pulling him around to face me. The boat is moving faster now, into open water.

Parker is listening to me, then.

“This is what I want. A new place. New start. None of the bullshit of the Havens and your past, none of it. Just us.”

“Nurrin, you will die,” he says, fierce and broken and I want, so badly, to tell him about the stabilizer. The medicine that Sylvia made, her serum with a twist to keep the virus from growing. It’s too early to share that—and I can’t face his disappointment if it doesn’t work.

It has to work.

“We have the Order’s supply of medicine. And this is the only way to be free of them. Of Omar. I don’t want to live like that—I want this. I want--.” I shake my head, stumbling over the words.

He shudders as I slip my arms around him and press against him. “What do you want?” he demands, his voice a rough rasp as the boat picks up speed.

I smile up at him. There is so much that isn’t certain—every fucking thing. So much we’re leaving behind, and no idea of where we will go.

There is only this. Him. Me. Living—and dying—the way we choose.

“You,” I admit, finally, the truth I’ve been ignoring for so long, even when it is painfully obvious. “I want you.”

He kisses me, and somewhere behind us, Siah whistles and laughs, and it’s everything. The world might fall apart, and we might die tomorrow, and wherever we go, we’ll find the infected. That is our world. It has been my entire life.

But with his lips on mine, and our lives wrapped around each other, I don’t even give a fuck. Because for now, this is the only thing that matters.

Author Note:

Dear reader. Thank you. Thank you so much for following me and Finn and Nurrin on this crazy ride through a zombie infested world. It has been a pleasure to tell their story. And it ends here. On a boat, with their futures before them, to choose their next adventure.

I would love to go back to this world in the future. But Nurrin and Finn’s story is over. It has been an honor to share it with you.

Thank you, to everyone who has loved them and supported me as I shared it with you. I’ve loved every minute.

N~

THE SCION LEGACY

I was just a college student, trying to stay ahead of my student loans. I knew the rules, and I followed them.

I thought I knew how the world worked—humans lived their petty little lives in the safety of the sun. We fucked and fought and—when the sun sank—we scurried behind our walls and lived in fear. That is when the monsters came out to play.

And even in the safety of the sun, we knew who ruled us.

The Houses. And their Scions.

Everyone knows the great Houses and their Scions—they are feared and loved and hated and envied. They are the gods who walk the shadows and rule all of our lives. They are salvation and death.

And somehow, I am one of them.

Join the Legacy...

Fall 2015

About the Author:

Nazarea Andrews is an avid reader and tends to write the stories she wants to read. She loves chocolate and coffee almost as much as she loves books, but not quite as much as she loves her kids. She lives in south Georgia with her husband, daughters, and overgrown dog.

You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Booktropolous.

Read More from Nazarea:

The World Without a Future | The Horde Without End

Edge of the Falls | Chasing the Wind (2015)

This Love | Beautiful Broken | Sweet Ruin

Girl Lost | Forever Found

Gentle Chains | Violent Freedom (Fall 2015)

Illicit Desire (writing as Taylor Michaels)

Bonus Material

Dinner in the Haven

The Road Less Traveled

The Girl Who Fought the East

The First Kiss—Finn’s POV

Reclaiming the West

A Sneak Peek at The Blood Scion

Dinner in the Haven

The Haven is quiet, almost deserted. I’ve wandered through enough deserted cities in the East that the empty streets are both disturbing and familiar.

The Walls are quiet, though. Only the comforting rattle of weapons from Walkers and the low hum of conversation and laughter.

None of them want to be there. Not today.

I shove open the door to the Hive, and I’m almost immediately confronted with a girl, her hair hanging long and in her eyes. She looks vaguely familiar—she’s been flirting, in a shy and awkward sort of way, for months.

Shy and awkward isn’t my thing. I nod at her and slip past, away from her hopeful eyes and pouty lips.

I can’t indulge in hope. It’s too damn risky and stupid—but I won’t kill it in a girl who is nothing more than a child.

Nurrin’s voice is loud, carrying all the way down the hall when I step out of the stairwell. She’s shrill and furious, and I grin, shifting the bag I’m carrying. I knew she’d be pissed, no matter what Collin promised.

“Don’t you think you could talk to me before you did this shit, Collin?” she demands, and whatever response he has is lost in the walls.

I wipe the amusement from my face and rap on their door before I push it open.

Nurrin and Collin are facing off over the table. His eyes flick to me, and he grins a little, just enough to draw a low growl from Nurrin before she turns away.

The apartment is hot and smells like food, the warm, garlic heavy scent of comfort and home.

And Nurrin is wearing a pair of jeans that curve around her ass like a dream, her hair sticking to her shoulders in the steam of the room. Collin shifts, and I drag my gaze away from the kissable length of her neck, and give him a cocky smirk.

“Behave,” he mutters.

“I brought a turkey,” I say, ignoring him and holding up the frozen bird.

Nurrin goes still at the cutting board, and twists to stare at me. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving, until they land on the turkey dangling from my hand.

It’s ugly as fuck, all raw skin and dangly bits, and I’m pretty sure it’ll taste like shit when we’re done cooking it, but for just a heartbeat, her eyes go bright with childlike excitement, and she gives a tiny bounce on the tip of her toes, and—

She has never looked at me with this kind of excitement.

I make a noise, and her gaze snaps to mine. A flush crawls up her neck and she clears her throat, her eyes dimming and going cool.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Ren,” Collin sighs.

I toss it on the table and brush past her, letting myself brush against her ass. She leaps away from me with a tiny hiss, and I hide my smirk in the fridge, grabbing a beer.

“I don’t know. I’ve never cooked this shit. But Collin said you thought it’d be nice, and since he’s being good enough to feed me, I thought I’d bring one by.”

Her gaze darts to mine, and she licks her lips. She is, annoyingly, adorable.

I didn’t fucking want adorable.

But I want her.

“So why a turkey?”

“It’s what they did, right? Before the change—this was what they did for Thanksgiving.”

I eye her. I should be pissed that she’s clinging to the ideas of a world before the change. We’re so past that it’s almost funny, except it’s not—it’s just depressing as fuck.

“I know it’s not the same,” she says with a tiny shrug. “But. I dunno. I wanted to try, for Collin.”

Fuck. I let out a tiny sigh, and nod. Because Collin is what we’ve always agreed on. “It’s a good thought, Nurrin.”

I turn to find him and she barks out a laugh. “Where the hell are you going?”

She’s standing over the slowly thawing turkey sitting on her table, and I grin. “This is all you, Nurrin. I brought shit.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with it?” she demands.

I shrug. “Figure shit out,” I say.

Her curses follow me out of the tiny kitchen as I go find Collin and I swallow my laughter. One day, I’m going to make that girl scream and it won’t be because I pissed her off.

The Road Less Travelled

Leaving is the only option. It took less than three days for that to become expressly clear to Collin Sanders—three days of staring at the canyon walls, eating shitty MREs and listening to Dustin’s breathing slowly change into that wicked rasp.

Collin knew that sound. He’d lived twenty years with ERI-Milan, and four as a Walker. He knew what a contact infection could do to a body, what damage it would inflict.

Dustin would change—not as quickly as if he had been bitten, but staying here and waiting for Finn to return with Ren was no longer an option.

Once he decided that, on that third morning, as the sun rose and zombies screamed on the cliff top, he felt a weight shift off of him. Sitting still wasn’t natural to Collin, and now he has a plan. Forward momentum, and all that shit.

He didn’t give much consideration to the fact that Finn would be furious. If any thought crossed Collin’s mind as he packed their gear and water and food, it was that Nurrin would be terrified to return and find him missing.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he will be forced to kill his sister’s lover.
She would be pissed, if he did. But in the zombie apocalypse, these things did have a way of happening.

Dustin stumbles out of bed that third morning looking a little grey. “You’re packing shit,” he rasps.

“We’re going to find you medicine. You’ll die if we stay,” Collin says bluntly. He’s at the rough wood table, carving something into the wood.

“What about Ren?” Dustin forces out.

Collin hesitates, the only indication that he has doubts about this. His lips thin, and he finishes carving up the table. Dustin sees the design—four lines slashed in half, an i slashed diagonally. Dustin stumbles toward the table, and Collin can feel the heat rolling off of him. “Can you get to the cliff top?” Collin asks, seriously.

Dustin shrugs. “I don’t have much of a choice do I?”

Collin stares at him, and nods sharply. “Exactly.”

The decision is easy to make. Executing it, however, is another thing entirely. Dustin looks ready to pass out, so he drops on the beat up couch. Collin ignores him, moving quietly around the Hole as he gathers the rest of what they need. Finally he pauses, and looks at Dustin.

“I’m going to secure a tether on the surface. Clear it out a bit—get ready to go.”

Dustin blinks at him, pain covering his face, and Collin has a moment to consider that killing him now might be the safest recourse.

He isn’t an infect—not yet, and as long as there is that slim chance of hope, he will hold onto it. Finn always laughed at Collin’s stubborn belief in hope and small chances. Hope will fuck you up, every time.

A grim smile turns Collin’s lips. He creeps along the edge of the cliff—he can hear zombies on the top, screaming and darting around. His right hand clenches down on the mess of bloody bandages as he shifts his gun slightly.

Collin is not as driven by violence as Finn. In their partnership, he is the one calm and cool. The voice of reason when O’Malley would wash the walls in blood. But after seeing his home fall to the horde, and his sister disappear with Finn, there is very little that will calm his temper now aside from blood.

A zombie screams again, a blood curdling wail, and Collin shifts, coming off the cliff path to crouch near the edge. It takes him three seconds to kill the first infect, and four for the others to realize he’s there. They shriek, bolting toward him, and he tosses the blood soaked bandages wide. It distracts two, and they plummet from the cliff, snapping at the bandages with mindless hunger.

Collin feels a small thrill of satisfaction as he empties his clip into the four infects charging him, putting them down with brutal efficiency, until he is all that remains.

That and Finn’s battered motorcycle.

Travel seemed like a brilliant idea, until it was actually happening. Then, Collin is forced to wonder what the hell he had been thinking. Taking a man with a broken ankle and a live infection into the Wide Open is asking for trouble.

Finn will kick his ass for this. The thought makes Collin grin behind his helmet. Bastard will have to come back with Ren before he can get angry.

He hit another bump, and Dustin groans, the sharp jolt shaking his leg. Collin curses softly and guns the bike forward, trying to avoid the worst potholes and dead bodies.

“We have to stop,” Dustin shouts in his ear.

Collin bites down on his sharp response—they’d been traveling for less than two hours, and couldn’t afford to stop already.

“I’m going to be sick, man,” Dustin yells.

Collin swerved to a stop, and Dustin falls off the bike, stumbling away and retching.  It’s disgusting. Collin watches—he’s moving fast, too quickly for a sick man. Blood is caked on his palm, from the night before, and the cuts on his arm.

“Dustin,” Collin snaps sharply. “Tell me when you met Ren.”

Confusion clouds the younger man’s eyes. “When y’all moved to Hellspawn—just before the harvest fest.”

Some of the tension eases out of Collin. He’s still in the safe zone—his speech is clear. He might be showing the other two signs of infection—speed and unusual bleeding—but they were still in the safe zone.

“We have to move faster than this.” Collin murmurs.

But they can’t.

Dustin stares at him, surprisingly lucid. “You should leave me behind.”

Collin gives him a disgusted look, and Dustin laughs. “You look just like O’Malley, when you do that.”

“We’ll camp here tonight.” Collin says.

That it’s suicidal to make camp in the Wide Open, without some kind of shelter, is obvious, but neither address it. Collin moves to the road, and begins stacking the dead. They’ll form a barrier. He works silently for almost an hour, and then motions for Dustin to situate himself on one curve of the wall of dead.

It’s macabre, but it will serve its purpose.

“Say something,” Collin says sharply. Dustin blinks at him.

“Finn will protect her.”

It’s not what Collin expects, and he goes very still, fear slipping across his face. Finally, he nods. “He would die for her. More importantly, he will kill for her.”

Dustin smiles and closes his eyes. Collin sits on his side of the wall, for a long time, staring at the wide expanse of open sky. Wherever the infects are, they’re left alone for the night, and near dawn, Collin falls into a fitful sleep.

He wakes when a shotgun nudges against his ribs, and he blinks sleep and confusion out of his eyes. A silver truck idles a few feet away.

A Black robed Priest smiles down at Collin over the barrel of his gun.

The Girl Who Faugh The East

The air stinks. That's what they didn't tell us, when we were training. Because even having lived through the end of the world, when you're tucked behind haven Walls, it's easy to forget. Forget the smell of ash and decay and blood. Forget the way your boots stick to the ground in mud puddles that aren't mud, their blood mixed with bits of decayed flesh, all that's left of an infects meal. And the sounds--in a Haven, of your lucky, it gets quiet. There are nights when it's deep enough, dark enough that you can forget the zombies, even for a few minutes, and just listen to the quiet. The sound of the air moving through your lungs and the beat of your heart the loudest thing in the universe.

It doesn't last--it never lasts. But there, you could bury your head and hide behind those bleach stained walls and you could pretend.

That's what we've been doing. All we've been doing since the fucking fiasco in Atlanta. We've pretended that life can go on.

Even with our dead screaming at the walls, life can go on.

But this isn't the Haven. It isn't safe, behind a wall, where the zom repellant is so thick you can taste it with every breath and when you bite into am apple.

Here, there is only death and the screaming and the stench of decay and ash.

And as I lean my head against the cement pillar holding up a blocked underpass, I have to appreciate the unflinching honesty of that.

A soft body lands next to me, a gun pushing unforgivingly into my side. I push back with my shoulder and I’m rewarded with a soft huff of laughter.

Maybe that’s why we follow her into the bowels of hell. Because when it’s over—even on days that are epically shitty like today—she lands next to you with a smile and blood on her hands, and extends a MRE that makes you want to puke, but that you don’t turn down, because field work means spotty rations.

I take it and she looks at me sidelong through blonde hair. “You ok?”

I shrug, and poke at the spaghetti and meatballs. Take a couple bites before I put it down. “Why the hell do they send this shit? It looks like guts and every apocalypse baby knows it. You’d think your father’s people could get their act together and sends something decent for us to eat.”

A frown twitches across her face, and she shrugs. “Because my father’s people are busy trying to save the world.”

I give her a grim smile, and motion at the city. The one we’ve been sent to clear and reclaim.

Fucking idiots want a staging ground, moving troops in and out of the East.

“Funny, I thought that was our job.”

Kelsey tilts her head, a tiny birdlike gesture that earned her the nickname with her Secret Service detail, so many years ago. She finally nods. “It is, Finn.”

Chapter 2.

I wake up cold. The night watch let the fire burn down. Which means they’re either eaten, or asleep, and either way—we’re exposed. I roll out of my sleeping bag and to my feet, snatching up my gun. Movement across the camp stops me, and I watch as the giant black man prowls through the early morning gloom. Even in the dimness and the distance, I can see anger written on his face.

The night watch are asleep by the perimeter, and I allow myself one brief moment of pity for them before he kicks them awake. “What the fuck are you doing?” Omar growls.

“Sir.” One of them is scrambling to his feet, pale and terrified. “We did perimeter sweeps. The area is Clean.”

“Nothing is ever fucking clean, you dumb shit. We’re in a war zone.”

“We’re in rural Virginia.” That’s from the other solider as he rolls to sit, and his face is creased with skepticism. Riggins. I haven’t liked that man since Kelsey and I joined the company, six months ago. He’s cocky and disrespectful and he watches Kelsey more than I like to think about.

“And right now, rural Virginia is a war zone, solider. Might not be the sandbox you’re used to, but it’s still a war zone.”

“Then why the fuck do we have those kids with us?”

His gaze flicks to me and I tense. I knew some of the unit resented us. Some have welcomed Kelsey with open arms, because of who she is. They tolerate me because I’m a fixture in her life, an arm’s length away.

I can remember life before Kelsey was my center. But it’s like life before the change—distant and not quite real. It belongs to someone else. Since the change—Emilie sitting up and eating that morgue attendant, and the horde clashing with the Army, the bombings—she’s been my gravity. She keeps me grounded and focused. As long as she’s here, I know what I’m here for.

That’s important, in a world that doesn’t make much fucking sense.

“We’re here because I’m the best sharp shooter in 1, and because your commander decided we were an asset to his team.”

Her voice is cool, almost cold. She grew up in the White House—being trotted out for the campaign trail and the cameras, and she learned early how to hide her emotions. This cold reserve she perfected when we were evacuated from Washington DC.

“Don’t need another sharpshooter.” Riggins spits. Kelsey glances at him, and then to Omar. The lines of authority are usually clear and clean—Omar outranks the president’s daughter and she follows his orders.

But that’s not always true, and though she hasn’t flaunted her position before, I can see it in her eyes, the slight stiffening of her spine.

She could be standing anywhere—a ballroom in the White House, the Oval Office, our tiny hideaway in 1—she’s fucking regal and untouchable. “Exile him.”

Chapter 3

The company is quiet—a tension has settled over the other men that I understand. We can’t sustain like this, and I know it.

“You going to talk to her?” Omar says. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. The black man is still, almost a year after meeting him, a little larger than life. But he picked up on the dynamics pretty quick—Kelsey keeps me moving. I keep Kelsey in line. The rest of the world can fuck itself, for all I care.

“She’s shutting me out right now, Omar,” I say, leaning back against a tree. We’ve moved steadily all day, and cleared a small town before making our camp for the night. The rest of the company is inside a barn that proved clean and sound. I can smell the fire they have crackling.

Infects don’t seem to care much about scent, unless it’s blood and meat. If we can keep our flames contained, we’ll manage the night warm and safe.

“She never shuts you out,” Omar protests.

I laugh, because that’s so far from the truth it’s the only real option. Laugh or curse.

“She shuts me out on a regular basis. She’s just generally good about keeping our dirty laundry in our closet.” I say. Omar grunts softly, and I stare into the gathering darkness, watching for any sign of infect activity.

“She can’t exile everyone who questions her place here.” Omar says softly.

“Then control your men. I’ll do my best to keep her leashed, but keep your men from pissing her off. Because her safety matters more than your guys—cross her and you won’t need to exile them. I’ll kill them just to make her happy.”

I say the words coolly, not bothering to look at Omar. I can feel the stillness that takes him, something I’ve watched him do before when he’s threatened. I wait until he releases his breath, and then I head back inside.

Kelsey is sanding in the doorway of the barn, and she stares at me for a long moment. I can see the questions in her eyes, and I know she overheard me. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet, so I just brush past her and climb the ladder to the hayloft she claimed as her own when we found the barn.

Mine, too. Because neither of us have been able to sleep in the field if the other was far away.

“What was that?” She asks, when she’s standing in the loft.

I shrug. Toe off my boots and pull her down to rest against me. Some of the tightness in my chest eases. “It was me explaining to the general where things stand. It’s a good thing for him to know.”

“You can’t always put me before the company. We’re not here to stay alive. We’re here to make a difference.”

I laugh. “You make a difference. I’ve only ever been here to make sure you stay alive. That’s what I do.”

Chapter 4

Kelsey is screaming. I can hear her, even if I can’t feel the thrashing limbs. I mutter a curse, and roll over, catching a slap to the face before I pin her down. Below us, in the open area of the barn, the rest of the company is coming awake, cursing and asking questions. I tune them out, and focus on Kelsey. She’s gone limp beneath me, her eyes wide and blank.

She’s stopped screaming.

I know what this is. I’ve held her through this before, shaken her awake. I ease my weight off her and she shudders, a full body shudder before she blinks. Some of the tension eases in me, for a heartbeat, before her eyes fly wide and she stares at me, terrified.

“What happened?”

“Nightmare. You were screaming.”

“And you let every infect in a mile radius know we’re here.” A shout comes from below.

Her eyes are wide and scared as she stares past me, into nothing.

Sometimes, Kelsey is ice—regal and untouchable and damn near painful to look at.

Other times, she’s this—a terrified girl locked in the memories none of us should have lived through.

After Buchman dropped his dirty bombs on Atlanta, the country went insane. It wasn’t just the infected—although that eventually stopped the wave of fury—it was every red-blooded American who couldn’t understand bombing our own cities to hell and back. The White House spent three weeks under siege before the infected took all attention away from Andrew’s mistake and back to the problem at hand.

I remember those weeks. We both do. And the convoy they put us on, the way it raced through the night filled with screams, the way our motorcade guard was picked off, stopped by the horde, until it was only us and a single Secret Service agent on a bike, hoping the dead would let us pass.

We survived. The whole world survived. That’s the thing. We did. And because we did, because we were safely tucked away behind the walls of that SuperMax turned safe haven, we were supposed to count our blessings. Forget that the dead were there and enjoy what we could of the life that we scraped out.

But it’s not that easy. Surviving isn’t easy, and it’s never pretty. It’s what you do because you have no choice—because lying down and waiting to die isn’t a choice.

I can hear the infected screaming, racing through the night to find us, and I hear the unit killing the fire, and preparing to defend us. I should rouse her—she’s the best sharpshooter we have. Should go and help the people whose lives we just endangered.

But in the end, I do what I will always choose to do. I ignore all the rest of the shit going on around me, and pull her into my lap, not moving, not talking.

Just holding her until the tension eases from her body and the world around us falls apart.

The First Kiss

Sleeping in the same bed as Nurrin is a special brand of torture. I twitch every time she moves, and fucking hell, she moves a lot. I've never known a girl to be so mobile in bed.

A grin quirks my lips, and I roll onto my back. So that might not be *strictly* true. I glance at her in the gray pre-dawn light. Desire tugs at me, and I shove it aside. There isn't time for that, not right now, and even if there was there are two really good reasons why seducing Ren is a bad idea: Collin would never forgive me. And she'd sooner stab me than kiss me.

I remember the way her breathing had changed in the car, the way her little body had shuddered in my lap, and I want to curse. I stare at her, at the tiny hairs curling at her temple, her fierce expression softened by sleep.

This how she looked the first time I saw her--mouth just slightly parted, her eyes twitching under her lids, little hands fisted near her cheek. Full lips pouty and begging to be kissed.

I could. I could lean down, right now, and kiss her and she'd wake up. I had seduced enough women to know she wanted me--it would take a little extra time, and she might draw blood, but I could seduce her, fuck her out of my system

The thought of it, sucking that full lower lip into my mouth, of her delectable body laid bare before me, of slipping my hand under those little shorts and toying with her until she came, screaming my name--and she'd scream--was enough to make me hard.

I glance at her again, seeing the slight tension in her body--she's awake, and waiting for me to say something. Cursing myself for an idiot, I roll from the bed and stalk into the bathroom.

I piss quickly and then slip out of the tiny bedroom. I need to clear my head, clear the smell of her from my head. And check for zombies.

I squint into the morning, sunlight glancing off the water in a brilliant--blinding--display.

The beauty is shattered by the shambling bastards milling on the dock and around the car. One shifts, looking up, and I curse. I grab the two gallon jug I keep on the boat, and splash it across the deck, the stench of the zom repellant flooding my nose. It brings with it too many memories, but I've had ten years of practice at ignoring them. I toss the jug aside and drench the stairs as I retreat.

She's sitting up in the bed, but I ignore her--had a shit ton of practice at that, too--and dump the last bit of repellant on the towel that is still damp from her shower. I shove it under the door and sit back on my heels, letting the reality wash over me.

Fucking hell, I'm trapped here with her.

I’m hiding in the fucking bathroom.

Cursing, I tug my jeans on and stalk out of the bathroom.

She's still sitting on the bed in her tiny shorts and tank top, and my eyes drop to her chest. Good lord, I'm going to hell. Collin is going to feed me to a horde.

"How long will they stay?"

Her voice floats around me, fucking with my head, and I want to snarl. Instead I meet her eyes, seeing the tension in hers and shrug. "Could be gone already, or they could stay out there another four hours. They could keep us here all day."

She makes a face, but I see panic in her eyes. The thought of being here all day with me is not appealing. "We have to get to 18," she snaps, and my temper sparks, rising to meet it.

That she's in pain doesn't matter. I'm pissed and that's not fair either.

But there's a helluva lot about this world that isn't fair.

"Yes, Nurrin, I’m aware of your thoughts on the matter,” I say dryly. "Give me your arm."

It startles me a little when she does without arguing. She's in more pain than she's saying.

The wound is turning. My stomach bottoms out when I see it, the taste in my mouth sour with fear. It shouldn't be this bad, not yet. Not with the--my eyes dart to hers. "Did you take the neural inhibitors?" I demand and because I'm staring at her, I catch her minute flinch. "Motherfuck, Ren." I snap, dropping her arm and grabbing my bag.

The pills fall into my hand, and it's through sheer force of will that I keep my hand from shaking as I shove them at her. "Take them."

"No way in hell," she says, her eyes furious and I lose it.

Without thinking, I tackle her to the bed, catching her hands and pinning her to the bed. She gasps, her body tight and furious under me, and I struggle to remember what I'm doing. She whimpers, and I can’t keep the groan contained. Her eyes darken, a little, but I don’t know if it’s fear or desire. Until she brings her knee up. I swallow a laugh--no need to piss her off any more--and catch her leg in mine, settling over her.

“Take them,” I demand, and my voice is husky, full of desire.

“Fuck you,” she snarls, and my body tightens. I’m on top of her, her smell all around me, a place I have imagined being a thousand time.

I’m painfully hard, and I grind myself against her, inhaling sharply at the heat of her body. “That’s one way to spend the day, Ren.” I murmur.

Her eyes—oh, god. Her eyes. Disgust and curiosity. One of them will end in a world of heartache. I could push her, just a little, and she’d give herself to me. I can feel how hot she is—she doesn’t want to be turned on, doesn’t want to want me, but she does. She licks her lip, and I have to force myself not to grind against her again.

I want to taste her, every inch of her. I want to watch her take me into her mouth, want to watch her come apart under me, want to see that sleepy look in her eyes she gets when she’s had sex.

And I know she has. I’m not an idiot.

I force myself to focus, and murmur, “Take your medicine like a good girl, and I’ll let you up.”

I can see the fear in her eyes, the revulsion. “They don’t work. And I don’t want to be a veg.”

“These work. No side effects.”

She shakes her head frantically, her eyes distant. “Ren,” I snap, and she focuses on me. “I’ve taken them. They work. You’ll be fine.”

She stares at me, and I pray to the god that abandoned us that I’m telling the truth. She opens her mouth and I drop them on her tongue. And the, because there is no way in hell I can not kiss her, I do.

Her lips are soft and surprised under mine, and I feel her swallow. I should pull away, but I open my mouth, nibbling at her lip until she softens, relaxes. I suck on her lip, dying a little at the little gasp of pleasure she makes, the way she arches under me when I lick into her mouth, and wish that it was somewhere else, her hands in my hair, and—

I roll away, force myself to let her go before I take her somewhere she isn’t ready for.

She stares at me, anger mounting and I know what’s coming.

It’s better—she hates me. I keep her alive. Everyone I love dies, so better that she hates me.

But as I say the words that will make her think she is nothing, the words that will fuel her hatred—fuck, I really will burn in hell for this.

And for that kiss? It might just be worth it.

Claiming the West

A World Without End Novella

Nazarea Andrews

Part 1.

The Sacrifice

*

It is a curious and disturbing thing, to be the one who destroyed the world.

Sylvia Cragen-

**

There is still hope. There will always be hope.

Priestess Holly-

***

It began with blood. It will end with blood. And faith.

The Red Priestess-

Chapter 1.

The Nature of Change

I grew up an orphan of the apocalypse. I mean, we all did. Some people still make sad noises when they hear my story. Like it’s something to pity me for. I've never understood that. Not when we all lost everything.

And in the end, I came out ahead. But. I suppose I should start at the beginning.

The third year of infection is the year we lost Massachusetts. It took the countryside first, which was unusual. Most of the time, the infection hit metropolitan areas first, with a vicious speed that brought it to its knees before anyone could throw up protections.

That's how we lost New York, and Atlanta and Pittsburg. It's how we lost so much. But in Boston--we came out on the offensive and put down the infection as fast as it rose. We pushed it out of the inner city and hunkered there, happy to wait out end of the world. We were stubborn and smart and more than willing to shoot first and ask questions never.

The infected couldn't take the city, so they turned their hunger to the suburbs and surrounding area. And it fell. In a bloodbath.

The problem was that we were isolated. And eventually, even the survivors die.

I was too young to remember that. I heard about it, later, but then I was just a baby. One of the few rescued from the fallen city. We were tucked into a vault in one of the banks, with one young girl who took care of us, kept us alive.

That’s where Omar rescued me. I wouldn’t realize it, not then. Not for another three years, when I was living in the orphanage.

He rescued me and gave me a life, put me in robes and gave me a purpose, gave me his trust and gave me a cause.

And I bought into his cult. Not the Order. But the bone deep fervor that Omar couldn’t be wrong. I didn’t know that, then. I didn’t really know it until I stood on the edge of world with Sylvia and the Red Priestess.

I loved him, with the devotion of a child for her father.

I never imagined I would be the one to kill him.

Chapter 2.

Base Camp

If I ever have to shower in a plastic cubicle again, I might stab someone.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the provisions from the Holdout, but I’ve lived my whole life behind Walls, with the modern convinces like running water, heat and shelter that wasn’t a tent. And while I happily followed Omar across the continent to chase an dream of reclaiming the East, I would never be happy in a base camp.

But, I’m clean. I’m safe. Sylvia has upheld her bargain with Finn’s First—safe passage and her continued aid.

But Omar is impatient. The survivors of the Holdout are happy to wait out the horde on the other side of the bridge, sending raiding parties occasionally to pick off the dead.

A throat clears on the other side of the plastic cubicle and I twist the water off. “What?” I snap.

“Sylvia wants to see you,” a deep voice rumbles.

I shiver and dry myself quickly, dressing in my fatigues. The solider waiting outside is one of Josiah’s, a sharp eyed, brown skinned young man who is devoted to Sylvia. He bought completely into the plague bringer’s beliefs—the way I bought into Omar’s.

It made him entirely too understandable and I keep my face deliberately blank. Buckle my weapons belt on and rake a hand through my hair. “Lead on.”

A smirk twitches Trent’s lips, but he merely flanks me as we move through the camp to where Sylvia is camped.

I mutter a curse when I see the woman sitting next to Sylvia next to a small, low burning fire.

“Fuck me,” I mutter.

Trent laughs softly, and I give him an annoyed glare before I step away from him.

Sylvia shifts as I approach, and her eyes, so similar to Finn’s—find me, probing and assessing.

“Ma’am,” I say, lowering myself to the stool she keeps by her fire. I flick a look at Lori, kneeling on the dirt.

Of all the Order to follow Omar into the East, Lori is the only one that still wears her robes. Even her pet priest, a Grey robed bastard almost as large as Omar, has set his robes aside for the comfort and utility of combat gear.

But the High Priestess appears every day in her scarlet robes, looking like she’s just presided over a Third Day ritual, and I have to wonder—how the actual fuck does she manage that? I used to wear robes, back in 1.

They aren’t the easiest thing in the world to keep clean.

“Why are we powwowing?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow and studying the two women that I’ve somehow become allies with.

“Ahab says the Holdout is clear. We’ll be returning to the mainland soon.”

I straighten out of my slouch. We’ve been waiting for this. All of the grand plans have had to wait while we were trapped here, but now.

“So we’re leaving,” I say softly.

“Not yet,” Lori interjects delicately. I glance at her.

“We have a problem,” Sylvia says. “You’re Omar. He is still set on reclaiming the East. And that is not what needs our attention. The East is dormant, but overrun.”

And the west is overrun and don’t have the added benefit of the dormant infected. My stomach twists. The Havens are falling, and Omar would happily let that continue, if it meant winning a war we ceded a long time ago.

“He’s never going to change that opinion, Dr. Cragen. He’s convinced it’s winnable.”

“And he’s the commander—which is why it’s time to remove him.”

Chapter 3.

The Traitor’s Burden

I let out the breath I’m holding.

Part of me wants to ask if there is another way—any other way. But I bite down on the question and nod. “How long?” I ask, straightening. Lori is watching me, a satisfied smirk on her lips, and I ignore her. Focus on Sylvia.

The brutal truth is I hate the Red Priestess. She’s a psychotic bitch at best, and a fucking zealot at worse, and I don’t trust zealots.

You can’t ever trust someone doing something because of blind belief. Omar taught me that, when I was fourteen and took the acolytes robes.

Irony never amused me much.

“We’ll leave the island within the week. It takes a little time for Ahab to get us all home, and I’m one of the last to be moved—he’s protective, and Josiah—“ she stops abruptly.

I look away, giving her just a beat of privacy.

It would be so much easier to dislike Sylvia if she weren’t so damn human. I hate when the monsters get up and show their softer side—it’s why I like zombies. With them it was always good to shoot first and ask questions later. You could never go wrong with severing a spinal column, because a zombie always wanted to eat you. There were no fucked up, half explained motivations and tragic backstory. There was just hunger and infection and we all knew how to deal with that.

“Ok. I’ll stay close to him until I have the opportunity. And then I’ll kill him.”

“Do you think the army will follow you?” Lori asks quietly, her voice sharply demanding. I glance at the priestess and let a slow smile spread. She frowns, a precise pretty thing.

Lori would be incredibly beautiful and even fuckable, if she weren’t so fucking insane.

“The army respects experience.”

“The army respects Omar. Who made me his second in command,” I correct, shifting on my stool. “Let me worry about the army. You worry about what the fuck you’re going to tell 1 when we arrive at the head of an army short a president and a general.”

I stand. “Is that all?”

Sylvia glances at me. “Can you do this, child?”

I think she means it as a comfort. Reaching out, being human.

It just comes off as overbearing and annoying. I ignore her question and turn away from the fire.

Omar is in headquarters—Command, I correct myself silently. Finn called it headquarters, but Omar hated that term. I don’t actually know why—probably because Finn liked it. My priest isn’t very logical when it comes to O’Malley.

Then again, most people weren’t. Look at the First who followed Omar into the East to keep him alive, and threw it all away to give Finn a chance at life without the shackles of his past.

I almost envy her. Nurrin was born a First, and that is a fucked up burden to shoulder in our world. But she carried it like a badge of honor instead of a curse, and wore Finn’s love like an old, comfortable coat.

I wish I could live with that kind of confidence in my place in the world. I think I will always feel like a little girl that Omar pulled from an orphanage, giddy with belonging and terrified it will vanish.

“Where were you?” He says as I step into the tent.

“Shower. I went down to the shore, to see if there was any word from O’Malley.”

Omar grunts, and I slide past him, leaning against the table and pulling my long knife out. His head comes up, black eyes watching me as I sharpen the blade with long, even strokes. “Finn is gone. Long gone, and likely dead. That damn doctor knows it too.”

“Finn was never here to help you take the East,” I point out.

Most people would never survive standing up to Omar. He’s a legend—the youngest general and a war hero. He led the first mission into the remains of Atlanta, cleared the CDC on the heels of the apocalypse—and he taught the First Daughter.

Sometimes, I think that assignment was punishment. He did something, and was given babysitting duty. Except that when it came to Kelsey—and Finn—there was nothing simple or safe about the job.

And he would have encouraged them.

I don’t know what happened, when Kelsey died. What caused that mission to go so wrong. Only two people do—and if there is anything Finn and Omar have ever agreed on, it’s that Kelsey is out of bounds.

“He’s an idiot. And blinded by that bitch.” Omar says, grumpy.

“Ren?” I ask, an eyebrow rising. “We knew that. We knew it when he showed up with her at the Stronghold, and we had it confirmed in 1. Using her was always a risk—and a stupid move. I told you that it wouldn’t control him.”

His gaze snaps to mine, “It got him here, didn’t it?”

I snort and shove off the table, dropping the sharpening stone. “And what the fuck did that achieve? We crossed a fucking continent to find out that we’re fighting a losing battle and let the best fighter we have slip away in the middle of the damn night. This whole thing is a joke, and you know it.”

“You think we should go back.”

Hope flares in my gut. If I can talk him down—convince him that this whole thing is madness—“Would that be so bad?” I ask, softly. “We have a good thing in the West.”

“It’s falling, Holly,” he snaps. “What would you have us do? Hide in the Stronghold and hope the infected don’t come looking for dinner?”

“Cragen can change that. You know she can.”

Omar stares blankly at the map and I take a deep breath. “You brought me here because you trust me. Because you value my opinion. Of all your orphan priests. You made me your second. Listen to me.”

“Are you afraid?” he asks, ignoring my plea.

I laugh, and it startles him, his eyes flashing to me. “Fuck, yes. I’m terrified. You want to do the impossible. And you want to leave the people we’re supposed to be looking out for alone while you do. What the fuck is there to not be scared of?”

I push off the table. “We’re going back to the mainland. The Captain gave the order earlier today. Resznick’s got his people moving.”

“We’ll give the army a day—two at most—to recoup after we reach the mainland. And then we’ll take the Holdout and we’ll go. There’s no use waiting here.” He says.

And like a good little solider, I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He catches my wrist as I shift to leave, pulling me to his side for a one armed hug. “This is the only way. We can’t protect the West by staying there. We need a place to fall back.”

I blink back the shudder. Because he believes that. So completely that it’s almost terrifying.

Omar told me once that there was nothing worse than a zealot. It’s why he hates Lori so much—because the Blood Priestess believes, with every idiotic fiber of her being, that the High Priest had been right. Blessed with divine insight and not fucking high on meth.

She was a true believer. And those are dangerous because there is no reasoning. He always loathed the ones who fell for that. Said it was weak.

Omar hated weakness.

I find it ironic—in the worst way possible—that now he’s one of them.

“Holly?” He says and I blink out of my thoughts, and look at him.

He’s waiting patiently for me to agree. To fall in line.

Good little solider.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling slightly. “You’re right. Sorry.”

He nod once and turns back to his map. “Tell the unit captains, and have them all ready to move at my command.”

I step away from him and snap off a salute.

So easy. Too easy. I swallow my nerves and leave the tent.

Because whatever else it is, this has to look natural.

Chapter 4.

Picking Up the Pieces

I step off the boat and my unit falls in around me, the clatter of their weapons and boots covering my soft exhale.

Ahab still catches it, and he gives me a wrinkled smile. “Not fond of the water are you?”

I make a face. “I’m not too proud to admit it—I’m a Haven baby and we’re landlocked. If I never see this much water again, it’ll be too soon.”

The old sailor laughs, and I slide a glance at him as my unit moves out. I don’t understand him, or his place in the Holdout. It’s one of the many mysteries that surrounds this tiny bastion of life.

“What will you do, when the doctor goes with us to the West?” I ask, curious despite myself. I haven’t allowed myself to think of what will happen after—I shove that thought down, and stare at Ahab.

“What she needs me to do,” he says simply.

The sentiment reminds me, too much, of O’Malley.

I shiver and give him a tight smile, before darting after my unit. Camp has already been set up by the grunts, and I’m given a wide berth while I walk. The soldiers respect me, but they don’t go out of their way to get to know me. I’m Omar’s pet priestess and right hand. His aide de camp. But I’m never going to be invited to share a beer over a fire with any of them as we reminisce over a firefight.

Sometimes, that bothers me. Being Omar’s confidant comes with a heavy, isolating price tag.

Most of the time I don’t care—because he’s all I’ve ever wanted or needed.

“Stay alert,” I order when we reach our camp, and my unit stills, watching me. “We’ll be rotating sentry duty, because the General doesn’t trust the Holdout to hold the line.”

“Will we be here long?” one, Andrews, asks.

I glance at her and shrug. “For as long as the High Priest thinks we should be. Get some rest, people, and watch the fucking natives.”

Without waiting for her to argue, or my unit to respond, I stalk into my tent.

It’s depressingly barren.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m doing. What kind of life am I building? One lived out of a bag, chasing a man who would never be what I wanted.

“Shit. Get out of your head, Hols.” I mutter, and a laugh jerks my attention from the empty tent to the young man poking his head through.

Trent flashes me a quick grin. “You talking to yourself?”

“Maybe,” I shrug. “What do you need?”

“The Council has requested your attendance at a private session.”

My eyebrows raise, despite myself, and I nod. Without really considering why, I strap on my weapons and pull a single robe from where it’s tucked away in my trunk I shake it out and slide into it, ignoring the wrinkles and musty scent that clings to it.

Black robes. I never wore my black robes—Omar wanted me in Red when he planted me in 1, the sect he didn’t trust with Lori’s influence, too close to the president. But the only sect I had ever given my loyalty too. I take a deep breath, and follow Trent out of the tent, through the camp and past my unit, until we’re approaching the Holdout. It’s bustling with activity, the citizens bringing their city back to life. Not all of them. A large part of the population stayed on the island, where they farmed and fished and so many lived.

It was the closest thing I’d ever seen to a clean zone.

The townhall where we had gathered before the horde descended has been ripped apart, and I shiver as Trent leads me past it. I’m not used to seeing just how devastating a mass of zombies could be. What I know with pure practical knowledge is different when I see it so readily.

“How often do you face a horde like that one?” I ask, my voice quiet.

Trent glances at me. “Once every few years. We haven’t, not since Josiah took control of the border patrol. He’s been good at keeping our casualties down, and the damage from the infected at a minimum.”

I pause. “He’s an apocalypse baby, isn’t he?”

Trent’s eyebrows raise and I shrug. “Someone born after the change.”

The confusion clears and he nod. “Yes. About six months after—Sylvia was pregnant when Atlanta fell.”

“How did he become the leader of the military?”

“The last one died—and Josiah was always a bit of a prodigy. He killed his first biter when he was eight. He was being groomed to be the second in command. When Emery was killed, he stepped in.”

I nod, and the question that’s been bugging me is on the tip of my tongue. But I bite it down. Because maybe he doesn’t know—and maybe it’s too soon to be pointing out that Josiah is gone.

And he isn’t coming back.

The Council has gathered in a small courtyard outside William Boyd’s little two bedroom cottage. It’s a far cry from the stately estate where the Buchman’s live in 1.

I go still, startled.

“He’s dead,” I murmur, and Trent jerks around, his gaze sharp and searching.

The last president of the United States, before the world changed, and all of his family. With Kenneth dead at Finn’s hands—they’re all dead.

I blink, realizing that Trent is staring at me, his eyes probing and I force a smile. “Nothing. No one.” I say, and he scowls.

I grin, a surprising bounce to my step as I push past him and into the courtyard.

Boyd and Maria Peterson are convening in one corner. Bishop Flannery is sitting on a bench, his gaze sharp and calm, while Sylvia sits alone on a single stool.

Ahab stands at her shoulder. Only the base commander is missing, a seat they won’t fill today.

Omar is stalking back and forth, and his gaze flicks to me, irritation lighting his black gaze. I lift a silent eyebrow and he shakes his head. Looks away.

“When can we leave?”  He asks, abruptly, twisting to stare at the Council.

There’s a breath of hesitation. “That will depend greatly on you and what you intend on doing." Boyd says, shifting to stare at Omar.

I feel the tension settle over my priest, and breath a prayer that he'll get through this without threatening to kill someone.

"Our mission hasn't changed," Omar says.

There's a beat of silence and then Ahab laughs. "You're a determined fuck, aren't you?"

Omar smiles, the savage baring of his teeth that terrifies so many and secured his position in the Stronghold. Boyd makes a quiet huff.

“We cannot sanction you killing your way across the Eastern seaboard.”

I swallow my instinctive response. Here’s the thing.

We’re all fucking insane. The way I figure, we have to be—we’re living in a world where a meth addict can become a cultural icon, and a genius scientist can be reviled, where the dead walking is normal.

Insanity is like air, in our world. It’s part of what keeps us alive.

“You do realize we’re killing zombies. Not humans.”

“The first law doesn’t make an exception for the infected,” Maria says softly.

Even though it’s been obvious, that’s been unstated. Until now. Omar stares at them, and I risk a glance at him. Fascinated revulsion crawls across his face, and I bite my lip.

“Will you try to stop us?” I ask, cutting him off before he can insult them even more. He throws me a dirty look—he knows exactly what I’m doing.

Omar has always been exceptionally good at reading me.

“No,” The Bishop says. “What you do beyond our borders is your business. Unless it affects us and we don’t know that it will.” He glances at Boyd who stays still and quiet.

Omar glances at me. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. I want my quiet apartment in 1 and the monthly reports, and his proud smile every few months. I want the political maneuvering behind the safety of my walls, and the other acolytes who jockeyed for power I already surpassed.

I want anything but this.

“We’ll leave in two days,” he says and that’s it. The clock is ticking.

I barely hear the end of the meeting, and I move only because muscle memory demands I fall in beside him as he leaves the council. I can feel Sylvia watching me, and I can feel his impatience, and all the rage he’s fighting down.

I wish like hell Finn had finished the job before he vanished with that damn First.

Chapter 4.

Night Moves

I’m sitting on his cot, cleaning my gun. Omar is stretched out at my back, his legs hot as they press against the thin tank top I’m wearing.

“What do you think we’ll find, in the East?” I ask.

Omar yawns and shifts, so I fall back a little and he props me up. He’s been napping and for the first time since we arrived at the Holdout, he looks rested.

Omar has never rested well without someone he trusts to guard his back. It’s why I spend so much time in his tents. I know some of the army—a lot of the army—thinks I’m fucking him. But it’s never been that. I love him. He’s my best friend, and the father I never had. But I’ve never once wanted anything romantic from him. And Omar has a mission. It doesn’t have room for sex with girls who makes better tools than they do bedmates.

I wait, quiet and patient, for an answer, but he doesn’t offer one. Instead he nudges me until I huff and stand. “Come on,” he say, rising. He’s fully dressed—always, and armed. The man has serious trust issues, but I suppose twenty years of the end of the world will do that to you.

“Where?” I ask, snapping my gun back together. I’m a few steps behind, shoving my gun in the holster on my thigh and checking my knives when I catch him.

He’s headed for the perimeter.

Of course he is.

Omar hates O’Malley. But he’s eerily similar to the man. Sometimes I think he hates him merely because he sees himself in the younger man. And no one wants to see themselves staring out of the eyes of a killer.

I follow him out of the camp, away from the Holdout. He’s looking for a fight, and no one disturbs us as we walk, until all I can hear is the sound of bugs and birds, and the steady brush of my feet.

But no screaming.

“Omar,” I say and he pauses.

Turns to look at the sky. “Do you remember where you called home, before all of this?” he asks.

I flinch. “The only home I’ve ever known is 1. You know that.”

He glances at me, and I see the apology in his eyes. Relax a little. “I was from the Bronx.” I inhale sharply.

New York and the five boroughs fell. Fast and viciously. I learned about it with all the other Haven kids—Atlanta fell to the dirty bombs Washington ordered.

New York fell to the infection, and the streets ran with blood before the army declared it a loss and pulled out. There were over twenty million people in New York on Third Day, and when it fell two weeks later, three quarters of them died. Five million walked out.

And that was considered a win.

“How,” I whisper, and choke, biting down on my question.

“Dumb luck. We were locked in the apartment. When it became apparent the city would fall, Ma got some shit together for me and Tashaun. We were almost to the FEMA camps when we hit a horde. I lost her there—and I ran. Pretty sure I was gonna die, and not a damn thing I could do about it except be mad as fuck that these dead shits were taking my city. I ran into an army convoy and I guess they took pity on me. At that point, I’d fought my way out of a few tight spots. I was covered in blood and I was in the hot zone and they would have been within their rights to shoot me on the spot. Instead, they got me on a transport out, and one of the last things I remembered hearing them say is that we’d lost the city. They were pulling out.”

“You want to reclaim it. New York.”

“I want what belongs to us,” he says. I shift, coming up behind him, and stills. “This isn’t their world, Holly. It’s ours. Mine and yours,”

He barely makes a noise when I slide my knife up and though his ribs. Just the way he taught me. A tiny grunt and his body, so large and reassuring, goes tense under my hand. He shudders when I twist the blade, and sags to his knees.

He never asks why. Not when I pull him against me and hold him, the blood pouring out against my legs, his breath rattling under my silent sobs, tears dripping on his face. Not when I pull my knife around and press it against his throat. He stares at the sky, still and serene, and his eyes glint.

And then they dull.

And I scream, muffling it against my hands. His body a weight holding me down, tethering me to the moment and the brutal reality.

I killed him. The man who saved my life, a million times and ways.

Omar is dead and I am covered in his blood.

Part 2.

The Blood Priestess

Chapter 1.

The Black Priest Is Dead

Omar was dead. It was whispered in every tent and knot of soldiers, until the whispers were a wave, tidal and devastating.

The Black Priest was dead, and his pet was stepping into his vacant shoes, not even waiting to clean the blood from her nails before she countermanded his orders.

It would kill her. It would kill us all.

But before it did, I would dance in the blood of the Firsts.

Chapter 2.

The New High Priestess

The train is moving, quiet shaking around me. It’s been one week since Omar was killed. The army and Holdout moved fast—almost scary how quickly Holly brought the army to heel when word of Omar’s death hit.

Or maybe, given who and what they are—his army, made so largely of black robes and war veterans—it’s not surprising at all. For them—I suppose, for all of us—there is an inevitability of death. Zombies ensured that, and the danger of the job they had chosen.

We are all waiting to die.

But not today.

“High Priestess?”

I go still, listening to her move.

Abry is what I spend my life looking for. And I am damn good at finding those like her.

Pretty little girls bound to die for the salvation of all of us, and better—a willing sacrifice. I twist and stare at her. “What is it, Abry?”

She shudders, and I see the way her eyes go glassy, almost glazed. I see that look on her face so often, and I can’t decide if it’s drawn by fear or a hunger for what she knows is coming.

I can’t decide which I would rather it be.

Fear is an intoxicating thing, and I will gladly watch it in her until the day I slice up her perfect skin and feed her to a horde while my priests writhe behind their feast.

“The scientist wants you, Priestess,” she says softly, her eyes turned down.

In his corner, Beau shifts. Silent. Watchful.

I give a tiny nod and he comes alert, shifting to pull the door open. He precedes me through it, his entire body tight with tension, watching.

We follow Abry through the train in a formal procession, and I make a small smile, amused by it.

Formality and ritual is one of my best tools. And why I keep Beau safe. Omar never thought to keep a personal guard. He never needed an attack dog on a leash—but what he quickly forgot is that I didn’t either. I am the fucking High Blood Priestess. Violence is my lifeblood.

Sylvia is in the first cabin. Not terribly surprising, considering her people control the train and like to stay together. Trent stuffed his precious scientist in the cabin closest to the engine, and stationed his troops in the cabin after that. We wanted her, we would have to fight our way through two cabins full of the Holdout’s best fighters.

Not that we want her. Sylvia has a purpose, and I need her alive to win 1, and give me control of the Stronghold.

I draw to an abrupt halt when we enter the first cabin and I find Holly lounging at Sylvia’s table.

In black fucking robes.

“Ladies,” I purr, gliding past Abry. Beau keeps moving behind me until he flanks her and Holly’s gaze darts to him for just a moment before she refocuses on me. “What’s the occasion?”

Sylvia turns away from the computer she’s tapping away at, and pulls glasses off. Sits down next to me. “We’ll reach 1 soon. We need to discuss what exactly we’re trying to achieve while there.”

I cock my head, and blink, slowly. “Order and stability.”

Sylvia makes a dismissive noise. “That’s fine, and I’ve no doubt that you ladies will have no trouble instilling it, even with your leaders missing. But the Havens falling—that will need to be addressed, and quickly.”

I make a sigh. The damn hordes are being problematic. Not for the first time, I wish Sawyer had said something—anyfuckingthing—about the change of their behavior.

But he hadn’t.

Sometimes I think that the change is because we’re doing his work. Killing every Third Day, corralling the Firsts for the yearly sacrifices. We’re close to the end—we have to be. After twenty years, how many could possibly be left?

Sawyer said that spilling their blood would end our apocalypse. So it makes sense that the zombies would change, as we near the end.

I just don’t understand why the tides have swung to favor them. Why are they bringing more of us down with every passing day?

“Will you announce who you are?” I ask, keeping my doubts tucked away and focusing on the old woman who started all of this.

She gives me a bland smile, and I see Finn in her. How many times had I seen that look on his face, when I was dealing with him and when I watched him from a distance.

Finn O’Malley had been watched by the Order for years, since Omar became the Black High Priest. Whatever history was between them—and none of my people’s extensive searching had turned up that history—it was strong enough that even estranged, Omar reached from the Stronghold and put his people around Finn. It’s why we had never touched the First—Finn claimed her so thoroughly in 8 that attempting to snatch her would have been suicide or his murder, and no one was willing to challenge Omar over a pawn.

Funny. We all thought he was a pawn. Her too.

They fucking changed everything.

“No,” Holly drawls from where she’s lounging. “We’ll keep that tidbit to ourselves for a while. I think we should bring the Gray priests to 1. They’ll be able to validate what Sylvia says, after a few tests. And her people are walking talking evidence. So we ease them into it. But the first step will be to appoint a president and bring the Stronghold to heel. The Order will flounder without a strong hand.”

I smile, slowly. “And you think you are that strong hand.”

Beau shifts as Holly rises, pacing the length of the train car. She’s a pretty girl, if a little too hard for my personal taste—but I can see what about her attracted Omar. She’s lovely and unassuming, with a streak of ruthless practicality that makes her a perfect priestess, and loyalty in spades. I shake out the sleeves of my robes, and lean back, studying her. “Why did you kill him?”

She pales, and her hands twist together. I smile. “I know we had decided that he needed to die. I understand that you agreed to that. But I don’t understand how you could kill the man who saved your life and brought you into the Order. So tell me, why?”

“He was a zealot,” she says hoarsely. “And his belief that he was right was going to get more people killed. Nothing is worth that.” She smiles, a sick weak thing that sends a chill down my spine. “Something Omar taught me when I first took my vows to the Order. There is no place for zealots. They need to be put down like dogs. I always thought he was talking about everyone else—the idiots who believe that sacrificing the Firsts would end this fucking plague of the dead. People like you.”

Beau makes a low noise in his throat, and I go still.

She’s fucking armed, and she wants me dead. I can see it in her eyes, hot and hungry as she stares at me, and for the first time in years, I am afraid. Of this fucking child.

“But in the end, it wasn’t the religious zealots that were the real threat. It was him, and his insane belief that we could take the East and that it would fucking matter. I won’t claim a wasteland to satisfy the fucking pipe dream of an old man, and I sure as fuck won’t do it while the Havens fall and we hold the key to keeping them alive.”

There’s a beat of silence, and I wonder if she realizes—we are all zealots. We are all invested in a belief that defies logic and sense. And maybe that makes us dangerous and stupid. But maybe that’s all we’ve got.

I clear my throat, shoving that too dangerous thought down and smile coolly at the little priestess and Sylvia. “So how do you want to play this, ladies?”

Chapter 3.

A Sorrowful Homecoming

People like the normal. Even when their normal is really fucking horrible. For us—for America in the aftermath of the change, the norm was a government we had always had. A president.

A Buchman in the White House, even if that White House was in a converted prison in the mid-West.

1 was in mourning. The last Buchman was dead, and the last normal that predated the zombies was dead with him. Even if he was a shit president.

The presidential Cabinet was gathered in the empty white house that had sat still and empty since Kenny was snatched by Finn and Omar.

“How?” General Orwell asked, his voice the only thing breaking the thick silence in the room.

“O’Malley. You know there wasn’t much love lost between the president and O’Malley.”

“Finn was Kelsey’s best friend,” Sonny protests. “He would never have raised a hand against her brother.”

“Finn would kill anyone who stood between him and his First. Kelsey was dead. Nurrin wasn’t and he was utterly loyal to her. Kenny sold her to the Blood Priests,” Holly interjects, and their gaze swings to me. I smile, and shrug.

“He knew the risks of working with us.”

“The Order is given leave to operate within our borders because the sacrifice is offered freely. No one is killed against their will. If that’s change—“

“What?” I snap. “You’ll what? Our Black robes are half your standing army, and the people belong to the Order, not to a fucking outdated government who has ignored them to keep themselves fat and happy.”

They go still and stare at me, shock and outrage in their old gazes.

“The Blood Priestess might not have a lot of tack, but she has a good point,” Holly murmurs. “You all know me. You know I want what’s best for the Havens. It’s why I worked with you and Finn in the first place. It’s why I’m back. The Order fucked up in the past, and so did Kenny. But you need to realize that the only way we keep the Havens and our citizens whole is if we work together. You can’t afford to ignore the strength of the Order, and we can’t ignore the authority you have. We work together.”

That’s the sticking point. They don’t want to work together.

“How many have fallen since we went to the East?” Holly asks.

There’s a breath of silence. Then, “Three. 38, 15, and 12.”

“Fuck.” Holly breaths. “Any survivors?”

Silence is our answer and I feel my heart sink a little. How many thousands dead in those havens? How much stronger was the horde, with those dead to swell their numbers?

“We can’t stop them. We’ve tried. The horde—it’s like a force of nature. We can’t stop that.”

I glance at Holly, and she nods once. I shift. “We don’t need to stop them.”

Part 3

The Plague Bringer

Chapter 1.

The Dead that Haunt Us

Everyone thought the world changed when the dead rose and walked. That it was the end.

And it was, I suppose. I don’t know. The world is remarkably stubborn, and humanity has the tenacity of a cockroach—I think sometimes, that it would survive a nuclear holocaust.

Zombies, in the end wasn’t that bad. Dead wandering and haunting the living—it’s not that new a concept.

Some people reviled me. Most people, if I’m very honest. Even in the Holdout, where I was protected and respected, there were those who couldn’t understand why. I was the one who created Synthrix. I was the one who started the apocalypse.

But long before Emilie Milan died and rose, I was living with the walking dead.

Sometimes I wish my brother had died when we were still children. There was a few close calls, when the demons he lived with chased him too hard. I found him twice—and both times, he ended up in therapy and rehab, and he came back a shell, but he came back.

I fought so hard to keep him with me, keep him sane. My living dead.

And now, my sons.

Pain is supposed to get less sharp. But losing Keifer has never dulled. Not even for a moment.

Neither has the stabbing pain of Finn and Josiah leaving me. All the years of believing Finn was dead—I close my eyes, and a smile turns my lips.

The dead walking has been our normal for twenty years, but I’ve been living with the dead for a long time. My entire life. Is it any wonder that I am the one who ensured that the entire world would live in my nightmare?

Chapter 2.

A Strange Sort of Government

The thing about the Holdout is that it was tiny. Even with the thousands we harbored, we were small. Intimate and insular, and so incredibly backwards.

Because after twenty years, there was only that. Things break down. Civilization breaks down.

But this. 1. I stare at it, and keeping my face blank while we drive through the busy streets. Trent, sitting next to me is less circumspect. “Shit, Doc. Did you ever think this shit was still out there?”

I glance at him, and he’s grinning, a wide happy smile that makes me laugh, softly.

Let him enjoy it. The price of this will smack us both soon.  I’m just the only one to realize that.

The car bumps to a stop in front a small white house. A few soldiers are standing there, weapons held alertly in front of them. “Ma’am,” Trent murmurs, and I hide my smile.

He’s a good boy, but he’s still just that. Josiah was training him, but—my smile falls off and I smoother my sigh as I nod at him. “Let’s not keep the government waiting, Trent.”

He pushes the door open obediently, slipping out and adjusting his own rifle.

I know that move—the one that draws the soldiers attention to the obvious weapon. Focus on that, they might even miss the array of weapons he has hidden on him.

Josiah was training him, after all.

Holly steps out of the white house and the soldiers relax a little. The tiny priestess has surprised me, and that’s something I thought had ceased to happen years before.

“Are you very sure about this, ma’am?” she asks, and I can hear the tension in her voice. The worry.

“Do you know of another way to save them?” I ask calmly, stopping and staring at her.

Her features fall, and I nod once. There isn’t another way. The infected won’t stop coming, and even with the serum to stop the virus from mutating, I can’t turn off the nature of a zombie. They’ll feed, and if they can’t infect, the victims will die.

I shove that thought down, where it’s kept company by so many other thoughts I can’t be bothered with at the moment.

The government that rules the remains of the United States is nothing like the government that I saw. The one that #husband’s name# spent his life serving and protecting.

Tangled webs. That’s what took my little drug from my home and Keifer to the thing that would change the world. If I had stayed in my tiny hamlet and never gone to school, I wouldn’t have had the knowledge to save Keif. And it wouldn’t have dammed the whole world.

If I had stayed—

“Sylvia?” Holly asks, her voice pitched low. I’m standing in the hallway, too still and silent.

“Sorry,” I murmur, forcing myself into to motion.

The cabinet is made of four men. A grey haired general, a white toothed politician, and—

“What the hell?” he breathes, and I go still. Of course. Even here. A lifetime later, even at the end of the world, I will be confronted by my past. “Sylvia?”

There is a woman in the room, an older woman with a neat bun of hair at the back of her head, and she recoils, her entire body jerking away from me.

“Hello, Luke,” I murmur, and step into the room.

He stares for a long enough moment that I feel the first stirring of panic, and I bite on it, clenching my hands until my nails dig into my palms. “I survived. Obviously. It’s complicated.”

“The Priestess informed us,” he says, dazed, and my gaze darts to Holly. “But I didn’t believe her. It isn’t possible.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That I am standing here says that it is very possible.”

“Where is Finn?”

I twist to look at the woman, at her wide dark eyes and the subtle tremble in her hands. “Who are you?”

Her gaze goes flinty. “The woman who raised him, when you didn’t.”

I flinch, and Holly shifts. Her voice is sharp, “Claire!”

“Where the hell is he?” Claire demands, and I understand, suddenly and almost painfully.

Finn was loved. Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink, shoving them down. Why did I assume that he wouldn’t be? That the only one to grieve his leaving would be me? I shake my head, “Finn and Nurrin left the Holdout. Where they were going wasn’t clear—somewhere where they could both find a way to live without his past.”

Claire’s eyes go wide but she doesn’t say anything further, just sags back against her chair.

“What are you doing here?” the politician says. I eye him and he flushes. “Sonny Kamen. I was Kenny’s VP.”

“So you’re in charge, now that he’s gone. What are you doing to stop the horde? Your job is to protect the Havens. How do you plan on doing that?”

There is a beat of silence, and then Claire laughs. “You bastards should have listened to O’Malley when he was still hear to beat your stupidity down.”

“What he suggested is impossible. We can’t abandon the Havens. They’re the only protection we have.”

I laugh, a soft noise. “They aren’t any protection at all,” I say.

Silence sifts through the room, and I grit my teeth. “If the walls were actually a protection, you wouldn’t be losing havens. But you are. We’ve held the Holdout in the East with less than five deaths a year for the better part of twenty years. Even when you can hold your walls, what kind of casualty rate do you have?”

Silence greets me, and I nod once. “You can’t hide behind the Walls, gentlemen. Luke, correct me if I’m wrong, but you were never meant to.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sonny snaps.

Holly is staring at the former Chief of Staff. Once upon a time, in a different life, I sat across from him as my husband flanked me and we talked about life with the most powerful men in the world. Once upon a time, we thought we were untouchable—they thought it.

We were all wrong.

“Is that true?” Holly asks quietly.

There’s a breath of hesitation. “We planned on using them for a staging ground. We needed to evac the East and we needed to give them a safe place to go. We didn’t have a choice—if we didn’t offer somewhere for them to go, they would never leave. It would have been a bloodbath—even more than it already was. We would have lost everyone.”

“Finish,” I murmur, and he glares at me, furiously. I stare back, utterly serene. “Tell them the truth.”

He sighs, and there is a world of defeat in that noise. “It wasn’t going to be a long term solution. We would take care of the zombies, the army would put down the plague and the doctors would find a cure, and we would go back to the world we had always known.”

“Except that we didn’t win the East and they never found a cure.” Sonny says bitterly. “And you let us rot behind the walls.”

“The Havens held against the infected for twenty years,” Holts snaps. “We were scrambling, the army was falling, we’d lost millions to the infection and we finally did something that the American people were happy with. They didn’t even think about the fact that our solution was putting them behind prison walls—literally for most of the havens. They were happy to have anything between them and the infected. And it was easier to let what was working keep working. Why fix something that wasn’t broken?”

“Because it was,” I snap. “The whole world was broken and you had one job. One. And you fucking failed.”

“You don’t get to talk to me about failing the world,” Holts whispers, his face ghostly pale. “Not you, Sylvia. You fucking created this.”

“And you were all too happy to take it when you thought it was a miracle cure,” I say bitterly. “My son was the only one with any sense at all. He’s right. Get your people out of the Havens. We aren’t meant to live behind walls our whole life.”

“And when the infected come?”

I shrug. “Spread your people out. Arm them and put them in areas that provide natural defenses, while still allowing you to live. Stop living in fear, waiting to die.”

I shift, and drop a small glass vial on the table. “You have two important tools that you can use, and if you’re smart and stop living afraid, you can win.”

“We can kill the infection?”

I laugh, because even now, even here, they still think that this is the answer. I lean forward and tap the vial. “That’s the only cure you’ll ever find.”

There is a long moment of silence, and I stand. “I created this virus. I know, better than anyone, how it works and how to treat it. There isn’t a cure. The infected aren’t going to stop. But this—it will stop the virus from mutating in you.”

“What does that mean?” Claire asks, softly.

I smile, sadly. “It means a bite isn’t a death sentence. This means that you have the upper hand. Use it.”

Chapter 3.

The Edge of the World

The guard house is small. Tiny, really. A kind of cramped space only a child would love, or a soldier would use.

Holly stands in the doorway as I turn a tight circle, and I can feel her gaze on me. “Has it been changed at all?”

She shakes her head. “No. When the Thrasher died, she left orders that this place be set aside for Finn O’Malley. It doesn’t matter that he left the United States voluntarily and that he might never come back. It’s his. It won’t be disturbed.”

I slide a glance at her. It’s the first time in almost two weeks that I’ve been alone with Holly. Everything is happening, so quickly it’s hard to process all of it. And she has been at the center, implacable in her efforts to match the Blood Priestess.

“Why am I here?” I ask.

“Because you’re his mother. And because you are more like him than either of you would admit.” She says.

I sit on the bed and look at her. Meet the tired, determined gaze. “What do you want, Holly?”

“Your help. I can control the Order. Within a month or so, the priestess will no longer be a threat. I can even control the government to some degree—Omar taught me very well how to play people and manipulate what I want. But I want your help. You kept the Holdout going despite all odds.”

“I didn’t do that alone. I’m a pariah. You know that.”

“But you don’t think like the rest of us. We look at the world from the view of the Havens. We don’t know how to look past the walls. You do. I’ll take a pariah, if it means looking at the world in a way that will keep us all alive.”

I stare at her for a long moment. “I’m not hiding anything, Holly. There is no end to this. The infected are part of the world we will always have. Don’t do this expecting that I’m going to pull a surprise out in a few months.”

She smiles, a tiny thing. “You don’t need to. Be yourself. The woman who broke the world because she loved too deeply, and the woman who shaped the child who would grow into Finn O’Malley. I don’t care about a cure. I want that woman at my side. Everything is changing. Again. And I need you.”

She shifts, straightening. “I’m leaving for the Stronghold in three days. I want you to come with me.”

Trent is standing at the door when I emerge. The Nebraskan plain stretches out into nothing, and I see a few infected shambling along, screams echoing into the distance as they are lost in the trees.

This is our world. Broken. Deadly. And hopeful.

I have lived through the end of the world, lost a child and raised my son in a world of the dead. I’ve shouldered the suffocating responsibility of being the mad scientist who created the drug that dammed us all.

I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.

And despite all of that. I sigh. “It’s not over yet, brother,” I murmur and Trent shifts at my side. Waits for me to say something. He’s been my guard long enough to know that I often talk to the ghosts that haunt me.

I miss them. That is the real truth, my price of the apocalypse. It’s not the guilt. It’s that I am still here, fighting every day, too damn stubborn to quit. When all I have ever wanted was my husband and my brother and my boys. I laugh, and even to me, it sounds bitter.

When the sun has set, and the stars begin to glitter overhead, I finally shake myself and smile at Trent. “Come on. We have a lot to do before we leave for the Stronghold.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows me down the little stairs, away from the house that belongs to my son. Finn made his choice—he left, and I pray that he finds somewhere safe to be happy with Nurrin.

But there is still this world, this West that he fought so hard for. “I hope that Priestess knows who she just invited into her Stronghold,” I murmur, and behind me, I can hear Trent laughing, and my dead laugh with him.

Scion Legacy—Book 1.

Chapter 1

No one wakes up and thinks, This is the day my life will change.

We wake up and think, I forgot to set the coffee. Five more minutes. I think I’m gonna bomb that test in Stats. Did Elise give my dress back? Five more fucking minutes.

“Farley!”

I curse under my breath. Elise is yelling for me and that means I used up my five minutes ten minutes ago.

“I’m awake,” I say and she sticks her head around the screen that partitions my corner of her loft from the rest of the open space. Elise would be just as happy having me sprawled across her messy loft, but I like personal space and privacy.

Even if that space is miniscule and that privacy is pseudo.

The TV is on in the corner as I emerge from my bed, and I frown. “Turn it up.”

Elise makes an aggravated noise as she reaches for the remote. She’s painting her nails, the fumes making my nose wrinkle as I pour the coffee—thank God, I did set it last night.

A classically good looking man in his mid-forties is addressing a crowd of reporters, all of them hanging on his every word.

“The atrocities won’t stand. We need to remember that we were dying when the Houses stepped forward with the antidote to the Brakken virus and restored order. The fealty given to their lines and Scions are not only appropriate, it is their right.”

I glance at Elise, scanning her tablet as the blood red polish dries. “What happened?”

“HR0 bombed a coven.”

My blood runs cold and I swallow hard to keep from rubbing away the goosebumps running down my arm.

The human rights movements terrify me. Not because I disagree with them. I don't. I agree too much. It's terrifying because the Houses don't tolerate any dissent. Some will accept the rumblings of the movement, as long as it stays only that.

But no House will tolerate humans attacking the covens. And--"Where did it happen?"

Elise glances up at me, her pale eyes haunted. "Seattle."

Fuck.

The west coast belongs to House Klinge. And they are savage. Blood will spill tonight, and wash Seattle's streets red. I wonder how many will die to appease the fury of the House before the patriarch brings his princes to heel.

Hundreds.

"Go," Elise says abruptly. "You can't fix everything and the HRO knew the risks. We all do."

I nod, and grab my coffee, heading into the shower as the Kennedy scion drones on.

We all know the risk of crossing one of the Houses. But some are desperate enough that they no longer care.

The sun is shining, something that is comforting as I step out of the brownstone and jog down the steps. The subway isn't far, but it's enough that the sunlight protects me--and that's done very carefully.

Most people think any sunlight will protect them. It's why apartments became so outdated. They're wrong. But no one believes the memories of a terrified little girl, so I've learned to keep that particular nightmare to myself.

I keep a lot to myself. More than Elise realizes.

The office is quiet when I step in—most of the reporting staff is on assignment, and some will be scrambling to get a soundbite from the Houses.

Not that they will—some might get the idle blood chatter, but no Scion would bother themselves with our tiny e-zine. We’re not important enough for the big boys to even notice.

Which is fine. I flick my hair out of my eyes and grab my messages from my unpaid intern and close myself into my office without a word.

There’s a few messages from my brother, and one from my editor. Two without a number to respond to. I frown. Most of the time, people email me. Anyone who works with knows I loathe the phone. Even Parks knows—he’s just too much of an ass to care.

My inbox dings and I shove the messages aside as I focus on the stories waiting for me.

Chapter 2.

“Farley?”

I blink, and stare at my intern. She’s a tiny little thing, and it occurs to me—not for the first time—that I have no business putting her in an office like this. We aren’t doing the smart thing—we don’t toe the House line.

We’re too little for them to care, but I’m well aware that it’s not exactly safe.

“What is it?”

“You have a lunch appointment, ma’am.”

I frown. “Since when?”

“Hendin set it up.”

I breath a curse. Kevin Hendin might be the best damn editor I’ve ever met, but he’s still a fucking pain in the ass. I swallow that thought down and save the draft I’m working on, rising and shrugging into my suit coat. “Where?”

“Silver and Ivy.”

I go still. Who the hell are we meeting that can afford S&I? It’s one of the finest restaurants in the city, completely human, and expensive as fuck.

Winston took me there when I graduated from NYU. Of course, it was for a tiny glass of wine and a shared dessert—neither of us could afford more than that—but it was a sweet gesture that meant a lot, especially coming from my ridiculously practical brother.

“Ma’am?”

I blink out of my thoughts to focus on my intern, and snatch up my laptop and phone. Shove both with my wallet into my messenger bag and snag my glasses and notebook before I dart out.

It’s ridiculous to use a notebook, these days. Everyone has gone digital—what was a gathering wave before Brakken—became a way of life in the aftermath. The Houses controlled everything after, and pushed tech hard. Some people believed it was out of kindness.

It wasn’t.

But I’ve never been blinded by the pretty veneer of the Houses or their Scions.

Silver and Ivy is one of the last places in New York that can still maintain their human only clientele. Because they cater to the wealthy, and even in the aftermath of the plague and all the change that the Houses inflicted on us, the wealthy maintains a level of untouchability. They are protected by that comfort of security that money can buy.

Even the wealthiest in our country could be bought by one of the Houses, but I think it amuses them to let the one percent cling to the illusion that they are still different from the rest of us.

I step into S&I and belatedly realize that I don’t know who I’m meeting. I mutter a soft curse and the eyebrow of the host twitches in response.

No, I suppose he isn’t used to young reporters with a gutter mouth spilling into his lunch hour. I grin, and run a hand through my hair. I’m about to fuck up his whole day.

I amble up to where he wait and he gives me a frosty stare.

“I’m meeting someone,” I say.

His gaze sweeps over me and his lips curls just a little, all annoyed disdain that pisses me off.

“And you are?”

“Farley Hart #Destanos.”

His eyes go wide and he pales, so much so I take a step back. Something is very fucking wrong about all of this, and Winston always told me to listen to my gut. I take another step, and a hand clamps down on my arm, rooting me to the spot.

It’s icy and burning and so fucking unmoveable. I know, even before I let my gaze crawl up.

Shiny boots, a pristine black suit that cost more than my degree, a startlingly white shirt with a skinny black tie. Wide shoulders, thin waist, and a hand that’s fucking huge, latched onto me.

A ring glints on his finger and I focus on that, on the strange sigil worked into the metal.

It’s not gold, and it sure as hell isn’t silver. It’s almost dull. Iron?

“Oh fuck,” I mutter.

A vampire is holding me, keeping me from bolting. And if that weren’t bad enough—it’s a fucking Blood Prince.

Chapter 3

“Get your fucking hands off me,” I hiss, and I’m not terribly surprised to hear the tremble in my voice.

A Blood Prince is nothing any sane person wants to fuck with.

“When I’m sure you won’t bolt into the daylight, we will renegotiate your personal space.” He rumbles, and I snarl. Even to my ears it sounds like a kitten batting at a lion, but he doesn’t laugh. Merely redirects his cool stare past me to the pale manager. “The room?”

“You just lost your human only rating,” I spit as the vamp pulls me along in the manger’s wake. The vamp laughs slightly, but doesn’t say anything as the manager leads us down a narrow, empty hallway. He unlocks a door and stands silent as the vampire pulls me through.

The Blood Prince releases me as the door closes and I hear the click of the lock as I spring at it, only to slam into the impenetrable wall of another vampire. I stare at him, shocked.

Its been almost fifteen years since Brakken ended and I’ve lived most without a single encounter with a vampire. It’s been a good fucking run.

But I’m facing two right now, and I’m locked into a room with them.

“I thought the House Armstad supported consensual feeding.” I say.

The Blood Prince laughs, and I turn to him. I don’t know or care who the nameless guard is—the prince is who I need to worry about.

When the Houses first shed their shadows, it was to stop the plague. Mutual assured destruction forced their hand—too many dead humans would hurt their own numbers and they were really fucking good at self-preservation.

The virus was a particularly nasty and virulent strain of the Black Plague. We were dying by the thousands, when the houses stepped in.

And for a few months, while the disease receded and we took a breath, we were all grateful. We had our world and our lives back.

But we didn’t know the cost then.

It was like opening Pandora’s box. Once the truth was out, it was out. The vampires were real and they were tired of taking a backseat. The patriarchs and their princes kept the lower vamps in line, for the most part, but even they were tired of the shadows.

Staring at the Prince in front of me, I wonder if we wouldn’t have been better off to let the entire world rot, than to be beholden to these leeches.

“Sit down, Farley,” he says, softly.

I don’t move and he smiles, a tight, closed lipped thing.

Not a display of dominance. What the fuck? A vampire—a Blood Prince—is bothering to show manners. To me.

That, more than anything else, moves my feet, and I shuffle toward the table, dropping gracelessly into the chair across from him. The guard—a silent vampire with dark hair and darker eyes—stands by the door.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Farley.”

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “And what the hell do you want with me? House Law says you need consent to feed, and Armstad follows that law.”

He nods, “Good girl. You know your laws and houses. I’m impressed.”

I lean back. “I didn’t do it to impress you, dumbass,” I snap. “I did it to stay alive and it’s kept me far away from your kind.”

Something sparks in his eyes, and he lifts his wine glass.

Ignores my insult and words completely as he takes a sip of the thick red—dear god, I hope that’s wine. My stomach pitches unpleasantly.

“There are two things for you to realize, Farley. First—I don’t give a fuck why you know your laws. I’m simply glad you do—it will make my job so much easier.”

I swallow hard, and say, “And the second?”

He smiles at me, and this time, his fangs are on full display, long and sharp, and tinted just slightly red from the wine. All the humor has drained from his gaze as he says, “I’m not of House Armstad. And I don’t give a fuck about consent laws.”

Coming December 2015

Nazarea Andrews is an avid reader and tends to write the stories she wants to read. She loves chocolate and coffee almost as much as she loves books, but not quite as much as she loves her kids. She lives in south Georgia with her husband, daughters, and overgrown dog.

You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Booktropolous.

Read More from Nazarea:

The World Without a Future | The Horde Without End

The Future Without Hope | The Ruin of the World

Edge of the Falls | Chasing the Wind

This Love | Beautiful Broken | Sweet Ruin

Girl Lost | Forever Found

Before & After

Gentle Chains | Violent Freedom

The Blood Scion (Dec 2015)

Personal Apocalypse (2016)

Illicit Desire (writing as Taylor Michaels)