Chapter 35: Fear the infected

Night moved differently once the camp knew.

Weapons passed from hand to hand in silence— metal clinking softly, straps tightening, bolts checked with practiced restraint. A rifle sailed through the dim firelight and a camp member caught it clean, hands firm, eyes already scanning the dark before they turned and melted back into the treeline.

Hale fell into step beside me as we moved between tents, our shoulders nearly brushing. His presence was steady—anchoring in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

“The gunshots must’ve attracted them,” he murmured, voice barely louder than breath.

I swallowed.

“I should’ve let you use a suppressor,” he added quietly. “That one’s on me.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he stopped walking.

From his jacket, he pulled a handgun and, without ceremony, twisted a glass bottle onto the barrel—crude, ugly, effective enough for a few shots. He held it out to me.

I hesitated for half a heartbeat.

Then I took it.

The glass was cold. Slick. The weight of it unfamiliar but not wrong.

Hale’s eyes flicked to the bottle, then back to me. “It’ll crack after a couple rounds,” he said. “Don’t rely on it longer than that.”

I nodded.

We started moving again.

The camp was a patchwork of shadows now—fires dying down, lanterns shuttered, people slipping into positions they’d practiced a hundred times but never hoped to use. The perimeter thinned as bodies redistributed, the heart of the camp pulling inward.

“The sightlines are garbage at night,” I said quietly, thinking aloud as much as briefing him. “Too many blind spots. Too many places to vanish.”

Hale didn’t interrupt.

“But that works both ways,” I continued, voice tightening as the pieces clicked together. “They won’t see us any better than we see them. We get the people who know the terrain—really know it. Set them along the treeline. Elevated where we can. Suppressed rifles. Short bursts. Pick them off before they realize they’re being hunted.”

I paused, breath catching, then forced myself to keep going.

“No blood on our side if we do it right.”

We stopped near the edge of camp, the woods looming close. Black gaps between trunks where anything could be waiting.

“And we move the vulnerable,” I added. “Kids. Injured. Anyone slow. Far side of camp. As far from the entry point as possible.”

My voice wavered at the end.

I hated that he heard it.

Hale turned fully toward me.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

His gaze lingered—longer than necessary—on my face. The dying firelight caught the graze on my cheek, the raw edge of it standing out against the dirt and sweat. I felt suddenly exposed. Too visible.

He said nothing about it.

Nothing about the gun he gave to me before. Nothing about the shot that had been fired after Lila and I disappeared into the trees earlier. Nothing about the truth I hadn’t offered.

It was like he already knew.

And was choosing—deliberately—not to press.

Finally, he nodded once.

“Alright.”

That was it.

No praise. No correction.

Yet, I saw it on his face. He trusted me.

That was enough.

He reached out and patted my shoulder—just once. Firm. Grounding.

“What in tarnation is goin’ on here?”

The voice cut through the night like a blade.

Peter’s.

My stomach dropped.

Hale and I both turned.

Firelight caught Peter’s face just long enough for me to see it properly— and my breath hitched. One eye was swollen nearly shut, skin purpling beneath it. Angry scratches raked down his neck, shallow but violent, like someone had clawed at him as a form of abuse.

Not infected.

But not untouched either.

What the fuck happened…?

“Well?” he snapped, voice sharp with something that wasn’t just fear. “I asked you a question.”

I blinked, forcing myself out of the spiral.

Hale glanced at him once—quick, assessing—then made a decision. Without a word, he turned and walked off, already disappearing back into the flow of moving shadows.

Left me with it.

“It’s nothing, Peter,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Go back to your tent. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come out.”

His jaw tightened.

The firelight flickered, and for a second his expression looked almost feral.

“The infected are comin’ this way, aren’t they?” he said. Not a question.

I exhaled slowly and rubbed at my brow, fingers pressing into the bone. I didn’t answer.

“They usually don’t make it close enough for any of us to be worried.”

His mouth twisted. Something ugly crept into his eyes.

“…You people are nothin’ but trouble,” he spat.

“This camp was fine before you showed up. Quiet. Peaceful.” His voice rose.

“None of this would be happenin’ if it weren’t for y’all.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

A beat passed.

“Well?” he barked. “Say somethin’!”

Something snapped in my mind. I straightened.

When I spoke again, my voice didn’t sound like mine anymore. It came out darker. Firmer. Stripped of patience.

“Look, Peter.”

He went still.

“This was bound to happen,” I continued. “Sooner or later. You people don’t get to pretend you’re living in some separate world from them.” I gestured vaguely toward the trees, toward the darkness pressing in from every side.

“Those things don’t care about your tents, your fires or how peaceful you think you are.”

I took a step closer.

“You’re gonna face them eventually,” I said quietly. “Whether you like it or not. Staying tucked in these woods doesn’t promise anything other than death by surprise.”

Silence swallowed the space between us.

Peter stared at me, chest rising and falling, the fire snapping behind him. For a moment, I thought he might argue. Might explode.

Instead, his eyes dropped— just slightly.

His expression cracked.

Bravado not completely gone.

But shaken.

The woods loomed behind him, black and waiting.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure whether Peter was more afraid of what was coming out of the trees—

Or of the fact that he knew I was right.

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