Chapter 36: Actions speak louder

Anticipation sat heavy in my chest as I paced the narrow stretch of dirt behind the tents, the gun a solid weight in my back pocket. Just over a dozen infected. That was the number.

It didn’t feel like it.

It felt like a wave.

The fact that they were coming with intent—not wandering, not drifting—made everything worse. My mind betrayed me with flashes I didn’t ask for: twitching limbs dragging through brush, red-rimmed eyes reflecting firelight, blood slicking the ground where people had been standing seconds before.

Cold sweat slid down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and kept moving.

Numbers didn’t scare me. Neither did the idea that one of them was armed.

It was the dark.

The not knowing where they’d come from. How fast. Who would panic first. What would go wrong.

I told myself I was done running.

That was the line I kept repeating, like a prayer. My plan had to work. It would work. People were already in position. We—

“What’s got you so worked up, doll?”

The voice slid into my head like oil.

Sweet. Lazy. Wrong.

I stopped pacing.

A slow breath left me as I closed my eyes, jaw tightening. Of course it was her.

“What the hell do you want?” I asked, not turning to face the blonde woman behind me.

I could hear the smile in her voice before I saw it.

“Wow,” she said lightly. “First time you’ve talked to me without a gun aimed at your skull. I’m touched.” A pause. “Though I will admit, I would’ve wanted to fuck the brattiness out of you myself.”

I grimaced.

What the fuck was her problem?

“Listen,” I cut in, turning just enough to acknowledge her presence without giving her my full attention. “Cherie was your name? I really don’t need you on my case right now. Something’s—”

“I overheard.”

That stopped me.

I looked at her fully then.

Her expression had shifted— still smug, still sharp—but her eyes were alert now. Measuring.

A beat passed.

“You know,” she continued, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret, “I wouldn’t mind helping you people. If you got me out of these—”

“Not happening,” I said immediately.

No hesitation. No softness.

Her brows knit, annoyance flickering across her face. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t that.

Before she could snap back—

“Adrian.”

I turned as a camp member approached, breath controlled but tight.

“Most of us have assumed formation along the treeline,” he said. “Like you asked.”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to remain present.

“Alright, alright. That’s good.”

“But we’ve got a problem.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“When scouts rechecked the distance, they only spotted seven infected. Not just above a dozen like before.”

Something tightened in my chest.

“And the armed one?” I asked.

“Nowhere in sight,” he replied. “We think they split up. Trying to draw us out or confuse our positions. We should probably stay on the—”

“Have some of the camp members fall back and guard the vulnerable,” I said, cutting him off. “Far side of camp. No exceptions.”

The words came out steadier than I felt.

“Pick off the ones you can currently see with the rifles.”

He nodded, already moving to carry it out. As he passed, his eyes flicked briefly to the blonde woman lingering a few feet away—then back to me.

I watched him go.

When I turned back, she was smiling again.

Not amused.

Interested.

Something warm settled in my chest when I caught Terri watching me from the corner of my vision—arms folded tight, a nervous but certain grin cracked across her face.

Trust.

Or hope.

Maybe both.

I turned away before it could weigh on me.

That’s when I heard it.

A scream—sharp and tearing—ripped through the west side of the camp.

Not a warning.

Not a shout.

A plea.

My blood went cold. The clearing was breached.

I was already moving before I realized I’d decided to run.

Boots pounded dirt as I tore between tents, lantern light swinging wildly, shadows stretching and snapping like hands trying to grab me. Someone shouted my name behind me. I didn’t slow down.

Please don’t be too late.

The scream cut off abruptly.

That was worse.

I skidded to a stop at the edge of a clearing—and my stomach dropped.

A woman was on the ground, scrambling backward, palms raw and bleeding as she tried to push herself away. Her mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out now. Just breath. Fast. Broken.

Between us stood a figure hunched wrong—shoulders slumped, head twitching in small, erratic jerks.

Red eyes lifted slowly.

Locked onto her.

A wet, fractured laugh bubbled out of its throat as it took a dragging step forward.

I raised my gun.

My hands shook.

The distance felt too far. The angle wrong. One bad shot and I’d hit her—

The infected lunged.

“Move!” I shouted, finger tightening—

SMACK.

The impact came from the side.

Bone cracked. The infected’s head snapped sideways as Hale slammed the butt of his rifle into its skull. The body folded instantly, collapsing into the dirt with a sickening thud.

Silence slammed down.

I stood there, gun still raised, breath locked in my chest.

The infected lay twisted in the dirt, neck bent at an angle that made my stomach churn. One eye stared open and glassy, red bled out to pink. The wet laugh had died with it.

My gun was still raised.

I hadn’t realized that until my arm started to shake.

“Clear,” someone muttered nearby.

Boots shifted. Lantern light bobbed. The woman on the ground sobbed once, sharp and hiccupping, before someone else pulled her away. Hands covered her shoulders. Someone told her to breathe.

“Looks like having some of us guard the edge of the clearing was a good call.” Someone muttered.

I didn’t hear most of it.

My finger slowly eased off the trigger.

Hale stepped past me, boots crunching softly. He didn’t look at the body first. He didn’t look at the woman. He looked at the treeline.

Always the treeline.

His rifle came up, smooth and practiced, barrel steady as he scanned the dark gaps between trunks. The silence stretched.

I swallowed and lowered my gun.

“I—” My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. “She was in the line. I didn’t have a clean—”

Hale lifted a hand.

Not sharply. Not angry.

Just enough to stop me.

He crouched instead, nudging the infected’s head with the toe of his boot. The body rolled limply, confirming what we already knew. Dead.

Then he stood.

Only then did he look at me.

Not at my face.

At my hands.

Still tight around the grip. Still trembling, just barely.

His eyes flicked up after that, meeting mine for half a second.

No disappointment.

No anger.

Just something colder.

Measured.

He turned his head slightly, listening.

Branches snapped somewhere deeper in the woods.

Not close.

Not far either.

“They’re spacing themselves,” he said finally.

That was it.

Nothing about my aim. Nothing about my hesitation. Nothing about how close that woman had been to dying because I couldn’t pull the trigger.

He stepped past me again, voice calm, already moving on.

“Next time,” he added, almost casually, “they won’t give you that angle.”

The words settled heavier than any reprimand.

He walked off, issuing quiet instructions to the others, presence steady, unshaken.

I stayed where I was.

My gaze dropped to my hands.

To the way my finger hovered just off the trigger, like it was afraid to touch it again.

The scream replayed in my head.

The distance.

The second I’d lost.

Hale never said I hesitated, but the implication was enough.

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