Chapter 73: The first crack

The Glock clicked into place under my fingers.

Slide back. Magazine seated. A familiar weight settled into my hands as muscle memory took over—press, check, breathe. Around me, a soldier’s voice carried through the room, flat and practiced, laying out routes and contingencies like this was just another errand.

Texas Food Mart. Miles out. Non-perishables. High yield, low resistance. Then a few secondary stops.

Easy.

Too easy.

That was the problem.

My eyes stayed on the gun, but my thoughts were nowhere near it. They were back in the compound. Back with Lila. With Jane. With the look Lila had given me the last time Jane laughed too loudly in my presence.

I’d given her leverage. Worse—I’d given her motive.

If something happened while we were gone…

If Jane was alone…

My jaw tightened.

Was this the right call?

There had to be another way. Another arrangement. Another—

“Adrian.”

I flinched.

The suddenness of it sent a jolt up my spine, my shoulders tensing before I could stop it. Fingers curled reflexively around the Glock.

A hand rested on my shoulder.

I looked up.

Cherie.

Three fingers missing from her left hand, the stumps wrapped cleanly, like they always were. She grinned at me like nothing in the world could go wrong.

“Why’re you stressin’, sweet cheeks?” she said lightly. “It’s just a quick run. I got your back.”

I tried to return the smile. It didn’t quite make it all the way.

Behind her, Aubrey leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp and quiet. Hale stood nearby, adjusting his gloves, beard hiding whatever expression he was wearing—but I knew him well enough now.

They knew.

Of course they did.

Cherie hadn’t been part of that conversation. She didn’t know what I’d set in motion.

We were standing in Dr. Tekashi’s office, the air thick with disinfectant and old paper. The man himself stood near his desk, hands clasped behind his back, watching us like a conductor seeing off an orchestra he wasn’t entirely sure would come back intact.

“You fellas listen to the experts, alright?” he said, nodding toward the soldiers assigned to us. “They’ll be showing you how to handle the infected out there.”

Some of the soldiers stayed stiff and still. Others nodded once. Professional. Detached.

My eyes drifted to the edge of the room.

Terri.

She stood half behind a shelf, clutching her notebook to her chest like a shield. Her foot bounced nervously, eyes flicking between me and the door. When our gazes met, she offered a small, hopeful smile.

I looked away.

I knew I made the right call not letting her come.

Minutes later, the compound gates groaned open, metal scraping against metal as we filed out. The sound echoed behind us as the doors sealed shut again—final, heavy.

The American flag flapped above us as we stepped outside.

The air felt different. Wider. Less forgiving.

As we moved out, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something vital had been left behind.

—

Inside Dr. Tekashi’s office, the door clicked closed.

He turned slowly toward Terri.

“Now…” he said, a hint of curiosity slipping into his voice. “Ready to show me that book of yours? I’m dying to see it.”

Terri’s nerves vanished in an instant.

Her face lit up.

She hugged the notebook tighter, eyes bright, already flipping to the first tab—completely unaware that somewhere beyond the walls, a plan had already begun to unravel.

The tank chewed through asphalt like it was paper.

Steel treads ground cars, barricades—anything unlucky enough to be in the way—into screaming ruin. The noise was obscene. Deliberate. Vivian didn’t bother lowering it. Let the infected hear. Let them come.

She stood atop the tank, coat snapping in the wind, boots planted wide as the convoy of matte-black cars fanned out behind her like obedient shadows. An Uzi hung loose in her grip, already warm.

Movement surged from the sides of the street.

Vivian’s expression didn’t change.

She raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger.

The Uzi sang—short, vicious bursts—brass raining, bodies snapping backward as infected dropped one after another. Faces torn open. Limbs folding wrong. She tracked them methodically, sweeping fire with the calm of someone brushing dust from a shelf.

Then—

“Halt.”

Her voice cut clean through the chaos.

The tank obeyed instantly, grinding to a stop. The cars behind it slammed brakes in perfect unison.

Vivian hopped down from the tank as if stepping off a curb.

An infected lunged from an alley, mouth split wide in a wet scream.

She didn’t even look at it.

The Uzi came up, and she emptied the rest of the magazine into its chest as she walked, recoil nudging her arm with each round. The body collapsed at her feet, still twitching.

She didn’t slow.

Her boots carried her to the front of a looted clothing store. The glass was cracked, spiderwebbed—but the graffiti scrawled across it was old, dried, unmistakable.

TAKING THE I-45 FOR TEXAS

—ADRIAN

Vivian stopped.

“Hm…”

She reached out, fingers trailing over the faded paint. The texture was rough beneath her gloves. Real. Recent enough.

Behind her, her men shifted. Samuel frowned.

She closed her eyes.

Inhaled.

For a second, it looked ridiculous—like she was pretending to smell something that wasn’t there.

But her breath hitched.

A slow, satisfied smile tugged at her lips.

She opened her eyes.

“Oh,” she murmured softly. “It’s him… alright.”

Her face twisted into something sharp. Hungry. Violent.

A smile meant for prey.

She turned back toward the ruined street, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Run,” Vivian said quietly. Then louder, delighted—

“Run, run, little mouse…”

The tank engine roared back to life behind her.

The air inside the quarters was thick, stale, suffocating.

Lila sat on the couch, rotating her kitchen knife slowly between her fingers. The steel caught the dim light, gleaming in short, dangerous flashes. Her eyes were locked on it, hypnotized, unblinking.

She smiled to herself, as if she could already feel the blood on her knife.

Jane moved at the sink, washing dishes with careful, methodical motions. She hummed a light, friendly tune—but her eyes were sharp, cold, calculating, as if she already knew exactly what was coming.

She never saw Lila rise. She only heard it.

The sudden shift of weight, the whisper of movement across the floor, barely a footstep—but enough. Enough to make Jane stiffen, her hands trembling on the soapy plate.

“Hey…Jane, ever heard of the phrase— ’you reap what you sow’?”

Her voice was sweet, quiet.

Lila’s grip tightened, fingers digging into the handle until her knuckles were white. Then she surged forward, knife leading, stride quick, precise, unstoppable.

A scream tore through the quarters—metal clattering to the floor.

Peter froze in the other room, heart hammering, as the sound echoed. Plates smashed, water splashing across the tiles. He sprinted toward the chaos.

He found Jane struggling, knife flashing in Lila’s hand. Lila’s eyes glowed red, the whites spiderwebbed, her lips curled into a laugh that chilled him to the bone.

“PETER! PETER HELP ME!” Jane shrieked, her voice raw.

Peter’s feet rooted to the ground. Fear paralyzed him. It wasn’t until Jane’s terrified gaze locked onto his that something inside him snapped.

“DO SOMETHING USEFUL FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, DAMN IT!” she screamed.

He lunged. Grabbed Lila from behind, trying to pin her down.

“Get the hell off me, fatso!!!” Lila snarled. The knife arced violently.

The world froze. Peter’s throat split under the slash, warm, sticky blood spilling down his chest. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, eyes wide, burning with tears, the metallic taste of panic and iron filling his mouth.

Lila stepped over him, momentarily indifferent, turning back to Jane like she hadn’t even noticed.

Peter lay on the floor, trembling, vision blurring. Every heartbeat was a drum of terror and pain.

Isabella appeared from the doorway moments later.

She had been sleeping, blissfully unaware of the carnage. But now she froze, eyes widening as the scene unfolded before her. Her mother pinned beneath Lila’s weight, gasping. Her father bleeding out on the floor, chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“Izzy! Izzy, honey! Help your mother—please!” Jane’s voice cracked, pleading.

She looked at Jane for a moment as she struggled.

But her focus shifted soon after. She advanced toward Peter, her movements deliberate, careful.

“ISABELLA MCNALLY!!! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” Jane’s roar shattered the room.

Instinct overrode fear. Isabella lunged, wrapping trembling arms around her father’s torso. She pressed her ear to his neck, checking for a pulse.

Isabella grunted, straining under Peter’s weight, dragging him inch by inch toward the door. Her small body moved with desperation, raw strength fueled by terror.

Jane faltered, eyes wide, helpless.

Isabella glanced back once, meeting Jane’s burning gaze. Her jaw set. Her hands shaking.

“You’d really do this to your own mother..?”

“Rot in hell, bitch,” she spat.

And with that, she shoved open the door, the threshold between chaos and survival, dragging her father into uncertain safety.

The quarters echoed with screams, metallic crashes, and the relentless heartbeat of fear. But Isabella didn’t look back. Not once.

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