Three days passed in the bunker, and it felt like a lifetime.
Malcolm could barely look at her without feeling like a fuse ready to blow. They hadn't touched since that night—not really. A brush of shoulders here, a quiet nod there. Nothing that would make him lose control again.
And still, every time she bent over to adjust her bag or leaned in too close to check the map, his body reminded him how close they'd come. His thoughts weren't helping either.
Privacy didn't exist underground. He couldn't even freshen up without hearing her just a few feet away. It was torture. The kind that made him want to punch a wall or himself.
He would've jacked off if he had an inch of space.
She hummed softly while sealing the last of the rations. That, somehow, made it worse. He stared at the wall, jaw tight.
She glanced up. "You ready?"
Malcolm stood. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."
They began packing in silence.
She repacked the med kit. He counted ammo, checked the knife straps on her pack, and lightened her load without asking. When she noticed, her brow arched.
"You'll thank me when you're not limping," he said, voice flat.
She didn't argue.
He slung his bag on and looked at her, eyes narrowing. "You remember the plan?"
Iyisha nodded. "Three blocks east. Garage with the tarp."
"No lights. Stick to roofs until the alleys. Stay behind me."
"I know."
He opened the storm hatch with slow, steady pressure. The rusted hinges creaked, but no other sound followed. A gust of damp night air met them, cutting through the stale bunker air like a knife.
The house above them was still collapsed—beams broken, walls split, but no movement. No Vultures. Not yet.
They slipped out like ghosts.
Malcolm led the way, low and silent. Iyisha mirrored his pace. They moved from the ruined porch, over shattered fencing, then onto the back alley.
Every shadow felt like a threat. Every distant creak, a footstep.
Halfway to the garage, it happened.
Voices. Footsteps. Too close.
Malcolm grabbed her and yanked her into a nearby wrecked car. He pushed her down between the back seat and the floor, crouching low with her.
A flashlight beam swept across the car window. Boots crunched gravel nearby.
Iyisha's breath was sharp and rapid, her chest rising against his side. His hand was on his knife. Ready.
He didn't breathe. Didn't move.
The patrol passed.
Two full minutes of silence followed.
Then her whisper: "That was close."
He nodded. "Too close. Move."
They reached the garage. Malcolm kicked the tarp aside, revealing the bike hidden beneath scrap wood.
"Hold on. Quiet till we're clear."
He rolled the pedal bike out, coasting it down the cracked street with careful balance. No sound except the quiet creak of the chain and the soft grind of rubber over debris.
His eyes scanned the street—every window, every rooftop, every pile of rubble. No walkers. No Vultures. Just shadows. He kept his gun close, finger near the trigger, tension wound tight in his shoulders.
Behind him, Iyisha gave a small grunt as she pushed the sidecar from the back. Malcolm glanced over his shoulder, ready to snap at her to be quiet—only to pause.
Moonlight caught her face. Sweat gleamed at her temple. Her eyes were focused, determined. She looked too damn good for a night like this.
He turned back around and kept rolling.
Once the road opened up, he stood on the pedals and pushed harder, legs burning.
The wind picked up around them.
The night swallowed the wreckage behind them.
And the Vultures' territory disappeared into the dark.
They kept moving, guided by the moonlight. The cracked pavement gave way to worn dirt roads and broken highway signs. Open fields flanked them now—less cover, but fewer eyes.
Back on the country road.
"How much longer to Carrollton?" Iyisha asked, her voice quiet against the wind.
Malcolm didn't look back. "Longer than we'd like."
They were loaded down—bags heavy with water, canned food, medical supplies. Every bit of it was necessary. Every bit of it made them slower. Made them a bigger target.
He kept biking, jaw clenched as the cool air whipped against them. "We'll stop in Richmond to rest," he said, voice steady.
"Is it safe there?" she asked.
He kept his eyes forward. "Safer than staying in a single house out in the fields."
They rode in silence until a sudden jolt knocked the bike off balance.
The front wheel jolted sideways—hard. Something crunched beneath them, sharp and unforgiving. The pedal locked up instantly. The sidecar lurched with a metallic groan, sending a jarring jolt through them both.
Iyisha gasped and gripped the edge of the sidecar, heart pounding. "What the hell was that?" she hissed, trying to steady herself as Malcolm cursed and braked hard.
Malcolm cursed and dropped to one knee, checking the tire. Flat. Limp. Useless.
He pressed down. The rubber sagged inward.
"Flat," he growled.
A long silence.
Then: "Stay alert."
His eyes scanned the road.
"I don't like this."