(Malcolm's POV)
The early morning air bit at Malcolm's cheeks, his breath curling in the cold as the ATV rattled down a narrow deer trail.
The sky was pale, the kind of brittle gray that promised no warmth, only wind.
Frost clung to the edges of dead leaves, crunching under the ATV's tires.
John was driving, knowing the trails better than Malcolm, a shotgun resting loosely across his knees.
They were supposed to be checking traps, but Malcolm's gut told him this was something else and that this family was too suspicious to trust.
He thought of Iyisha back at the house, the naive way she smiled at every kindness as if it cost nothing. One day that kind of trust would get her killed, and he almost cursed himself for leaving her there now.
Every instinct told him Iyisha was being foolish, taking their hospitality at face value and mistaking it for kindness. He knew she was that innocent, yet he'd still let his temper decide for him.
He felt a flicker of regret for leaving her there and almost told John to turn back until he spotted what looked like the edge of a roofline hidden in the tree line.
"What is that?" he asked.
John shifted on the ATV, eyes flicking toward the trees.
"Cabin we haven't used in a while," he said, voice careful.
Malcolm's mind churned—he could smell it now, faint but unmistakable.
John slowed the ATV to a stop and whispered, "Let's check it out."
Given that stench, it could be an undead holed up inside… or worse, bodies with gunshot wounds.
But John's wariness stood out too or he was too good of an actor.
Malcolm let him move ahead, deciding it was better to keep the man in front. They walked toward the cabin in silence, communicating only with hand signals.
Through the brush, he caught the glint of rust, the sharp angle of a roofline. The cabin was half-hidden and crouching low, tin siding eaten through by years of rain and neglect. The surrounding woods were unnervingly still, no movement, no voices but just the oppressive quiet.
Ther crossed the leaf-strewn ground in silence, pushing through the undergrowth until they reached the warped wooden door. One shove, and the hinges groaned in protest.
The smell slammed into him like a fist. It was rancid, sour, and layered with something worse than death.
John walked in first, Malcolm right behind him.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom, shapes bleeding into focus. And then he saw her.
A walker. Naked.
Her wrists bound to the bedframe with fraying nylon rope.
A crude metal cage bolted to the headboard clamped her head in place, her rotted teeth snapping uselessly against the bars. She thrashed weakly, the motion more habit than hunger.
The floor beneath was stained dark, the air thick with decay. A pile of torn clothing lay discarded nearby. Malcolm didn't need to wonder what had happened here.
He already knew.
He turned sharply, jaw tight and found John standing just three feet away, the cold steel of a gun aimed steady at him.
"Pretty, ain't she?" John's voice was calm, almost conversational. "Can't feel her warmth in your hands anymore, not in this cold… but a woman like that? Makes a man forget how bad it gets."
Malcolm's vision tunneled. Fury rose fast and sharp, coiling in his gut. His hands curled into fists.
John stepped closer, the muzzle never shifting. His grin widened, voice dropping lower. "I had fun with her but it's been so long since I felt warmth from a real woman. Not since my brother's girlfriend—never had another living girl since."
Malcolm's jaw clenched. "Did you kill her?" he asked flatly.
John's smile turned nastier. "I did. She fought too hard. But now Iyisha's here."
Malcolm's pulse pounded in his ears, the words hitting like a blow. His vision darkened at the edges, rage boiling so hot he could feel it in his teeth, his mind flashing with the image of Iyisha in that bed.
John's smirk deepened. "I know she ain't your wife. I saw you last night."
The realization hit Malcolm like another blow—they'd been peeping. He cursed himself inwardly. How the hell had he missed that?
John's gaze turned hungrier. "That kind of woman will only bring you trouble. That body…" Malcolm saw the gleam of lust in his eyes and it made his skin crawl.
"She'd rather die," Malcolm said, his voice low and cold.
John's reply was quieter still but moving closer. "Doesn't need to be her choice."
The moment Malcolm felt the subtle tightening of John's finger on the trigger, he moved.
His hand clamped around John's wrist, twisting hard. He dropped low, driving his elbow into John's face.
The gun jerked sideways as they crashed through the doorway, spilling into the dirt outside.
John's knee slammed into Malcolm's ribs, the shock stealing his breath. John's hand fumbled for something in the dirt—a length of rusted metal—and he swung it toward Malcolm's head.
Instinct took over.
Malcolm twisted aside as his other hand went for his own gun. The cold weight of it filled his grip, and he didn't hesitate to bring it up and fire.
One shot.
John dropped, the fight leaving him in an instant.
Malcolm stood over the body, chest heaving, the image of the bound walker burning behind his eyes. Iyisha was in danger here, danger he'd underestimated.
He stripped the ammo from John's pockets, swung back onto the ATV, and twisted the throttle.
The engine roared to life, and he tore down the trail, every second a reminder that he had to get back to her.
Fast.
He tore down the trail, the image of Iyisha's face flashing between the trees, each turn of the tires pounding one truth into his skull — he'd left her with a predator.