(Malcolm's POV)
The ATV rattled along the broken highway as the steel frame of the bridge loomed ahead in the haze.
Malcolm checked Iyisha against the ATV; her face was pale, her breathing ragged, and blood was spreading slowly through the bandage he had tied.
The wrap was holding, but it was only buying time.
The checkpoint came alive before they even slowed.
Soldiers poured into view, rifles snapping up in unison. Barrels tracked him, safeties clicking off, the sound sharp and mechanical.
Boots hammered against pavement, squads moving like parts of a machine. The nearest squad spread wide across the lane, helmets gleaming, vests squared, fingers brushing triggers.
"Hands where we can see them!" one barked, voice tight with authority.
"Step off slow!" another added, angling his rifle higher, scope glass flashing in the sun.
Malcolm let the ATV idle rough, the engine coughing under him. He lifted his hands slow, palms open. Beside him Iyisha sagged forward, her head lolling against the handlebars. Her eyes had been open a moment ago, unfocused but still fighting but now had slid shut.
She's unconscious.
His eyes never stopped moving. He counted barrels. Twelve rifles in sight. Two more shadows on the catwalk above. A mounted gun angled from the tower, its heavy barrel fixed dead center on his chest.
He noted the kid in the middle, face too clean, grip too tight and his barrel is twitching. That one was the real danger. Nerves pulled a trigger faster than orders ever could.
Iyisha sagged against him, head rolling against his shoulder. Blood stained her shirt dark, spreading slow but steady. He kept his body turned just enough to shield her wound from full view. If they thought it was a bite, they would not hesitate.
The barricade loomed in his periphery. Concrete slabs stacked three high. Rusted troop carriers parked wheel to wheel, armored plates welded across their flanks. Razor wire ran thick along the top, coils sagging where the weight pulled them down but still sharp enough to tear flesh. Towers of corrugated steel and sandbags overlooked the choke point.
This wasn't scavenger scrap. This was military with real kit and real order.
That settled it in his mind. They wouldn't let Iyisha die here. Not Americans. She was safe the moment they reached this line.
"Step off!" the first voice snapped again.
Malcolm shifted, easing Iyisha forward until she rested against the ATV's handlebars, her head sagging. He made sure they could see it where she was hurt, not hiding a bite. Then he swung his leg over, slow as stone, boots crunching on the pavement. His hands stayed high, fingers spread.
"She's got a gunshot wound!" His voice cut across the barricade, hard and clear. "She needs a medic."
The soldiers swarmed closer, rifles steady, movements tight. He had been under muzzles before. It did not rattle him now.
A sergeant stepped forward, his uniform clean and squared away, every strap on his gear tightened down. He carried himself like the one in charge here. His eyes cut to Iyisha slumped on the ATV, then locked on Malcolm.
"She bit?"
Malcolm's jaw flexed, eyes hard. "Gunshot. You wanna check, or you wanna watch her bleed out?"
For a heartbeat everything went still. Rifles stayed locked on him, fingers tight on triggers. Malcolm's eyes caught the youngest soldier in the line, barrel shaking just enough to give him away — the one who would fire first if anyone twitched.
Then the sergeant gave a sharp hand signal.
A medic jogged out from the line, gear clattering against his vest, and dropped beside Iyisha. He pulled on gloves with a snap and worked fast.
His fingers checking her pulse, eyes, then tearing her shirt open enough to expose the wound. His movements were quick and practiced.
"Negative on bite," the medic called.
Malcolm kept his face flat, but he tracked every weapon as muzzles lowered by degrees. He saw the shift, the slack in their stance now that the tension bled out. Relief skimmed his chest, thin as a paper edge, but he did not show it.
"Disarm him," the sergeant ordered.
And there it was.
The part he had been waiting for. Not safety. Not order. Control.
He remembered standing on the other side once, stripping weapons off civilians who looked just as tired and armed as he did now. He hadn't liked it then, and he liked it even less now.
Soldiers closed in, barrels still pressing close enough he could feel the heat off their hands. They stripped him clean, rifle first, then pistol, then knives. Even the boot blade. Each weapon laid across a crate, stacked neat like trophies.
The sergeant's voice cut through, steady but firm. "You'll get them back when you're released."
Malcolm gave a single nod. Fighting it would be pointless.
He looked past them as Iyisha was lifted from the ATV, carried onto a stretcher. Her head sagged against the frame as the medic barked orders, and the squad hustled her through a gate in the barricade. Above it, rusted letters still clung to a bent sign: QUARANTINE.
"Move." A soldier shoved his shoulder. Malcolm stepped forward, boots crunching over the narrow path between walls of sandbags. Barbed wire curled along the top, sagging but sharp. A red dot tracked him from above, sliding over his chest and back again.
The soldier at his side spoke flat. "One wrong move, you're dead. Follow procedures."
Then the man turned his head, eyes narrowing on Malcolm. "But you already know that… don't you."
Malcolm didn't answer. He just turned his head and met the soldier's stare.
The man held his gaze, then gave the slightest nod. "I know it when I see it. Brother in arms." His tone dropped, more measured now. "Welcome to the Quincy Military Checkpoint."
The gate ahead groaned as it swung open.
Beyond it the quarantine zone came into view, the place alive with movement. Soldiers moved in formation, medics rushed stretchers toward the tents, civilians argued at barricades for rations, and officers barked orders over the noise.
The whole place rustled with tension and life, every corner watched, every voice competing against the rest.
On the far side of the bridge, rows of chain-link cells stood under floodlights. People filled them, faces pale, hands clutching the wire. Some coughed. Some shouted. Some sat silent, waiting. It was order, but the kind that pressed like a weight safety built on containment.
Same as West Bridge or any checkpoint he'd manned before.
The soldier led him through the gate and down a narrow corridor boxed in by chain-link and sandbags. At the end of it, a cell stood open. A stretcher was slid inside, and Iyisha was laid out on the cot, still unconscious.
"Inside," the soldier said. Malcolm stepped through. The gate clanged shut behind him, one guard staying inside with them, another posted outside.
Malcolm sat down on the concrete floor, back against the wall, eyes locked on Iyisha. A medic came in, dropping his kit beside the cot. Without hesitation he reached for the bandages, then started tugging at her shirt.
Malcolm's hand shot out, clamping on his wrist.
The medic looked up, calm, not rattled. "We need to check for bites," he said. Then, with a crooked half-smile, "Relax. I'm not interested in her. If I wanted a body to stare at, I'd ask for yours."
Malcolm held his stare for a moment before releasing him.
The shirt was peeled away, and for a second his gut tightened. The wound was ugly — dark blood seeping through, flesh torn at the shoulder. Relief came sharp when it was clear: no bite. But when the medic kept working, pulling more cloth aside, Malcolm felt a different conflict twist in him.
Her curves showed in the harsh light, and it burned against every part of him that knew better. He cleared his throat and turned his head.
Then he caught the soldiers at the gate staring. His glare snapped to them, sharp enough to draw blood. They looked away fast.
The medic worked fast, efficient. When he was done, he pulled a thin blanket over Iyisha's body. "Clear," he called, his voice professional again.
The medic stood and turned toward Malcolm. "Your turn."
"I'm not bitten," Malcolm said flatly.
"Everyone says that." The medic's tone stayed dry. "Strip."
Malcolm's jaw tightened. He glanced once at the soldier standing inside with the rifle half-raised, then began pulling his clothes off piece by piece. Jacket, shirt, boots, pants. He kept his movements steady, unhurried, though the concrete floor was cold under his feet and the red dot from above never left his chest.
The medic circled him with the same detached eye he'd used on Iyisha. Fingers prodded at his arms, his ribs, his neck. He checked behind the ears, the scalp line, between the fingers. Then lower, making sure there was no mark hidden under clothing. It was invasive by necessity, clinical and cynical both, because no one here was trusted until proven clean.
"Clear," the medic said at last, snapping off his gloves. "Get dressed."
Malcolm pulled his clothes back on, eyes cutting to Iyisha again.
The wound at her shoulder drew his focus next. He flushed it hard with antiseptic, the sting sharp enough to make her body flinch even unconscious. Then he packed it tight, layered fresh gauze, and cinched the wrap until the bleeding slowed.
When it was done, he draped a thin blanket over her body, tucking it at the sides.
"Clear," he said again, voice clipped. "She's stable for now. Fluids and blood when we can, but she'll hold."
Malcolm stayed sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, watching her chest rise and fall under the cover. The checkpoint was thorough, he'd give them that. Thorough to the point of cruelty.