Seventy-two hours felt like weeks. The cot had groaned every time Iyisha stirred, her body restless in fever, then slipping back into unconsciousness.
The IV bags had kept her alive, but they had not given her strength. Her skin was still pale, her lips cracked, sweat slicking her temples. When she opened her eyes, she seemed to look through him, too weak to focus, too tired to speak.
Now, in the release area, she lay strapped on a stretcher in the corner, a blanket pulled up to her chest. She breathed, shallow and steady, each rise and fall proof she was still here.
Malcolm stood at a counter across the room, arms folded, jaw set, while a soldier laid out his gear piece by piece. The man called items like he was auctioning them off.
"The soldier's voice stayed flat. Four rifles. Four pistols. Three knives. Two packs. One machete. Six magazines. Three packs of ammo. One box of rifle rounds."
The soldier's tone was dry, clipped. Behind him, another guard scribbled notes on a log sheet. To the side, other civilians stood in line, waiting for their turn to be processed, each one watching with hollow eyes.
When the last of Malcolm's gear was stacked in front of him, the soldier didn't step back. He leaned forward on the counter instead, eyes narrowing just slightly.
The soldier's eyes flicked over the pile, suspicion pulling his brow tight. Too much firepower for a drifter.
"You got too many guns."
Malcolm didn't answer. He saw the way the man's gaze lingered, weighing how much to skim off the top.
"I'm carrying a doctor to Motherhold," Malcolm said, voice flat, controlled. "She's alive because of me. If she arrives with nothing but a man and empty hands, you'll answer to the ones waiting for her."
The soldier's smirk faltered.
He didn't know if they'd buy it, but soldiers understood hierarchy. And Motherhold carried weight.
He leaned back slightly, still eyeing the weapons, but he no longer looked like a man about to strip half the pile. His gaze slid to the stretcher in the corner, to Iyisha's pale face under the blanket.
"A doctor, eh?" he muttered. "Then you'd better ride fast. She looks like she'll die before you get her there."
Malcolm's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"There's a tax for passage." The soldier smirked. "Not everything you came in with leaves with you."
Malcolm reached into his pack, pulling slowly so the guard inside the room didn't flinch. He lifted one of the raider rifles he had stripped on the road and set it on the counter. The metal clanged.
He followed it with a pistol, then slid two bottles of liquor across the wood.
"Tax," Malcolm said flatly. "And a thank you."
The soldier's grin widened. He tapped the bottles once, then motioned to the side. Another guard gathered the items and stashed them behind the desk. "That'll do."
Malcolm said nothing. He only watched as the rest of his gear was returned. Some magazines were missing. One knife too. He noted it, filed it away. Nothing he couldn't replace.
When the ATV was rolled out, freshly washed, tank topped with fuel, Malcolm raised an eyebrow. That was unusual. Too generous. Either a bribe to make him leave fast or a show of power, reminding him they could just as easily take everything.
He climbed back into his silence and checked the straps on the packs.
As he worked, Malcolm spotted the medic near the gate — the same one who had slipped him the IV bag. The man was talking quietly with another soldier, clipboard tucked under his arm.
Then he unslung one of the extra rifles from his gear pile and walked over.
He held it out butt-first. The medic blinked at him, then glanced to see who was watching. Slowly, he took it, hiding the weight behind his leg.
"Where can I take her?" Malcolm asked, voice low, steady. "She'll need more than patch jobs."
The medic studied Iyisha across the room, her body limp on the stretcher. His face shifted — a flicker of pity maybe, or maybe calculation.
"South," he said finally. "Follow the tracks. There's a place out there. Wanderers say a doctor runs it."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "Safe?"
The medic gave a humorless laugh. "Safe doesn't exist anymore. But men say they walk away patched, not dead. That's all I can give you."
Malcolm gave a single nod. No more words. The rifle changed hands and the matter was closed.
When Iyisha was strapped to the front of the ATV, her head resting against his chest, Malcolm tightened the last buckle and swung into the seat. Her breath brushed weakly against his shirt.
The engine purred steadier now, fresh fuel in its veins, but he didn't trust it to last forever.
The ATV rumbled forward, slow and steady. Every rifle in the towers tracked him, barrels moving with the rise and fall of the engine's growl. Malcolm could feel the weight of those muzzles pressing on him until the barricades slipped behind.
He didn't look back.
The streets were silent. military had purged the undead from this part of the city, but their absence left something worse — stillness.
Corpses lay in heaps at the corners, mountains of rotting bodies, flies rising in thick swarms. The air carried the stench, heavy and sour, enough to make Iyisha stir and press her face harder into his chest. She made a small, pained sound, and Malcolm adjusted his arm, shielding her from the view.
He rode past boarded windows, past storefronts gutted and hollow. School signs, gas stations, faded billboards — all empty, all silent. The city felt stripped bare, a shell scraped clean by death and soldiers.
Malcolm didn't stop. He didn't slow. He rolled south, tires crunching over broken glass and bone fragments, eyes sweeping for anything left alive.
Nothing moved.
The road bled into the edge of the rail line. Rusted train cars sat frozen in place, graffiti scrawled across their sides in fading color. One door hung open, a black hollow. Another was welded shut, steel scars locking it forever.
The farther south he went, the more the world changed. Smoke columns bent against the horizon. Boot prints marked the dirt by the tracks. Once, a half-burned campfire still smoldered, a tin can turned black in the ash.
Watchtowers rose in jagged silhouettes of scavenged steel, men leaning on rifles at their peaks. None of them shouted. None waved. They just watched as he rolled past.
Iyisha shifted against him. Her head moved faintly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. No sound came. He held her tighter and pressed on.
By afternoon, Malcolm saw it.
The free zone stretched along the tracks, its wall made of shipping containers stacked two high and welded together with scrap. Reinforcements bristled along the seams: steel beams, barbed wire, bent rebar crisscrossing like bones.
At the entrance, men stood with weapons slung casual but ready. Not uniforms — scavenged gear, patched leather, mismatched armor. Their eyes followed the ATV as it crawled closer.
Inside, Malcolm saw no women, no children. Only men Every glance lingered too long on her face. Too many men, not enough rules.
Many were gaunt, their eyes sunken, their steps jittering with the twitch of addicts. Some leaned against walls with pipes in their hands, smoke curling around them. Others carried rifles, their attention sharp, predatory.
It wasn't order. It was pressure. Every man watching every other man, waiting for weakness to show.
The ATV hummed into the shadow of the gate. Iyisha sagged limp against his chest, and he felt the burn of every stare weighing her, weighing him.
Malcolm's jaw tightened. He scanned the yard — tents ragged and uneven, fires in oil drums, men gathered in knots trading food, drugs, weapons. He caught eyes on him, cold and cautious, and looked away only after they did.
And he hated more the eyes on her.
One of them licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging over Iyisha's limp form like he was savoring the sight. Another leaned close to his buddy, whispering something that made both of them snicker, their teeth flashing yellow in the half-light. A third didn't bother hiding it — he stood there openly leering, his gaze crawling over her body with a hunger that made Malcolm's fingers twitch toward his rifle.
His jaw tightened, rage coiling hot under his ribs. He held it down, but his eyes cut sharp to each of them in turn, a silent promise that if even one hand reached, he'd put them in the dirt before they could blink.
But Iyisha needed a doctor. That left him no choice.
Malcolm slowed the ATV, boots ready to touch dirt. His eyes locked on the man at the center of the gate, the one the others seemed to orbit around.
If there was a leader here, he'd find him fast.
Malcolm killed the ATV's engine, the sudden silence thick. His hand rested lightly on Iyisha's shoulder as he scanned the free zone.
This place stank of danger, but it was the only place left to keep her alive.
A man with a rifle slung low started walking toward them, boots crunching on gravel. His voice carried rough across the yard.
"You new?" he asked. "You need to show your face to the office."