The rifleman at the gate did not wait for permission. He just turned and started walking, boots grinding against the gravel, rifle loose in his hands.
The rest of the men peeled off the walls to follow at a distance. Their eyes never left Malcolm. Every stare weighed heavy, pressing like a trigger half pulled.
The ATV's engine growled low as he eased forward, Iyisha's head rolling against his chest with every bump but still she did not stir.
They rolled into a yard where the ground was cracked and weeds grew in jagged seams. Steel fencing ran the perimeter, patched with welded plates and rebar.
A warehouse loomed ahead, its big roll up door dragged halfway open, paint flaking in strips. The escort gave a sharp jerk of his chin and Malcolm idled through.
Men lined the walls. Some leaned on posts with rifles in their hands, others sat on crates with knives resting across their knees. A blue barrel fire burned in one corner, its smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling where it pooled like dirty clouds.
He counted exits without moving his head. Two doors in the back, one ladder to a catwalk, three firing positions overhead.
At the center of the room sat a table balanced on cinder blocks. Behind it lounged a man with a pistol near his right hand and a ledger near the left.
He looked at Malcolm, then Iyisha slumped on the ATV, then the packs strapped across the back. His gaze settled on the rifle slung over Malcolm's shoulder and stayed there like a hand that would not let go.
"Where you from?" the man asked.
"Missouri."
"So you crossed the bridge." The man leaned forward slightly. "Did your quarantine?"
"Yeah."
]"You stay here, you give something. Nothing is free." His eyes cut to Iyisha and lingered, weighing her as if she were already currency.
Malcolm unstrapped one pistol and placed it butt first on the crate closest to him. A guard stepped forward, snatched it up, and looked at him with eyes that wanted more. His eyes lingered on the rifle again.
"That is enough," Malcolm said flatly. "We will not stay long."
The guard stiffened but stayed silent. The leader chuckled low, clicking his tongue like a man amused by his own rules.
"You will find this place works different," he said. "Men come in with something. Men leave with less." He waved a hand like he was brushing away dust. "Take them to Doc."
Two men peeled from the wall. The escort started moving again, door creaking open to spill daylight.
Malcolm kicked the ATV alive. The engine coughed, then caught, the sound bouncing in the rafters. He steered for the door, feeling every eye burn into his back until the shadows gave way to sun.
The clinic was another warehouse, smaller and darker, its windows nailed over with boards. Flies hummed at the seams. The air that rolled out as the door opened stank of blood, sweat, and bodies left to stew in their own sickness.
Inside, rows of cots were jammed wall to wall. Men sprawled on them, their bandages soaked through, their skin yellow with fever. One coughed until red spit dripped down his chin. Another rolled over and vomited bile onto the concrete.
It was not a clinic. It was a holding pen.
"Clients for you, doc!" a guard shouted.
A tarp twitched near the back, and a man stepped out. His hair was white, combed neat, and his coat cleaner than anyone else's.
His hands were steady but his eyes sharper than the rifles at his back. He looked at the ATV first, then at the packs, then at Malcolm, as if measuring what they carried and deciding how much he could take for the trouble.
Only then did he let his gaze fall to Iyisha.
"Bring her in," the doctor said.
"Need another room," Malcolm replied. "Somewhere secure. The ATV stays with us."
The doctor's lips curved into a smirk, impressed by Malcolm's insistence on another room.
"Payment first."
Malcolm reached into his pack and pulled a raider's blade, laying it on a crate.
The doctor swept it up without hesitation, sliding it into his coat like it was always his. His teeth flashed in a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Jerry's garage," he said. "Lock it down there."
Jerry's garage sat one lane over, a squat building with its windows bolted and its main door scarred from kicks. The house in front was boarded tight, only one bar visible across its inside.
The ATV rolled inside and Malcolm cut the engine. He lifted Iyisha from the seat and carried her to the cot set in the middle of the space. Her head lolled against his shoulder before sinking into the thin pillow. Her breath rasped, shallow and tired.
The doctor followed with a leather bag, crouching by the cot. He pressed two fingers to her wrist, then leaned close to watch her chest rise and fall. His face betrayed nothing.
"Payment first," he said again.
Malcolm's jaw tightened. He pulled the last raider's blade from his belt and laid it on the workbench.
The doctor's smile widened, teeth too white for this world. He slipped the knife into his coat like a prize.
The bag opened with a clatter. Bottles rattled, tubing unfurled. The doctor laid out a sealed IV, a strip of tubing, a needle, and a small paper envelope of pills.
He tied a tourniquet around Iyisha's arm, tapped until the vein stood, and slid the needle in with a practiced push. He bled the air, taped the line, and hung the bag from a bent hook in the rafters. Drops began to fall, slow and steady.
"Amoxicillin," he said, shaking two pills into his hand. "One now, one tonight. Same tomorrow. Do not miss. Crush it if she cannot swallow."
He lifted the blanket, pressed near the wound, then leaned close to sniff. "No smell of rot yet. Lucky."
He stood, brushing his hands. "Keep the door barred. Keep one eye open. This place eats soft men alive."
His grin came again, smug and thin. He left without another word, the latch clicking shut.
Malcolm barred the door, dragged a tool chest across it, then shoved the workbench against the frame. He checked the window, tightened the boards. Every crack sealed.
He sat in the chair by Iyisha's cot, pistol across his knees. The drip tapped steady, her lips already less blue. He crushed one pill under the face of a wrench, mixed it with water, and pressed it to her lips.
"Drink," he murmured.
She swallowed, slow but sure. Her breathing eased, her color rising faintly.
Outside, the free zone growled. Laughter too sharp, bottles breaking, fists slamming flesh. A fight broke out, voices chanting until they cut off sharp. Silence followed, more dangerous than the noise.
The IV hissed. Her chest rose steady. Malcolm sat with the pistol heavy in his lap, eyes on the door.
Near midnight, boots scuffed outside. The handle rattled against the bar. A laugh followed, then rough voices pressed closer as if trying to force it.
Malcolm raised his pistol and fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Silence dropped heavy after, and the footsteps retreated, moving on.
He did not move.
Iyisha stirred, lips parting, eyes fluttering open before sliding shut again. Her color was better. Sweat rolled down her temple, but it was not fever.
Malcolm brushed a hand across her arm.
"You are safe," he said quietly. "For now."
His hand shifted back to the pistol grip.
If anyone came through that door, they would meet him first.
A rumble shook the ground outside, low and heavy like an engine. Metal clanked at the entrance, chains dragging. Malcolm's gut tightened.
He grabbed both pistols, shoved Iyisha toward the corner, and dropped low. For a breath he listened to the scrape of boots on gravel outside, shadows shifting across the thin cracks of the door.
He counted the silhouettes as they shifted, forcing himself to stay still until he was sure. Only then did his finger curl on the trigger.
A loud bang rang out as the front was wrenched open, light exploding across the garage as he hid on the corner on a cabinet. Headlights flared from a car, silhouettes of several men behind it.
"Come out now!" one of the men yelled, his voice echoing off the garage walls. Another added, "No use hiding, we will drag you out if we have to."
He peeked and saw three men too proud or maybe too dumb to stand in the open, their confidence turning into a mistake.
He answered by firing, dropping two men in a blur of muzzle flash.
"Shit, he got them!" one man yelled, scrambling for cover.
Malcolm ducked back, then peeked again.
One man crouched in the driver's seat, another pressed flat against an oil drum.
"You are dead!" one shouted.
Malcolm stayed silent, but his eyes fixed on the drum. The man was crouched tight behind it but he had no clear line for a shot. Malcolm knew he had to reach the other side to get an angle.
He sprinted across the room as bullets snapped past him. One of the men shouted, "He is too fast!"
The bald head of the hidden man caught firelight for an instant, and Malcolm squeezed off a shot. The man toppled.
The driver panicked, slammed the car into gear, and fled, tires screeching as daylight crept over the horizon.
Malcolm looked at Iyisha stirring in the corner and then outside at the open yard. It was dawn already, pale light bleeding across the wreckage.
Smoke hung in the air, the garage door half-torn from its hinges. Malcolm looked around, knowing they could not stay any longer. They needed to go.