They moved fast, efficient, almost mechanical, after the cold shower stripped the worst of the blood and dried fluids from their skin.
Shane shouldered the backpack: three cans of beans, two bottles of purified rainwater, a half-box of crackers, the pistol with eight rounds left, extra ammo scavenged from the dead raiders, a flashlight, a first-aid kit missing half its contents, and the framed photo of his mother tucked in the side pocket like a talisman.
Nyra wore Kyle's old clothes; the cargo pants and long-sleeve tee fit her surprisingly well, though the shirt strained slightly across her chest. The machete was now sheathed at her hip in a makeshift leather loop she'd cut from one of the raiders' belts. Over it she'd thrown a dark hoodie, too big, sleeves rolled up, making her look smaller, more fragile than she felt. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail; damp strands still clung to her neck.
Brutus lurched behind them like a loyal, leaking shadow.
They stepped out the front door into pale January light. The neighbourhood was deathly still: no birds, or wind, just the faint metallic tang of blood on the breeze and the distant, ever-present groan of the undead drifting from somewhere blocks away.
Shane scanned the street left and right, then turned to Nyra with his trademark lopsided grin.
"Okay, professor, here's the game plan, since you're technically the adult in the room. We're heading to Oakridge. Forty miles, give or take. Mom might still be there. Grandma too, if the rumors about 'awakened' people leading survivor groups are true. Either way, it's our best shot at finding people who aren't trying to eat us or fuck us in the bad way."
Nyra nodded, hand resting on the machete hilt.
"First priority: wheels," Shane continued, already moving toward the sidewalk. "Walking that distance with our current supplies? That's not a road trip; that's a death march with bonus blisters and probable zombie gangbang. No thanks. There's a garage two houses down, Kyle used to park his Jeep there before he upgraded to the undead lifestyle. If the battery's not flatter than my love life pre-apocalypse, we've got ourselves sweet motorized freedom."
Nyra fell into step beside him, ponytail swaying.
"And if the Jeep's dead?"
"Then we improvise. Steal bikes, hot-wire something, ride Brutus like a very gross horse, I'm open to suggestions. But we're getting wheels one way or another. If the battery's toast… well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Or blow it up. I'm flexible."
She gave him a small, amused smile, already getting used to his constant stream of commentary.
"You talk a lot when you're nervous."
"Guilty," he admitted cheerfully. "It's my superpower. That and raising the dead. And apparently giving you multiple orgasms while covered in other people's blood. I'm a man of many talents. Don't be jealous."
Nyra laughed softly, genuine this time.
"I'm not jealous. I like it. You make… all of this feel less heavy. Like we're still allowed to laugh. Even when we're walking through a graveyard."
Shane's grin softened for a second, something almost tender flickering behind the sarcasm.
"Yeah, well… if we stop laughing, the zombies win. And I refuse to let the shambling dead have the last word. That's my job."
They moved down the cracked sidewalk: Shane in front, pistol drawn low; Nyra close behind, eyes sharp; Brutus trailing at a shambling ten-foot distance.
Two blocks later they found what they were looking for.
A small pack, four zombies, shuffled aimlessly in the middle of a cul-de-sac. Former neighbors, probably: a middle-aged woman in a torn housecoat, a teenage boy in a hoodie, two men in work clothes. Slow, uncoordinated, but hungry. They hadn't noticed the living yet.
Shane stopped behind a parked sedan, crouching.
"Four's manageable. I'll let Brutus take the first one, keep them distracted. You pick your target. No pressure. Just… feel it."
Nyra's breathing quickened. She drew the machete, slow, reverent. The blade caught the weak sunlight and gleamed dully.
"I don't know if I can summon it on command," she admitted. "Last night it just… happened. When I was terrified. When I hated him."
Shane met her eyes.
"Then remember that feeling. The axe coming down. The way he looked at you like meat. The way you wanted to erase him from existence. Channel that. Pretend they're the ones who hurt you. Or hell, pretend they're about to interrupt our next fuck session. That'll get the blood pumping."
Nyra huffed a small laugh despite herself.
"You're ridiculous."
"And you love it," he shot back, winking. "Now go be terrifying. I'll be right here cheering you on like a proud murder-dad."
She shook her head, smiling, then stepped out from cover.
The teenage boy noticed her first; head snapping around, milky eyes locking on. He shuffled toward her with surprising speed for a fresh turn.
Nyra planted her feet. Raised the machete in a two-handed grip.
She tried to summon the feeling: fear, rage, and violation. Images flashed: the raiders' hands on her arms, the knife at her throat, the axe raised high.
Her pulse hammered.
The boy lunged.
She swung.
The blade connected with his shoulder, clean, deep cut. But nothing special. Blood sprayed normally; the zombie staggered but kept coming.
Nyra's breath hitched in frustration.
Not enough.
She dodged his next grab, awkward, panicked, and hacked again. This time into his neck. The cut was shallower. He kept moving.
Shane watched from cover, tense but silent. He wouldn't interfere unless she was in real danger.
Nyra backed up, chest heaving.
"Come on," she hissed at herself. "Come on."
The boy lunged again, claws raking air inches from her face.
Rage flared, hot, sudden, familiar.
She remembered the way the raider had laughed when he backhanded her. The way he'd said pretty neck like it was already his to cut.
The amber in her eyes brightened, visible now, even in daylight.
She swung.
The machete sang through the air.
The blade bit into the boy's neck, not just cutting, but carving. Flesh parted like wet paper; the wound immediately began to widen, black blood pouring in thick, pulsing streams. The edges of the cut blackened and frayed, as if the injury itself was hungry, spreading.
The zombie dropped, knees buckling, head lolling at an impossible angle, dead before he hit the pavement.
Nyra stared at the body, breathing hard.
The other two zombies were closing in, drawn by the noise.
She turned to face them.
This time she didn't wait for fear to build. She reached for the feeling deliberately, pulled it up like a rope from her gut. Hatred. Violation. The need to end something that had tried to end her.
The amber flared brighter.
She met the first one, a burly man in stained overalls, with a horizontal slash across the chest. The cut opened wide on impact; ribs cracked audibly. Blood gushed, not normal spray, but thick, almost syrupy, as the wound tore wider on its own. The man staggered, clutching at the spreading gash, then collapsed.
The last zombie, the woman, lunged.
Nyra sidestepped, brought the machete down in a diagonal arc across the throat.
The blade drank.
The cut unzipped from collarbone to opposite shoulder. The woman's head tilted back; her body folded like a broken marionette.
Silence.
Four bodies on the pavement. Three with normal wounds from Brutus or earlier hacks.
One with the telltale widened, blackened gash.
Nyra lowered the machete. Her arms shook. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cold.
Shane stepped out, pistol lowered.
"That was… more than last night."
She nodded, staring at the blade.
"It scales," she said quietly. "The angrier I get, the more I feed it, the worse the wound becomes. It's not just cutting. It's… unraveling. Like the blade remembers the hate and keeps cutting even after it's gone through."
Shane glanced at the bodies.
"Range?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. It has to be a clean hit. But once it lands…" She gestured at the spreading wounds. "It finishes the job."
He stepped closer, cupping her cheek.
"You, okay?"
Nyra leaned into the touch.
"Scared, excited and sick. All at once."
He kissed her forehead, brief, grounding.
"Good. Means you're still human. Mostly. The rest of you is just really hot when you're homicidal."
She huffed a small laugh.
"Barely."
Shane looked toward the garage two houses down.
"Let's get that Jeep. Then we drive. Test it again on the road, smaller groups, controlled. Figure out cooldown, stamina drain, anything that'll fuck us in a real fight."
Nyra sheathed the machete.
"And when we find people?" she asked softly.
Shane's expression hardened.
"Same rules. They come for us, they bleed. You decide how much."
She nodded, slow, resolute.
They moved toward the garage, Brutus trailing, the morning light turning the blood on the pavement from black to rust-red.
Behind them, the cul-de-sac stayed quiet.
But ahead, forty miles of ruined highway, roaming dead, and whatever pockets of survivors remained, waited.
Nyra gripped the machete hilt tighter.
She was ready to meet it.
XXXX
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