Three days had passed since the attack in Crestview. Three days of Nick drifting in and out of consciousness, his face pale as parchment, his breathing shallow and uneven. Three days of Jenna barely leaving his side, holding his hand, whispering to him when the fever dreams came. Three days of Ashley changing bandages, checking for infection, watching the wound for the telltale red streaks that would mean the antibiotics weren't working. Three days of Jimmy pacing the porch, his eyes fixed on the treeline, his hand never far from his rifle.
The Hummer sat in the clearing where they'd parked it, still covered in dust and leaves, its black paint gleamed dully in the afternoon sun. Jimmy had spent hours already checking it over, learning its quirks, figured out what it needed. The engine was solid, the Duramax diesel hummed like a contented beast, but the tires were dry-rotted, the fuel system needed flushing, and half the electronics were dead. It would take weeks to get it into fighting shape. Maybe months.
But they needed the Suburban back. Not to replace the Hummer. The Hummer was theirs now, a beast of a vehicle that would serve them well, but because two vehicles were better than one. If they found other survivors, if they needed to move quickly, if they had to split up, having a second vehicle could mean the difference between life and death. And Jimmy knew that Suburban. Every bolt, every wire, every weld. He'd built a it with his own hands, poured years of his life into it. The idea of having it rot in that town, to be scavenged by hostiles or overrun by the dead, felt like leaving a piece of himself behind.
He was under the Hummer's chassis, checking the transfer case, when Ashley found him. Her footsteps were soft on the pine needles, but he heard her anyway. He always heard her. It was a habit from the road, from the constant vigilance, from a year of sleeping with one eye open.
"You planning on living under there?" She asked, kneeling beside him. Her voice was tired, but there was warmth in it. There was always warmth, even when everything was cold.
Jimmy slid out from under the vehicle, wiping grease on his jeans. "Just checking things out." He looked at her, really looked at her. She was wearing one of his old flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up, the tails tied at her waist. Her hair was pulled back, and there were shadows under her eyes, but she was beautiful. She was always beautiful.
"How's Nick?" He asked.
"He's awake. Jenna's feeding him soup." She sat down on a stump, exhaustion visible in every line of her face. "He's asking when we're going back for the Suburban."
Jimmy sat beside her, the stump just big enough for both of them. "We're not. Not yet."
"Jim-"
"We're not," he said again. "Not until he's healed. Not until we have a plan. Not until we know what we're walking into." He paused, staring out at the lake. "But we are going back. That truck got us through the end of the world. I'm not leaving it to rot."
Ashley was quiet for a moment, her eyes on the water, where the afternoon sun was painting the surface in shades of gold and amber. "Two vehicles would be good. If we find other survivors, if we need to carry more supplies, if something happens to one of them..."
"Exactly." Jimmy nodded. "The Hummer's a beast, but the Suburban is ours. I know every inch of it. And if we're going to keep surviving, we need to think ahead. We need options. We need to be able to move."
She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. "You think we'll find other survivors? People worth saving?"
Jimmy thought about Marcus, driving north through the ruins, looking for his daughter. Thought about the message on the radio, repeated over and over for a year. Thought about Caitlyn, somewhere out there, waiting.
"I think we have to try," he said. "Otherwise, what's the point?"
That evening, they gathered around the kitchen table. The electric lights from the solar panels cast a steady glow over the room, the bulbs flickering slightly as the batteries cycled. Nick sat propped up in a chair, his arm in a sling, his face still pale but his eyes clear. The wound in his shoulder was healing, Ashley had checked it and hour ago, pronounced it infection free, given it another week before he could even think about using it. Jenna hovered beside him, her hand on his good shoulder, her crowbar leaning against the wall behind her. Ashley had the medical kit open, checking supplies and making lists. Jimmy had a map spread across the table, the route the Crestview marked in pencil, the town circled in red.
"We need to talk about the Suburban," Jimmy said. "I know we can't go back yet. But we need to start planning."
Nick nodded slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. "You want to get it back?"
"I want to get it back. That truck saved our lives more time than I can count. And if we're going to keep surviving, we need more than one vehicle. We need options. We need to be able to move people, supplies, equipment. If we find other survivors-"
"If," Jenna said, but there was no bitterness in her voice. Just caution.
"When," Jimmy corrected. "Marcus is coming. That's one. There are others out there. People like us, trying to survive. And when we find them, we're going to need to carry them."
Ashley looked up from her medical kit. "So you want to keep the Hummer and get the Suburban back?"
"Exactly. The Hummer's a beast. It's built for terrain, for combat. The Suburban's our workhorse. Together, they give us options we don't have with just one."
Nick was quiet for a moment, his good hand resting on the table, his fingers tracing the route to Crestview. "It's a good plan. But those hostiles aren't going to just let us walk in and take it."
"I know." Jimmy pulled out the radio and set it on the table. "That's why we wait for Marcus. That's why we go in smart. He's got military training. He's been surviving out there for a year. He knows how to fight."
The radio sat on the table, silent, waiting. Jimmy keyed the mic. "Marcus. This is Jimmy Graves. We met a year ago. You saved our lives." He paused, his heart pounding. "We need your help. We're in Florida, about fifty miles east of Pensacola. We have a cabin, supplies, a defensible position. Our vehicle was destroyed by hostiles, and we need to get it back. I know you're looking for your daughter, and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. But if you're out there, if you can hear this, we could use a hand."
He released the button. The static returned.
They waited.
One minute. Two. Five. The silence stretched, each second an eternity. Jimmy could feel the hope draining out of the room, feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. Maybe Marcus was too far north. Maybe his equipment had failed. Maybe he'd given up, found someplace to settle, moved on from the search that had consumed him for a year.
Ten minutes passed. Ashley's hand found his and squeezed tight.
Then the radio crackled. A voice, rough with exhaustion and something else. Something that might have been hope:
"Jimmy. Jimmy Graves. I remember you." A pause. Static. "I'm not close. Still pushing north. But I said I'd come if you called." Another pause, longer this time. "Give me a week. Maybe less. I'll find you.
The radio went silent.
Jimmy started at it, his heart pounding. "A week," he said. "He's coming. He's actually coming."
The next morning, Jimmy was up before dawn, working on the Hummer. The sun hadn't even started to paint the sky when he slipped out of bed, pulling on his jeans and boots as quietly as he could. Ashley stirred and reached for him, but he kissed her forehead and whispered, "Go back to sleep. I'll be on the porch."
He'd drained the old fuel the day before, replaced the filters, checked every hose and belt. The tires were still a problem. Dry rot meant they'd need replacing soon, but the onboard compressor worked, and that was something. He was elbow deep in the engine bay when Jenna appeared, two cups of coffee in her hands. She handed him one without a word.
"Thanks." He took it, let the warmth deep into his hands. The coffee was weak, but it was hot, and hot was something to be grateful for.
She leaned against the Hummer, watching him work. Her crowbar was propped against the bumper, the handle worn smooth from use. "You really think we'll get the Suburban back? With Marcus's help?"
Jimmy wiped his hands on a rag, took a long drink of coffee. "Yeah. I do."
"What if those hostiles are still there? What if they've got reinforcements?"
"Then we deal with it." He looked at her, he really looked at her. She'd changed in the past year, they same way they all had. The scared woman they'd pulled from that gas station was gone, replaced by someone harder, sharper, more dangerous. "We've dealt with worse."
Jenna nodded slowly. "Nick says you built the Suburban to survive the apocalypse. Says you spent years on it before the world ended. That you knew something was coming."
Jimmy was quiet for a moment. "I didn't know. I just... wanted to be ready. For anything."
"And now you want it back because it's yours. Because you built it. Because it got us through."
He nodded. "And because two vehicles are better than one. If we find other survivors, if we need to move fast, if something happens to the Hummer... we need options. We need to be able to carry more people, more supplies. The Suburban can do that. The Hummer can do other things. Together, they give us a chance."
They stood in silence for a while, watching the sun climb over the lake, watching the mist burn off the water. It was peaceful, in a way that felt almost like a betrayal. The world was ending, had ended, but here, in this moment, it was beautiful.
"When Nick is healed," Jenna said quietly, "when we go back for the Suburban... I want to come."
Jimmy looked at her. "It's going to be dangerous."
"I know."
"People might die."
"I know." She met his eyes, and in them he saw the same steel that had kept them all alive. "But Nick almost died last time. And I wasn't there. I was here, safe, while he was out there bleeding. I'm not letting that happen again."
Jimmy was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. "Okay. When we go, we all go."
The morning passed slowly after that. Jimmy worked on the Hummer until his arms ached, then moved to the garden, checking the beans and tomatoes, pulling weeds, making sure everything was growing the way it should. Ashley did laundry by the lake, scrubbing their clothes against rocks, hanging them on a line strung between two pines. Jenna had gone inside with Nick, reading to him from one of the books they'd scavenged, her voice soft and steady.
By noon, the sun was high and hot, the air thick with humidity. Jimmy had finished his chores and was sitting on the porch, cleaning his rifle, when he noticed the birds had stopped singing.
He looked up, scanning the treeline. The woods were silent. Too silent. No birds, no squirrels, no wind. Just the heavy weight of heat and something else. Something wrong.
Ashley came up from the lake, her arms full of wet clothes. She stopped when she saw him standing, rifle in hand.
"What is it?" She asked.
"Listen."
She listened. Her face went pale.
"The birds," she said. "They stopped."
Jimmy nodded slowly. "Get inside. Get Jenna. Get Nick ready to move."
"Jim-"
"Go."
She ran.
Jimmy moved to the edge of the clearing, his eyes fixed on the treeline. The woods were dark, the shadows deep, the silence absolute. He could feel them out there. Watching. Waiting.
He'd learned to trust that feeling over the past year. It had saved his life more times than he could count.
"Jimmy!" Ashley's voice came from the cabin. "They're coming. Jenna sees them. A lot of them."
"How many?"
"At least a dozen. Possibly more. Runners too."
Jimmy backed toward the cabin, his rifle up, his finger on the trigger. The treeline was still, but he knew they were there. He could almost smell them. The rot, the decay, the hunger.
The first one emerged at the far end of the clearing. A slow one, its gray face blank, its body stiff, its gait mechanical. Then another. Then another. They shambled out of the trees like ghosts, their mouths open, that wet, rattling moan beginning to build.
But behind them, shapes moved faster. Runners. Three of them, low to the ground, their filmed eyes fixed on the cabin.
"Jenna!" Jimmy shouted. "Front door! Ashley, window! Nick, stay down!"
Jenna burst through the front door, crowbar in hand, her face set, her eyes cold. Ashley was at the window, 9mm raised, her breathing slow and steady.
Jimmy took his position at the corner of the porch, rifle against his shoulder, the first runner in his sights.
The first runner hit the clearing at a sprint, its body low, its arms pumping. Jimmy tracked it, waited, fired. The round caught it in the face, its head snapping back, its body crumpling. Another took its place. He fired again, caught it in the temple, dropped it. The third runner weaved, dodged, faster than the others. He tracked it, fired, missed. He fired again, catching it in the shoulder sending it spinning, but it kept coming. It was twenty feet away. Ten.
Jenna stepped off the porch, crowbar raised. The runner lunged. She swung, caught it in the temple, skull caving in, body dropping. She didn't stop. She was already moving to the next one.
Ashley fired from the window, her shots precise, each one a head shot. One, two, three slow ones dropped before the others even reached the porch. She worked the slide smoothly, methodically, her face a mask of concentration.
But more were coming. Always more. They poured from the tree line, drawn by the sound, by the smell, by the promise of warm flesh. A dozen became two dozen. Two dozen became more.
Jenna was in the thick of it now, her crowbar a blur, each swing sending another body to the ground. She caught one in the face, felt bone shatter, kept swinging. Another in the Tempe, skull caving in. Another in the throat, blood spraying. Blood covered her arms, her face, her clothes. She didn't stop. Didn't slow.
Ashley's 9mm clicked empty. She ejected the magazine, slammed a fresh one home from her pocket, and kept firing. Two runners dropped before the magazine clicked empty again. She ejected, reloaded, kept firing. Three more down. Another click. She reached for another magazine. Her pocket was empty. She'd gone through them all.
"Cover me!" She shouted, dropping behind the porch railing. Jimmy shifted his fire to cover her as she scrambled for the box of ammunition inside the door, her fingers fumbling with fresh magazines.
Jimmy's rifle clicked empty. He ejected the magazine, reached for another. His pocket was empty too. He'd gone through four magazines in the last three minutes. "Shit!"
He dropped the rifle and grabbed the 9mm from his belt, and kept firing. One runner down, two, three. Click. Empty. He ejected the magazine, slapped in a fresh one, and kept firing. Two more down. Click. Empty again. No more magazines.
"Jenna! I'm out!"
Jenna was beside him in an instant, crowbar swinging, covering him while he scrambled for more ammunition. He dove for the box inside the door, grabbed two handfuls of magazines, and started loading.
Ashley was back at the window, her 9mm hot in her hands, firing into the crowd. The runners were getting closer, pushing through the slow ones, their filmed eyes fixed on the cabin.
"Fall back!" Jimmy shouted. "Get inside! We hold the door!"
They fell back, firing as they went. Ashley's 9mm clicked empty. She ejected, reloaded, kept firing. Jimmy's 9mm clicked empty. He ejected, reloaded, kept firing. Jenna was the last through the door, her crowbar catching a runner that got too close, its skull caving in as she slammed the door behind her.
"Barricade it!" Jimmy shouted. "Now!"
They threw everything they had against the door. The table, the chairs, the heavy chest from the corner. The dead hammered against it, their hands clawing at the wood, their moans a constant, terrible chorus.
Jimmy fired through the window, dropping one after another. Ashley was beside him, her 9mm barking. Jenna stood ready with the crowbar, waiting for the door to break.
They fought for what felt like hours. Jimmy lost caught of how many magazines he went through. S>ix, eight, maybe ten. The bodies piled up outside the window, making a barricade of their own. The hammering on the door slowed, then stopped.
Jimmy risked a glance through the window. The clearing was littered with bodies, dozens of them, their gray flesh torn and broken. A few still moved, dragging themselves toward the cabin, but most were still. Dead. Really dead.
The last runner came toward the window, faster than the others, its filmed eyes fixed Jimmy's throat. He raised his 9mm, and pulled the trigger. Click. Empty. No time to reload. The runner dove through the window. Jimmy dropped his gun, and grabbed its throat, holding it back. Its strength was inhuman, its jaws snapping, its breath cold and foul. He could feel himself losing, feel its teeth getting closer.
The crowbar came down. Once, twice, three times.
The runner went limp. Jenna stood over him, chest heaving, her face covered in blood, her eyes wild. The crowbar was slick with gore, dripping onto the floor.
"You're welcome," she gasped.
Jimmy pushed the body off himself, and scrambled to his feet. "Clear?"
Ashley was checking the bodies through the window, her 9mm still raised. "Clear. I think that's all of them."
They stood in the cabin, surrounded by the wreckage of their home. Blood covered the floors, the walls, the furniture. The smell of rot and gunpowder hung in the air, mixing with the copper tang of fresh blood.
Jenna looked at her crowbar, dripping with blood. "That's a new record."
Jimmy almost laughed. Almost.
They dragged the bodies to the burn pit that evening, piling them high, soaking them with fuel. The fire burned for hours, sending black smoke into the darkening sky, the flames casting long shadows across the clearing. They sat around it, too tired to speak, too grateful to question.
Nick had watched from the window, helpless, his useless arm hanging in its sling. When they came inside, he pulled Jenna close, held her with his good arm, his face buried in her hair.
"I heard you screaming," he whispered. "I couldn't do anything. I couldn't-"
"You stayed alive." She held him tighter, her hands pressed against his back. "That's enough. That's always enough."
That night, Jimmy sat on the porch with the radio. The fire was dying, the stars bright overhead. Ashley was asleep inside, her head on a pillow that smelled like him. Jenna was with Nick, the two of them curled up on the couch, her hand in his. The cabin was quiet, peaceful in a way that felt almost sacred.
He keyed the mic. "Marcus. This is Jimmy. We're still here. Waiting." A pause. "Be careful coming in. The dead are getting worse. Smarter. Faster. We had a group hit us today. A few dozen, maybe more. Runners, too. They're not like they used to be. They're learning."
He released the button. Static.
Then, cutting through the noise: "Copy that, Jimmy. I'm pushing as hard as I can. Maybe five more days." A pause. "And JImmy? I know about the dead. I've been out here a year. I've seen things that would break you. Things that shouldn't exist. Things that don't stop."
The radio crackled. "Watch your six. You're not the only one who found out the hard way."
The radio went silent.
Jimmy started at it for a long moment. Then he looked out at the darkness, at the tree line, at the lake that stretched out beyond the clearing. The water was black, the surface smooth as glass, reflecting the stars.
And then he saw it.
At first, he thought it was a shadow. A trick or the light, a branch moving in the wind. But it was too big for that. Too solid. Too real.
A figure, standing at the edge of the lake. On the far side. At least a hundred yards away.
It was massive. Nine feet tall, maybe more. Gray skin stretched over bulging muscle, thick as armor. Its head was misshapen, too large for its body, its jaw hanging open, revealing rows of teeth that glinted in the starlight. Its hands hung at its sides, fingers ending in slaws that looked like they could tear through steel.
And its eyes. Its eyes glowed. A faint malevolent red that cut through the darkness like embers in a dead fire.
Jimmy's hand went to his rifle, his heart pounding, his breath catching in his throat. But the thing didn't move. It just stood there, at the edge of the lake, watching.
Then, slowly, it stepped forward.
Into the water.
The lake swallowed it without a sound. The surface rippled, once, twice, and then it was smooth again. The thing was gone. Disappeared into the depths.
Jimmy sat there, his hand on his rifle, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He stared at the spot where the thing had vanished, waiting for it to surface, to attack, to end them.
The water was still. The night was quiet.
He didn't sleep that night. He sat on the porch, rifle across his lap, watching the lake, watching the darkness, waiting for something that didn't come.
But he knew it was out there. Waiting. Watching.
And when Marcus arrived in five days, they would have to tell him that something new had come to the lake. Something that shouldn't exist. Something that didn't stop.