Chapter Text
You wake halfway to the bathroom, caught in a blur of tangled sheets and stumbling feet, your hands groping blindly through the dark. Your stomach churns, threatening rebellion, and by the time your knees hit the icy tile, you're already dry heaving into the toilet. A cold sweat beads at the nape of your neck, your sleep shirt clinging damp against your skin like it, too, is trying to hold you together.
The room spins and swirls as your breathing becomes shallow. You brace your palms against the floor, breathing through the roll of nausea that crashes over you like a wave. Again. And again.
You were dreaming of a room before you were pulled awake. Golden sunlight, ordinary looking, a window overlooking a street. The old apartment you grew up in, maybe. The radiator clicking like it always did in winter.
But then the dream falls apart and the room changes, an overhead light flickering. And there’s that moment again—the moment before Jackson. The nothing . Just a blank space, humming. Static that rings until you’re waking up, already stumbling through your room.
You manage to stand from the floor, legs trembling like they barely remember how to hold you. The flush of the toilet is automatic, a ghost gesture done without looking. But the shakes stay, rattling through you—from your chest, through your spine, settling deep in your thighs. It stays there, shivering like you’re cold, when in reality, you couldn’t feel anything other than panic. The clammy skin, the numbness in your ears, the jackhammering behind your eyes.
It always begins in sleep. That quiet betrayal. Even dreams aren't a sanctuary, betraying you every other night, whispering terrors into your ear.
You've done better lately, sure—almost three weeks on patrol, keeping busy, staying distracted—but nights like these remind you how fragile that illusion is. Each dawn arrives with shaky breaths, the ghostly echoes of empty nightmares clinging to your skin as you try, desperately, to convince yourself you're still alive.
Your fingernails carve crescents into your palm until the numbness dwindles, crawling through veins that pulse too fast beneath your skin. Splashing cold water onto your face feels like a baptism, but it's fleeting, the salvation slipping away as quickly as it came.
Is it possible , you wonder, to panic so violently that your heart just stops? Could that be your fate—surrendering quietly in the stillness before sunrise? You almost envy that escape, if only life would loosen its ruthless grip just a little.
Gradually, the nausea retreats, giving way to sensation returning slowly to your feet, grounding you back into the cold reality of morning. Your hands grip the sink until you're steady enough to stand without support, the porcelain bearing witness to yet another sleepless night.
Your feet are heavier than you remember as you return to your still dark room. But the faintest glow leaks through the window, whispers that morning is close. You move vacantly, pulling on layers, tugging on your boots, and grabbing your pack from the floor.
You've taken to showing up at the stables early. Not for the work, though that's the excuse you repeat, but because this is just how your mornings unfold now. A quiet kind of ritual. The cold air helps with the aftermath of your panic, brushing Penny down, running your fingers through her mane, it gives your thoughts somewhere else to go.
Just for a little while. Just enough time to untangle the mess in your head before patrol starts.
You pause, drinking in the quiet emptiness of the street. In the distance, along the perimeter wall, the overnight patrol shuffles through their familiar choreography, readying for the morning shift change. Late May has softened the harshness of winter, with only the dawn clinging stubbornly to the chill. Your breath clouds visibly, dissolving like whispered secrets into the crisp air.
The snow has vanished, replaced by golden afternoons so bright and clear they tease you into stripping down to nothing but thin sleeves. But today feels different—the sky bruised with heavy clouds rolling in lush waves from the east, promising storms instead of sunshine.
Light pours from the stable doors, spilling out in soft, hazy strokes that beckon you forward like a moth to flame. As you cross the threshold, warmth envelops you instantly. You shed your coat willingly, hooking it gently at the stable’s entrance before your feet guide you instinctively toward Penny’s stall.
Penny waits patiently, her chestnut head already extended from her stall. She nickers softly—a warm puff of air brushing your palm—and you smile, tension easing slightly from your shoulders. Your fingers glide gently along the velvet softness of her nose, tracing the familiar path up to the warm spot just between her eyes.
“Good morning, sweet girl,” you murmur affectionately. Her eyes, large and soulful, seem to search your own like she'd reply if she could.
“It’s gonna be a long day, huh?” You whisper, more to yourself than to her, as she bumps your arm.
"Still holding a grudge, huh?" You crack a slight smile, joking about the time you’d failed to brush her one weary dawn. "Guess I deserved that one."
Penny presses closer, attentive ears twitching as she absorbs your quiet conversation. But then, her gaze flicks past you, ears swiveling forward, abruptly alert. Your heart jolts—like a startled animal—at the realization that you’re not alone after all. The quiet you've been cradling shatters under the weight of her sudden gaze, and for a moment, all you can hear is the thrum of your own pulse.
A chill prickles your spine, muscles tightening instinctively as you turn. Penny’s comforting warmth fades into something uncaring and forgotten. Across the aisle, the stall opposite hers is empty of a horse but not of presence.
Someone’s crouched there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, thick forearms tense and solid in the muted glow. Tools scatter around his boots, proof he’s been here a while, quietly existing outside the edges of your awareness. Your breath stalls in your throat.
He straightens slowly, deliberately, stepping fully into the dusty spill of stable lights. Recognition hits like a soft punch beneath your ribs, and your breath frees in a sigh. Tommy’s brother, Joel.
Always a figure glimpsed from afar, his name filtered through hushed conversations—Maria’s mentions, Tommy’s jokes, Benji’s casual chatter about his favorite uncle. His name scribbled on the patrol roster above yours. You vaguely recall him holding a door for you once, eyes briefly meeting yours, steady but fleeting, before he retreated into his careful solitude again. A ghost on the edges of your life.
Now he stands across from you, bathed in the stable’s soft amber glow. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even glance in your direction. Still, you feel it—feel him—the acute awareness radiating from every rigid line of his shoulders.
You swallow, words forming and crumbling silently in your mouth. Something compels you forward, but the wariness keeps you rooted, awkward and uncertain.
Finally, your voice breaks free, tentative but clear. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”
It feels inadequate, small. You always seem to be apologizing around him, even when there’s no apparent fault. Like your presence itself might need excusing.
Joel turns—just slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch on yours. His eyes are dark from here, like earth still damp from rain. They linger for a moment before drifting away again, like whatever he saw wasn’t worth pulling him from his job.
“Weren’t botherin’ me,” he murmurs, low and gravel-edged, voice worn from the morning. A tone that's neither comforting nor dismissive. Something uncertain lingers in the space between you, as his eyes flicker back to you. Like he, too, is curious for the words you haven’t yet said, lingering to see what you’ll make of the silence.
“You always fix things before dawn?” Your voice is gentle as you step closer, testing the stillness between you like the surface of water.
Joel pauses, glancing sidelong at you. He grabs a rag from the stall door, wipes his palms clean, and tosses it toward his scattered tools on the ground.
“Quieter ’round this time. Less distractions. Fewer people to work around."
You nod slowly, feeling a little pinch of embarrassment, as though his words are a subtle rebuke for disturbing him. But something stubborn roots you there, captivated by the simple fact that you're finally hearing his voice—not secondhand in passing conversation—but directly, warmly rough yet velvety gentle.
“What are you fixing?” you ask, leaning forward slightly as if proximity alone could help you glimpse whatever he's working on.
He squats back down again, motioning vaguely at something beyond your line of sight along the wall. “Central lighting. ’M tryin’ to rewire this chewed up mess.” He sighs, a quiet rise and fall of his broad shoulders that betrays a weariness more profound than just faulty wiring.
You shift your position instinctively, trying to catch a better glimpse of him, all broad angles softened by the half-shadows of the stable. For a moment, you forget yourself—staring perhaps a second too long at the strong line of his thigh, the way tension coils visibly beneath wide forearms.
You didn’t know what made you delay longer than you should’ve—whether it was Joel, or the way he worked in that stall, all quiet focus, like the weight of the world could be sorted through the wiring. Curiosity tugged at you, stubborn and strange.
Only now do you register the difference: the stables seem brighter, the shadows less dense, the corners more illuminated and welcoming. Joel’s handiwork was invisible and unnoticed by you until now.
“Sounds…difficult,” you finally say, voice careful but inquisitive, an offer of acknowledgment rather than pity.
His hands pause again, knuckles whitening around the tool he's gripping. Slowly—reluctantly, almost—he tilts his head, just enough to look at you thoroughly. Dark eyes, sharper than you'd imagined, pin you in place. For a heartbeat, there's nothing else—just the faint flicker of curiosity beneath that guarded gaze.
“Not the worst job I’ve had,” he murmurs at last, the low rasp of his voice filling the space between you, each gruff syllable drawing your focus tighter. You wonder if he knows how compelling he is, even in the silence—especially in the silence.
Before you can say anything back—before you can even decide what it is you want to say—the stable doors creak open with a clang that breaks the spell.
The overnight patrol filters in, boots heavy, voices low. They’re already talking about the storm, something they saw near the edge of the fence line. A routine morning. Just like every other.
You glance back—but Joel’s already turned away, wire cutter in hand, back to whatever he was fixing. Like the conversation never happened. Still, you’d never really heard him speak before—not like that. And now that you had, you found yourself curious. Just curious. Like maybe there was more there than you thought.
So you turn, too, back to Penny, who’s waiting expectantly for you to saddle her.
___
The clouds have deepened their somber hues, heavy and restless, refusing to break or drift off during the first half of your patrol. They haven’t let up once since you left Jackson—pressing low against the valley like a warning held in the sky. Jesse had said it would pass, swore the storm would skirt around, muttering something about the valley acting like a dome, wind direction, pressure—words you tuned out halfway through.
All you caught clearly was Pine Crossing and a warning: the river would likely run high.
But Jesse was wrong. By the time your group reaches the bridge, drizzle has swelled to a steady, insistent rain, droplets stinging your cheeks. Below, the water surges angrily, swirling nearly a foot higher than you’ve ever seen on this route.
Samuel reins in his horse sharply, the animal snorting uneasily. “We should turn back—the bridge ain’t gonna hold like this.”
“If we turn back now, we’re running straight into the worst of it,” Mia calls out, voice pitched against the rising roar of the river. “We push forward. Find high ground. Wait it out.”
Your eyes flick upward to the swirling clouds, something uneasy crawling along your spine. A twist in your stomach makes you grip your reins tighter, and you know it’s not hunger—this gnawing feels different, like instinct tapping softly against your sleeve.
Samuel’s tone hardens like the weather around you. “Helluva idea. That’s a goddamn death wish, Mia.”
“We leave the horses and cross—it’ll hold,” she insists, confidence fraying at the edges as her dark brows arch and knit back together.
“That bridge is sittin’ a breath above flood level. You’re gambling with all our lives.” Samuel doesn’t hide his disdain.
Mia turns, jaw set. Her expression flickers—uncertainty for half a second, then gone. “I’m not asking for your approval. I’m leading today, Samuel.” Her voice is a sharp blade. “This isn’t a democracy.”
He scoffs, rough and low. “You know that don’t mean shit.”
She doesn’t blink. “Then follow or stay behind. But don’t slow me down with your second-guessing.”
Mia calls the shots as leader, and there's no negotiating with authority carved from necessity. You could stay back—bet on luck and your own two hands, but storms aren't merciful. And three is better than one when the wild things come crawling out from behind the veil of rain.
“I’ll go first,” Samuel announces, shouldering responsibility as if bravery alone could ward off disaster. He steps onto the first wooden plank, rotted edges protesting beneath his weight. Each careful footfall is a whispered prayer, hands out to balance himself. When he reaches the opposite side, his shoulders ease—a barely perceptible release of tension before turning around.
“Steady enough,” he calls, motioning with a controlled sweep of his hand. But his eyes fix on you, revealing a flicker of worry he won’t speak aloud.
You dismount, Penny, legs heavier with each step toward the bridge. Fuck , echoes in your mind like a heartbeat, matching the rhythm of rushing water below. Through gaps between planks, dark currents churn hungrily, bubbling upwards as though trying to taste your fear. The bridge groans faintly beneath your first tentative step, an eerie whisper of thunder rolling through.
And then, behind you, you hear it. A sound beneath the storm, just soft enough to be doubted. Guttural and wet. A screech in the distance.
Samuel looks into the stretch behind you, stiffens, but keeps a calm voice as he ushers you forward with open palms. “Keep comin’ slowly, don’t look back,”
But you do. “Shit.” You walk forward, but the bridge complains, rocking softly, wood beneath your boots softening.
You whip your head toward the treeline, just as they break it—three of them, maybe four, tangled in brush and rage, slipping in the mud but gaining speed. And it’s like the storm goes quiet in your head, just for a moment, making space for the primal instinct to kick in.
“Look at me, c’mon sweetheart, keep walking,” Samuel’s voice seeps over the rain, coaxing some of the fear.
Mia’s eyes go wide. “ No —no,—We don’t have time, fuck this—”
“Mia, wait—!” Samuel shouts, reaching as if he could stop it.
But she’s already moving. Boots slapping wet wood, hands out for balance. Her breath ragged, mirroring you with her hair soaked and plastered to her face. Panic bleeds through every motion. She doesn’t take it slow, overlapping with you as the horses skirt off. She pushes at your shoulders, forcing you forward.
The bridge objects, a desperate, splintering whine. Beneath your boots, you feel the wood begin to give out, warping until Mia keeps pushing past you. You reach out to Samuel, catching the look in his eyes, much too slow. The wood gives way with a sharp, vicious snap.
You feel the moment before the fall like a held breath. The plummet comes fast. Your stomach drops before your body does, dragged down by gravity and rot. Wood, water, and screams blur together—Mia’s voice tangling with yours, the river opening its mouth to swallow you both whole.
The river doesn't catch you—it devours you.
A choking, burning cold that immediately soaks your clothing, pulling you underneath as the shock begs you to take a breath.
You’re a ragdoll in its grip, moving fast, limbs slamming against jagged wood, slick rocks scraping along your ribs, your shoulder, your spine. There’s no up, no down—just tumble , just impact .
You breach the surface for a split second, a large gasp, like taking your first breath after being born. Just enough to remember what air is before the river fists your chest and pulls you back under.
Thrashing in your heavy clothes, you kick and claw to grasp anything. Screaming to breathe even when your vision smears to nothing but green and black. You open your mouth— reflex, mistake —and the river fills you.
Your first thought is that it burns, and maybe you thought your death would be peaceful. No, it’s not, you didn't deserve peace. Your body is a numbness as it gets swept away, losing control of your extremities from the freezing waters. Every nerve fires in protest, a final tantrum before the lights dim. Your body fights until it can’t. Until something in you lets go.
And in that flicker of surrender—when your limbs stop flailing, when your heartbeat thins in your ears— that’s when it stops hurting. That’s when you become so numb that there’s some semblance of peace.
Strange how you fought so hard, survived so much, only to drown because fear made someone reckless. You can't even blame Mia—panic makes animals of us all. And wasn't survival always just one misstep away from disaster anyway?
Lungs on fire, pressure squeezing gently, demanding surrender. You wonder vaguely about what's next, if anything comes after this murky dark. Yet, strangely, the fear recedes, and something like peace brushes your thoughts.
Because, in the end, someone saw you—these strangers, flawed as they were, reached out, offered warmth, offered shelter. At least, for a brief flicker in the dark, you were someone worth saving.
And someone had cared for you. They cared.
___
Breaking branches. The crunching sound beneath your boot, the satisfying crackle sound—you used to chase that feeling in the fall, seeking leaves that snapped underfoot. Back home, before Jackson, before everything. You'd lengthen your step to hear that crunch. But this isn't autumn, it's spring. No leaves, no branches beneath your weight, so why does the cracking still echo around you?
You attempt to open your eyes, but your body resists. Cold rain pelts your face, pooling in the hollow of your eyes, sharp little needles pricking against your numbed skin. Yet, somehow, inside you're warm, almost burning. Your chest ignites with every labored breath, a deep, fiery pain in your lungs. Your body rolls involuntarily, and suddenly you're retching—water spills from your lips, hot and bitter on your tongue. Lungs aching as life pushes its way back in.
An involuntary wail escapes your mouth from deep within you.
“Fuck, c’mon.” Samuel’s voice sounds distant, muffled through the haze that clouds your mind.
Time has lost meaning; it might have been hours, could be seconds—you can’t tell if you're waking up or drifting into some endless dream. Maybe you're still underwater, perhaps this is death, and you're trapped in its embrace. Another cough rattles your body, contracting your core, until finally, you manage to force your eyes open. Mud clings to your back, rain collects around your body, but nothing feels real yet. You gaze upwards, and the trees look like you're falling into the sky as your equilibrium spins.
The sound continues, rhythmic and sickening, not from your imagination.
Slowly, painfully, you roll your head toward the noise. Samuel kneels beside Mia, his blonde hair darkened by rain, clinging to his forehead. Mud streaks his face, a mixture of desperation and panic twisting his features. His hands pump rhythmically into Mia’s sternum, each push sharp, accompanied by the sound of crackling bone beneath the force of his palms.
Mia lies unmoving, her skin pale, lips tinged a ghostly blue. The warmth inside you vanishes instantly, leaving behind a chill so profound it seeps into your bones, heavier and colder than the river that nearly claimed you.
You force yourself upright, waterlogged clothes pulling you down. Your elbow buckles instantly, shooting pain travelling up your bones; collapsing again, breath hitching with a rasp. Your lungs still burn, the river lingering in your throat, whispering cruelly— I almost had you.
“S-Sam—” Your voice breaks, pathetic, barely more than a strained whisper swallowed by the thunder. He doesn’t hear you, doesn’t look your way. His focus is locked on Mia, his movements desperate, frantic compressions against her chest. You look away, heart tightening, fear curling around your spine like thorns.
Where were the infected now? Did the horses run for it? How long had Samuel been at it?
You gather your breath, pain splintering from all over as you try again. “S-Samuel—”
This time, he looks up, soaked hair plastered across his forehead, his eyes dark with rain, defeat already shimmering beneath the surface.
“I-I’m tryin’—” he says, voice shredded by something more than exhaustion. His fingers press to Mia’s neck, searching for life. He shakes his head, frustration mingling with grief, then tries again, compressing with renewed vigor.
Your vision clouds, edges smudged in black ink as you turn your gaze skyward. The clouds churn, even darker now, indifferent and cold, as if this loss means nothing—as if Mia means nothing .
“She’s gone,” Samuel finally murmurs. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the river's cruel laughter. You force your head sideways, catching him gently zipping Mia’s jacket to her chin, like he’s tucking her away, protecting her dignity, her memory, before slowly rising. He pauses, uncertain, hovering as though his heart is still begging him to try again, to keep fighting until he, too, collapses.
Warmth trails down your cheek—blood or tears, you can't tell anymore. Your heart fractures, the pieces sharp enough to draw more blood, digging deeper wounds.
“N-No,” you choke out, the sob tightening in your throat, agony ripping through your chest anew. You claw at the mud, fingers trembling, desperate to crawl closer, to revive what Samuel couldn't. But your limbs fail you, heavy with grief, useless against the weight of death.
Samuel’s voice reaches you again, distant yet firm.
“Can ya stand? Storm’s only gonna get worse if we stay.” The wind surges as if agreeing with him, whipping icy needles of rain against your skin, each drop harsher than the last.
You blink, vision blurring, eyes fixed on the dark shape of Mia’s body lying pale, framed by the churned-up earth.
“I… I don’t know,” you murmur, the words brittle in your throat, already breaking apart. You taste them like you taste the blood on your tongue.
“What about Mia?” you ask, the words leaving your lips without thought, drawn from a place in you still desperately reaching for order in this chaos.
Samuel’s response comes slowly, like he's pulling it up through mud. “When the storm lets up, we’ll ride back. We’ll bring her home.”
He lifts you carefully, wrapping a sturdy arm around your waist. Most of your weight leans against him—your legs weak, unsteady, a distant feeling like you’ve left half of yourself behind.
Pain blazes suddenly, white-hot, down your thigh. Glancing down, you see a thin branch, splintered and jagged, driven deep into the meat of your outer thigh. Blood trickles warmly, seeping in slow, crimson rivers down your jeans. A sinking dread spreads, an awful feeling, that if the river didn’t kill you, the blood loss will, or the hypothermia that wants you to claw at your clothing. Your head feels light, but with what strength you have, you look back.
Your gaze lingers on Mia’s shrinking form as Samuel drags you forward, step after painful step. You wonder if her last thoughts were anything like yours—fleeting, uncertain, unfinished—an echo cut short by the cruelty of circumstance.
You limp further into the storm-darkened woods, each aching step carries you away from her—into the forest, into a silence heavier than the churning waters.
A bitter metallic taste coats the roof of your mouth, accentuating the cold in your body. Your vision fogs at the edges, darkening in slow pulses. You barely register the grip of Samuel’s hands, steadying you as everything begins to tilt.
Somewhere in Jackson, Maria situates at her desk. Flicking on the lamp at her left, her desk illuminates in all its messy glory.
Finally, Maria lets out a hearty sigh. It had been a rather rough and long morning. Benji was sick—or just didn’t want to get up for school—and she had to argue with him for half an hour. Tommy had been no help, already out the door with a chaste kiss. The rain had caused her bad knee to act up, so she resorted to hobbling over the puddles.
The static crackle of her walkie jolts her from the edge of focus, just as she grabs her logbook. For a moment, it’s static—then Jesse’s voice bleeds through, half-garbled, his usual morning ramble punctuated by weather reports and poor signal.
“Patrol three hasn’t checked in,” he states, his tone forced casual. “Figured they holed up somewhere. I’ll try again before sending scouts.”
Maria didn’t answer right away. Pressing deep with her fingers to her temples, exhaling a deep sigh. She didn’t know where to begin with all the work.
Another hour trickles by, and the rain still hasn’t let up. She blinks out the windows into the view of the sky and storm that has gotten worse. The papers in front of her blur at the edges—supply logs, outage reports, fuel calculations. Mercy wasn’t on the list.
They wouldn’t make it another year, not like this. Their only source of electricity, the dam, was half-collapsing again. The west end was already losing power due to chewed-up wiring, which posed a fire hazard. Every year, she thought it’d be the last they could hold. And yet, somehow, Jackson survived. She just didn’t know what it was costing her anymore.
Then—boots. Pounding down the hallway, fast and heavy. A knock, short and sharp.
“It’s open,” she calls out, already bracing herself, slipping her glasses off her nose.
Jesse barrels in, flushed and breathless.
“You ran?”
“I—I did.” He drags mud across her rug like he’s unaware it exists, navy raincoat dripping into a puddle on her floor.
“Walkie?”
“Tried,” he says, chest rising hard. Maria pulls it from her belt, flips the volume on high—dead.
“Patrol three’s horses just showed up at the gate,” he says. “No sign of the riders.”
“Shit.”
Her body moves before her brain can quite catch up. That old tightness coiling in her gut—same one she’d felt the morning of the horde, when a large chunk of the town ended up buried the next day.
Maria’s already moving. She doesn’t think, just reaches for her coat, and slings it over her squared shoulders. “Did you send scouts?”
“They left after I last walkied. Storm’s getting worse.”
“Call the rest home,” she orders without much thought, voice laced with authority.
Already halfway down the hall, Jesse hurries to keep up. Outside, the sky has turned violent. Rain comes sideways, needling into her coat as she steps into the street. She doesn’t flinch as she half walks, half runs into it. She’d seen worse than this, and worse had come walking back before.
Static burst through the walkie clipped to Jesse’s hip—scouts confirming the bridge had collapsed near Pine Crossing. The river was flooded over before the line crackles too much to hear.
Maria's first thought was you . Out there with your reckless judgment and false confidence. She’d kept her doubts mostly to herself, let you wear the armor that didn’t quite fit. She turned a blind eye to everything, played the role, and let Tommy talk her into letting you go. And she knew .
But now, here she was—pacing the wall like some worried mother, chewing the inside of her cheek raw, praying her lack of restraint wouldn’t cost another life.
The floor beneath her boots was already worn; another few minutes, and she’d carve a path into the wood.
Tommy’s silhouette breaks through the stormlight as he approaches. Drenched, like he hadn’t had any time to zip up his coat, dark curls dripping into tiny ringlets. She stopped pacing but didn’t look at him. Didn’t want a fight. Didn’t want to say it out loud, not in front of everyone— I told you so —but he’d see it in her eyes anyway.
“She’ll be okay,” Tommy said, his voice quiet as he neared her. “They all will, Samuel knows what he’s doing.”
Maria exhales loudly, the kind that comes from somewhere below her ribs.
“Mia was in charge, you know her. We can’t lose any more people, Tommy.”
Not another body. Not another name added to the long list along the wall.
“There won’t be any of that today.”
Maria felt sick of the waiting, a helpless knot lodged deep within her chest, growing tighter with each passing second. She strained her vision, peering into the veil of rain-soaked trees until Jesse’s sudden movement broke her trance, pointing urgently toward the distant treeline and pressing the binoculars into her shaking hands.
Even through magnified lenses, the silhouettes remained blurred, ghostly figures racing toward the gates. Her pulse quickened, heart hammering erratically in her chest. Three scouts rode hard, desperation evident in their stride.
The gate moans heavily, metal creaking painfully, protesting against the rain that seeps into every hinge, promising rust. Her breath caught sharply as the riders breached the walls in a flurry of mud and urgency, horses slicked and panting.
Instantly, Maria recognized Joel. Rain tracing the sharp lines of his face, hair dark and matted, dripping from the tip of his nose, darkening the scruff along his jaw. His brows knit tight beneath the downpour, pulling the reins taut with a single decisive hand. His horse halts sharply in the mud, obedient to his silent command, hooves skidding slightly against the slick ground.
Samuel nearly throws himself from the back of the shared mount of another horse. Staggering slightly before finding his footing, immediately moving towards Joel.
Maria’s attention, however, darts to find you amongst them. Frantic eyes searching wildly at weary faces. Then, you—wrapped protectively in the shelter of the coat Joel was wearing. You sit draped sideways over his horse, slumped, limp, and lifeless against his chest like a fallen thing. Your skin a ghostly pale, lips tinted a terrifying shade of purplish-blue, your head lolling softly with each breath Joel takes.
She couldn’t even tell if you were breathing, your eyes closed so softly it looked like sleep. Maria knew something was wrong, the way your body looked drained of all warmth—in the slackness of your limbs, in the terrifying stillness of your form.
Maria could feel the ground sway beneath her, her heart stuttering, a dreadful ache spreading rapidly through her veins.
“What happened?” Maria demands, voice barely rising above the pounding rain, urgent and thick with worry as Tommy rushes forward to join Samuel in carefully easing your fragile form from Joel’s protective grasp.
Maria takes Joel in from his high horse. He didn’t look like a savior. He looked like hell. Drenched to the skin, eyes flat and unreadable, jaw set in that stubborn way of his—like if death had come for you, he’d have fought it with his bare hands. Not because he knew you. But because someone had to.
Your blood had warmed through his clothes on the ride back—now cold, running down the saddle, seeping in dark streaks as he shifts to cradle your head with his palm. He helps guide it into Tommy’s arms so as to not have it whip back. Joel wanted to know the answer to that question the entire way home. One minute, he’d been on his knees patching a leak in the dining hall. Next, he was out in the rain, on some trek for Jesse with two others.
Samuel had been half-delirious when they found you, his words looping like a broken record: She needs to get home. We need to get her home.
Over and over, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
And Joel—he'd never seen Samuel so spooked. Even as he took you from Samuel's arms, his hands trembled as he pressed them to your wound, like sheer will alone could keep the blood in your body.
“And Mia?” Jesse spoke up, and Maria felt guilt wrap around her throat and squeeze. She didn't even notice Mia wasn't present, but she could connect the dots. Samuel’s somber eyes meet with Maria’s, briefly, and with a soft shake of his head, he follows Tommy to the hospital.