Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Charlotte Morningstar?” the nurse called out with her voice echoing slightly in the busy hallway.

“That’s me,” The response came with a nervous chuckle. “But, uh, please—just Charlie.”

Unfazed by the exchange, the nurse slid a crisp white vest across the counter. Standing a head taller than most with her light blonde hair, Charlie accepted it with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She shrugged off her blazer (the final piece of her chosen casual business ensemble) and draped the vest over her red dress shirt. Her folded blazer joined the sea of personal items in the lounge area.

Vest donned, Charlie rejoined the group of volunteers. They gathered around a staff member delivering the day’s briefing with the seriousness it deserved. Charlie listened intently, her mind latching onto every word about the patients they were about to meet. The words ‘special needs,’ ‘sensitivity,’ and ‘patient experiences’ settled in her mind next to a resonant thought: empathy as a cornerstone of social work.

Post-orientation, the volunteers dispersed to their assigned stations. With a manila folder clutched in her hand, Charlie found a quiet corner to review the scant details of her patient. The file was thin from its scarce details except for the lengthy medical description unlike the others she’d glimpsed. The profile unveils the following:

After reading through the medical record, Charlie's breath caught in her throat, her heart sinking like a stone in her chest.

Anger bubbled up inside her, hot and fierce, as she struggled to comprehend the brutality of the patient’s injuries. Who could do such a damn thing to another human being? The thought churned in her mind, fueling a fire of righteous indignation.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she fought to contain the emotions threatening to overwhelm her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Charlie's mind raced with questions, each more futile than the last. Who was responsible for those injuries? How could they be brought to justice? And, most importantly, how could she help the Sergeant heal from the trauma she had endured?

With a steadying breath, Charlie then focused on the photograph pinned to the corner of the folder, not to let herself be more stressed out than already is. It was a military portrait, showcasing a woman whose black uniform stood in sharp relief against the stark white background. Charlie couldn't help but be drawn to the tanned woman in the photo with a commanding presence, her determined amber eyes piercing through the lens. The blonde noted the strong jawline and defined cheekbones.

Her short black hair framed her face, with a fringe almost covering her left eye. Her gaze had seen and experienced things that most people couldn't imagine. Yet, despite the stern exterior, her eyes also showed a sense of vulnerability.

As Charlie studied the photo, she couldn't help but wonder about the woman. What had she been through? What had led her to this moment? And most importantly, how could Charlie be there for her, to offer compassion and understanding in the face of whatever demons she was battling?

However, she found that woman quite… attractive. Huh.

Charlie then secured the manila folder under her arm and navigated the maze of corridors to where she hoped to find her assigned patient. Yet, she is absent, prompting Charlie to seek out a nurse.

Right, self-isolation is one of the patient’s challenges.

“Looking for her?” The nurse glanced at the document, then gestured vaguely towards the end of the room. “Room 444. As you read the records, she’s not one for mingling, even avoiding the routine med checks.”

As Charlie turned to leave, the nurse’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Good luck.”

Puzzled but undeterred, Charlie stopped at the supply room for a first aid kit, a precaution suggested by the nurse’s cryptic comment. She followed the sequence of numbers down the hallway until she reached Room 444. The nameplate read simply:

Sgt. Rodríguez

Inhaling deeply, Charlie knocked softly against the wood. "Hey, is anyone there?"

The corridor offered no reply save for the muted bustle of life somewhere far off. Charlie, persistent, rapped on the door again firmer. "Just checking in. All good in there?"

No answer came.

A crease formed between Charlie's brows as she grasped the doorknob, surprised to find it’s unlocked. A moment's hesitation, then the knob turned under her hand. "I'm coming in, okay? No need to freak out," she declared, pushing the door open.

As the door swung wide, Charlie's gaze fell upon the figure seated by the bed, her eyes drawn to the woman's profile. The patient's hair was slightly longer than in the photo, falling just above her shoulders in dark waves. But what caught Charlie's attention were the bandages that adorned her head with a gauze patch over her left eye.

Approaching cautiously, Charlie took in the woman's motionless form, her gaze fixed on something beyond the window. "Um… Sergeant?" She called out softly, unsure if the woman would even acknowledge her presence.

There was still no response, the woman seeming lost in her thoughts. With a sinking feeling in her chest, Charlie took another step forward, her instincts urging her to reach out. She closed the distance between herself and the patient. "Sergeant... Valeria?" she tried again. "I'm here for you.”

At the sound of her name, the woman finally turned her attention towards Charlie, her expression troubled and tense. The blonde could feel the gaze like assessing her in some way, but Charlie still offered her a reassuring smile, trying to ease the tension.

"It's all good," Charlie murmured, edging nearer. "Just wanted to see how you're holding up. Need anything?”

The patient's lone right eye observed Charlie from head to toe, seeming to size her up. Charlie tried to remain calm under the scrutiny, waiting for some sign of recognition or response from the woman before her.

Breaking the silence, Charlie introduced herself. “I’m Charlie,” she said, her tone inviting and friendly. “I’ll be working with you while you’re here. Got a name you prefer?”

The patient's gaze lingered on Charlie, silently appraising her with her lone eye. Charlie waited patiently for a response, but none came. Instead, the woman's gaze drifted down to her clenched fists resting in her lap, her expression unreadable.

A flicker of disappointment crossed Charlie's features, but she quickly shook it off. Noticing the frayed edges of the bandage over the sergeant's eye, she spied an opportunity.

Charlie settled into the metal chair beside the bed, the first aid kit in hand. "This patch has seen better days," she observed. "Do you mind if I change it?"

The patient's initial reaction was to tense, a natural defense against the anticipated touch. Yet, as Charlie unfolded a fresh bandage, the woman's resistance seemed to dissolve, leaving a sense of ease in its place, seeing how gentle the blonde’s movements were.

With careful and practiced hands, Charlie began to unwind the old dressing, her movements carefully to avoid discomfort. The patient remained still, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window as Charlie worked.

After removing the worn bandage, Charlie was drawn to the bleeding near the patient's eye. She gently cleaned the area, revealing the tender skin marred by scabs beneath. Judging by the injury and the records that have already been told, the nature of the injury does suggest a violent cause with repeated harm left the eye socket swollen and severely damaged.

Her brain screams to hunt down whoever caused this.

With a gentle touch, Charlie began to clean and dress the wound in light and tender touches. The other woman flinched at the touch, pain crossing her features before she forced herself to remain still. Charlie paused, her heart aching at seeing the patient’s silent suffering. She wished she could ease her pain and offer her some semblance of comfort in this sterile, unfamiliar environment.

"I'm sorry, this might sting," Charlie’s tone is apologetic. "But it'll start feeling better soon.”

She continued carefully cleaning the wound. While doing so, the patient's tense demeanor began to soften even further. Charlie couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction, even feeling her cheeks flush as she watched the woman relax under her touch.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Charlie finished cleaning the area around the other woman's eye. She carefully applied a fresh bandage, tucking it snugly into place to protect the tender skin underneath.

"There we go," Charlie said softly, smoothing down the edges of the bandage. "All done.”

The patient remained silent, her gaze fixed on some unseen distant point. But there was a subtle shift in her demeanor, a slight easing of the tension that had been present.

As Charlie's gaze wandered over the woman's form, she noticed a full-sleeve tattoo winding its way down the woman's right arm until her wrist. The intricate design danced across her skin, weaving swirling patterns and figures. Charlie hadn't noticed it before, perhaps obscured by the hospital lighting, but now that she saw the entire forearm, she couldn't make out the entirety of the tattoo. She found herself utterly captivated while the hospital scrubs covered the upper arm sleeve.

The tattoo appeared to depict a series of religious-looking angelic figures (that Charlie is unfortunately clueless about), their graceful forms adorned with intricate details. Each figure seemed to exude a sense of divine serenity with their outstretched wings. Yet, interspersed among the angels were darker, more enigmatic symbols.

When the patient's voice finally came, it was a soft, gravelly whisper. "It's... Vaggie," she said. "That's what everyone calls me. Sergeant isn't necessary."

Charlie's response was instinctive. Her voice warmed as she echoed the name. "Vaggie," she said, a smile in her tone. "It's a beautiful name..." Realizing her slip, Charlie coughed a feigned interruption. “I mean, thank you for letting me know.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Vaggie's lips, a flicker of gratitude in her lone eye. It was a subtle gesture, but it filled Charlie with a sense of relief, and it even fluttered her chest, knowing that she had made a connection with her patient.

Vaggie nodded, and her hand instinctively went up to her bandaged eye. "And... thank you for helping me replace it.”

Charlie returned Vaggie's smile. Her heart felt lighter, knowing she had comforted the woman before her.

Chapter Text

07:32 am

The first hints of dawn cast a soft glow through the sheer curtains, gently coaxing Charlie from her slumber. She groaned as consciousness seeped back. The sunlight played across her face, urging her eyelids to part. As the remains of her dreams faded, she found herself nestled within the familiar comforts of her bedroom, the queen-sized bed covered in plush pillows and soft blankets.

Hm. Perks for owning a luxurious hotel with a penthouse to live in, so much for being the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world.

However, a furrow creased her brow as she took in the expanse of the room, her gaze settling on the space beside her. A pang of longing pulled at her heartstrings, only soothed by the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee. She turned toward the aroma, finding Vaggie there. A warm smile adorned Vaggie’s lips, and in her hand, she offered a steaming mug.

“Morning, hun,” Vaggie’s voice was a tender caress for the blonde, she then brushed a stray lock from Charlie’s forehead, sealing the greeting with a kiss upon her temple.

“Mornin’,” Charlie hummed just from getting woken up sloppily. She welcomed the coffee mug into her palms and take a sip.

As she lowered the mug, her gaze met Vaggie's. “Thanks,” Charlie murmured, her fingers brushing Vaggie’s hand. "I wish we’d made this together, though.”

Vaggie chuckled. “You know I’m an early bird,” she teased. “Wanted to treat you to breakfast in bed.”

Charlie’s brow arches in mock surprise. “You did catch me off guard,” she admitted, then took another sip of her coffee before returning it to her partner. "Next time, wake me up first, chef.”

Their laughter mingled as Vaggie perched on the bed’s edge. “It’s a deal,” she agreed, only to be pulled into an unexpected embrace, Charlie’s lips pressing a trail along her cheek.

“Why not… cherish this moment?” Charlie whispered, her kisses a soft exploration along Vaggie’s neck. “Breakfast can wait.”

Vaggie’s giggle was a melody, even as she playfully protested, “But it’ll get cold…”

Charlie’s response is her touch tracing Vaggie’s features. “We’ll just warm it up later,” she declared, sealing her intent with kisses that spoke like a hundred... kisses?

With a soft sigh of surrender, Vaggie set the mug of coffee down on the bedside table, careful not to spill a drop. She turned back to Charlie, melting into the blonde's embrace.

Their lips met in a gentle, lingering kiss. They got lost to the point they forgot about the outside world, focusing only on each other as they reveled in the simple pleasure of being together. The morning sunlight cast a golden glow, illuminating their tangled limbs and hair as they shared lazy kisses.

Charlie is first to pull back between them, letting her blue eyes linger across her lover’s face. She couldn’t help but admire Vaggie's amber eye sparkle that drew Charlie in like a moth to a flame. Her skin, kissed by the sun, glowed with a natural radiance and Charlie couldn't help but gently run her fingertips over along with the fading scars around her exposed limbs.

Speaking of her limbs, Charlie was a bit bummed that Vaggie’s tattooed right arm was buried down the mattress to the point she couldn't fully see through the ink’s design despite just wearing her tank top. However, it still rewards the toned arms that Charlie still touches through.

Vaggie's dark lips, full and inviting, curved into a soft smile that reached her eye. Her black hair framed her face and cascaded down her shoulders, absolutely finds the other woman attractive and even gets fun in playing and strokes it on how ridiculously soft it is.

Charlie then digs her face by the crook of Vaggie’s neck. “I’ve dreamt about you, baby,” she abruptly spoke while planting a soft kiss, making the other woman hums in contentment.

“Oh?” Vaggie subconsciously raises a brow, “What’s it about?” She questions as she smooths out the blonde strands inbetween her fingers.

Charlie let out a sigh as she felt her hair being pulled gently. “Back when we first met in the hospital four years ago.”

“Huh…” Vaggie slowly nodded, and as the two fell silent momentarily, Charlie could not help but raise her head to gaze up at her girlfriend, “What’s wrong?”

Vaggie hesitates a bit before replying weakly, “I just… it surprised me that out of all the times we spend our time together, the one you dreamt about is the… lowest of the low, y’know?”

Before Charlie opens her mouth to apologize, Vaggie places her finger by her lover’s lips to silence her. “Hey, don't worry about it. I know you didn't mean anything by it," she murmurs. "But it's… still hard to think back sometimes.”

Charlie's heart clenched in guilt at the hint of pain in Vaggie's voice. She reached up, covering Vaggie's hand with her own in a silent apology. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dredge up those memories.”

Vaggie shook her head, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "It's okay, babe," she reassured, her fingers tracing patterns on Charlie's skin. "Like I said, no se preocupe por eso. We've come a long way since then, haven't we?"

Charlie's smile was wistful, her gaze locked with Vaggie's as she nodded, remembering the slow bonds they had with each other when they first met in the hospital. "I'm not sure what that means, but yeah, we have," she agreed. "And I wouldn't change a thing.”

“It means ‘don’t worry about it’.”

Ever since they started dating, Charlie couldn’t help but regret not trying to learn Spanish classes back in high school. “Right.”

Their eyes met and with a contented sigh, Charlie buried her face in Vaggie's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her skin not until the other woman gently got up from bed. “As much as I would love to stay in bed and cuddle,” Vaggie brushed the blonde strands off Charlie’s face. "There's a reason why I made that coffee strong.”

Charlie let out a playful groan. Her disappointment was shown in the pout that graced her lips. “Fine,” she conceded, though her tone was playful. “But you owe me extra cuddles tonight.”

Vaggie chuckled. “Sure,” she leaned in to steal a quick kiss before pulling away. “Now, get dressed, sleepyhead.”

With a playful roll of her eyes, Charlie pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet finding the cool hardwood floor beneath. She stretched, feeling the satisfying pop of her joints as she reached for her clothes, already planning the day.

Vaggie and Charlie found comfort in the morning routine, the aroma of reheated breakfast wafting through the air as Vaggie’s culinary efforts graced the table. With a flick of the remote, Charlie brought the television to life, letting the hum of morning news fill the background just to keep up with worldly events.

“... the headlines today are dominated by a baffling viral outbreak,” the news anchor’s voice echoed. “Health officials and scientists are scrambling as hospital admissions skyrocket, all due to this mysterious illness.”

"That's right, Tom," chimed in a feminine voice, "Patients have been presenting with severe flu-like symptoms; high fevers, fatigue, and respiratory issues. Doctors initially thought it was a typical flu season, but the rapid spread and traditional treatments weren't working have left them baffled and causing concern. Authorities are reminding people to practice good hygiene, wash their hands frequently, and avoid close contact with those who show the symptoms."

Charlie, her curiosity piqued, glanced over her shoulder at the screen. A blonde reporter stands by the sterile backdrop of a hospital, "While they are yet to determine the exact origin of this virus, some experts believe it may have jumped from animals to humans back in Europe, but nothing’s off the table yet."

The screen returned to the male anchor, who offered a final note on the situation, "Caution is the watchword, Katie. We’ll keep you updated on this evolving crisis. In the meantime, health agencies are in overdrive to better understand this mysterious virus and find a way to contain it."

Charlie pondered, her fork idly chasing scrambled eggs around her plate. “A virus, huh…”

Vaggie sighed, a shadow crossing her features as she rose to clear her dishes. “Explains the medical leaves last week. But honestly, it all sounds like nonsense to me.”

Charlie’s brow creased, her eyes searching Vaggie’s. “You mean our staff falling ill?”

“Not that,” Vaggie leaning back against the counter, arms folded. “It’s the news—they spin these wild conspiracy theories. Makes it hard to believe.”

“Still, caution wouldn’t hurt,” Charlie countered, a forkful of eggs pausing at her lips. “Didn’t you notice how unwell the staff on leave seemed?”

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose, a frown creasing her brow. “I need to double-check those medical notes…” she murmured, more to herself than to Charlie.

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted as the different news anchor’s solemn tone announced a shift in coverage. “We now turn to a breaking story,” the screen declared, capturing their undivided attention. A mugshot filled the frame; a brown-skinned man with slicked-back hair and a disarming grin, the bold caption ‘Alastor Hugh arrested’ splashed below.

"Notorious serial killer Alastor Hugh, also known as the 'Radio Demon,' has been apprehended by authorities in New York City." The anchor reported, "Once a beloved radio host in Louisiana, he’s been linked to a string of gruesome murders spanning several states and will end with a trial for the death penalty back in his home state.”

Charlie’s gaze was glued to the screen as the anchor detailed Alastor’s chilling legacy. The screen displayed images of crime scenes with decapitated and buried bodies, police tape, and grieving families of the victims.

Vaggie's lips pressed into a thin line as she listened to the broadcast. "Good riddance," she muttered with contempt, "He's been all over the news for years. Sick bastard got what he deserved.”

Charlie slightly nodded, though she couldn't shake the unease at the mention of such an infamous criminal. She had heard of Alastor before among true crime enthusiasts alike. The thought of a lone man like Alastor capable of such heinous acts sent a shiver down her spine.

Gathering her thoughts, Charlie addressed Vaggie. “About the medical records from our staff—I think it’s best to review them,” she said. “You have plenty to manage already, and I don’t want to overburden you.”

Vaggie's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “But Charlie,” she countered, “your days are already filled with the hotel. I can’t let you do more.”

Charlie rose, her movements instinctive as she reached for Vaggie’s hand, offering comfort. “It’s Sunday, remember? I’ve got the time today,” she reassured, her smile gentle. “You’ve got your duties, especially as head of security today and manager tomorrow. We can’t forget to take care of ourselves.”

Vaggie hesitated, her gaze searching Charlie's face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. When she found none, she sighed in defeat, knowing that Charlie wouldn't back down once she made her mind up. "I just want to be useful," she confessed quietly.

Charlie’s response was immediate, her hold on Vaggie’s hand firm. "You are useful, baby," she reassured. "You’ve done so much for us. But right now, I need you to trust me on this. It’s part of my responsibility as the owner of the hotel."

Vaggie searched Charlie's blue eyes for a long moment, seeing the sincerity shining brightly within them. Finally, she nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Okay, hun," she relented softly. "I'll let you handle it. But only because I know you won't take no for an answer."

Charlie grinned, relief flooding through her at Vaggie's acceptance. "Thank you," she expressed earnestly, leaning in to kiss Vaggie’s lips. "I promise it won’t affect your incentives."

Vaggie let out a playful scoff, “Oh? Have you forgotten that—”

“That you couldn’t care less about them? I’m just teasing, babe!” Charlie interjected with a laugh.

12:17 pm

Three hours had ticked since Charlie and Vaggie split up to tackle their respective duties. Managing a hotel was no joke, and Vaggie’s dual role as manager and head of security proved monumental. Despite Charlie’s numerous attempts to persuade her to lighten her load, Vaggie remained steadfast. Slumped in her chair, Charlie couldn’t suppress a groan, her heart heavy with concern for her overworked partner.

The digital pile of documents on the company server was enough to make anyone’s head spin, and Charlie was no exception.

As she sifted through a barrage of emails from her staff pleading for medical leave, the weight of the situation settled in. The symptoms listed in the doctor’s notes were a mirror image of the virus that had been dominating the news cycle: crippling fevers, bone-deep fatigue, and labored breathing. The virus was leaving its mark on her team, and Charlie’s worry for them has resurfaced. One particular email caught her eye—a housekeeper requesting time off to care for her ailing child, struck down by the same symptoms.

With each click, Charlie’s mind raced with contingency plans. Should they close the hotel? But there was no word of a lockdown from the authorities yet. Maybe they should ramp up the hygiene protocols? That seemed like a start.

She leaned back, the chair's creak loud in the quiet office. How she wished Vaggie was here to help steer the ship.

Little did Charlie know, management was a heavier burden than she’d ever imagined. The nuances between owner and manager were lost on her; her days were filled with hiring HR and attending high-profile meetings—preparations laid out by her father, Lucifer, for the day she’d inherit the massive enterprise.

Speaking of him, the blonde’s phone rang her Dad’s circus ringtone and vibrated by the other end of her keyboard. Anticipating more of his favors to lighten up his load, She dragged a hand down her face, a long sigh escaping her lips before she answered.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, her voice brighter than she felt.

“Charlie!” Lucifer’s voice boomed with warmth. “So, uh… how’s the hotel life treating you?”

“Just the usual hotel hustle,” Charlie replied, flicking through emails with a practiced detachment. “Just like the last time we called last month.”

“Right.” Lucifer hums, “Right, right… so, I trust everything is under control?”

Charlie couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Smoothly enough," she replied sarcasticly. "But you know, if you ever want to help with my hotel, I wouldn't say no.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Charlie could almost hear Lucifer's amused chuckle. "Ah, but Char," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "I have my own… stuff to run. Besides, I have full faith in you.”

Charlie gritted her teeth, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Right, because you've always supported me," she muttered, though she knew Lucifer could still hear her.

There was a softness in Lucifer’s reply that caught her off guard. "Charlie, I might not be the cheerleading type, but damn, am I proud. You’re nailing it, meetings and all. Just… keep your head in the game, okay?"

Charlie's anger ebbed slightly at her father's unexpected words, though she still couldn't help but feel a twinge of bitterness. "I… appreciate that, Dad."

Lucifer's tone turned lighter as if sensing his daughter's discomfort. "Well, enough of the sentimental talk," he said briskly, then his voice turned more serious as he continued, "There’s something we need to talk about, Charlie. Have you been keeping an eye on the news?”

Charlie's brow furrowed slightly at the change in tone. "Yeah, I've heard about the virus," she responded cautiously. "It's all over the news.”

"Well, there's been some developments," Lucifer said gravely. "The feds have set up a spot in D.C., calling it a safe zone. They’ve asked me—and a few others—to come.”

Charlie's heart skipped a beat at her father's words, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach. "Wait, what?" she exclaimed, her voice rising alarmingly. "You mean… they're evacuating us? For this little virus?”

"Sort of," Lucifer admitted, his tone neutral. "And this ‘little virus’ has the government pulling out all the stops for us.”

“So you buy into their bullshit?” Charlie replied without thinking, cringing to herself for cursing her father, “Christ, Dad…”

Lucifer sighed on the other end of the line, his tone tinged with exasperation. "Charlotte…" he chided gently, though his voice had an underlying edge. "And no, I don't 'buy into their bullshit,' as you put it. But I do think it's wise to consider their offer. After all, when the government acts like this, it’s usually for a reason.”

Charlie couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration at her father's calm demeanor, his willingness to go along with the government's plans without question. "What about everyone else? The ones who can’t just hop on a chopper and leave?" she argued, her voice rising in intensity as she thought about ordinary people like Vaggie and the rest of the hotel staff.

"I hear you, Charlie, but... sometimes, we’ve got to look out for ourselves first. We can’t help everyone.” He paused, then sighed, “They’re sending a helicopter for you tomorrow. It’s about keeping you safe.”

Charlie gritted her teeth, her frustration boiling over at her father's indifference to the plight of others. "I’m not leaving," she stated flatly. "I can’t just ditch people who need us for some elite hideout.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Charlie feared she had gone too far. When Lucifer spoke again, his voice was softer. "I… get it, Charlie," he said softly. "Just think about what you’re doing. You’re my daughter, and I need you safe.”

"I understand, Dad," Charlie replied firmly, yet bitter. "But I can’t be part of this—not this time just to have this special privilege from this virus.”

There was a long silence, and Charlie held her breath, waiting for her father's response. When he spoke again, his voice was resigned. "Okay, Charlie," he said quietly. "It’s your life. Just… take care of yourself, please.”

"I will, Dad," Charlie promised, her voice softening slightly. "And… thanks.”

After their farewells, Charlie ended the call and flung her phone onto the desk, not giving two fucks about damaging the phone judging by the thud against another assortment of objects strewn around her desk.

“Shit. Breathe, Charlie…” she whispered to herself, fighting the urge to succumb to the stress that threatened to engulf her. She shut her eyes, focusing on her breathing—inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly—trying to steady her mind. As she gradually regained control of her racing thoughts, she peeled off her maroon coat to leave only her rose-colored vest over her white dress shirt, feeling the beads of sweat forming on her forehead despite the coolness of her air-conditioned office.

"You’ve got this,” she muttered, her voice shaky. “Just breathe. Handle one thing at a time. The hotel matters, not Dad’s talk of some haven getaway…” Her hands shook as she grabbed her water bottle, gulping down water to quench her dry throat. “He’s not leaving; he’s staying put in Hamptons—”

Regaining composure, Charlie opened her eyes and glanced at her computer screen, only to be greeted by a new source of anxiety: an email notification from her work inbox. She let out a weary sigh and clicked it open, discovering a summons to a stockholders’ meeting scheduled for the following day.

Her mind erupted yet again as she read through the details of the meeting. The thought of facing a room full of expectant investors, expecting answers and solutions from her, made her sink further into her chair in exasperation.

"Of course," she muttered bitterly as she ran a hand through her blonde hair. "Just add it to the pile, why don’t you?”

05:46 pm

“Boiler room’s all clear,” Vaggie’s voice notified through the hand radio as she swung the door shut. The dank, moldy air nipped at her senses, making her question the effectiveness of her N95 mask against the invisible threats it was supposed to block. Glancing at her watch, she realized she was 46 minutes into overtime. Time just slipped away, she sighed, but it was all for Charlie.

With the rest of the security team long gone, her radio remained silent. Vaggie shrugged it off and went upstairs, ready to clock out and drop off her gear.

The building had been unusually silent all day, the 43 floors hauntingly still, save for the occasional staff members passing by. Vaggie’s mind wandered to the current worldly crisis and its eerie impact, her skepticism shown in the crease of her brow.

The lounge-storage room greeted her with order and quiet, save for the small radio that sat dormant on the communal table—a modest distraction, as the head of security herself suggested. Alone with her thoughts, Vaggie flicked the radio on to fill the silence and headed to her locker.

The radio sputtered, a reporter’s voice emerging from the static: "... hospitals are struggling to keep up with the influx of patients, and the situation has led to extraordinary measures being taken. In response to the outbreak, authorities in Texas and California have taken the drastic step of imposing quarantine measures in several affected areas. These measures are aimed at slowing the spread of the virus and protecting the health of the residents. But with these containment efforts come a new set of challenges. Reports of protests and civil unrest have erupted in some quarantine zones. Local law enforcement, supported by the National Guard, have been deployed to maintain order."

The reporter's voice took on a concerned tone. "One of the most significant challenges faced by authorities is the rampant circulation of rumors and misinformation about the virus on social media platforms. These unverified claims are causing panic and confusion among the public. We urge all our listeners to rely on trusted sources for information and to refrain from spreading unconfirmed reports...”

Her tone shifted to reassurance, "Medical experts are working tirelessly to understand the virus better and develop effective treatments. Until then, it is crucial for everyone to follow the guidelines provided by health officials, practice good hygiene..."

Vaggie’s frown deepened. The crisis was escalating, far beyond what she’d heard that morning. She stowed her baton, closed her locker with a soft clang, and switched off the community radio.

She pondered the oddity of it all—the virus spreading, selective quarantines, yet nothing about New York. Worried, she fished out her phone to check in with her mom, who lived a state away. Dialing, she expected the usual quick pick-up, but it went to voicemail this time.

Huh, weird. Mama is usually on the ball with calls.

Leaning against the cool metal of her locker, she left a message, “Hola mamá, soy Valeria. Acabo de salir del trabajo y no he podido evitar pensar en todos los que estáis en casa, contigo y los niños.” Vaggie let out a weary sigh, “Espero que estéis sanos y salvos de esta locura del virus que se extiende por América. No estoy segura de si está llegando a todas partes como dicen las noticias, pero definitivamente me tiene preocupada.” She bit her lip, unsure what else to say except ending the message, “Llámame cuando puedas, ¿vale? Te quiero, mamá.”

The call ended, and she locked her phone, ignoring the barrage of news alerts. Later, she thought, shelving her worries for now.

At least tonight, she’d be back in the arms of her love.

6:21 pm

As Charlie closed her office door, she tapped her Hotel ID against the lock, the door clicking shut. She sighed heavily, leaning against the door before sliding down to sit on the floor, her eyes wandering to the ceiling.

Until now, she wasn't sure if she could keep maintaining her status or the efforts involved in working for her father’s business. It was exhausting, especially since it wasn't her passion in the first place.

She missed working as a social worker and being a philanthropist. Those were the days she felt fulfilled. Resentment bubbled up from her choice to take over her mother’s hotel.

Speaking of her, Charlie quickly covered her face with her hands, trying to hold back the grief. She couldn't afford to break down in the hallway where the other staff could see her.

“Hey Char, mind if I join you?”

Without waiting for an answer, Lucifer sat beside Charlie on the curb, pulling out his black umbrella to cover them from the rain. His fatherly instincts no longer surprised her; he started smoothing her soaking wet suit as if grooming could change anything.

“Not going home yet?” Lucifer asked gently.

Charlie shook her head, slumping further. “I don’t know.”

In mutual understanding, Lucifer sighed. “I see. Sorry, I wasn’t very good at this.”

Charlie glanced at him, noticing him absentmindedly stroking his golden wedding ring. A question crossed her mind. “Say, Dad…” She swallowed. “How long has Mom been suffering?”

“Way too long,” Lucifer closed his eyes. “No amount of money or brilliant doctors could do anything about it.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Charlie’s tone hardened. “All this time, you and Mom could’ve fucking told me instead of wasting four years in college when I could’ve spent more time with her!”

“It wasn’t my decision, Charlie!” Lucifer shouted back, then softened as he saw her reaction. “I didn’t mean to shout. Your mother decided to keep her condition quiet.”

“Why?”

“She said it was to keep you safe and focused on your ambitions.”

“Safe...” Charlie’s eyes narrowed down the road. “... right.”

Lucifer’s posture slumped in defeat, unsure if he could continue the conversation. Sighing, he pulled a white envelope from his black coat and handed it to Charlie. “Here.”

She perked up at his sudden voice, eyeing the envelope suspiciously before grabbing it. It was thick, sealed with their family crest. Flipping it over, she saw the familiar, elegant handwriting in black ink: “To Charlotte, from Mother.”

Before she could ask, Lucifer spoke up. “It’s her gift to you. She said you can’t open it yet.” Noticing Charlie’s raised brow, he clarified, “Lillith—your mom—said you should open it only when you’re unsure about what to do with your life. Have patience, she said.”

Charlie stared at the envelope. She wanted to scream at the unfairness, the resentment bubbling up inside her despite her father’s presence. How could her mother trust her with this damn envelope when she hadn’t even been honest with her?

She wanted to tear it open and defy her mother’s wishes, but something held her back. Some of her still wanted to honor her mother’s last request, even if she wasn’t sure what it meant to be “unsure what to do in your life.”

Charlie clenched the envelope tightly in her hand, the paper crinkling under the pressure of her grip. She could feel her anger boiling beneath the surface but forced herself to stay composed. The rain continued to fall around them, rattling against the umbrella and providing the only sound of the heavy silence between her and her father.

"I don’t get it," Charlie muttered, her voice low and tense. "Why wait until now to tell me? After she’s gone? You had years to tell me, Dad."

Lucifer didn’t meet her gaze. He was still absently stroking his wedding ring, his face pained as if he were reliving his regrets. "It wasn’t my choice, Charlie. I wanted to—believe me, I did. But your mother... she was stubborn." His voice cracked slightly at the mention of Lillith. "She didn’t want you to see her like that."

Charlie shook her head, her bitterness bubbling over. "That’s bullshit! She kept me in the dark, and now she’s gone, and I—" She stopped, the lump in her throat too big to speak around. "I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly."

Lucifer finally looked at her, his expression stricken. "You think I don’t regret that? Every day I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know. But your mother... she thought it would break you. She thought if you knew, you’d lose focus on your life and dreams."

Charlie barked out a humorless laugh, staring at the ground. "Dreams? What dreams? I don’t even know if any of it matters anymore." Her hand clenched around the envelope, the pressure started to tear at the edges of the seal. "She didn’t trust me enough to handle it. To handle her."

"That’s not true." Lucifer’s voice was firm but soft, almost pleading. "She trusted you more than anyone, Charlie. That’s why she left you that letter. She knew you’d need it when the time came. She didn’t want to burden you with her suffering while she was alive."

"Burden me?" Charlie’s voice rose. "I was her daughter, Dad! I would’ve been there for her! I should have been there for her! And now I get to hold onto this stupid envelope like it’s some consolation prize?"

Lucifer recoiled slightly at her words. "It wasn’t like that. She... we thought we were doing what was best for you."

"You thought you were protecting me," Charlie said bitterly. "But you weren’t. You kept me out like I couldn’t handle the truth. Like I was still a f... a kid."

Lucifer rubbed his temples, the weight of the years pressing down on him. "I didn’t want to lose both of you. I thought if I could keep you focused, keep you moving forward... I was trying to save you in my way."

Charlie’s anger flared, her eyes narrowing. "Save me? From what? From feeling? From hurting? Congratulations, Dad. It worked. Now I get to feel everything all at once, and she’s not even here for me to ask her why."

The rain seemed to fall harder now, matching the moment's intensity. Lucifer opened his mouth, but no words came out. What could he say? He had kept the truth from her; now it was too late to make it right.

After a long, strained silence, Charlie’s voice came out in a shaky whisper. "She should’ve trusted me. I could’ve handled it, Dad. I needed to handle it."

Lucifer’s shoulders sagged as he looked at her, his face full of sorrow. "I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m so, so sorry." His voice trembled, the weight of his guilt crashing over him.

Charlie stared down at the envelope in her hand, feeling the emotions swirling around her—the anger, the hurt, the confusion. She didn’t know what to do with it, just like she didn’t know what to do with herself anymore. All the dreams and ambitions she had once felt so sure of now seemed distant like they belonged entirely to someone else.

She took a shaky breath and let the envelope rest in her lap. "I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive either of you for this," she whispered, her voice so quiet the rain almost drowned it out.

Lucifer’s heart broke a little more at her words, but he nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I know..."

Charlie shook herself from the memory, her fingers tracing the edges of her hotel ID. She looked up at the ceiling, her vision blurring with unshed tears. "Am I even doing it right, Mom?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why did you trust me to run your hotel? Why me?”

Her questions echoed in the empty hallway, unanswered. She pressed her hands against her face again, willing herself to find the strength to keep going, even as doubt gnawed at her.

Charlie's phone vibrated, pulling her back to the present. She fumbled for it, her fingers still trembling. The screen lit up with a message from Vaggie.

A small smile tugged at Charlie’s lips. She typed back the reply.

A reply came almost instantly:

Charlie held the phone close. Even with all the weight of her responsibilities and the lingering grief, she had Vaggie. She had someone who understood her and stood by her side. It felt like her worries faded, replaced by the simple joy of cooking dinner with her love.

She put her phone away and stood up slowly, brushing herself off. The doubt still lurked in her mind, but it didn’t seem as overwhelming now.

“You’ll have a meeting tomorrow?” Vaggie asks casually as she slowly stirs the boiling pasta noodles in the large pot.

Charlie nods, focusing on grating a wedge of Parmesan cheese into the aromatic creamy sauce. “Mhm.”

“... with those business people?”

“Mhm,” Charlie confirms, adding the cheese slowly. She glances at Vaggie, wearing her signature “besar al cocinero” apron and a mischievous grin.

“Big day ahead, huh?” Vaggie hums. “Is it the same location as last time?”

“Replace big with boring shit,” Charlie chuckles softly. “And nope, it’s at the Stock Exchange this time. Quite a drive from here in Midtown.”

Vaggie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, fancy stuff. What’s on the agenda?”

“Discussing some new investment opportunities, I guess,” Charlie replies, stirring the sauce gently. “Maybe trying to expand this hotel chain? Not sure.”

Vaggie nods, her expression thoughtful. “Sounds intense. You nervous?”

“A little,” Charlie admits, her gaze drifting back to the simmering sauce. “But I’m used to it. Just hoping it goes smoothly.”

“Hey,” Vaggie says softly, stepping closer and placing a reassuring hand on Charlie’s arm. “You’ll nail it like you always do. I’ve seen you handle tough situations.”

Charlie smiles gratefully, feeling a warmth spread through her. “Thank you. Your confidence means a lot.”

Vaggie leans in, pressing a quick kiss on Charlie’s cheek. “Anytime, mi amor. Now, let’s focus on making this dinner perfect.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the kitchen filled with the clinking of utensils and the aroma of cooking food. Charlie watched Vaggie expertly drain the pasta and add it to the sauce; their movements synchronized from countless evenings spent cooking together.

The meal came together seamlessly, and soon, they set the table, plated the creamy mushroom pasta, and poured glasses of wine. Charlie felt a sense of contentment wash over her, a welcome break from the day’s stress.

They sat down to eat, clinking forks against plates, the only sound for a while. Charlie absentmindedly twirls the pasta with her fork, her mind wandering. She glanced at Vaggie, who was focused on her food, occasionally looking up with a small, satisfied smile.

Charlie's thoughts drifted back to the call from her father earlier in the day. The government priority orders for evacuation to D.C. due to the worsening virus had sounded severe, but Charlie had shrugged it off. She didn’t want to worry, Vaggie, not tonight.

But the thought nagged at her. Should she tell Vaggie about the call? What if it was more severe than she thought? She sighed inwardly, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on her.

She looked back at her phone, scrolling through the mundane updates of distant friends and acquaintances. A picture of a friend's new puppy, a post about someone’s engagement, random memes—none of it seemed to matter compared to the looming crisis.

But then she saw a video that looked out of place, with over a million reactions. Charlie squinted. Was that Times Square?

Vaggie noticed Charlie’s distraction and reached across the table, lightly touching her hand. “Everything okay?”

Vaggie noticed Charlie’s distraction and reached across the table, lightly touching her hand. “Everything okay?”

Charlie forced a smile. “Yeah, just... thinking about tomorrow.”

Vaggie studied her for a moment, then glanced at the phone. “The virus?”

“Huh?”

“No, I mean,” Vaggie corrected herself, “The video. Open it.”

Charlie hesitated but then tapped on the video. It started with a cop trying to pull an attacker off an old woman, but then the attacker turned on him, biting his shoulder, blood spilling everywhere. The cop's partner shot the attacker dead, leaving his wounded colleague trembling on the ground.

So much blood…

Charlie's horror grew as she scrolled further, finding more posts about people getting bitten and even their family members getting infected. The pictures were horrifying, some showing usual bites that bled, while others depicted extreme cases where flesh was torn off and muscle exposed. Videos showed people attacking others and biting them like animals.

How come social media moderators weren't taking down this damn gore content?

Feeling sick, Charlie locked her phone and sat it on the table.

Vaggie couldn’t help but worry (and blame herself for making Charlie look through that). She tried reaching out, “Char—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Charlie rubbed her forehead, then sighed. “Let’s just… finish our dinner, then we can cuddle on the bed like I owe you. I need some time to process.”

Vaggie nodded silently, understanding that Charlie needed some space. They finished their dinner in quiet, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken concerns. Vaggie quickly cleared the dishes, glancing at Charlie, who seemed lost in thought.

After dinner, they settled into their evening routine. Vaggie organized some paperwork for the hotel while Charlie tidied up the kitchen and the rest of the cookware that couldn’t be washed in the dishwasher.

An hour later, they found themselves in the living room. Vaggie was curled up with a book on the couch while Charlie absentmindedly flicked through channels on the TV, the low hum of background noise soothing her nerves.

Eventually, they made their way to the bedroom. Vaggie changed into her nightgown, which Charlie had always loved. Charlie followed suit, slipping into comfortable sleepwear before joining Vaggie in bed.

Vaggie slid to her side, pulling Charlie close. The warmth of their bodies pressed together was a comforting reminder of their stability in each other. They lay there in silence, the weight of the day’s events pressing down but made bearable by their shared presence.

Charlie checked her phone one last time. The screen read 10:17 p.m. She set it aside to charge, taking a deep breath as she tried to push the disturbing images from earlier out of her mind.

Snuggled against Vaggie, Charlie closed her eyes. Her final thoughts drifted to the hope that tomorrow would be uneventful, the virus would be contained, and nothing terrible would disrupt their lives.

It’ll never happen, right?

Chapter Text

7:43 am

With a final small spray of her apple-scented perfume, Charlie smoothed down her maroon coat and stepped out of the bathroom. Vaggie was waiting just outside, ready to take her turn.

"Morning," Vaggie greeted, looking up to her partner with a hand on her hip.

"Morning," Charlie replied with a small smile, adjusting the collar of her coat.

Vaggie stepped closer, her hands hovering near Charlie's lapel. She adjusted it mindlessly, more an intimate gesture than anything else. Then her expression turned serious. "Hey, remember to stay safe today, okay? Follow all the health protocols. Use sanitizer, and keep your distance from people."

They’d already run through this a hundred times earlier, and Charlie chuckled. "I will, I promise. Don't worry too much.”

“You know I can’t help it sometimes,” Vaggie gave her a small smile, her eye still reflecting worry. "I just want you to be okay.”

"And I love you for it," Charlie said softly. They leaned in, sharing a tender kiss that lingered longer than usual as if to draw strength from each other.

"Love you," Vaggie whispered against Charlie's lips.

"Love you too," Charlie replied, stepping back reluctantly.

She grabbed her briefcase, the leather handle warm in her grip, and headed towards the door. She glanced back again, seeing Vaggie watching her with some worried smile. With a final wave, the blonde walked out of their penthouse and entered the elevator.

Stepping into the elevator, Charlie pressed the button for the lobby. The doors closed with a soft whoosh, and the elevator descended. Charlie took deep breaths, trying to steady her racing heart. “Relax,” she whispered to herself. “Just relax. It’s going to be okay.”

Her mind raced with thoughts of today’s meeting, the ongoing virus situation, and especially leaving her girlfriend to run the hotel for today. The elevator's soft hum and the floor indicator's rhythmic ticking provided a strange sense of calm. She repeated the words in her mind, willing herself to believe them.

"Fucking… relax, Charlie. You’ve done this a million times already," she took another deep breath. "Vaggie will be fine… she’ll be fine.”

With each floor passing by, she felt more grounded as she gripped the metal railing behind her, the knots in her stomach slowly untangling.

Everything will be fine.

The elevator ding! and slides open the doors. Charlie steps out of the elevator, straightens her coat, and smiles most confidently. She greets the hotel staff warmly as she makes her way through the lobby.

"Good morning, Ms. Morningstar," a bellhop called out with a smile.

"Good morning, everyone," Charlie replied, nodding to each staff member she passed. The staff always appreciated her friendliness, something they didn't often see in their high-profile boss.

One thing Charlie noticed is that every hotel staff member put on face masks despite the fact that the virus isn’t airborne at all. At least safety protocols are taken seriously here.

I guess extra precautions are nice. Charlie pushed open the hotel's heavy glass doors and stepped outside. The usual hustle and bustle of Midtown Manhattan seemed more chaotic today. Pedestrians rushed past, their faces masked and eyes wide in a quick rush (maybe with panic, too). The presence of NYPD officers (are they in the riot uniforms? Charlie thought) was noticeably higher, patrolling the streets and keeping a close eye on the surroundings. Normally, Charlie barely saw any police in the central NYC area, so today felt distinctly different.

She noticed the streets were eerily quiet, with fewer cars than usual. The absence of the usual honking and engine roars, except for the shouting from the police, made the blonde squeeze the handle of her briefcase harder until her knuckles were white. She took a moment to observe the scene, feeling the familiar knot tighten in her stomach.

"Ms. Morningstar!" a voice called out, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She turned to see Razzle, her older driver, approaching with a friendly wave. Razzle was a nickname he'd earned from Charlie back when she was a child (of course, she’s terrible at names). He was always punctual and reliable, making him one of the few Charlie's trusted personal driver.

"Good morning, Razzle," Charlie greeted him warmly.

"Morning, Ms. Morningstar," Razzle replied with a grin. "Let me grab that for you." He easily took her briefcase, securing it in the backseat of the sleek, black Idua A8 L parked nearby.

Charlie slid into the backseat opposite where her briefcase lay, appreciating the luxurious comfort of the vehicle. The leather seats and spacious interior always made her feel more at ease during her travels.

Then she remembers the hidden compartment in the middle of the seat that elevates where she keeps her handgun, but she shakes off that thought for now.

Hopefully, she’ll never use that for the time being. Hopefully.

Charlie faced to the front as she heard Razzle get into the driver's seat and start the engine. Then, he buckled his seatbelt and glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Busy day ahead?”

"Very busy," Charlie admitted with a sigh, buckling her seatbelt. "Meeting with other investors. Either they have new investment opportunities to discuss or talk about their favorite golf club brand, I don’t know."

Razzle nodded knowingly. "You can handle it like a pro, Ms. Morningstar.”

"Thank you," she said, her voice sincere. "And please, call me Charlie."

Razzle chuckled. "Sure thing, Charlie. So, anything special on the agenda today?”

"Honestly, not sure…" she glances by the window. "But I'm more worried about this virus situation. It seems to be getting worse."

Razzle's expression turned serious. "Yeah, it's been all over the news. Just keep your distance and stay safe. We can't have anything happening to you.”

Charlie nodded, feeling grateful for his concern. "I'll do my best.”

As the Idua smoothly pulled away from the hotel, Charlie took another deep breath, trying to center herself—the cityscape blurred by, a mixture of towering buildings and bustling streets. Further south, things were getting more chaotic, with sirens wailing, smoke rising, and people screaming.

People ran away while the NYPD cleared the streets, and some were in their riot gear, fending off the similar-looking attackers that Charlie had seen in that video last night. She did not get a closer look at them as the driver maneuvered his way around.

Then they drive by some sort of military checkpoint (maybe not, Charlie thought because they were by a random street, not at the end of the freeway? But still, they’re in their uniforms…), where the soldier carefully scrutinizes both Razzle and Charlie with their rolled-down windows. Then, the military lets them through.

After that, Charlie requested the driver to tune in to the radio by the news station.

"Reports are pouring in from across the country of worsening attacks, with individuals exhibiting alarming and aggressive behavior, including biting others."

"Local authorities are struggling to contain the attacks, and unfortunately, the police have been unable to apprehend the attackers. Hospitals are now overwhelmed with casualties from these bizarre and violent incidents. The military presence has been deployed in various cities in a desperate attempt to control the outbreak. Our sources tell us quarantine measures are being implemented, escalating the situation rapidly."

"We're receiving reports that authorities in New York City have initiated quarantine measures, with strict isolation protocols in place. This includes restrictions on movement in and out of the city. Smaller areas across the country are following suit. You must stay indoors and avoid any contact with individuals displaying aggressive behavior. Ensure you have necessary supplies, such as food, water, and medical essentials, and follow the guidelines issued by local authorities…”

9:17 am

Two hours after Charlie went out for the meeting, Vaggie couldn't help but think about her partner. As she meticulously arranged the fresh flower bouquets in the lobby, her mind drifted back to Charlie’s reassuring smile that morning before leaving the penthouse.

Vaggie went to the front desk and checked in with the receptionist about the upcoming VIP arrivals. “Do we have everything prepared for the guests arriving from Dubai?” she asked, scanning the reservation list.

“Yes, Manager Rodríguez,” the receptionist replied, “Their suite is ready, and we’ve coordinated with the kitchen for their special dietary requests.”

“Great, thank you,” Vaggie said with a smile, but her thoughts quickly returned to Charlie. She sighed softly, reminding herself that Charlie was capable and would stay safe.

Besides, Charlie had already dealt with arrogant, rich old people before Vaggie came into her life.

Vaggie moved on to her next task, overseeing the housekeeping team’s schedule for the day. She ensured the high-profile suites got the attention they needed and checked in with the head of housekeeping about any issues.

“Everything going smoothly?” Vaggie asked, her tone professional but warm.

“Yes, everything is on track,” the head of housekeeping confirmed. “No major issues today.”

“Good to hear,” Vaggie replied. She glanced at her phone, hoping for a message from Charlie, but there was nothing yet.

Vaggie continued her rounds, inspecting the newly renovated conference rooms to ensure they met the hotel’s luxurious standards. She adjusted a few chairs, straightened a piece of art on the wall, and made notes about some minor improvements that could be made.

As she was making her way back to her office, one of the security staff approached her, a serious expression on his face.

“Manager Rodríguez, mind if I have a word with you?” he asked, his tone respectful but urgent.

Vaggie’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course, what’s the matter?” she asked, leading him to a quieter corner of the lobby.

The security officer, Michael, glanced around to ensure they were not overheard. “There's been an incident in Room 2708. A guest in one of the suites has become very agitated and is causing a disturbance. We’ve received multiple complaints from neighboring rooms. We might need your assistance to handle the situation.”

Vaggie frowned, “Mierda…” her mind quickly shifted to problem-solving mode. “What kind of disturbance?”

“Hmm… loud shouting, throwing things. We’re concerned it might escalate further,” Michael explained.

“Alright,” Vaggie said decisively. “Let’s handle this calmly. I’ll come with you to speak to the guest. Have you tried contacting them through the room phone?”

“Yes, but they didn’t answer the phone,” Michael replied, a hint of frustration in his voice.

One of those cases… “Lead the way,” she said, following Michael towards the elevators.

As they ascended to the 27th floor, Vaggie’s thoughts raced. She couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of unease. What could be happening in Room 2708? She hoped it was something mundane, like a noise complaint or a guest with too much to drink.

Charlie couldn't believe the traffic was that intense on Broad Street, but at least the meeting didn't start for another hour, and they finally made it to the Stock Exchange.

She exited the car and leaned down to knock on the passenger window. Razzle rolled it down with a smile. “All set, Charlie?”

“Yeah, thanks for getting me here on time,” Charlie replied. “Our rendezvous point will be right here. I’ll give you a call when the meeting’s over. In the meantime, you can park in the underground lot.”

“Got it. Good luck with your meeting,” Razzle said, giving her a thumbs up.

She gave him a grateful smile and stepped back. Razzle drove off, and Charlie took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She could feel the day's weight pressing down on her, but she knew she had to stay focused.

Exhaling slowly, she turned and made her way towards the entrance of the building. The grand architecture of the New York Stock Exchange loomed above her, and there was an imposing facade of Corinthian columns and intricate carvings. The sight alone was enough to make her pause, square her shoulders, and walk confidently towards the entrance.

As she stepped inside, the lobby unfolded in a spectacle of opulence. The high ceilings were adorned with ornate chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow across the polished marble floors. Walls of white marble veined with gray, but for some reason, Charlie spotted large murals depicting historical financial scenes stretched across the upper walls, telling some stories of economic triumphs and market crashes. Strangely looking out of place.

Charlie raises her brow. That’s… a weird way to show the bullshit called economy.

Despite the grandeur, the atmosphere was far from serene. The lobby buzzed with activity, the usual hustle amplified by the current crisis. Groups of people huddled in urgent conversation, some with worried expressions, others gesticulating animatedly, and security guards stood at key points.

Charlie was drawn to a large digital ticker board mounted on one wall, flashing the latest stock prices and news updates. The numbers scrolled relentlessly, a visual representation of the market’s pulse as if reacting to every ripple of news about the virus.

Charlie wasn't sure if her guess about the virus affecting today's events and the fear and uncertainty it was spreading along with it was correct.

Her observations were interrupted by a woman who looked like someone’s secretary, approaching her with a clipboard. “Ms. Morningstar?” she asked calmly but efficiently.

“Yes, that’s me,” Charlie straightened up.

“Please follow me. I’ll escort you to the meeting room,” the woman said, turning on her heel and leading the way.

Charlie followed her through the lobby, her eyes catching glimpses of the ongoing activity. They moved towards a set of escalators by the side of the lobby, and the escalator ride was brief but felt longer for Charlie. They entered a more tranquil, carpeted hallway lined with glass-walled offices when they reached the top.

The secretary led her to one of the upper loft offices where the meeting would occur. Through the glass walls, Charlie could see a few investors seated around a large table, engaged in quiet conversation. She noted how these meeting rooms lacked privacy, with everything visible to passersby.

“Here we are,” the secretary said, opening the door and gesturing for Charlie to enter.

Charlie thanked her and stepped inside, nodding politely to the present investors. She took a seat at the table and placed her briefcase beside her.

The investors were already engaged in conversation, their voices a blend of confidence and casual banter that spoke of years spent in boardrooms and high-stakes negotiations.

“Did you see the latest numbers from Shanghai? Brutal,” one of the men remarked, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Tell me about it. This virus situation is wreaking havoc on the global market. But, as they say, where there’s chaos, there’s opportunity,” another replied with a wry smile.

Charlie nodded along, offering a polite smile as she listened. One of the women at the table turned to her. “Ms. Morningstar, what’s your take on the current market volatility?”

Oh, fucking great. Charlie bit her inner cheek, choosing her words carefully. “It’s a challenging time, but I believe some sectors will survive and thrive amidst this chaos. Tech companies, for example, are seeing increased demand with more people working remotely with these lockdowns implemented.”

The woman nodded approvingly. “Exactly. Adaptability is key in times like these.”

Another investor chimed in, “Ms. Morningstar, I hear you’ve been making some interesting moves in renewable energy. Would you care to share your strategy?”

It wasn’t even my idea! Charlie panics internally. But of course, I can’t mention Vaggie because she’s a nobody to them.

Charlie gave a modest smile while her fists curled tightly, letting her nails dig into her palms in irritation. “With the Morningstars, we’ve been focusing on long-term sustainability and investing in innovations that can make a significant impact. It’s about balancing profitability with responsibility.”

She’s bullshitting. Internally, Charlie is detached from the conversation. These topics felt extraordinarily irrelevant compared to the personal concerns weighing on her mind. She glanced at the large clock on the wall; it read 9:27 am. The meeting was set to begin in a few minutes.

Just then, the door opened, and the last investor walked in. “Apologies for being late,” he said, his voice strained.

Charlie’s eyes were drawn to his right wrist. She noticed a bleeding bite mark that he quickly tried to cover with the sleeve of his business suit. His skin appeared paler than usual, with a grayish tinge creeping across his face.

The man sat at the table, casually adjusting his sleeve to conceal the wound. Charlie’s concern grew, but she kept her expression neutral. The other investors greeted him with nods and smiles, seemingly oblivious to his condition.

Charlie’s mind raced. Was this man infected? The implications were serious, but she had to remain calm and focused. She made a mental note to monitor him and address the situation carefully if necessary.

The meeting then started, with the investors exchanging pleasantries and settling into their seats. Despite her internal turmoil, Charlie forced herself to focus on the conversation.

One of the investors, a man with a sharp suit and salt-and-pepper hair, started. “Let’s get down to business. We must discuss our strategy in light of the current market disruptions.”

Another investor, a woman with a bun and glasses, nodded. “Absolutely. The virus has thrown a wrench into many of our plans, but we can still turn this to our advantage.”

Charlie’s attention returned to the latecomer, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. His skin grew paler by the minute, and he occasionally dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“What we need to do is diversify our portfolios,” one of the investors said. “We can’t rely on traditional sectors alone. Just like Ms. Morningstar with renewable energy, tech, even pharmaceuticals—they’re all worth considering.”

The older woman nodded, “I agree. We need to think long-term. The market will eventually stabilize, and we should be positioned to benefit from that recovery.”

The latecomer coughed a harsh, wet sound that drew the attention of everyone in the room. “Apologies,” he muttered, his voice raspy. He took a sip of water that had been provided by the secretary earlier, his hand trembling slightly.

The conversation continued, but it was clear the others were becoming distracted by his condition. One investor leaned over and whispered to another, casting worried glances at the man.

“Are you alright?” the woman with the bun asked, her tone more concerned now.

The man nodded, but it was a weak gesture. “Just a bit under the weather,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. His breathing was labored, and he was visibly sweating despite the air-conditioned room.

Charlie’s unease grew. She had seen news reports about the virus, and the symptoms were unmistakable: high fever, crippling fatigue, and labored breathing. The man in front of her was displaying all of these.

All it takes is a bite… just like those attackers do from videos last night?

“Perhaps we should take a short break,” Charlie suggested, trying to calm her tone. “It… looks like you might need some fresh air.”

The man shook his head vehemently. “No, I’m fine. Let’s continue.”

Another investor, clearly uncomfortable, interjected. “Maybe you should see a doctor. You don’t look well.”

The man’s demeanor changed abruptly. His bloodshot and wide eyes fixed on Charlie with an unnerving intensity. “I said I’m fine!” he snapped, his voice louder and more aggressive.

The room fell silent. The tension was palpable.

Charlie took a deep breath and decided to address the issue head-on. “Lift your right sleeve,” she said firmly.

The man stared at her, his expression furrowing his brows but confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Lift your right sleeve,” she repeated.

The other investors looked between Charlie and the man, their concern growing. The man hesitated, then slowly rolled up his sleeve, revealing the bite mark, now an angry red and oozing slightly. His skin around that wound had now turned yellowish-gray, and his veins were dark.

There were gasps and mutters around the table.

“Oh lord…” one of them mutters, “Just like those nasty bites from social media!”

“We need to get him help,” one of the investors said, still trembling. “And we need to make sure none of us are infected.”

The room buzzed with nervous energy as the investors processed what they saw. The woman with the bun and glasses stood up, her face pale. “I’ll… I’ll get medical attention,” she said, heading for the door. “Stay with him. Try to keep him calm.”

The infected investor's breathing grew labored, and his eyes darted around the room as if searching for something. The others exchanged anxious glances, unsure of what to do.

“We need to keep our distance,” one investor said, moving back slightly. “We don’t know how contagious this is.”

“But we can’t just leave him like this!” another exclaimed, wringing his hands. “He needs help.”

The woman returned, followed by two security guards and a man in a white coat who looked like a doctor. The doctor knelt beside the infected investor, quickly assessing his condition. “Tsk, he has that virus… He needs to go to a hospital immediately,” he said, looking up at the security guards. “Help me get him on a stretcher.”

The security guards moved in, carefully lifting the man out of his chair. As they did, he suddenly convulsed and fell to the floor with a thud. The investors gasped and stepped back.

“Stay back,” the doctor commanded, trying to stabilize the man. The convulsions stopped, and the investor lay still, breathing shallow and rapid.

Charlie watched, and her heart was pounding. She remembered the videos she had seen the night before of people with similar symptoms suddenly turning violent. She instinctively reached for the seam of her slacks, where she usually holstered her concealed handgun.

Her fingers met empty fabric, and she felt a jolt of panic. She had left her Glock in the car.

Fuck, I gotta call Razzle soon.

When they reached the 27th floor, the sounds of the disturbance were evident even from the hallway. Muffled shouting and the occasional thud echoed through the corridor.

They stepped out of the elevator and walked briskly down the hallway. Michael stopped in front of Room 2708 and knocked firmly on the door. “Hotel security. Is everything alright in there?” he called out.

There was no response, only a low, unsettling, growling noise from the room.

Vaggie glanced at Michael, then stepped forward and knocked again firmly. “Excuse me, this is Ms. Rodríguez, the manager. Can I come in and speak with you?”

The growling continued, but there was still no verbal response. Vaggie felt a chill run down her spine, but she only scowled, getting impatient. “We’re going to have to open the door,” she said, reaching for her ID badge.

With a swift swipe, the door unlocked, and Vaggie cautiously pushed it open. What she saw inside made her blood run cold, and the wretched stench hit her like a physical force. Instinctively, she recoiled and covered her nose and mouth with a sleeved arm.

A man stood in the middle of the room with his back turned from Vaggie, but his clothes were disheveled and drenched in blood. Further observation revealed a yellowish-gray tint to his skin, and his right arm was a gruesome sight, a mangled mess with blood oozing from a savage bite wound that had torn through the fabric. Vaggie’s gaze traveled across the suite, where a gruesome mix of vomit and blood had inundated the bed, streaming onto the floor.

Fuck, this is horrid. Grimacing, Vaggie cautiously made her way into the office. Suppressing the urge to retch, she slowly approached the patron. "Sir, are you alright? You look sick. I can help you get to..." As the patron turned toward her, her words trailed off, unveiling a visage that seemed plucked from a gory horror film.

His mouth yawned wide, revealing blood-soaked teeth and gums, with crimson bile still dribbling down his bearded chin. His eyes, both pupils and irises, had turned a milky white, his skin appeared parched with cracks and bulging veins, and his hair was a tangled mess as if he'd suffered a meltdown. When his milky eyes locked onto Vaggie’s lone amber eye, his mouth stretched wider, making the guttural growling noise they had heard earlier.

Instead of responding, the man began advancing towards Vaggie, causing her hand to instinctively hover over her baton holster.

"Sir?" She called out firmly, stepping back into the hallway again.

As both of his arms reached out and his pace quickened, his inhuman snarl grew louder. Vaggie drew her baton, flicking it to its full length. "Sir, please stand down!" She maintained an authoritative tone.

In an instant, the man lunged at Vaggie, his mouth gaping wide.

The impact force knocked Vaggie against the hallway wall, the air rushing out of her lungs. The man, his eyes wild and unfocused, pinned her with surprising strength.

“Get off!” Vaggie shouted, trying to push him away. She used all her strength, but he was relentless, his growling growing louder. Michael, seeing Vaggie in danger, sprang into action. He grabbed the man by the shoulders, trying to pull him off. “Get back!” he shouted, but the man only snarled.

Michael redoubled his efforts, finally managing to yank the man away. However, the man turned his attention to Michael, his teeth sinking into the side of Michael's neck with a horrifying crunch. Blood sprayed from the wound as the man pulled back, a chunk of flesh torn from Michael’s artery.

Vaggie’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew that verbal commands were useless against this relentless attacker. She gripped her baton tightly and delivered a sharp blow to his temple. The impact made a sickening thud, but he didn’t even flinch.

Of course, he didn't stay down. The man just rose and continued his advance toward Vaggie. It became evident that there was no reasoning with him, no stopping his relentless pursuit.

Vaggie then kicked the man’s shin using the stiletto heel, and he mindlessly kneeled. “Stand down!” Vaggie yelled again, her voice echoing through the hallway. Michael, now slumped against the wall, convulsed as blood gushed from his neck. The sight fueled Vaggie’s rage and unleashed a barrage of strikes to his temple, each one punctuated by a sickening thud before the man had the chance to try to grab onto Vaggie. Blood sprayed with each impact, staining her hotel uniform.

The graphic image of the video from last night, showing an attacker biting down on a police officer, fueled her frenzy. She continued to rain blows upon the man until he lay motionless, his snarling silenced.

Vaggie stood upright, her chest heaving, and surveyed the aftermath. The patron's head was a pulpy mess. Glancing down at her blood-spattered hand gripping the baton, Vaggie noticed bits of gore clinging to the weapon, smearing down to her wrist, where her once-pristine red blazer was now a gruesome sight.

The bile rose in Vaggie’s throat, but she swallowed it down as she dropped to her knees beside Michael, where she shifted her focus.

“Stay with me, Michael,” she urged, her voice trembling. She ripped open his first aid pouch, her hands fumbling with the supplies.

Vaggie tried to stem the blood flow by applying pressure to the gaping wound. She tore open a bandage, pressing it against the torn flesh, but the blood kept seeping through. Michael’s breathing was shallow, his skin pale.

“Hold on,” Vaggie whispered, her hands slick with blood. She wrapped the bandage around his neck, trying to secure it as best she could. She felt helpless, knowing the severity of the injury.

Vaggie fumbled her holster for her hand radio, shaking her hands. She turned the channel to all hotel staff, her voice urgent. “This is Manager Rodríguez. We have a situation on the 27th floor. We need immediate medical assistance.” She paused to glance at the fallen patron.

Would this be the cause of the virus? If so, was this the final stage of the infection? The media had warned about the virus, but they never said anything about people turning into rabid beasts. How many more were there? How fast was it spreading?

And most importantly, is the yellowish-gray tint of the skin a dead giveaway?

Vaggie swallowed before pushing the button again, “Possible infection... it’s bad.”

She holstered the radio back and looked at Michael, “Help is on the way,” she assured him, though she wasn’t sure if he could hear her. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Michael’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, his gaze unfocused. He tried to speak, but only a gurgling sound emerged. Vaggie tightened the bandage, her hands shaking with fear and frustration.

The hallway was eerily silent, the only sound being the ragged breaths of the wounded security officer. She had to protect her staff and guests and, most importantly, find out what was happening.

Checking her wristwatch, she saw that it was 9:45 AM. Although only fifteen minutes had passed since the meeting started, it felt like eons.

“We need to clear the room,” the doctor urgently said. “Everyone, please step back.”

The investors hesitated, then slowly began to move towards the door. Charlie stayed where she was, her eyes locked on the man on the floor. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

As the doctor and security guards tried to lift the man onto the stretcher, he suddenly opened his eyes, a low growl escaping his lips. Before anyone could react, he lunged at the doctor, his teeth sinking into the man’s shoulder. The doctor screamed in agony, and the security guards struggled to pull the infected investor back.

“Get him off me!” the doctor yelled, his voice filled with panic. The security guards yanked the infected man away, but not before he managed to tear a chunk of flesh from the doctor’s shoulder (with layers of clothing?! How fucking strong is that investor?). Blood spurted from the wound.

Before Charlie knew it, the room erupted into chaos.

The investors rushed for the door, pushing and shoving to escape. Charlie followed closely behind, her heart pounding. As she entered the hallway, she pulled out her phone and called Razzle to get out of there.

“Charlie, what’s going on?” Razzle’s voice came through the phone, filled with concern. “How was the meeting?”

“No time to explain,” Charlie pants, then turned to the left and saw a horrifying sight: a few investors had been tackled to the ground by familiar infected people. One investor was calling for help while holding up the infected secretary on top of him. The secretary spat out dark, foul-looking blood onto his face, causing him to react violently and try to wipe it off. But the other infected people around him quickly overpowered him, devouring him as he screamed.

Charlie’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the grisly scene until Razzle’s voice snapped her out of her trance, “Charlie? Are you there?”

“Shit, sorry,” Charlie shook her head and sprinted in the other direction down the escalator, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. “I need you to start the car and meet me by the rendezvous—”

She immediately froze as she reached the bottom of the escalator. The lobby had become a nightmare. Bloodied, infected people in formal suits chased down the healthy, their eyes wild with a rabid hunger. Some infected were already feasting on their prey, tearing into flesh ravenously.

The air was thick with screams and inhuman snarls. People were running in every direction, some slipping on the slick, blood-streaked marble floor, and desperate cries for help echoed through the cavernous space.

Charlie’s gaze swept the lobby, taking in the horrifying scene. A man in a once-immaculate business suit was tackled to the ground by two infected, their teeth gnashing at his arms and neck. His terrified screams turned into gurgles as they tore into his throat. Nearby, a woman in heels stumbled and fell, only to be pounced upon by another infected, its mouth smeared with a mix of bile and blood.

Security guards were trying to fend off the attackers, but their batons were proving useless against the sheer ferocity of the infected. One guard swung his baton at an advancing figure, only for the infected to grab his arm and sink its teeth into his wrist. He screamed, dropping his baton as he struggled to break free, but the infected only bit down harder.

Another guard, cornered near the entrance, was using a metal barrier to push back a group of infected. The barrier shook violently as the infected rammed into it, their hands clawing and grabbing at the guard through the gaps. His face was fearful but determined. However, it was clear he couldn’t hold them off for long.

Charlie’s heart raced as she realized the lobby was a death trap. She spun around and sprinted back up the escalator, knowing she couldn’t afford to get caught in the melee below. Her mind raced as she tried to think of a way out.

She needed to get to the basement where Razzle was waiting.

“Razzle, change of plan,” Charlie said quickly. “The lobby and outside is a warzone. Stay in the car in the basement parking lot. I’ll meet you there.”

“Understood,” Razzle replied, though his voice was hesitant. “And… be careful, Charlie.”

Charlie dropped the call and reached the top of the escalator. She looked around frantically for the easier way down without crossing through the lobby, knowing her time was limited. The infected in the hallway had already noticed her, their snarls growing louder as they caught her sight (and scent, obviously). She had to move quickly.

Then, Charlie spotted arrows on the walls pointing towards the fire exit. With buildings like this, they must’ve taken designing for safety seriously. Fire exits were designed for emergencies and would likely lead to the basement.

She sprinted down the hallway, the infected hot on her heels. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she followed the arrows, her mind racing. Don’t think about it, just fucking run. The door to the fire exit was just ahead by the end of the hallway. She reached it, flung it open, and darted inside, slamming it shut behind her.

The stairwell was dimly lit, but it was empty. Thank God.

Charlie took a moment to take a breather and gently massage her aching thighs, internally nagging herself not to join Vaggie’s daily jogs.

Regarding her girlfriend, Charlie quickly pulled out her phone and navigated to Vaggie’s number. While doing so, she was startled by the infected suddenly banging against the fire exit door behind her, but she knew they wouldn’t get through easily.

Well, hoping the infected aren’t as smart to open the door anyway.

Shaking her head, Charlie quickly dialed someone’s number. The phone rang and rang, each second stretching out painfully. Her heart sank when it went to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Valeria. Sorry, I couldn’t answer your call, but leave me your name and message. I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a great day. Hola, soy Valeria…”

Taking a deep breath, she tried to keep her voice steady. 

“Vaggie, it’s me, Charlie,” she said, trying to keep her panic at bay. “I’m at the Stock Exchange, and it’s— it’s bad. It seems the virus got worse, with people attacking each other and shit... I’m heading to the basement parking lot to meet Razzle and head back. If you get this, please stay safe with the rest of the hotel staff. I love you.”

She momentarily ended the call and stared at her phone, wishing Vaggie to call back. The banging on the fire exit door grew louder, snapping her out of her thoughts. She couldn’t afford to stay put any longer.

Charlie hurried down the steps, and she glanced at her watch. It was now 10:02 am. She had to reach Razzle and leave the building before things worsened. The basement parking lot was her best bet.

She reached the bottom of the stairwell and pushed open the door to the basement. The cool air with a distinct foul stench hit her face, causing her to flinch.

She quickly scans the area to find the car, then stops as she hears a loud growling echoing, a similar noise to when the infected investor started attacking. In that scenario, that reminds her of the shitty zombie movies that Charlie and Vaggie watched before.

Yet Charlie still hesitates, knowing such things are a myth.

“Charlie!” the blonde heard the familiar voice echoed by the far corner of the lot.

Charlie’s eyes darted in the direction of the voice and saw Razzle waving his arms outside of the car. Relief washed over her as she sprinted toward him, her footsteps echoing in the silent parking lot.

As she ran, the growling grew louder, and she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder, half-expecting to see more of the infected lunging at her. But the only thing behind her was the dimly lit stairwell, its door now firmly shut.

“Razzle!” she called out, her voice cracking with urgency.

Razzle jogged towards her, his face a mix of relief and worry. “Charlie, thank God you’re okay. Are you hurt?”

They hurried to the car, and Razzle opened the passenger door for her before jumping into the driver’s seat. Before hopping to the front seat, Charlie reached by the backseat and clicked the button by the middle, opening a compartment that neatly stores a Glock G43X with seven magazines.

Unsure if getting herself armed is even necessary, but seeing the chaos earlier… she's not taking any chances to protect herself and the people she loves.

Charlie grabbed the pistol, her hands shaking slightly as she remembered the gun safety lessons Vaggie and the gun safety instructors had drilled into her. She took a deep breath.

Finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot.

She inserted a magazine into the Glock and cocked the gun, the sound loud in the confined space of the car, then engaged the safety. It felt surreal, holding a weapon like this outside the range, but the shit she had just witnessed left no room for hesitation.

Charlie then pocketed the remaining magazines, ensuring they were secure and easily accessible in her coat. She closed the compartment and tossed her briefcase onto the backseat, where it landed with a dull thud. She rushed herself to the front seat and quickly buckled up, her eyes scanning the parking lot for any sign of movement.

"Alright, I'm ready," she said, her voice more confident than she felt.

Razzle glanced at her, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the gun. "You're serious about this, huh?”

Charlie met his gaze. "I saw what happened up there. I'm not taking any chances."

Razzle started the engine, and the car roared to life. "Good. We'll need every bit of protection we can get.”

As they pulled out of the parking spot, Razzle turned the car toward the main path of the lot. Just as they were about to accelerate, they saw a teenage boy in formal attire, his clothes marked with a few blood stains, darting out from among the parked cars. He was waving his hands frantically, his face contorted in fear and desperation.

“Stop!” Charlie shouted, her hand instinctively reaching for the dashboard.

Razzle hit the brakes hard, and the car screeched to a halt. The boy ran toward the driver’s side, his eyes wide and pleading. Razzle glanced at Charlie, silently asking if they should roll down the window.

Charlie quickly assessed the situation, her eyes scanning the boy. The blood stains on his clothes didn’t appear severe, like getting mauled by the infected, and his expression was one of pure desperation. He didn’t look like a threat, more like someone terrified and needing help.

She let out a small nod to Razzle. He rolled down the window just enough to talk, keeping a cautious distance.

The boy leaned in, panting heavily, his breath in ragged gasps. “Please, help me,” he begged, his voice cracking. “My mom… she got attacked. I can’t reach the hospitals. No one is answering 911. I… I don’t know what to do!” His words came out in a rush, nearly tripping over each other in his haste.

Razzle held up a hand to calm him. “Whoa, whoa, slow down, kid. Breathe. We need to understand what’s going on.”

Charlie glanced around the parking lot, her eyes wary for any signs of the infected. She knew they couldn’t stay here long. “What’s your name?” she asked the boy.

“Frank,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m Frank.”

“Frank, listen to me,” Charlie said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Where’s your mom now? Is she safe?”

Frank shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. “No, she’s hurt. She’s back there,” he pointed toward a darker corner of the lot. “I hid her, but she’s bleeding badly.”

Charlie looked at Razzle, who was waiting for her decision. She took a deep breath, weighing their options. Deep down, she knew they couldn’t just leave the kid and his mom behind, but they also needed to get out of there fast.

I have to get back to the hotel and Vaggie. But… ugh, God dammit!

She holstered her pistol by her belt underneath the coat.

“Alright,” Charlie exhaled, making up her mind. “Razzle, we’ll help them. Frank, take us to your mom. We’ll see what we can do.”

Frank nodded frantically and led them to where his mother was hidden. Razzle drove slowly, keeping pace with the boy as he guided them through the maze of parked cars.

They reached a darkened area of the lot, and Frank pointed to a car where a woman in a business suit lay slumped against the tire, blood seeping from a wound on her leg. She looked pale and weak, but she was conscious.

Observing the wound further makes Charlie slowly instinctively reach for her pistol.

“Mom, I found help,” Frank’s breaking voice snaps Charlie out, making her leave the car and approach the woman instead. “Ma’am, we’re here to help. Can you move?”

The woman nodded weakly. “I think so. T-Thank you.”

Yellow-grayish skin.

Charlie turned to Razzle. “Help me get her in the car.”

Razzle quickly hopped off his seat, and together, they carefully helped the woman into the backseat. Frank climbed in next to her, holding her hand tightly.

As Razzle sets up the GPS to the nearby hospital, Charlie glances in the rear mirror at the strangers, watching Frank buckle the seatbelt for himself and his mother, who looks much worse for wear.

Charlie discretely pulls her gun from her belt and grips it under her coat.

Chapter Text

10:03 am

She couldn't pay attention to the surge of nausea to survey the bloody scene. She doesn't care that she had just killed a man, the hotel’s patron, with a damn baton. All these years Vaggie’s been through, she hasn't dealt with shit like this. This was something out of a horror movie.

He had changed, somehow. The virus spreading across the world had mutated him into something else. Something monstrous. He had attacked one of her staff with a feral growl, his eyes glazed over, and his arm appeared to be bitten by another creature like him.

Vaggie had no choice but to defend herself and Michael, but it felt wrong.

Was this the final stage of the infection? The media had warned her and everyone else about the virus, but they never said anything about people turning into rabid beasts. How many more were there? How fast was it spreading?

However, that infected patron managed to check-in. Possibly before safety sanctions took place…

Vaggie shook her head and hurried her steps while carrying over a hundred-pound man down the hallway. It's a challenge, especially when no one’s responding to her radio call to do a heavy lifting with her.

Finally reaching the available elevator, Vaggie carefully lowers Michael by the corner and pushes the button to the lower first floor. As the doors closed, the confined space seemed to amplify her racing thoughts and heart pounding.

“Fuck, please stay with me…” she muttered, glancing at his pale, unconscious form. His breathing was shallow, and the blood soaking through his uniform wasn’t slowing down despite the quick first aid using her blazer to staunch the bleeding. “Come on, just hang in there.”

The elevator descended slowly, the digital floor numbers ticking with agonizing slowness. Vaggie had to get Michael to safety and patch him up, and then… what? Call Charlie? Find more help? Vaggie leaned against the wall, her breath quickening as she forced herself to focus.

The elevator felt suffocating, not just from the stench of blood but from the weight of Vaggie’s thoughts crashing against one another.

What if Michael’s infected? She wondered, her breath quickening. No, no, he can’t be. It was just an open wound, right? But what the fuck? He pulled the chunk out of him…

She glanced down at his pale, lifeless form again. His chest barely rose and fell, and his skin had taken on a sickly gray pallor. If I can stop the bleeding… if I can get him to the staff lounge, maybe—

The elevator jolted as it came to a stop. The doors slid open to the dimly lit lower first floor. Vaggie glanced out cautiously, scanning for any sign of danger before rushing into the corridor, half-dragging, half-carrying Michael’s limp body toward the staff lounge.

She fumbled with the key card to unlock the door, swearing under her breath as her hands trembled. Finally, the door clicked open, and she pushed through, the sterile, too-bright lights of the lounge glaring Vaggie eased Michael onto the worn-out couch, her mind racing through every first-aid technique she’d learned over the years.

She untie and re-apply her blazer to press it against the missing chunk on Michael’s neck. Blood soaked through almost immediately.

Goddammit, why won’t it stop? Her hands were slick with blood now, shaking as she worked to stop the bleeding. She grabbed a med kit from the corner shelf, ripping it open and fumbling through its contents. But Michael’s breathing became more shallow and ragged every second that passed.

"Come on, Michael. Don't do this to me. You’re just hurt. Just hurt…" Her voice cracked, and she shook him lightly as if trying to shake him awake, but he remained still.

And then, nothing. 

His chest stopped rising.

Vaggie froze, staring at his lifeless body. No, no, no… Her hands hovered uselessly over him, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she realized it was over. He was gone. She had lost him.

Oh, Dios mio, what now?

Her mind whirled, grief mixing with a bone-deep terror. She couldn't stay here. She had to get out, get her gun, and call for help. Anything. She wiped her bloody hands on her pencil skirt, leaving streaks of red as she bolted into the adjoining locker room.

The phone in her locker lit up, startling her. She snatched it up, fumbling with her fingers to unlock it. 

A missed call from Charlie.

Her stomach dropped. Charlie… shit. She quickly typed out a message, hands still trembling: “call me. It’s urgent.” But just as she was about to press send, she heard it.

A long, low groan.

Vaggie’s blood turned to ice. Her body froze every hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Slowly, she turned toward the open door of the staff lounge, the sound growing louder.

It was unmistakable—Michael’s voice. Or what used to be his voice.

Another groan, followed by a raspy, labored breath. Then, the sound of something heavy shifting, shuffling.

No. It can't be. He’s… he’s dead.

She grabbed the holster where the pistol was kept from her locker, with her mind screaming at her to run, to leave him behind. But her legs wouldn’t move. She had to know.

Clutching the gun in one hand, phone in the other, Vaggie edged toward the lounge, her heart hammering so loudly she thought it might drown out the sickening sound coming from inside.

As she peeked around the door frame, her worst fear was realized.

Michael was moving. His twisted and contorted body slowly rose from the couch. His skin was yellowish-gray pallid, and his eyes were glazed over with a milky film. The wound on his neck oozed, but he didn’t seem to feel it. His head jerked upward, and those empty, soulless eyes locked onto her.

Vaggie gasped, stumbling back into the locker room, her hands shaking as she raised the gun. “No…”

He let out a low, animalistic growl, his body lurching forward with unnatural strength.

Vaggie’s breath hitched, the sight of Michael—no, the thing that used to be Michael—triggering memories she had long buried. Her vision blurred as images of the desert came rushing back: the roar of gunfire, the smell of burning sand, the screams of her squad. The last time she had seen eyes like that—soulless, empty—was on the battlefield. She had looked into the face of death before, but not like this.

Not someone she knew.

Pull the trigger. You’ve done it before. It’s just another hostile.

But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The sound of groaning yanked her back to reality. Michael—or what was left of him—was advancing on her, his twisted, gray body lurching forward with a jerky, unnatural gait. His head lolled to one side as if the muscles couldn’t quite remember how to function. His hands twitched, fingers curling into claws.

Vaggie backed into the lockers, her pulse hammering against her skull. “Michael, stop,” she firmly ordered, knowing it wasn’t him anymore. Her gun was raised, her grip unsteady, and her mind screamed at her to shoot, to put him down like she had so many enemies before.

But this wasn’t war. This wasn’t an enemy combatant. This was Michael. A civilian. Her friend. Her colleague.

Images of the infected patron lunged, teeth bared, the sound of his growl low and guttural. Vaggie’s breath caught in her throat as the nightmare became real, her military instincts kicking in a split second too late.

Move, damn it!

With a guttural scream, Vaggie snapped into action, her reflexes honed from years of combat. She sidestepped the lunge as Michael’s body crashed into the lockers behind her with a deafening thud.

For a split second, she saw him—really saw him—his twisted form scrambling to rise, his movements like a broken marionette’s. The sight twisted her gut into knots. This isn’t Michael anymore. He’s gone.

Her vision tunneled as the flashbacks hit harder, blending with the present: the dusty streets of a war-torn city, the sound of a door being kicked open, and the rapid gunfire that followed. Her unit had cleared buildings just like this. Civilians turned threats. A friend turned foe. She had pulled the trigger before when she had to.

You don’t have a choice now, either.

The infected stumbled to its feet, growling low, the hunger evident in its dead eyes. It charged again, faster this time.

Vaggie gritted her teeth. I’m sorry.

Her hands steadied, fingers curling around the pistol grip as her arms locked in place. The infected lunged at her once more, and in that instant, everything went silent. The air stilled, her heartbeat stopped, and time slowed.

Vaggie squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot exploded in the room, reverberating off the metal lockers and filling the confined space with a deafening crack. The recoil jarred her arm, but she held steady.

The bullet found its mark, striking the infected right between the eyes. Chunks of blood matter sprayed behind him as his body jerked back with the force of the shot, collapsing in a lifeless heap at her feet.

Vaggie stood there, breathing hard, the gun still raised in her trembling hands as the echoes of the shot slowly faded. For a moment, all she could hear was the ringing in her ears, the adrenaline coursing through her veins making her limbs feel like lead.

She stared at Michael’s body, her heart breaking all over again. Tears welled up, but she forced them back, taking a shaky breath.

He was gone.

But so am I, she thought, lowering the gun. Her mind was numb, a mixture of shock and guilt crashing within her. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Everything felt too loud—the hum of the lights, the lingering echo of the gunshot, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. 

But then, through the haze, a faint crackling sound broke the silence. Her hand radio, clipped to her belt, sputtered to life with static.

"—Manager Rodríguez, we need you! There’s more of them—someone’s injured on the third floor—where are you?!"

The voice was frantic, with fear. Her team. The hotel staff.

Realization came crashing back like a punch to the gut. She wasn't just in some horror movie, fighting for her survival—there were people relying on her. The hotel, the staff, everyone still inside, trapped with those things roaming the halls. She was their head of security. She was supposed to protect them.

She told herself, you can fall apart later, then forcing a deep breath. Right now, you have to hold it together.

Her grip tightened on the pistol as she holstered it. Vaggie glanced at Michael’s body one last time, a dull ache forming in her chest. There would be time to grieve later. But for now, she had a job to do.

She hurried to her locker, shoving it open more forcefully than necessary. The steel door clanged against the wall, and she grabbed her head security garb hanging inside—black tactical pants, a heavy-duty vest, and a dark dress shirt. The uniform starkly contrasted with the blood-smeared pencil skirt and blouse she was still wearing. It was almost a relief to get out of the manager's uniform.

Her hands moved with methodical precision, pulling off her bloodstained shirt and skirt and replacing them with the familiar weight of her gear. As she tugged on her tactical pants and fastened her belt, she felt a strange sense of clarity settle over her.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been in a crisis. It wouldn’t be the last.

She pocketed her phone into her pants, glancing down at it briefly. With that voice message from that missed call… No, she can listen to it later. She trusts that Charlie is safe for now, and that is all that matters.

But Vaggie couldn’t let her guard down. She clipped her radio back onto her vest and took a deep breath, her mind racing through the following steps. The hotel was a maze filled with panicked, snobby, wealthy guests and staff. Who knew how many more of those infected were roaming the halls?

She had to lock down the building, secure the exits, get the remaining staff to safety, and then… figure out how to get everyone out of there.

This is for Charlie, she reminded herself. She would protect the hotel from falling apart because that’s what Charlie would want. Vaggie had sworn she would protect this place, and she wasn’t about to break that promise now, no matter how bad things got.

Her radio crackled again as she fastened her vest and adjusted her pistol. “Ms. Rodríguez, where are you? We need backup!”

“I’m on my way,” she said, her voice steady. 

As the car exited the basement parking lot, Razzle swerved onto the street, carefully maneuvering around debris and abandoned cars. Charlie’s grip on the pistol under her coat tightened as they sped through. The city she knew was unraveling fast. People were running in all directions—some screaming, some dazed, and others, terrifyingly, attacking each other.

“Jesus,” Razzle muttered, his eyes darting from side to side as he navigated through the mess. "It’s like a war zone out here."

Charlie’s gaze flickered to the rearview mirror, where Frank clutched his mother’s hand, his face pale with worry. The woman was drifting in and out of consciousness, her skin taking on an unsettling shade of gray. Charlie tried to push away the gnawing suspicion clawing at her mind.

Not yet. Just hold on.

It's been hours since the last time they've passed by this street, yet the streets were barely recognizable now. Piles of broken glass glittered on the asphalt, cars were overturned or smashed into storefronts, and people—those still alive—were fleeing aimlessly. Charlie's eyes darted between the chaotic streets ahead and the strangers in the backseat, her mind racing.

"How far is the hospital?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Razzle glanced at the GPS. "About two minutes if the roads clear up, but with this mess… I’ll have to take some different routes."

Charlie nodded, knowing full well that nothing about this would be easy. "Just keep driving. Don’t stop for anything."

The car jerked as Razzle swerved to avoid another group of people stumbling into the road. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he gritted his teeth. “I’m trying, Charlie, but—”

Suddenly, a loud thud hit the side of the car, and Razzle jerked the wheel instinctively, barely managing to keep control. Charlie whipped around in her seat, gun half-raised, expecting to see another infected barreling toward them. Instead, it was a panicked pedestrian banging on the car, screaming for help.

Razzle kept driving, eyes wide. “We can’t stop,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

The car careened through a narrow walkway, the tires screeching as they took a hard turn. “Razzle!” Charlie snapped, gripping the door as they barely missed colliding with a stack of overturned crates. “You trying to kill us before the infected can?”

“I’m trying to keep us alive!” Razzle shot back as he narrowly avoided another abandoned vehicle, this one with shattered windows and blood smeared on the hood. He dodged around it with a skill that surprised even Charlie.

More people flooded the streets, cars crashed, and smoke rose from distant fires. The unmistakable sound of distant gunfire echoed between the buildings.

Razzle swerved to avoid another car wreck, his eyes scanning the road for any clear path forward. “We’re close to the main road,” he said, glancing at the GPS. “But if it’s blocked—”

“Then we’ll have to find another way,” Charlie finished for him. Her eyes shifted to Frank and his mother in the backseat. The woman was barely conscious now, her breathing shallow. Sweat dripped from her brow, and her skin was taking on a worrying pallor. Frank watched her closely, his hands trembling as he gripped her arm.

“We’ll get her to the hospital,” Charlie muttered under her breath, trying to reassure herself as much as Frank. But deep down, she wasn’t sure how long the woman had left.

As they approached Wall Street, the road ahead became even worse. Traffic was at a standstill, with cars jammed together in a tangled mess. People abandoned their vehicles and fled on foot, pushing and shoving to escape the carnage unfolding around them.

“Shit,” Razzle cursed under his breath. “We’re not getting through this.”

Charlie glanced out the window. The road was packed with people—some running, some screaming, others in bloody fights. With their jerky, unnatural movements, more infected were spreading through the crowd.

“We can’t go forward,” Razzle's voice is tight with frustration. “We’ll have to backtrack.”

Just as he started to reverse, a screeching sound ripped through the air—a car barreling toward them from behind, out of control. Razzle slammed the gas, accelerating forward to dodge the oncoming vehicle. They narrowly avoided the collision, the speeding car smashing into the wreckage before them with a deafening crash.

“Go! Go!” Charlie shouted. They sped through a gap between two smashed cars, just barely squeezing through.

Razzle floored it, taking another hard turn down a side street. The sounds of death slowly faded behind them as they left the worst carnage on Wall Street. Charlie exhaled a shaky breath.

They drove in silence for a moment, the engine humming as Razzle weaved through backstreets, trying to put as much distance between them and the chaos as possible.

“We’re almost there,” Razzle muttered, glancing at the GPS. “Couple more blocks.”

Charlie nodded, though her eyes flicked back to the rearview mirror again. Frank’s mother was barely moving now, her breaths shallow and uneven. And that color—Charlie couldn’t ignore it anymore. She knew what was happening, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

They didn’t have much time.

Her fingers tightened around the grip of her gun.

Charlie turned in her seat, her voice softening as she addressed Frank’s mother. “Ma’am, how are you feeling?” She waited for a response, but the woman didn’t stir. Her head was slumped against the car window, her breaths barely perceptible.

“Ma’am?” Charlie repeated, louder this time, but still nothing.

Frank’s eyes widened with panic. “Mom? Mom!” He frantically shook her arm, his voice trembling as he tried to rouse her. “Mom, please wake up. Mom!” His hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her harder now, but her body remained limp, her chest no longer rising or falling.

Charlie’s heart sank as she watched the scene unfold. She slumped back in her seat, a wave of defeat washing over her. Frank’s desperate cries echoed in her ears, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words yet. She had seen this before.

Razzle’s hands were tight on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead, dodging more wreckage and scattered debris. “We’re almost there,” he muttered, his voice tense but steady. “The hospital’s just a few blocks away.”

Charlie stared out the windshield, her mind racing as flashes of what she had witnessed earlier back in the Stock Exchange Building this morning came flooding back—the infected investor, the moment he collapsed, only to rise again moments later, twisted and ravenous to immediately bite down the doctor’s fully-clothed shoulder. She swallowed hard and spoke, “I saw someone turn… earlier.”

Razzle glanced at her, confused. “What do you mean, ‘turn’?”

Charlie’s eyes stayed on the road ahead, but her grip on the gun tightened. “The moment they went unconscious... they changed. Fast. One minute, they were human, and the next...” Her voice trailed off. “It happens so quickly.”

Frank froze his hand still on his mother’s shoulder. “What are you talking about?” His voice wavered, filled with both fear and disbelief. “My mom’s just unconscious. She’s... she’ll be fine once we get to the hospital, right?”

Charlie took a deep breath. She didn’t want to do this, not like this. But the truth was staring her in the face. “Frank... your mom... she’s not going to the hospital.” Her voice was firm now, with no room for hope. “She’s... she’s going to turn.”

“No!” Frank shook his head violently, tears streaming down his face. “You’re wrong! She’s just hurt—she’s not like them!” His voice cracked with desperation. “She’s not!”

Charlie turned to look at him, her heartbreaking at the sight of his anguish, but she couldn’t let denial blind the reality. Especially when the mother is about to turn in any moment. “I’ve seen it happen, Frank. Once they stop breathing... it’s only a matter of minutes. We can’t risk it.”

Frank’s face crumpled in disbelief. “No, no, no!” He looked back at his mother, her skin now an unnatural gray, her body eerily still. She looked more like a corpse than a person now. His hands trembled as he reached out to touch her face. “Mom... please…”

Charlie glanced at Razzle, her voice low. “Razzle... renavigate. We’re not going to the hospital anymore.”

Razzle hesitated, his fingers hovering over the GPS. “Charlie, are you sure? The hospital might still have—”

“I’m sure,” Charlie interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Head back to the hotel. Now.”

Razzle swallowed hard but nodded, changing course. He didn’t want to argue with her, not when her voice carried that edge of finality. The car made a sharp turn, heading away from the hospital and back north towards the hotel.

In the backseat, Frank’s panic was spiraling. His wide eyes darted between his mother’s body and Charlie's. “No, we can’t just leave her like this! She’s not one of them! She’s not dead!” His voice broke, raw and ragged.

But even as he spoke, a low, guttural sound began to rise from his mother’s throat. Her fingers twitched. Charlie’s stomach churned, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. It was already happening.

“Frank, don’t look,” Charlie warned. But Frank couldn’t tear his eyes away. His mother’s body jerked unnaturally, her head lolling to the side as a rasping breath filled the small space of the car. 

“No… no, no, no...” Frank whimpered, backing away in the seat, his terror growing as his mother’s eyes snapped open, cloudy and empty.

“Razzle!” Charlie barked, her hand on the gun now. “Step on it!”

Razzle slammed on the gas, the car lurching forward as it sped through the narrow street, the tires screeching against the pavement. The world outside blurred, but all Charlie could focus on was the sound behind her—the rasping breath of Frank’s mother as she stirred, the low, guttural growls filling the car.

“Mom…” Frank’s voice cracked, disbelief and terror mixing as he shrank back into his seat, eyes wide with horror. His mother’s head jerked unnaturally, her once limp body now twitching with eerie, unnatural movements. Her hands clawed at the air, her mouth opening and closing in a grotesque, inhuman rhythm.

Charlie’s hand tightened on her gun, her heart pounding in her chest. “Frank, stay back!” she ordered. She couldn’t afford to lose control now. Not with things spiraling so quickly.

“No, no, she’s just—she’s just—” Frank stammered, but the truth was impossible to deny. His mother was gone. What was left was something else, something far worse. “Mom, please!”

Her body convulsed, the growling growing louder, more vicious. Once warm and filled with life, her eyes were now empty, void of humanity. She was no longer the woman Frank knew—just another one of the infected, and she was turning fast.

“Razzle, drive faster!” Charlie shouted, her eyes darting between Frank and the creature that had once been his mother.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Razzle snapped, weaving between the wreckage on the streets. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, sweat dripping down his face as the car jerked through narrow gaps, barely avoiding collisions.

Frank’s mother lunged, her fingers clawing wildly, and before anyone could react, she latched onto Razzle’s shoulder. Her grip was terrifyingly strong, pulling herself toward the front seat with a guttural growl. Razzle's face twisted in pain as her nails dug into his skin.

"Razzle, watch out!" Charlie screamed, but it was too late.

The car swerved violently, and Razzle lost focus as he tried to pry the infected woman off. His foot pressed harder on the gas, not out of intention but sheer panic. The speedometer climbed, and the world outside turned into a blur.

Frank screamed, frozen in shock, his hands clutching the back of the seat as his mother snarled inches from Razzle’s face. "Mom, no! Please!"

Charlie aimed up her gun, but the swerving in the front seat made it impossible to get a clean shot. "Razzle, you have to let go of the wheel!"

“I can’t—!” Razzle’s voice was strangled, his body contorting as he struggled against the infected woman’s inhuman strength.

The car hurtled forward through an intersection—straight through a red light.

A blaring horn split the air, instantly cutting through. Charlie’s eyes snapped to the window over Razzle just in time to see it: another car barreling toward them from the cross street, moving far too fast to stop.

Time seemed to slow.

“Razzle!” Charlie’s scream was swallowed by the deafening sound of impact.

The car smashed into them with a thunderous force, slamming directly into the driver’s side. Metal twisted and crunched with a sickening screech, the glass exploded outward, and the entire vehicle was violently spun. The force of the impact sent Charlie’s head crashing into the passenger window, and for a split second, everything went black while her body slammed hard into the door, the breath knocked from her lungs.

The world outside blurred—the crunching sound of metal, the screech of tires, and then a terrible silence. The car flipped once and twice before finally slamming into a building and coming to a dead stop, crumpled like a tin can.

For a long moment, there was nothing but stillness.

“Charlie… wake up…”

The voice was familiar, painfully so. It echoed through the void, a distant memory rising to the surface. Her younger self—innocent, untouched by the horrors she had seen—was calling to her. The voice was clear and bright, like a child pleading with her.

“Wake up… You can’t stay here…”

Charlie felt heavy, like her body was rooted down. But the voice grew louder, insistent.

“You have to wake up. You’re not done yet. It’s not your time.”

The steady sound of her blood dripping onto the metal floor of the car grew louder, each drop like a ticking clock counting down. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, sluggish but steady, pulling her back, urging her to open her eyes. 

“I know it hurts… but you have to wake up.”

She could almost see her child self standing there in the distance, waiting for her. Waiting for her to open her eyes.

With a sudden surge of panic, Charlie gasped for air. Pain shot through her body, but her eyes flew open to a scene of devastation.

The front of the car was completely crushed, the roof caved in, and the windshield shattered into jagged shards. Razzle’s side of the car had taken the brunt of the hit, the impact having collapsed the entire left side. His body was slumped forward, motionless, blood smeared across his face and chest. Frank was tangled in the backseat, unmoving, his eyes wide open, staring blankly ahead.

Charlie groaned, her vision swimming as she tried to sit up. Pain shot through her body, radiating from her leg. She glanced down, her breath hitching, when she saw the nasty gash running down her thigh. Blood soaked her slacks, and her leg was pinned awkwardly against the twisted metal of the seat. She tried to move, but agony rippled through her body, sending a fresh wave of nausea through her.

For a second, the pain was all-consuming. But then the adrenaline kicked in, pushing through the fog in her mind. She was alive. Somehow, she survived. But she wasn’t safe. Not yet.

The rasping sound of shallow breaths snapped her attention to the backseat. Frank’s mother—or what was left of her—was twitching in the wreckage, her body pinned but still moving, jerky and unnatural. Her milky, lifeless eyes rolled toward Charlie, a guttural growl rising from her throat as she reached out with one clawed hand, fingers scraping at the air between them.

Charlie’s stomach lurched. The infected woman’s movements were slow, restrained by the wreckage, but she wasn’t going to stay that way forever.

Grimacing, Charlie reached for her gun, her fingers trembling as they wrapped around the handle. She pointed it toward Frank’s mother, forcing her hand to steady.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The shot echoed through the car, and the growling stopped.

Charlie slumped back in her seat, her chest heaving as the pain in her leg flared again and the ringing noises echoed due to the gunshot being so loud and close to her ear. She had to leave the car and move before anything else found them. But when she tried to shift, the agony in her leg was too much; her body protested every movement.

Her eyes blurred as she looked out through the shattered windshield. The street outside was eerily quiet now, save for the distant sound of sirens and the crackling of nearby fires. The other car that had hit them was overturned, its driver’s side crumpled against the pavement. Whoever had been inside wasn’t moving either.

A few minutes passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion before Charlie’s survival instincts kicked in again. Charlie gritted her teeth, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she braced herself against the twisted remnants of the dashboard. Every movement sent a wave of searing pain radiating from her leg, but staying stuck in the car was a death sentence. She had to get out. Now.

Her leg was pinned beneath the jagged metal of the seat, twisted awkwardly, the deep gash oozing blood. She could feel the sticky warmth of it pooling beneath her, the wound throbbing with every heartbeat.

“Okay… okay,” she whispered, her hands trembling as they gripped the twisted metal. She pulled as hard as possible, but the seat didn’t budge. Her muscles strained, the sharp edges digging into her palms, drawing thin lines of blood. 

"Come on!" she gasped, panic creeping into her voice as she tugged again, this time with all the strength she could muster. 

The metal groaned but didn’t move. Her leg, trapped beneath the sharp edge, felt like it was on fire. White-hot pain shot through her body, making her vision blur with tears. Her fingers shook, slipping against the blood-slick metal, and a cry of frustration tore from her throat.

She leaned back, breathing heavily, her mind racing. There had to be another way. Maybe she could slide her leg out and twist it just enough to escape without freeing the metal. She glanced down at the gash, her stomach churning at the sight of the raw, jagged flesh. The skin was torn wide open, exposing muscle and tissue beneath. Blood continued to pour from the wound, dark and thick, staining her slacks and pooling around her foot.

Biting down hard, Charlie reached for her leg, her fingers hovering over the torn flesh for a moment before she pressed down on it. A strangled scream escaped her lips as pain exploded up her thigh, but she didn’t let go. She pushed harder, feeling the sickening shift of bone and muscle as she twisted her leg, trying to slide it free.

The metal grated against her skin, tearing it further as she moved. Her vision swam with spots, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged bursts. The pain was unbearable like someone was driving a hot blade deeper into her leg with every millimeter she managed to pull free. 

“Almost… there…” she grunted through clenched teeth, her face slick with sweat and tears. Inch by agonizing inch, her leg slid out from under the metal. The sharp edge cut more profound with each movement, but she kept going, knowing there was no other option.

Finally, with a sickening squelch, her leg came free. Charlie fell back against the seat, gasping for air, her body trembling with exhaustion and pain. Her hands were slick with blood—her blood—her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.

She looked down at her leg. The gash was worse than she had imagined. Flesh hung in ragged strips, blood flowing freely from the open wound, soaking her slacks even further. She could barely feel the limb anymore, just a dull, throbbing numbness where the pain had been moments ago. The shock was setting in.

But she wasn’t dead yet.

Looking through the dashboard screen with the GPS opened (surprisingly, it is still working despite the cracked screen), Charlie presses the point for the navigation to expand.

Holy fuck. She’s still in Lower Manhattan. 38 minutes of driving or over an hour of walking on foot.

Gritting her teeth again, she grabbed the door frame and pulled herself out of the wreckage. Every movement was a fresh agony, her body screaming in protest as she dragged herself free. Her leg, useless and bleeding, trailed behind her, leaving a slick trail of blood on the cracked pavement.

Charlie collapsed onto the ground outside, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she lay there, staring up at the smoke-filled sky. The world spun around her, the sounds of distant chaos a dull roar in her ears. She didn’t have long before the pain and blood loss took her. She needed to move, needed to find help, but her body felt heavy, like lead.

Help… of course!

With a groan, she forced herself to sit up, her hands trembling as she pressed down hard on the gash, trying to stem the flow of blood. The pressure sent another wave of agony through her, but she held on, gritting her teeth as she ripped a piece of her coat and wrapped it tightly around her thigh.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Through the haze of pain, Charlie constantly told herself she wasn’t dead yet, and if she could just keep moving, maybe she could find shelter—something, anything to buy her time.

But was she able to walk in this condition?

Charlie’s trembling hand reached into her coat pocket, fumbling for her phone. Her fingers were slick with blood, and it took several tries before she managed to pull it out. The cracked screen flickered to life. With a shaky breath, she tapped Vaggie's number, praying she’d answer this time.

The ringing seemed to go on forever, each second dragging out painfully long. Charlie’s body ached, her leg a dull throb beneath the hastily tied coat fabric. Sweat dripped down her forehead, mixing with the grime and blood on her face. The world was spinning, narrowing into a tunnel of pain and exhaustion. Her vision blurred, but she didn’t dare close her eyes.

Come on, Vaggie. Please. 

The ringing cut off. 

“Charlie?!” Vaggie's voice came through the crackling line. "Oh my God, are you okay? Charlie, where are you?"

Charlie exhaled a ragged breath. “Vaggie… sweetie…” she whispered, her voice hoarse and weak. “I—”

“Charlie? What’s wrong? News has broken out shit’s gotten worse especially by the Financial District—where are you?”

“I… I’m still in Manhattan,” Charlie managed between labored breaths. Her muscles screamed in protest as she tried to shift, to stand. “Car crash… I’m—ah, fuck!” She cried out as she put weight on her injured leg, a sharp bolt of pain shooting through her body.

Vaggie gasped on the other end. “Charlie, what happened? Are you hurt? Baby, talk to me!”

“I’m fine… I mean, no, not really…” Charlie groaned, her free hand gripping the car door for support as she pulled herself up, the phone pressed against her ear. The world tilted, and for a moment, she thought she’d pass out. “I’m trying… trying to get up. My leg… it’s bad, Vaggie.”

“Stay still, don’t push yourself!” Vaggie’s voice was shaking now. “Where are you? Tell me where you are. I’ll come find you!”

“Vaggie, you can’t… leave the hotel. You need to stay safe.” The blonde swallows, “I-I’ll figure something out.”

“No! Stop it, Charlie! Don’t you dare try to be a martyr right now,” Vaggie snapped, her tone laced with frustration. “I’m coming to get you. I don’t care about the hotel right now. You’re more important. The staff are fine, they can handle themselves. They know how to protect the place, but I’m not leaving you alone.”

Charlie winced, guilt and pain washing over her in equal measures. She didn’t want to pull Vaggie away from the hotel's safety, but she could hear the determination in her girlfriend’s voice. There was no use arguing.

“I… I don’t want you getting hurt,” Charlie whispered, her voice trembling as she pressed the phone to her ear, her hands slick with blood.

“I’ll be fine. Just tell me where you are, babe. Please.”

Charlie glanced around, blinking through the pain and exhaustion as she took in her surroundings. The cracked pavement beneath her was littered with debris from the wreckage, the car half-crumpled beside her. The street stretched ahead, the familiar storefronts of Soho looming in the distance, partially obscured by smoke. The graffiti-covered walls, the burnt-out husks of cars, and the eerily abandoned storefronts starkly contrast with what she remembered of this once-bustling neighborhood. She could make out the cracked sign of a nearby deli she used to visit with Vaggie. She knew this place, even when the world was ending.

“Soho…” Charlie breathed into the phone. “I’m in Soho. The street—" She squinted, trying to make out a sign through the haze. "Prince Street. I think… near West Broadway. By that old deli, we used to go to. The one with the mural on the side.” Charlie’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but she knew Vaggie would recognize the spot.

“Okay, I know exactly where that is. Hold on, I’m coming for you, Charlie. Stay with me, okay? Just… stay awake.” Vaggie said, her voice tight with fear. “Charlie, please hang in there. Don’t move, just stay on the line with me.”

Charlie’s head swam as she leaned against the car, sliding down until she sat on the pavement again. She let out a low groan, the pain in her leg radiating up her body. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage, pooling beneath her.

“I don’t know how long I have, Vaggie,” Charlie whispered. Her voice cracked as the adrenaline started to wear off, replaced by the total weight of her injuries. “It’s bad.”

“No, no, you listen to me,” Vaggie’s voice was firm, cutting through the haze. “You are not dying on me, Charlie. I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself if you do.” Her voice wavered at the end. “I’m coming to get you. You hear me? I’m coming for you.”

Charlie let out a shaky laugh despite the pain. “Yeah… I hear you.”

Her body was growing heavier, the edges of her vision dimming. She could still hear Vaggie’s voice, frantic and desperate, but it was starting to feel far away like she was underwater. She fought to stay awake, to hold on just a little longer.

“Charlie, talk to me!” Vaggie’s voice broke through again, louder this time. “Please, just stay with me. Tell me what you see, okay? Keep talking.”

Charlie blinked, trying to focus. The world was a blur of smoke and shattered glass, but she could still make out the faint outlines of the Soho buildings she knew so well. 

“I see… Prince Street. It’s quiet… too quiet.” Her voice slurred, her thoughts slipping as her body struggled to hold on. “I… I love you, Vaggie. Just… in case—”

“No! Don’t you dare!” Vaggie’s voice was fierce, trembling. “You’re going to say that to me in person, okay? You’re going to hold on, and we’re going to get out of this mess together.”

Charlie smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering closed as she rested her head against the cool pavement. The distant sirens grew louder, mingling with the fading sounds of Vaggie’s voice in her ear. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on.

But she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

Charlie’s grip on the phone slackened, but Vaggie’s voice kept her tethered to reality, even as her body screamed for rest. She clenched her jaw, focusing on each word from her girlfriend, the desperation in Vaggie’s voice grounding her, keeping her awake.

“Charlie, please, stay with me,” Vaggie said, her voice tight and pleading. “Talk to me. Anything. Just keep talking.”

Charlie forced her eyes open again, blinking through the haze of pain. Her vision swam, but she could still see the distant outline of the deli’s mural—faded now, but still there. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and raw.

“The mural,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Remember? You always loved that stupid mural…”

Vaggie let out a shaky laugh, relief and anxiety mingling in her voice. “Yeah, I remember. It was a mess of colors—never really made sense. But you said it looked like a mess in motion. I never really got it, but you did.”

Charlie’s lips twitched into a weak smile. “Yeah… mess. That sounds about right.”

Another wave of pain washed over her, and she hissed through clenched teeth. Her hand instinctively pressed down on the makeshift bandage around her leg, but it was soaked through with blood, barely doing anything to stop the flow. She could feel herself fading, the energy draining from her limbs.

“I don’t… know if I can stay awake much longer, Vaggie,” Charlie mumbled, her head lolling to the side as the world tilted again. The darkness at the edges of her vision crept in further, making it harder to focus. 

“No, no, no, don’t say that!” Vaggie’s voice was frantic now. “Just hold on a little longer. I’m almost there, okay? You’re strong, Charlie. You can do this.”

Charlie wasn’t longer sure, but she didn’t want to say that. Vaggie was holding on to hope, and Charlie didn’t want to be the one to shatter it. 

“I’ll try,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath now.

She tried to focus on her surroundings, the sounds of distant sirens and crackling fires barely registering over the pounding in her head. The world felt far away like she was drifting, and no matter how hard she fought, her body wanted to let go.

But then, through the fog, she heard it.

A car. Tires screeching on pavement. 

Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. Was it Vaggie? Or someone else?

The noise grew louder and closer, and Charlie’s hand tightened around the phone again. She tried to sit up, but her body was too weak, her limbs refusing to cooperate. She groaned, her head lolling against the pavement as her eyes fluttered shut again.

Her grip on her loosens, causing it to drop onto the pavement.

“Charlie!” Vaggie’s voice shouted through the phone. “Charlie, I’m almost there! Please, stay with me!”

Vaggie’s heart pounded in her chest as she drove through the eerily abandoned streets of Soho, her hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. The surrounding street already looks like a damn wasteland—burnt-out cars, debris scattered across the roads, and the distant echoes of sirens creating an ambiance. Her phone lay on the passenger seat, silent now for the past few minutes. That silence was more terrifying than anything she had faced back at the hotel.

“Come on, Charlie, stay with me,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tight with fear as she glanced nervously at the phone.

The last thing she heard was Charlie’s weak, fading voice, followed by a soft thud as the phone had fallen. And then… nothing. No more labored breaths, no more whispers. Just silence.

“Fuck!” Vaggie cursed, slamming her foot harder on the gas pedal. Her car weaved through the abandoned vehicles littering the street, the tires screeching as she barely avoided a crumpled taxi. “Hold on, babe. I’m almost there.”

Her eye darted to the GPS, tracking her position. She was close—just a few more blocks. Her mind raced, thoughts spiraling. What if she was too late? What if Charlie was already—

No. She couldn’t let herself think like that. Charlie was strong. She was a fighter. She wouldn’t give up, not without a fight. Vaggie clung to that thought, using it to keep the panic at bay.

As she approached Prince Street, her heart skipped a beat. Up ahead, she could see the outline of a car wreck, twisted metal and broken glass scattered across the road. Her breath caught in her throat as her eye locked onto the familiar shape of an Idua.

“Charlie…” she whispered, fear curling tight in her chest.

Without hesitation, Vaggie slammed her foot on the gas, her car surging forward. She barely registered the screech of the tires as she braked hard, skidding to a stop just a few feet from the wreckage. The luxury car was crushed, the front end completely mangled, its windshield shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. Her hands shook as she fumbled to shut off the car, barely able to control her trembling fingers as she shoved the door open.

She bolted toward the wreck, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear anything else. The first thing she saw was Razzle slumped forward in the driver seat. His body was twisted, motionless, blood smeared across his face. Vaggie’s stomach twisted, but she couldn’t stop to process it. She forced herself to keep moving, her eye scanning the wreckage for any sign of Charlie.

“Charlie!” she shouted, her voice hoarse with desperation as she circled the car. “Charlie, where are you?”

No response.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she reached the back of the car, her hands shaking as she pulled open the rear door. Inside, she found a teenage boy—his lifeless eyes staring blankly ahead, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. Vaggie’s throat tightened, tears stinging her eye. He was just a kid. And Charlie… she had probably tried to save him like she always did. Even in a moment like this, Charlie would never stop trying to protect others.

But the passenger seat… it was empty.

Blood trails streaked across the seat and out the door. Vaggie’s pulse quickened as she followed the trail, her chest tight with panic.

“Charlie!” she yelled again, her voice cracking as she rushed to the car's other side.

And then she saw her.

Charlie was lying on the pavement, her body slumped against the side of the car. Blood soaked through her maroon slacks, pooling around her leg. Her head was resting on the cool pavement, her face pale, her eyes closed. Vaggie’s heart clenched painfully in her chest, her knees almost buckling beneath her. Eye scanning the extent of her injuries. Blood continued to seep from the wound in her thigh, darkening her maroon slacks and spreading in a widening pool around her. Vaggie pressed her trembling fingers to Charlie's neck, searching for a pulse. 

It was faint, but it was there.

"Gracias a Dios," Vaggie whispered, a mix of relief and terror overwhelming her. But she couldn't let herself fall apart, not now. She had to act fast.

She quickly assessed Charlie's condition—unconscious, bleeding heavily, possible internal injuries. Vaggie knew if she didn’t stop the bleeding soon, Charlie wouldn’t make it.

“You’re not dying on me today,” Vaggie muttered, her jaw clenched as she stood. She bent down, hooking her arms beneath Charlie’s limp body. 

Charlie’s height had always towered over Vaggie, but now it felt like nothing. Adrenaline surged through her, giving her the strength she needed. Vaggie hoisted Charlie over her shoulders in a fireman carry. Despite Charlie's lanky frame, Vaggie moved with a determination.

The sound of Charlie’s blood dripping onto the pavement sent chills down Vaggie’s spine. She could feel warm and sticky seeping through her clothes, but she didn’t stop. Every second was precious. Her breaths came in short, controlled bursts as she sprinted toward the car, her feet pounding against the asphalt.

"Hang in there, babe," Vaggie gasped between breaths. "Just a little longer."

When she reached the car, she flung open the back door with her free hand and gently lowered Charlie onto the seat. Charlie's legs hung out of the door awkwardly, but there was no time to adjust her. 

Vaggie’s mind raced as she dashed to the trunk. Her fingers fumbled momentarily before finding the emergency medical kit and a trauma bag she recently packed before leaving the hotel. She yanked it open and her hands moved quickly, pulling out a suture kit, medical shears, and disinfectant. Hospitals weren’t an option anymore—hell, nothing was certain anymore with the infected putting this city in a damn chokehold.

Vaggie stood between Charlie’s lanky legs, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. She cut through the bloody fabric of Charlie’s pants to get a clearer view of the wound with a blade. The gash in Charlie’s thigh was deep, dangerously close to the femoral artery. Blood was still oozing out, slower now, thanks to the shitty tourniquet using a scrap of Charlie’s coat.

"Okay, you’re going to be fine," Vaggie murmured to herself as much as to Charlie.

She grabbed a bottle of saline from the trauma bag and poured it over the wound, washing away some blood and debris. Then she reached for the antiseptic, dousing the wound liberally. Charlie didn’t flinch—still unconscious, her body limp, pale. Vaggie swallowed hard, her hands steadying as she reached for the needle and thread.

This wasn’t the first time she’d had to stitch someone up in the field, but it was the first time it had been someone she loved. The thought tightened her chest, but she shoved it aside and focused.

The curved needle threaded through, pulling the suture tight. She bent over Charlie’s thigh, and she began to close the wound, stitch by careful stitch. Her fingers moved deftly, the needle puncturing the torn skin, pulling it back together in a tight line.

Halfway through, Charlie let out a soft groan, her body twitching slightly. Vaggie froze for a second, her heart skipping a beat before she resumed her work.

"It’s okay, Charlie. I’ve got you. Just hang on a little longer."

Once the wound was stitched closed, Vaggie grabbed a roll of gauze and wrapped it tightly around Charlie’s leg, securing the dressing with medical tape. She then checked the tourniquet again, loosening it slightly but keeping it in place to make the bleeding under control. Finally, she gave the area one last look to make sure the wound was properly dressed and stable.

Vaggie exhaled, leaning back against the car door for a moment. The hardest part was over, but Charlie was still in critical condition. She grabbed a small flashlight from the kit and checked Charlie’s pupils—they were responsive, but her breathing was still shallow.

“You’ll make it,” Vaggie whispered, brushing a strand of blood-matted blonde hair from Charlie’s forehead.

With the immediate threat of blood loss dealt with, Vaggie quickly assessed Charlie’s other injuries. A bruise was forming on her temple along with a cut by her forehead, and her arm had a nasty scrape with layers of clothing torn apart. However, nothing else seemed life-threatening.

Vaggie quickly packed the medical supplies, wiping her hands clean on her already bloodstained pants. She carefully adjusted Charlie’s body to keep her long legs inside the car, and then she moved to the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror so she could keep an eye on Charlie as she drove. She took one last deep breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly as she started the car again.

The streets of Soho stretched out ahead of her. Sirens echoed distantly, but nothing moved. Vaggie floored the gas pedal, her eye flicking between the road and Charlie in the backseat.

“You’re going to be okay, Charlie. I promise.”

Chapter Text

For the first week since the virus mutated, the U.S. government threw every ounce of its remaining power into containing the outbreak. At first, their response was quick and calculated, deploying military forces to major cities like New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Miami. National Guard units were activated, checkpoints were established at city borders, and quarantine zones were set up in stadiums, schools, and other extensive facilities to isolate the infected from the healthy. The government used martial law to maintain order, implementing curfews, restricting travel, and cutting off access to major highways to stop the spread.

But the virus was unlike anything they’d ever faced.

Initially, the infected were treated like any other outbreak victims; quarantined, monitored, and cared for. Doctors and scientists scrambled to understand the virus, working around the clock to find a cure or at least slow it down. But as the infection spread through the brain, turning victims into violent predators that containing the virus would be far more complicated than anyone had anticipated.

In New York, the National Guard set up blockades across bridges and tunnels to prevent people from escaping the city. They broadcast emergency messages, instructing citizens to stay indoors and wait for help. However, as the infection rate skyrocketed, the number of infected people overpowered the military’s efforts. Entire neighborhoods were overrun, and the infected moved with an almost animalistic ferocity, overwhelming soldiers and spreading panic faster than the government could respond.

In Los Angeles, things took a different turn. The government tried to coordinate evacuation efforts, using military helicopters to airlift citizens out of the city and into makeshift camps outside urban areas. But the desperation of survivors complicated things. People fought tooth and nail to get onto the evacuation lists, bribing officials, lying about their health, and even resorting to violence to secure a spot on a helicopter. Chaos erupted at every evacuation site as crowds of desperate civilians overran soldiers, trampling each other to death in their attempts to escape. The infected, drawn to the chaos, only added to the carnage.

In Chicago, volunteer programs were launched to distribute food, water, and medical supplies to the survivors trapped in the inner city. However, as the number of infected people grew, those distribution centers became death traps. Panicked mobs and infected hordes overran volunteers, and what was meant to be an organized relief effort quickly dissolved into anarchy. Greedy survivors hoarded supplies, violently pushing others aside to take whatever they could carry. The infected poured into the streets, drawn to the noise and desperation, turning once-calm areas into battlegrounds. 

The same story played out in major cities across the country. Washington, D.C., fell into chaos as the virus breached the city limits, leaving government officials scrambling to secure themselves in fortified bunkers and safe zones. Miami initially thought to be isolated by its geographic location, turned into a bloodbath as the infected spread from the northern parts of Florida, overrunning military checkpoints within days.

No matter how hard the government tried, the combination of the infected’s numbers and the survivors' greed and fear broke down every attempt to contain. Those who had once counted on their government for protection found themselves abandoned, left to fend for themselves in a crumbling society.

Meanwhile, back in the Happy Hotel, the once-vibrant halls had become a tense, makeshift sanctuary for survivors, staff, and patrons alike, all clinging to the thin thread of hope that they could outlast the apocalypse happening beyond the hotel's walls.

Vaggie moved through the halls, looking determined, but her mind was split inside. Every moment she wasn’t by Charlie’s side felt like an eternity. Charlie, unconscious in the hotel’s penthouse, was pale and fragile. The wound on her thigh was deep, and though Vaggie had done her best to stitch it up and prevent infection, she knew it wasn’t enough. Charlie needed real medical supplies to stabilize her condition, but those things were no longer accessible to come by.

The hotel's dwindling supplies couldn’t meet the needs of the injured and sick, and Vaggie knew it. Her solution, though flawed, was the only one she could accept: send people out on supply runs, no matter how dangerous. The streets were overrun with the infected, and the military efforts to contain them had collapsed, but Vaggie couldn’t let Charlie die. Not after everything they’d fought for.

A few days in, the cracks started to show.

The hotel staff and some volunteers among the patrons were tasked with keeping the place in lockdown. Vaggie had made it clear that no one could leave without her permission (too risky, she said). The infected were everywhere, and venturing out meant almost certain death. However, as the days passed, food supplies ran low, and the number of patients in the hotel clinic worsened. People started to question her decisions.

“Why do we have to go on these runs?” one of the staff members muttered as they prepared to leave. “We’re risking our lives for medical supplies that should go to everyone, not just Ms. Morningstar.”

“She’s the one who founded this hotel. None of us would have a chance without her,” Vaggie snapped back. The truth was, she couldn’t bear to lose Charlie. But that wasn’t something she could afford to admit.

The patrons, on the other hand, were growing increasingly restless. Some still believed the government would come through and that help was coming. They argued that Vaggie was paranoid and too quick to dismiss the potential for rescue. 

“She’s keeping us locked up in here like prisoners,” a man named Trevor, a patron who’d been vocal from the start, ranted to anyone who would listen. “How do we know the government isn’t planning an evacuation? Or is the military ain’t organizing somewhere nearby? Hell, there’s probably a convoy just waiting for a signal. And we’re stuck in here, dying while she sends people out on suicide missions for her girlfriend!”

His words stirred discontent among the others. The hotel was a powder keg, and Vaggie knew it wouldn’t take much to set it off.

One afternoon, the tension finally boiled over.

In the lobby, patrons gathered in hushed groups, tense and nervous. The staff, spread thin between tending to the hotel’s needs and managing the supply runs, struggled to keep everyone calm. But Trevor wasn’t interested in calm anymore.

“This is insane!” Trevor shouted, stepping to the center of the lobby. “She’s sending people out there to die! We should be finding a way out. I’m not waiting around to be someone else’s collateral damage!”

A few patrons murmured in agreement, while others looked worriedly toward the staff, unsure what to believe.

Before anyone could stop him, Trevor stormed toward the front doors, pushing past the staff on guard duty. 

“We’re leaving!” he declared. “If you want to stay here and die, that’s on you, but I’m not wasting another day.”

A few others stood to follow desperately. But before Trevor could open the doors, Vaggie appeared, stepping between him and his escape. 

“Nobody is leaving,” she said firmly. Her exhausted eye locked onto Trevor. “You walk out there, and you’re as good as dead. I’m not losing anyone else.”

“We’ve already lost people, Rodríguez,” Trevor spat, anger radiating off him. “And you’re sending more to their deaths every day, so that you can save her.”

Vaggie clenched her jaw, trying to keep her temper in check. “We’re all doing what we can to survive.”

“No, you’re doing what you can to save Ms. Morningstar,” Trevor steps closer. “But what about the rest of us, huh? What about our lives?”

The crowd grew silent, watching the confrontation unfold. Trevor’s eyes were wild with frustration, and before Vaggie could react, he pulled a gun from his waistband, pointing it directly at her.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“Step aside,” Trevor growled. “I’m not asking again.”

Vaggie’s heart pounded in her chest, but she didn’t flinch. The sight of the pistol barrel hones her instincts. In one motion, she lunged forward, grabbing Trevor’s wrist and twisting it sharply. The gun clattered to the floor, and in the next second, she had him pinned against the wall, his arm twisted behind his back.

“Don’t you ever threaten me,” Vaggie hissed, her voice ice cold as Trevor winced in pain.

She released him, and he stumbled back, clutching his arm. The lobby was dead silent as Vaggie turned to face the crowd.

“No one is leaving this hotel,” she said, her voice loud and unwavering. “Not until the government lifts the curfew policies.”

Some patrons looked at her with uncertainty, others with outright fear. But no one moved to challenge her. They still believed the government was out there, somehow things might get better.

Only Vaggie knew the truth that the government wasn’t coming.

Later that day, Vaggie found herself pacing outside the penthouse door, her nerves on edge. For days, she had kept Charlie’s condition a secret from the others, keeping everyone at arm’s length not letting anyone near her. She couldn’t risk it, not with how vulnerable Charlie was. But now, things had gotten worse. The stitches Vaggie had put in were barely holding, and Charlie’s fever had spiked overnight. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse faint. Vaggie had no choice but to let someone help.

Dr. Levy, one of the hotel’s patrons and a former emergency room doctor, stood beside her, his medical bag clutched in one hand. He had offered to help more than once, but Vaggie had refused, too wary of letting anyone get close to Charlie. Now, though, she had no other option.

“I’ll be quick,” Dr. Levy said quietly, sensing Vaggie’s hesitation. “And discreet.”

Vaggie nodded tightly and unlocked the door. “She’s in here,” she muttered, leading him into the penthouse.

The air inside was thick and stifling, the windows drawn shut to keep out any prying eyes. The room was dimly lit with the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm halo over Charlie’s unconscious form. Charlie lay on the bed, barely stirring, her skin pale against the sheets. The wound on her thigh was neatly bandaged but still visibly swollen. Vaggie had done what she could, using the limited supplies they had scavenged, but it was clear Charlie needed more than just basic care.

Vaggie hovered near her, every muscle in her body tense as she watched the doctor kneel beside Charlie and begin his examination.

Dr. Levy worked silently, his brow furrowing as he carefully removed the bandages on Charlie’s thigh. The wound was deep, red, and swollen, and the edges were angry with infection. He glanced up at Vaggie, his expression grim, but said nothing as he continued his assessment, checking her vitals and pressing two fingers against her neck to feel her pulse.

Vaggie stood by the foot of the bed, her arms crossed, her gaze locked on Charlie’s face. The tension in the room was suffocating.

After what feels like an eternity, Dr. Levy finally stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth. He turned to Vaggie, his face drawn with concern. 

“She’s stable... for now,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But she’s in a critical state. The infection is severe. If we don’t get it under control soon, it’s going to spread further, and she could go into septic shock.”

Vaggie’s fists clenched at her sides. She knew it was wrong, but hearing it out loud made the reality even more challenging. “I’ve been doing everything I can. We’ve had people out there risking their lives for supplies.”

“I know you have,” Dr. Levy said, his voice softer now. “And you’ve done a good job keeping her alive this long, Ms. Rodríguez. But without proper medical equipment, we’re only delaying the inevitable. We need fluids to keep her hydrated and stronger antibiotics to clear the infection. She’s also malnourished, which is slowing her recovery. She needs more than the rationed food we’ve been getting—nutrients, vitamins, something to give her strength.”

Vaggie leaned against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to keep the panic from creeping into her voice. “Can she make it?”

Dr. Levy looked back at Charlie, then met Vaggie’s gaze. “If we can get the right supplies, she has a chance. But if her condition worsens… she won’t last much longer. The infection is serious, taking a toll on her body.”

Vaggie clenched her fists. She had already known how dire it was, but hearing it aloud made it real in a way she wasn’t prepared for. “I’ll send more people out,” Vaggie said, her voice hard. “We’ll get what she needs.”

Dr. Levy shook his head slightly. “You’ve sent enough people out, and many haven’t returned. We need to be more strategic about what we’re risking. This isn’t sustainable, Ms. Rodríguez. I understand you want to help her, but we must consider the others here. They need medical attention, too.”

Vaggie’s jaw tightened. She understood the logic, but logic wasn’t what was driving her. Charlie was her priority. “I’m not losing her.”

Dr. Levy sighed, sensing the futility of pushing further. “I understand. I’ll do what I can with what we have. But if we don’t get more supplies soon, we’ll lose more than just Ms. Morningstar.”

Vaggie quickly glances at Charlie, remembering the last time she heard her voice and her dimples forming whenever she smiles. “What do you need to save her?” Vaggie asked, her eye never leaving Charlie

Dr. Levy exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “First, I’ll need stronger antibiotics—preferably IV, but at this point, any broad-spectrum antibiotic will help. She also needs fluids. Dehydration is making her fever worse, and if we can’t bring her temperature down, it’s going to put more strain on her heart.”

“And if I can get you all that?” Vaggie asked, her voice tight and impatient. She was already thinking of the next supply run.

“Then there’s a chance we can get her through this,” Dr. Levy said, meeting her eye, “But it won’t be easy. She’ll need constant monitoring, wound care, and time... time to heal and regain her strength.”

Vaggie swallowed hard. She had already pushed the staff and volunteers to their limits, sending them out into the streets filled with infected to keep Charlie alive.

Dr. Levy took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Listen, I know you care about her, but you must be realistic on what to do moving forward... but I’ll still do everything possible to help.”

Vaggie closed her eye. “Whatever it takes, I’ll bring everything what she needs.”

Dr. Levy nodded, sensing that there was no arguing with her. “Alright,” he said softly. “But you need to be careful. Don’t make the same mistake as the others out there, trying to be a hero and ending up in a worse situation. I’ll get started on what I can with what we have.”

Vaggie clenched her fists again. Charlie was the heart of the Happy Hotel, and none of this mattered without her.

Vaggie nodded firmly, dismissing the doctor. “Thank you for your help, doctor. I’ll figure it out.”

Dr. Levy stood there momentarily, his expression looking concerned as he packed his medical bag. He could see the strain in Vaggie’s posture, the exhaustion in her eye. But he also knew there was no talking her out of this, not regarding Charlie. 

Sensing no further discussion would be welcome, Dr. Levy nodded once making his way toward the door. He moved quietly, leaving the penthouse with the same calm pace he’d entered.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Vaggie’s shoulders sagged when the tension of the last few hours catching up. She let out a slow breath before returning to the bed where Charlie lay motionless. The room was silent, save for the soft sound of Charlie’s shallow breathing.

Vaggie pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down beside her. Her fingers trembled as she reached out and gently brushed the strands of blonde hair from Charlie’s face. Her fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the curve of her cheek and the softness of her skin. 

Charlie’s face was pale, far too pale, and her lips were dry and cracked. Her breathing was labored, each breath coming slower than the last. Vaggie watched her chest rise and fall, the rhythm too faint for comfort.

“I miss your blue eyes,” Vaggie whispered, her voice barely audible in the room's quiet. She leaned in closer, her thumb gently stroking the back of Charlie’s hand. “I miss that smile, the way you light up the room… You promised me you’d stay, remember? You promised we’d get through this together.”

Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, pushing down the rising tide of emotions threatening to break free. She couldn’t afford to fall apart now. Not when Charlie needed her more than ever.

“You’ve always been the strong one,” Vaggie murmured, kissing softly against Charlie’s forehead. “So don’t you dare give up on me now… I’m not letting you go, okay? I’ll get what you need. I’ll make sure you’re safe. You need to hold on a little longer.”

She pulled back slightly, her eye scanning Charlie’s face, hoping... praying... for some sign of life, some flicker of recognition. But there was nothing. Just the steady, too-weak rise and fall of her chest.

Vaggie closed her eye for a moment, trying to gather herself. When she opened them again, they were hard. She couldn’t stay here any longer, waiting, watching helplessly. If Charlie was going to survive, Vaggie had to act.

Her gaze shifted to the bedside table, where Charlie’s pistol sat, still polished and gleaming from the last time she had cleaned it from Charlie’s blood since she saved her. Vaggie reached for it, her fingers closing around the familiar grip. She checked the fully loaded chamber and then grabbed the extra magazines, tucking them into her waistband.

Standing, Vaggie took one last look at Charlie. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered softly with a vulnerability that only Charlie would ever see. “I’ll bring you everything you need. Just… hold on.”

With that, she turned and made her way to the door. The weight of her pistol and the Glock at her hip was comforting, and she could still fight for Charlie, the hotel, and everything they had built together. 

She reached for the door handle, hesitating momentarily before turning back to look at Charlie one last time. The sight of her lying there was almost too much to bear. But Vaggie squared her shoulders, forcing herself to focus on what must be done. 

She locked the door behind her with a click as she exited the penthouse. The sound echoed in the empty hallway, sharp and final, like a promise. She couldn’t afford to lose anyone else. She wouldn’t lose Charlie. 

Vaggie crouched behind an abandoned car, her breath slow and deliberate as she scanned the street ahead. The nearby pharmacy loomed just a few blocks ahead. The entire city had fallen into a nightmarish ruin since the outbreak. New York, once a city of endless noise and life, was now a graveyard of shattered buildings, debris-strewn streets, and shambling infected. She had been out here before, but this trip felt different. The streets were quieter—too quiet, as if the infected were waiting just out of sight.

She gripped a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, folded it, and refolded it so many times that it started to tear at the edges. On it were scrawled the names of prescription pills, antibiotics, and medications for the sick back at the hotel, hastily written by Dr. Levy earlier this afternoon. Most names were for the hotel patrons: painkillers, antibiotics, insulin, antivirals—basic but life-saving medications quickly running out. And then, at the very bottom of the list, separated from the others, were the names of the drugs that Dr. Levy had prescribed specifically for Charlie—Her medications were more critical, more urgent. IV antibiotics. Fluids. Vitamins. Anything that could help bring Charlie back from the brink with names Vaggie is extremely unfamiliar with.

Vaggie squeezed the paper in her fist, her jaw tightening as she recalled the conversation with Dr. Levy.

Earlier that day, Vaggie approached Dr. Levy for the list. Initially, He was reluctant, assuming she would send more people out on another supply run. When Vaggie told him she would be going alone, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Alone?” Dr. Levy had asked, his voice low but filled with concern. “You can’t be serious, Ms. Rodríguez. It’s suicide.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Vaggie replied firmly. “Too many people have already died for this. I can’t keep sending them out there.”

He hesitated, unsure whether to argue with or admire her resolve. But when Vaggie’s expression didn’t change, he reluctantly wrote down the medications she needed, handing her the list with a sigh. “Be careful out there.”

Now, standing on the edge of 6th Avenue, Vaggie’s eye narrowed as she focused on the rundown pharmacy in the distance. She was determined to make it there and back, but the streets between her and her target were crawling with infected. The shambling forms of the undead were more numerous than she had ever seen before, their guttural moans carrying on the wind as they wandered through the wreckage.

Getting across the street wouldn’t be easy. She couldn’t risk using a car—she had learned the hard way that the infected were drawn to noise. The last time she had ventured out with a vehicle, the engine had roared to life, sending half a block’s worth of infected swarming toward her within minutes. She had barely escaped with her life that day.

Now, Vaggie moved like a ghost through the ruins, her movements deliberate and careful. She slipped from shadow to shadow, always keeping a sharp eye on the infected around her. Some were clustered in groups, scavenging through trash or lurching through the rubble, their twisted forms hunched and grotesque. Others roamed alone, their glazed eyes searching for any sign of life to tear apart.

She reached the corner of the street, crouching behind the wreck of an overturned car. From here, she could see the pharmacy more clearly. The front windows were shattered, the glass glinting dangerously in the fading afternoon light. The doors were ajar, but that only made her more cautious—there was no telling what might be inside.

Her breath hitched as she scanned the street again, noticing a group of infected stumbling dangerously close to the entrance. They'd be on her in seconds if she moved too quickly or made the wrong noise.

Vaggie gritted her teeth, her hand instinctively going to the Glock holstered at her side. She couldn’t afford a shootout—not here, not with the infected already on high alert. The streets were too open, too exposed. Stealth was her only option.

Slowly, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a small stone. She weighed it in her palm momentarily, her mind calculating the angle. Then, with a swift flick of her wrist, she sent the stone flying across the street, which clattered against the remains of a rusty fire escape.

The sound echoed through the empty street, immediately drawing the infected’s attention. They groaned and turned toward the noise, their decaying bodies lurching toward the distraction.

It was just enough.

Vaggie moved quickly, slipping from her hiding spot and darting across the street. Her heart pounded in her chest, her muscles coiled with adrenaline as she ducked into the alley beside the pharmacy, pressing herself against the cold brick wall. The infected hadn’t noticed her yet, still shambling toward the fire escape, but she knew it wouldn’t take long for them to lose interest.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before slipping into the pharmacy’s broken front entrance.

Inside, the air was stale and thick with dust. The shelves were bare primarily, ransacked by looters in the early days of the outbreak, but Vaggie wasn’t deterred. She knew that the real treasure would be in the back—in the storage rooms where controlled substances and prescription medications were kept.

Her boots crunched softly against broken glass as she made her way deeper into the building, her eye darting around for movement. The place was eerily silent, the only sound the faint groaning of the infected outside.

She reached the back of the pharmacy and found the storage room door slightly ajar. Swallowing hard, Vaggie pushed it open and slipped inside.

The shelves here were still somewhat intact, though the chaos of last week had left them disorganized. Her flashlight swept across bottles and boxes, her pulse quickening as she spotted familiar labels—antibiotics, fluids, painkillers—everything Dr. Levy had asked for.

She quickly went to work, stuffing her backpack with as much as she could carry, her mind racing through the list as she checked each item off. Every second she stayed here was a second closer to being caught by the infected outside, but she couldn’t leave without everything she needed.

As Vaggie stuffed her backpack with antibiotics, fluids, and painkillers, her pulse quickened. The silence around her was oppressive, making every slight sound feel magnified. She didn’t let it distract her, though—every second counted. She was nearly done, reaching for the last of the IV fluids, when she heard it.

Rapid footsteps.

Before she could process the sound, the storage room door swung open wide with a metallic screech. Instinct kicked in. Vaggie’s hand flew to her Glock as she whipped around, gun drawn and aimed at the figure in the doorway.

A man stood there, his short frame framed by the dim light filtering through the dusty air. His blonde hair was messy and matted with sweat, and his fair skin was pale against his dark clothes. He looked as though he'd been through his share of hell. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Vaggie, and in a flash, he pulled out his pistol, leveling it at her.

For a moment, the world seemed to hang on a thread. Vaggie’s finger hovered over the trigger, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The man stared back at her, his weapon trained on her chest. Neither of them spoke, the room thick with tension.

But the man moved first. He slowly raised his hands, still holding his gun but no longer pointing it at her. “Whoa, whoa! Don’t shoot!” His voice was steady but urgent, his eyes flicking to her weapon.

Vaggie didn’t lower her Glock, and her muscles coiled tight. “Why are you here?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

The man gulped, keeping his hands up. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just… I’m here for meds, okay? I’m trying to get some for my mother-in-law. That’s it, I swear.”

Vaggie didn’t lower her gun. Her eye narrowed as she took in his appearance, searching for any signs of deceit. “What meds exactly?”

He looked at her, baffled as if the answer was obvious. He then glanced nervously at the shattered door behind him. “We don’t have time for this,” he protested, his voice rising with panic. “If we stay here talking, those things outside will swarm us. If you shoot, it’s over.”

“I don’t care,” Vaggie replied coldly, stepping closer, her Glock unwavering. “Tell me what medication you’re looking for.”

The man hesitated, clearly reluctant, but something in Vaggie’s eye told him she wasn’t bluffing. He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Fine. Nitroglycerin. I need nitroglycerin tablets. My mother-in-law… she’s had heart problems. Need them for a heart attack.”

Vaggie’s gaze didn’t soften, but she gave a small nod. The answer sounded legitimate, but she still wasn’t sure. Her grip on the Glock tightened, though she didn’t fire.

The man glanced at the gun still pointed at him, then back to Vaggie. “What, are you a doctor or something?” he asked, trying to break the tension. His voice was lighter now, less defensive.

“No,” Vaggie answered honestly, her tone flat. “I’m not a doctor. I only know enough about medicine to get by.”

The man tilted his head, studying her. “Military, then? You move like it.”

Vaggie’s eye flickered with surprise at the observation. She hadn’t expected him to catch that. After a brief pause, she nodded. “Yeah. Marines.”

He looked at her with new understanding, his tense posture easing slightly. “What unit?”

“Thirteen,” she answered, her voice flat. “Deployed in Haiti.”

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition in them. “Army. Deployed in Iraq. But… that was a long time ago.” His voice softened as if recalling a past life, one far removed from the nightmare they were now living in.

“Same,” Vaggie murmured, her gaze still hard but the threat slowly dissipating between them.

The tension that had been suffocating the room loosened just a little. The man, sensing the shift, slowly holstered his pistol. “Name’s Moxxie,” he said, offering a small nod.

Vaggie hesitated for a beat before responding. “Valeria,” she replied, using her first name instead of the usual nickname she gave others.

Moxxie gave her a weary smile, the kind that comes after surviving too many close calls. “So, what now? Seems like we’re after the same thing.”

Vaggie finally lowered her Glock, though she didn’t holster it. “We loot, and we get out of here before they figure out where we are.”

Without another word, they quickly returned to their task. Vaggie kept her gun in her holster but remained on edge, her eye flicking toward the pharmacy’s shattered entrance every few seconds. Together, they began looting the shelves, stuffing their backpacks with whatever they could find.

As they worked in silence, the sounds of the infected outside grew louder, their groans and shuffling steps inching closer. They both knew time was running out, but neither spoke about it. They just focused on grabbing as much as they could carry, both driven by the urgency of the loved ones depending on them.

As they finished looting the shelves, Vaggie and Moxxie's tension settled into a tenuous understanding. They worked quickly, grabbing as many medications and supplies as possible into their backpacks. The sound of the infected outside grew louder by the minute, a grim reminder that time was running out.

Together, they slipped out of the pharmacy. The infected lingered near the fire escape, distracted for the moment, but Vaggie knew it wouldn’t last. The air was tense as they crept through the alleyways, avoiding the wandering dead as they escaped.

At the end of the alley, Moxxie stopped, turning to Vaggie with a faint smile. “This is where we part ways. I’ve got to get back to my family.”

Vaggie gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable. “Good luck.”

“You too.” Moxxie hesitated momentarily, as if he wanted to say more, but then turned and jogged down the street, disappearing into the maze of ruined buildings.

Vaggie watched him go for a moment, then turned and headed in the opposite direction, making her way back to the hotel. She kept her Glock at the ready, her senses sharp as she slipped through the empty streets, navigating the quiet chaos of the fallen city. Her exhaustion began to set in the closer she got to the hotel, but she pushed through it. There was no time for weakness, not yet.

She trudged through the hotel's entrance, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind sharp with purpose. Inside, the atmosphere was tense but alive—a stark contrast to the desolation outside. People moved purposefully, tending to the sick, fortifying the building, and keeping each other alive. It was a fragile existence, but it was all they had.

Vaggie handed the backpack full of medical supplies to the nearest staff member, who took it with a look of relief. The supplies were quickly distributed among the survivors who needed them most—painkillers for the wounded, insulin for the diabetic, and antibiotics for those battling infections. The hotel’s makeshift medical team wasted no time getting the right meds to those whose lives depended on them.

Dr. Levy appeared as the rest of the supplies were carted off, his face lined with exhaustion but filled with gratitude. “You did it,” he said quietly, eyes scanning the precious cargo. “This will help a lot of people.”

Vaggie nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. “Charlie,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I got everything she needed.”

Dr. Levy nodded, already motioning for his team to gather the supplies. “I’ll head to the penthouse and start the treatment immediately.”

Vaggie followed him up the stairs, her legs feeling like lead as the adrenaline that had carried her through the day began to wear off. When they reached the penthouse where Charlie had been resting, Vaggie felt the weight of her exhaustion fully settling in. The room was dimly lit, and the sound of a soft breeze from the broken windows was the only noise.

Charlie lay motionless on the bed, her face pale and drawn, her breathing shallow. Dr. Levy moved quickly, setting up the IV and preparing the medication as Vaggie stood by the door, her arms crossed, watching with hope and worry.

“She’ll need a few days,” Dr. Levy said as he worked. “But with these supplies, I’m hopeful. This could turn things around.”

Vaggie didn’t respond, her eye fixed on Charlie’s frail form. She wanted to believe him, but hope felt dangerous after everything they had been through.

Over the next few days, Charlie’s condition slowly began to improve. The antibiotics started to work, battling the infection that had ravaged her body. Dr. Levy administered fluids and vitamins, carefully monitoring her recovery. Every day, Vaggie checked in, often standing in the doorway for hours, watching and waiting.

Charlie’s color began to return, her breathing became steadier, and the fever that had threatened to consume her finally broke. She was still weak, but the worst seemed to be over. Vaggie sat by her bedside one evening, and Charlie blinked slowly, her eyes struggling to adjust to the room's dim light. It was disorienting at first, the days blurred together, the pain and fever that had once gripped her finally easing. She shifted slightly in the bed, her body aching but no longer consumed by the illness. Her mind felt sluggish, like trying to walk through the fog.

"V-Vaggie?" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper, but it reached the person she most needed.

Vaggie leaned forward, her face still, though her eye softened at the sound of Charlie’s voice. She had been waiting for this moment—praying for it—but now that it was here, she wasn’t sure what to say. Her emotions warred, relief and exhaustion tangling in a silent battle.

"Yeah, I’m here," Vaggie said softly, leaning closer to the bed. Her voice, usually sharp and certain, was now low, almost tender. She reached out, brushing a lock of Charlie’s light hair back from her forehead, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

Charlie’s lips curved into a faint, tired smile. "You… you didn’t have to—"

"Don’t," Vaggie interrupted, shaking her head. "Don’t say I didn’t have to. I did. You know I did."

The air between them hung heavy, thick with unspoken words, with the fear and desperation that had colored the last few weeks. Vaggie had fought so hard and risked so much, but all of it had been for this—to have Charlie alive.

Charlie swallowed, her throat dry. “How long was I out?”

“Two weeks,” Vaggie replied, her voice rougher now, betraying the toll those days had taken. “You almost didn’t make it.”

Charlie’s eyes widened slightly. Two weeks. The words sank in slowly, their weight almost too much to comprehend. Her gaze flickered across the room, taking in the familiar but somehow distant surroundings. She had been so close to death, and yet Vaggie had been there, pulling her back.

Vaggie sat quietly beside Charlie, her gaze fixed on the woman who had spent the last two weeks teetering on the edge of life and death. Seeing Charlie awake now, even if just barely, felt surreal. Vaggie’s tough exterior held firm, but the relief was almost overwhelming beneath it. She had been holding her breath for days, waiting for any sign that Charlie would make it through.

Charlie’s eyelids fluttered as she struggled to focus on Vaggie. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it was there. “Vaggie...”

“I’m here,” Vaggie repeated, her voice steady despite the flood of emotions inside her. She gently brushed a strand of hair from Charlie’s face. “You’re okay. Just rest.”

Charlie blinked slowly, her eyes drifting around the familiar bedroom before finally settling back on Vaggie. For a moment, her face softened, and there was a hint of the old warmth in her eyes. But then, a flicker of something darker crossed her expression, and her breath hitched.

Vaggie noticed the shift immediately. “Charlie?” she asked, her voice low, careful.

Charlie’s gaze unfocused again, and her breathing quickened. “Razzle... the boy, Frank... I-I remember...”

Vaggie’s heart sank. She had known this moment would come when the memories would crash down on Charlie like a wave. The car accident, the terrible morning that had led them here—it had been lurking in the back of her mind ever since. She leaned forward, her hand gently resting on Charlie’s arm, ready to support her.

Charlie’s body trembled as the memories flooded back, her voice shaking with panic. “The crash… oh God, Vaggie, they’re gone… Razzle and Frank… fuck, he was just a kid. And his mom… she was bitten, but we couldn’t—" Her voice broke, tears welling up in her eyes. “We couldn’t save them. We couldn’t do anything.”

“Charlie…” Vaggie murmured, her voice low and soothing. She squeezed Charlie’s hand, grounding her in the moment. “I know.”

Tears streamed down Charlie’s face, her breathing turning into ragged sobs. “I—I tried so hard to keep him safe. I thought… I thought we could make it to the hospital for his mom before she turns, but the crash—God, it was my fault! I couldn’t protect him, Vaggie. I couldn’t protect Frank.”

Vaggie’s grip tightened slightly as Charlie’s grief spilled out. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said firmly, though her voice remained soft. “You did everything you could. We all did. That boy… his mom… you did your best, sweetie.”

Charlie’s sobs shook her fragile body, and Vaggie moved closer, wrapping her arms around her gently but firmly, pulling her into a comforting embrace. “It’s not on you, Charlie. The world did this. It’s been cruel and unfair, and it’s taken so much from us. But you’re here. You survived. That’s what matters now.”

Charlie buried her face in Vaggie’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric of her shirt. Her hands clutched at Vaggie desperately, as if holding on to her could keep the memories from drowning her. “I should’ve done more,” she whispered brokenly. “I should’ve saved them…”

Vaggie ran her hand over Charlie’s back, soothing her with slow, gentle motions. “There wasn’t more you could do. It’s okay to feel this, but you’re not alone, Charlie. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

For a long time, Charlie wept, letting out the grief and guilt she had been holding inside. Vaggie stayed with her, unwavering, letting her cry until the tears eventually slowed and her breathing became steadier.

When Charlie finally pulled back, her face was flushed, her eyes red from crying, but there was a fragile peace in her expression. She looked up at Vaggie, her voice soft but filled with quiet, aching gratitude. “Thank you… for being here. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Vaggie said, her voice gentle but firm.

Charlie’s eyes softened, her gaze locking onto Vaggie’s. “I’m here because of you.”

A long silence followed the kind that holds years of unspoken feelings, of shared experiences too profound to put into words. Vaggie looked down at Charlie’s hand, lying weakly on the blanket, and after a moment’s hesitation, she reached out, taking it in her own.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Vaggie murmured, her thumb brushing lightly over Charlie’s knuckles. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Although weak, Charlie squeezed her hand as tightly as she could. “You won’t. Not yet. Not if you’re here.”

Vaggie let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The vulnerability in Charlie’s words, in the quiet way they acknowledged how fragile things had been, made her heartache. She wanted to tell her how hard it had been, how the supply run had nearly cost her everything, how terrified she had been. Instead, she squeezed Charlie’s hand back, letting the warmth of their touch say everything she couldn’t.

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, the only sound the faint rustle of the wind outside. Vaggie watched as Charlie closed her eyes again, too tired to stay awake for long but too stubborn to fully let go of consciousness. Even in her weakened state, she was fighting, and Vaggie couldn’t help but feel a deep swell of pride mixed with affection.

“Get some rest,” Vaggie said softly, brushing her thumb across Charlie’s cheek. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Charlie smiled, her eyelids fluttering closed as exhaustion overtook her once more. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” Vaggie whispered, settling back in the chair beside the bed, her hand still wrapped around Charlie’s. “I promise.”

As Charlie drifted back to sleep, her breathing deep and steady for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Vaggie sat in the quiet room, her heart full but heavy. There would be more fights ahead—more moments where survival hung in the balance—but for now, this was enough.

They were together. Charlie was alive.

And Vaggie would be damned if she ever let her go again.

Days turned into weeks, Charlie’s recovery continued with slow but steady progress. Dr. Levy monitored her closely, adjusting medications and treatments as needed, The antibiotics had worked their magic, and with each passing day, her strength returned. Vaggie stood by her side throughout, celebrating the small victories—when Charlie first managed to sit up without assistance and when she took her first steps, albeit shaky, around the penthouse.

But outside their sanctuary, the world was crumbling. Once a refuge for a dwindling group of survivors, the hotel became increasingly unstable. Supplies ran low, tensions rose, and whispers of despair echoed through the halls. Vaggie could feel the weight of it all, the heavy cloud of hopelessness hanging over the residents like a thick fog.

One afternoon, as Charlie rested against the pillows, Vaggie settled into a chair beside her, the world's weight pressing down her shoulders. It was time to fill Charlie in on what had happened while she’d been lost to sleep.

“Hey, Charlie,” Vaggie began, her tone light but serious. “You’re probably wondering what’s been going on out there.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, the shadows of worry creeping back into her eyes. “I’d rather not think about it.”

“I get it, but you need to know.” Vaggie took a deep breath. “The world… it’s changed. A lot.” She launched into the grim details—the city's fall, the escalating chaos, how supplies had dwindled, and how the hotel had become a sanctuary for a while, but it was only a temporary refuge.

As Vaggie spoke, Charlie’s expression darkened. “What do you mean, ‘overrun’? What happened to everyone?” Her voice wavered with panic.

“People are scared,” Vaggie admitted, her gaze steady. “Some of the survivors we had here… they left. Others couldn’t handle it. The infected have become more aggressive. The hotel has had to lock down more often.” She hesitated, then added, “We lost some good people, Charlie.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, the weight of the news settling heavily on her chest. “I can’t believe it… I was gone for all of that?”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Vaggie said, trying to soften the blow. “But you’re here now. You’re safe.”

The truth hung between them, unspoken but understood. Charlie struggled to process it, her emotions roiling beneath the surface. “How can things have fallen apart so quickly?” she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief.

Vaggie reached out, squeezing Charlie’s hand gently. “It’s the world we live in now.”

Days continued to pass, each marked by small milestones in Charlie’s recovery. She gained strength, and her laughter gradually returned, though it often felt bittersweet. Vaggie took it upon herself to keep Charlie engaged, sharing memories, playing games, and planning their future—even if it felt like a fragile dream amidst the ruins of their reality.

Then, one fateful afternoon, a distant thrum reached their ears as Charlie sat by the window, gazing at the sprawling chaos of the city below. The sound grew louder, cutting through the tense silence of their penthouse.

“What’s that?” Charlie asked, her brow furrowing.

Vaggie glanced toward the window, her heart racing as the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approached. “Stay back,” she warned, her instincts kicking in.

But it was too late. The helicopter soared overhead, casting a dark shadow over the hotel. Almost instantly, a chorus of guttural moans erupted from the streets below. Infected, drawn by the noise, began to stir from their slumber, shuffling toward the sound like moths to a flame. Vaggie’s heart dropped as she watched the chaos unfold outside.

“Vaggie!” Charlie’s voice trembled, fear creeping into her tone as she stepped back from the window. “What’s happening?”

“Lock the door,” Vaggie ordered, her voice sharp and urgent. She rushed to the entryway, securing the deadbolt and barricading it with furniture. “We need to stay quiet.”

As the helicopter passed, the infected surged toward the hotel, their numbers swelling with every moment. Their moans grew louder, a grotesque symphony of desperation and hunger that sent chills down Vaggie’s spine.

“Do you think they’ll come in?” Charlie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Vaggie turned to her, trying to mask her anxiety. “We’ll be fine,” she assured, though her heart raced. “We just need to stay hidden.”

The walls of their sanctuary felt like they were closing in as the infected gathered outside, drawn to the commotion. They could hear the chaos escalating—shouts of other survivors, the sound of breaking glass, and the horrific cries of the infected. Vaggie pressed her back against the door, willing it to hold, her mind racing with thoughts of what might happen if it didn’t.

Hours passed, though it felt like days. The sounds outside became a terrifying cacophony of survival and fear. The infected were relentless, their moans constantly reminding of the dangers lurking just beyond the door. Vaggie and Charlie huddled together in the corner of the penthouse, their breaths shallow, waiting for the inevitable crash.

But they remained undetected, the barricade holding firm against the onslaught. As the night stretched, Vaggie’s adrenaline faded, replaced by exhaustion. Charlie leaned against her, their shoulders touching, silently agreeing to endure this together.

When morning finally broke, the sounds of chaos outside had quieted. Cautiously, Vaggie peeked out from behind their barricade. The hallways lay in ruin—furniture overturned, remnants of their fellow survivors scattered like debris. The hotel had fallen. They were among the few who had managed to survive the night.

“Do you think anyone else made it?” Charlie asked, her voice small as she glanced around the destruction.

Vaggie felt a pang in her heart at the question. “I don’t know,” she replied honestly, eyes scanning the dimly lit space. “Staying here isn’t an option, we’ve seen what happens when the noise draws them in. We’re sitting ducks.”

Charlie nodded, her gaze distant. “I know. But I have a plan.” 

Vaggie raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on her face. “What kind of plan?”

“I want to go to my dad’s place in the Hamptons,” Charlie said, her voice firm. “It’s secure, and he’s alone out there. We can hold up in the mansion, and there’s plenty of room to breathe.”

Vaggie hesitated, weighing the options in her mind. “It’s a risk. What if the infected are there too? Or what if we run into other survivors who aren’t friendly?”

“Those are valid concerns,” Charlie acknowledged, her eyes steady. “But my dad’s property is big, with thick walls and a gated entrance. If we get there and it’s too dangerous, we can figure something else out. But I’d feel better knowing he’s safe—and I can’t just leave him out there alone.”

Vaggie took a deep breath, feeling the tension between hope and fear tighten in her chest. “What if we run into more infected along the way? This city is crawling with them.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Charlie replied, her tone earnest. “We can take back roads and avoid the main streets. It’ll be slower, but it’ll keep us under the radar.”

Vaggie studied Charlie, seeing the determination in her eyes. She’d watched Charlie fight to recover, and now that fire was returning, they faced a new challenge together. “Okay,” she finally said, her voice softer. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll need to gather supplies and figure out the safest route.”

A small smile crept onto Charlie’s lips, relief washing over her. “Thank you, Vaggie. I promise we’ll get through this.”

“Just so you know, I’m not going to let you out of my sight,” Vaggie said, a playful edge to her voice.

Charlie’s heart swelled at Vaggie’s words. They began to list what they would need: food, water, weapons, and any medical supplies they could scavenge. They spent the next few hours gathering what little they had left in the penthouse, packing their backpacks with essential supplies.

When they were ready, they took one last look around the penthouse, knowing they might never return. “Let’s go,” Vaggie said, determination etched on her face as she took Charlie’s hand.

Chapter Text

11:32 pm

It's quiet… way too quiet lately.

Charlie sighs as she leans forward against the balcony's metal railing, overlooking the deserted streets of Brooklyn. The only sounds are the low, throaty groans of the undead roaming mindlessly below. Despite being on the top fifth floor, the stench of decay still reaches her nostrils, making her scrunch her nose.

She wonders how the street lights and room lights from scattered apartments are still lit up as if nothing has changed. She assumes that the power grid and the water supply are still active. But for how long? She doesn't want to think about it. From the room they're in right now, they can't risk using any light source except for the moonlight that filters through the windows. They had to run and hide from the horde that overran their penthouse back from the Happy Hotel, and they barely made it to this place alive.

Thank fucking God that Charlie’s leg is fully healed before breaking a run from overrun Manhattan.

Based on their observation, the undead, or what Charlie calls zombies, will most likely leave the premises overnight. That means they have to wait until dawn to make their next move. Charlie groans under her breath and rests her head against her arm on the railing, knowing that their journey gets increasingly difficult, especially having to travel on foot across New York City.

Sighing, she surveys the furnished studio room they crashed into temporarily. It's painted in a boring beige color that Charlie finds dull and depressing. On the white couch that's been unfortunately stained by blood and grime, Vaggie sits and wipes her stained makeshift spear. It's been made using a hunting knife and a metal rod that's been duct-taped tightly. Seeing how deadpanned and quiet her lover is, Charlie can't help but walk over to Vaggie and sit by her side.

"Hey," Charlie says casually and places her pale hand on Vaggie's left thigh. Vaggie pauses on the task and holds her hand, letting their fingers intertwine.

Vaggie immediately sets her spear aside by the table and squeezes the blonde's hand. "Hey," she says back, but her tone is much huskier, betraying her exhaustion. Charlie softens her gaze and brushes her thumb across Vaggie's brown hand.

"You alright?" the blonde asks.

Vaggie looks contemplative for a bit. "It's just…" she then lets out a long exhale. "It's been a long day, hon.”

Of course. Charlie snorts to herself, realizing how tired they both are, especially after navigating the streets sneakily. Manhattan is notorious for lacking alleyways for the couple to take shortcuts. Not only that, but the store they were supposed to scavenge for non-perishable food had a damn alarm system that they accidentally triggered, causing them to attract the attention of the horde.

It was a miracle that the number of zombies wasn't as high as in Times Square, but Charlie and Vaggie had to make a sprint for it. They had to abandon some of the supplies on the way to lighten their load and run faster. It was a bad idea, as necessities are scarce, but they'd instead not get eaten by the infected.

And that's where Vaggie exhausted herself further by stabbing through the zombies who got in their way. The spear was effective, especially for Vaggie's short height, but constantly raising her arms to stab through the brains while sprinting took a toll on her stamina. It's understandable why she's extremely drained even three hours later.

Charlie reaches up her lover’s hand to kiss it (that's been cleaned, thankfully) and hums, “And you’ve done well, baby.”

Vaggie chuckles lowly, “Charlie…” She gently brushed the blonde fringes off to expose Charlie’s blue eyes, then her tone went somber, “Fuck, I got so worried shit earlier that we might—”

Charlie gingerly wraps her slender fingers around Vaggie’s neck to pull her in for a kiss, shushing her. Of course, Vaggie submits to the warm kiss and hands tangled into her lover’s blonde locks.

As their lips part, Charlie holds Vaggie close, their foreheads touching. "We made it through, Vaggie. We always do," she reassures, her voice soft but firm. "We're a team, remember?"

Vaggie nods, her eyes closing briefly as she leans into Charlie's touch. "Yeah, we're a team," she echoes, her voice a little more robust now. "I just... I hate seeing you in danger, Charlie. It scares the hell out of me.”

Charlie brushes her thumb across Vaggie's cheek, wiping away a stray tear. "I know, babe. But we've got each other.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside and their steady breaths. For Charlie, everything seems peaceful despite their world-ended situation as long as she has Vaggie on her side. She was about to drift off to sleep until Vaggie let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "Dios mio, we're such a mess, aren't we?”

Charlie chuckles, pressing a kiss to Vaggie's forehead. "Maybe.”

The two settled by the couch, still holding hands and intertwined fingers. Charlie leans back against the cushions, pulling out her cracked phone from her pocket to check for any messages. She unlocks the screen and sees that there's still a signal for reception, but her heart sinks as she notices the empty notifications.

Vaggie glances over, noticing Charlie's expression. "Got anything from your dad?" she asks softly.

Charlie sighs and shakes her head. "Nothing," she admits, her voice tinged with disappointment. "I keep hoping he'll reach out while we still have the signal before it shuts down, but..." Her words trail off, the worry for her father evident in her eyes. “Damn it, Dad, where are you?”

Vaggie squeezes Charlie's hand reassuringly. "I know he's tough, just like you," she says, offering what little comfort she can muster.

Charlie manages a weak chuckle, grateful for Vaggie's support. "Thanks, hon," she murmurs, leaning her head against Vaggie's shoulder. "Even though we weren't that close before this whole thing, or being old, or he has tons of resources to live, I’m still worried and... I miss him, you know?”

Vaggie hums, running her fingers through Charlie's hair soothingly. "That's why we stick to our plan and find him.”

The blonde sighs and leans into her lover’s embrace, finding solace in the warmth of her presence. Unsure if more people survived so far, as they haven't encountered other survivors in a long time, Charlie can't help but open her phone again to check social media for further updates from basically anyone.

In a non-surprised fashion, still nothing despite the internet still being active.

All she can find are the posts and videos back when the first wave of infection kicked in, with people being mercilessly mauled by bloodied and frenzied people. One of the most popular videos was an old lady getting tackled by a bloodied police officer with greyish skin and a bloodied face leaking out from his nose and mouth, he— no, not he, that's it, it's not even a human anymore on how the infected kept biting down an old lady after her screams overwhelm Charlie’s speakerphone—

Then, a brown finger pushes the home button to return to the home screen, showing a picture of Charlie and Vaggie smiling together in casual outfits with a beach as a backdrop.

Charlie looked up to Vaggie, whose expression was extremely concerned just from watching the former reviewing the disturbing video repeatedly. Of course, Charlie tries to excuse herself, “Sorry, just looking for any updates or news," Charlie says, trying to downplay the effect the video had on her. "But it's all the same... just more fucked-up shit."

Vaggie remained silent, except her grip on Charlie's hand tightened slightly. The blonde continued wistfully, “Sometimes I wish we could escape from all of this, you know?”

Vaggie shifted slightly, her expression softening as she gazed at Charlie, her thumb gently brushing against Charlie's knuckles. “I know, babe. Believe me, I think about it all the time,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I dream about us being anywhere but here. Somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.”

Charlie sighed, leaning further into Vaggie’s embrace. She felt the weight of the day pressing down on her and the despair of their situation. "Maybe on a beach somewhere, like in that picture," she said, her voice tinged with longing. "We could just... disappear, you and me. No more running, no more fighting."

Vaggie chuckled softly, the sound warmed despite the darkness surrounding them. “Yeah, somewhere with soft sand and waves... no muertos.”

Charlie lifts her head slightly, her brow raised. "Muertos?" she repeats, a teasing smile forming. "That’s what you call them?”

Vaggie smirks back, a little playful glint in her eyes. "Yeah. You got a better name for them?”

Charlie chuckles, poking Vaggie’s arm. “I mean, I’ve been calling them zombies. But muertos... it has a nice ring to it. Sounds more… dramatic."

"Or accurate," Vaggie counters with a grin. "You’re the one with the flair for dramatics, theatre girl. I’m just calling them what they are—dead."

"Touché," Charlie admits with a laugh. “But I like it. Muertos. Has a certain… badass vibe. Kinda suits you.”

Vaggie chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh yeah? Well, I think ‘zombie’ is kind of lame. Feels like we’re stuck in a bad horror movie.”

Charlie gasps in mock offense. “Excuse me, zombies are iconic! It’s tradition. What, you’re telling me you’ve never seen ‘Night of the Living Dead’? It’s a classic!”

"Maybe once, back when the world made sense,” Vaggie teases. “But fine, I’ll give you zombies if you admit that muertos sounds cooler.”

Charlie grins and relents. “Alright, alright. Muertos it is. You win.”

Vaggie leans in, kissing Charlie’s temple. “Damn right, I do.”

They both laugh softly, the day's tension easing just a little more as their playful banter continues. Charlie smiled faintly at that, her hand brushing a strand of hair away from Vaggie’s face. “I don’t know if I even remember what it feels like to be normal anymore,” she admitted quietly. "It feels like forever since we just... existed without the world falling apart."

Vaggie tilted her head slightly, studying Charlie’s face with a soft, reassuring gaze. “Well… we’ll find a way to get that back,” she whispered. "Maybe not the old normal, but something... better. We’ve survived for three months, haven’t we?"

Charlie let out a shaky breath. “I just… I’m scared we won’t make it. Every day, it feels like we’re hanging by a thread.”

Vaggie squeezed her hand tightly, leaning in closer until their foreheads touched. “Hey… we’ve been through hell and back already, and we’re still here,” she whispered, her tone firm but gentle.

Charlie closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of Vaggie’s presence, grounding her, even as the world outside remained cold and hostile. “You’re right…” she whispered. “We’ll get through this. We have to.”

They sat there in silence for a while, the hum of the undead below and the distant sounds of the city blending into the background. For a moment, they let themselves be wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence, allowing the exhaustion of the day to settle in.

Vaggie shifted, pulling Charlie closer until they were lying back on the couch, tangled in each other’s arms. The room was quiet except for their breathing, soft and steady, as the tension slowly ebbed away.

"Get some sleep, Charlie," Vaggie whispered, gently stroking Charlie’s back in slow, soothing circles. "We’ll figure out our next move in the morning."

Charlie nodded, her body finally relaxing against Vaggie’s, the soft rhythm of her breathing starting to slow. She let her thoughts drift, imagining the beach, the sound of waves, and Vaggie by her side, away from all the chaos.

“I love you,” Charlie whispered, her voice barely audible as sleep began to claim her.

“I love you too,” Vaggie murmured back, pressing a soft kiss to Charlie’s head.

They held each other close. Slowly, the weight of exhaustion took over, pulling them both into a deep, much-needed sleep. Their fingers remained intertwined, even in their dreams.

For now, at least, they had each other.

10:02 am

The morning sun filters through the cracks of the studio apartment’s blinds, casting long slivers of light across the floor. Charlie stirs first, blinking awake, her body still sore from days of running and fighting. She shifts slightly, careful not to wake Vaggie, still curled beside her, breathing softly in her sleep.

Charlie leans over, gently kissing Vaggie’s forehead before slipping out of the couch. The room is still quiet except for the occasional distant groan of the undead outside. She peers out the window, looking down at the nearly deserted streets of Brooklyn below. The undead are scattered, but the numbers are still overwhelming. They’d need to be careful. Very careful.

After a few minutes, Vaggie wakes, her amber eye bleary but alert when she remembers where they are. "Morning," she mutters, sitting up and rubbing her face.

Charlie smiles weakly. "Morning. We should move soon. There's not much time before they start gathering again.”

Vaggie nods, stretching her arms before grabbing the spear. “Mhm.”

They gather their few belongings—just enough to keep them moving quickly—and prepare to head out. Charlie tucks her knife into her belt, her expression grim as she surveys the streets from the balcony. “We stick to the plan. Move quietly, stick to walkways where possible, and hit the freeway if we need to cover the distance.”

Vaggie tightens her grip on her spear, nodding firmly. “You’re on a lead, city girl. Let’s just hope the freeway isn’t swarming.”

They go down the fire escape, moving as quietly as possible. The streets below are eerily silent except for a nearby zombie's occasional shuffle or groan. The city that once never slept is now a crumbling, desolate ruin. Broken glass litters the sidewalks, storefronts have been ransacked, and cars sit abandoned at every intersection. Some are still smeared with blood, while others have long since been overrun by nature, vines creeping through the cracks in the asphalt.

Holy fuck… three months and nature has taken over?

Charlie and Vaggie stick close to the walls, staying low and keeping to the shadows. They avoid the main roads as much as possible, ducking into walkways and moving in a zigzag pattern to avoid detection. The tension in the air is thick, and every small noise makes both women freeze, listening for signs of movement.

After an eternity of creeping through the city, they finally reach the freeway.

It’s a haunting sight.

The long stretch of road is packed with a miles-long traffic jam of abandoned cars. Most have been left as they were when the city fell—doors flung open, personal belongings scattered across the asphalt. Some of the cars have been crushed in desperate collisions, while others have broken windows or bloodstains smeared across their hoods. The sun reflects off the metal, casting an almost surreal glow across the wreckage.

Zombies wander between the cars, slow and lumbering. The sheer number of abandoned vehicles provides Charlie and Vaggie with a strange kind of cover as long as they move carefully.

Vaggie crouches down beside a minivan, scanning the area ahead. “We can use the cars for cover. Stick close and keep low. We’ll move from car to car.”

Charlie nods, her eyes scanning the surrounding area. “Holy shit. Okay.”

They begin their slow crawl through the freeway, keeping as quiet as possible as they move between the cars. Occasionally, they stop to pry open a door, searching for anything useful. Charlie finds an old first aid kit in the back of a sedan, and the supplies inside are still intact. Vaggie discovers some canned food in the trunk of an SUV, grabbing as many as she can carry without weighing herself down.

It’s a painstaking process—each car is a potential jackpot, but it’s also a risk. The longer they linger, the more danger they’re in. Every so often, a zombie stumbles too close, and they’re forced to duck behind a car, holding their breath as the undead shambles past.

The sun climbs higher in the sky as they continue their search. They’re careful to keep an eye on the horizon, always watching for any signs of movement. The distant moans carry through the air, reminding them of the ever-present danger. But for now, they’re managing to stay one step ahead.

As they approach a huge traffic jam, they find an overturned truck blocking the road. Its cargo—crates of bottled water—has spilled across the freeway. Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise. "Looks like we just hit the jackpot," she whispers, grabbing one of the bottles and handing it to Vaggie.

Vaggie grins, nodding in agreement. “Hell yeah, we did.”

They quickly fill their bags with as much water as they can carry, taking only what they need to avoid slowing themselves down.

With their bags now heavier but their spirits slightly lifted, Charlie and Vaggie continue navigating through the endless sea of abandoned cars. 

As they continue down the Long Island Expressway, the eerie quiet is broken only by the occasional zombie shuffle or the dead's low moans. The sun is now high in the sky, beating down on the miles of abandoned cars, creating an oppressive heat that clings to their skin. Charlie wipes the sweat from her brow, her eyes scanning the horizon ahead.

“We’ve got to be close to the main road,” she murmurs, primarily to herself, her eyes darting from one wreck to the next. Vaggie, still crouched beside her, doesn’t say much. She’s on high alert, her spear gripped tightly, ready to strike at the first sign of trouble.

Then, just beyond the next overpass, Charlie catches sight of something.

A massive warehouse is in the distance, nestled between towering buildings and half-collapsed structures. Its faded sign is barely visible but still legible enough to read "BigCo Wholesale."

Charlie’s eyes light up with sudden realization. She grabs Vaggie's arm, pointing. “Hey, look! That’s a BigCo down there,” she whispers excitedly. “I bet there’s a parking lot full of cars down there. And if we’re lucky, one of them might still work.”

Vaggie looks at the warehouse and then back at Charlie with a skeptical frown. “And if we’re not lucky, it’ll be crawling with muertos,” she mutters.

“I know, I know,” Charlie says quickly, anticipating Vaggie’s concerns. “But look at the freeway. We’ll be here forever if we have to keep checking car after car. If we can find just one working vehicle down there, we could be out of the city by nightfall.”

Vaggie bites her lip, her amber eye narrowing as she considers the plan. “I don’t like it, Charlie. That warehouse looks like a deathtrap.”

Charlie sighs, running her hand through her messy blonde hair. “I know it’s risky. But we need a car, Vaggie. Walking won't cut it, not with how many zombies are out here. I’m not saying we take unnecessary chances. We’re careful, and we’re smart about it.”

Vaggie glances back at the endless stretch of the highway behind them. She knows Charlie is right—they’re running out of options. But something about heading toward such an obvious location gives her a bad feeling. She swallows her doubts, though, and nods reluctantly. “Alright. Let’s do it. But we don’t stick around if things go south, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Charlie replies, her expression softening as she sees Vaggie’s hesitation. She gives her a quick kiss on the cheek before standing up. “Let’s figure out how to get down from here.”

The problem now is getting off the expressway. Several stories above the main road and piles of wrecked vehicles block the overpasses. There’s no easy way down, and with zombies roaming freely below, making too much noise or taking the wrong route could spell disaster.

Charlie scans the area, her mind racing for a solution. The overpass is too cluttered, but as she looks over the edge of the expressway, she notices a narrow section where the guardrail has been broken off, leaving a steep but manageable slope leading down to a side street.

“There,” she points to the spot, her voice low. “We can slide down that embankment. It will get us to the street level without having to backtrack too far.”

Vaggie eyes the slope warily. “You sure about that? One wrong move, and we could break something.”

“Better than staying up here and running into more zombies,” Charlie argues, already moving toward the edge. “It’s steep, but we can manage if we take it slow.”

Vaggie sighs, her grip on her spear tightening. “If you’re wrong, I’m saying ‘I told you so’ for next week.”

Charlie smirks, giving Vaggie a playful nudge. “Deal.”

The two women approach the broken guardrail, peering over the edge at the slope below. It’s a steep incline, covered in patches of dirt and rubble, but it seems passable. Below, the street is mostly clear, with only a few scattered zombies roaming in the distance.

Charlie goes first, carefully lowering herself over the edge and sliding down the embankment. The loose dirt shifts beneath her feet, and for a moment, she struggles to keep her balance, but she manages to control her descent, landing in a crouch at the bottom.

“See? Easy,” she calls up to Vaggie, though her heart is racing that she thinks she’s gonna fall over and break her damn skull.

Vaggie hesitates for a second before following suit. She moves more cautiously, her eyes never leaving the surrounding area, ready to fight if needed. When she finally reaches the bottom, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“Next time, I choose the route,” she mutters, dusting herself off.

Charlie just grins, grabbing Vaggie’s hand and leading her down the side street toward the looming BigCo warehouse. As they approach the massive parking lot, their hearts race with hope and dread. It’s a vast expanse of asphalt, rows of cars stretching out in every direction. Most are abandoned, their windows cracked or shattered, but a few look surprisingly intact.

They crouch behind a nearby car, taking stock of their surroundings. The parking lot is eerily quiet, broken only by the occasional wind scrape against metal. But they know the zombies are never far away.

Charlie glances at Vaggie. “Let’s start with the ones closest to the entrance. We’ll check for keys or if any are already unlocked.”

Vaggie nods, her face grim but determined. “Just stay sharp, Charlie. This place gives me the creeps.”

With their goal in sight, the couple moves cautiously into the parking lot, weaving between the cars, every sound amplified by the tense atmosphere. Charlie and Vaggie move swiftly through the sea of abandoned vehicles, checking each one for signs of life—or at least something functional. The silence in the BigCo parking lot feels wrong as if the world is holding its breath and waiting for something terrible to happen. Every car they try is locked, missing keys, or already stripped for parts. The further they go, the more tense the atmosphere becomes.

Charlie crouches beside a silver sedan, gripping the handle and pulling it gently. It’s locked. “Damn it,” she mutters under her breath.

Vaggie is a few cars ahead, checking the trunk of a beat-up station wagon. She shakes her head when Charlie glances her way. No luck there, either.

Just as Charlie starts toward another car, suddenly, the silence is shattered by a distant sound—sharp and unmistakable gunshots echoing from inside the warehouse.

Both women freeze, their eyes wide. Charlie instinctively ducks behind a nearby car, and Vaggie crouches low beside her, spear in hand. The gunfire isn’t close—yet—but it’s coming from inside the building. They can’t tell how many people are involved or if the shooters are hostile, but they know one thing for sure: gunfire means people, and people are unpredictable.

It’s distant but unmistakable, coming from the direction of the warehouse. The sound reverberates, bouncing off the concrete walls and broken-down cars. Charlie freezes, her eyes snapping to Vaggie, who’s already crouched low, her expression hardening.

“We need to get out of here,” Vaggie whispers urgently, her eye scanning their surroundings for any movement.

Charlie’s heart races. People. She hasn’t seen a living person outside of Vaggie in months, and now survivors are in that warehouse. They could be armed scavengers or desperate survivors like them, but there’s no way to know. The distant gunshots echo again, followed by what sounds like raised voices—shouting, though it’s impossible to make out the words.

Charlie nods. “Yeah, we need to move. Now.”

Without another word, they start to move, creeping away from the warehouse's entrance, trying to stay low and quiet. But as they make their way through the lot, the gunfire grows louder, and it’s clear that things inside are escalating. The noise is drawing attention. Previously scattered and aimless, zombies begin to shuffle toward the sound, their groans low but rising in intensity.

Charlie’s pulse quickens. “Shit—come on, let’s go!” she hisses, and the two break into a sprint.

Charlie leads the way, dashing through the rows of cars, zigzagging between them to keep out of sight of any wandering undead. She makes a beeline for the exit toward the road she spotted earlier, 62nd Drive. But after a few seconds, she notices something’s wrong—Vaggie isn’t beside her.

She whirls around, her chest heaving. “Vaggie?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the thundering of her heart.

Her eyes darted across the parking lot, searching for any sign of her. Then she sees her—Vaggie’s running in the opposite direction, toward the far side of the lot, heading toward what looks like an old alleyway.

“What the—” Charlie stops dead in her tracks, panic flooding her chest. “Vaggie! Vaggie, wait!” she yells, but it’s too late. The noise of the gunfire, the moaning zombies, and her ragged breathing drowns her voice.

She takes a step to follow, her instincts screaming to go after Vaggie, to stay together, but before she can make a move, the distinct sound of more gunshots pierces the air. This time, they’re much closer and accompanied by voices—human voices. Shouting, angry, and getting louder.

Charlie’s feet stop moving, her body going rigid as she hears the unmistakable sound of men shouting orders, followed by more gunfire. She can’t tell how far away they are, but they’re close enough to make her blood run cold.

Survivors.

Her heart pounds in her chest, torn between going after Vaggie and the overwhelming need to stay alive. If those voices catch her out in the open, there’s no telling what might happen. Her mind races—What if Vaggie heard them too? What if she’s trying to lure them away from me? The thought makes her stomach churn, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

Charlie bites her lip, her eyes darting in Vaggie’s direction one last time. The distance between them is too great now, and the voices… they’re getting closer.

“Damn it,” she whispers and forces herself to turn away.

She sprints down 62nd Drive, her legs pumping, carrying her farther from the parking lot and the gunfire. The streets are mostly empty now, but she doesn’t slow down, not even when her lungs start to burn. She keeps running, past rows of abandoned shops and boarded-up windows, over the crosswalk and toward a narrow path she remembers seeing earlier—Kavish Path. It’s quieter here, tucked away between buildings, offering some semblance of cover.

Charlie ducks into the path, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she keeps running, barely aware of her surroundings. Her mind is a blur of fear and confusion. Vaggie. Vaggie’s going the other way. Why did she run the other way?

The world around her blurs as her feet pound the pavement, but even as she runs, her thoughts keep circling back to the same question: What if she’s in trouble?

But there’s nothing she can do about it now. Not with those voices—and those guns—still out there. Charlie grits her teeth, her mind racing for a plan, though there’s no apparent escape. She has no idea where she’s heading, no idea if she’ll run into more survivors—or worse, a dead end. But she keeps going, refusing to stop.

Three months, she thinks, her mind reeling. Three months without seeing a soul, and the first people we find might be more dangerous than the dead.

She turns a corner, cutting through a narrow alley that brings her a few blocks down. The streets are more cluttered now—overgrown bushes, scattered debris, the signs of a world that’s been left behind.

Charlie slows her pace, her breath coming in shallow gasps, but she doesn’t stop moving. She can’t stop—not until she’s sure she’s out of range, not until she figures out what to do next.

There are people alive out there.

And for the first time in three months, Charlie feels a cold, terrifying realization: surviving the dead may not be the most challenging part after all.

“Fucking shit.” She cursed under her breath.

Charlie kept walking until she reached the end of the street, her breath ragged, legs aching. The heat and adrenaline were catching up, and she needed a moment to rest. Ahead, she spotted a building—an old law firm, or what was left of it. The front windows were shattered, and the door hung loosely on its hinges, swaying with the breeze. It wasn’t much, but it would give her some cover.

She slipped inside, wincing at the creak of the door. The place was a wreck. Desks were overturned, papers scattered everywhere, and a musty smell of decay clung to the air. Charlie glanced around quickly, taking in the scene. There was blood on the floor, dried in dark streaks, and just beside a fallen bookshelf, a zombie in a fancy suit was pinned against the wall. Its legs were crushed beneath the shelf, leaving it stuck but groaning.

Charlie tried to ignore it, moving deeper into the office, but the sound of its moans grated on her nerves. The zombie’s empty eyes stared at her, its mouth gaping open in a grotesque imitation of speech. She clenched her jaw, gripping the knife at her side. She didn’t want to waste energy on this thing, but the noise—it would attract attention if she didn’t deal with it.

Sighing, she approached it carefully, knife in hand. The zombie snapped at her as she got close, its arms flailing uselessly. Charlie plunged the knife into its skull. The groaning stopped instantly, and the office again plunged into silence.

“Sorry,” she muttered, yanking the knife free. “I did you a favor, okay?”

She wiped the blade on her slacks, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. Killing zombies wasn’t something she’d ever get used to.

Charlie found a small office at the back of the building, the door hanging ajar. She slipped inside and leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor with a heavy sigh. She needed to regroup and figure out a plan. Her mind raced back to Vaggie, the panic of seeing her run in the opposite direction. They weren’t familiar with Brooklyn, but they had to meet up somewhere, some landmark.

A school. That could work.

She fumbled for her phone, the cracked screen flickering to life. The battery was running low, so she cursed again for not charging it last night. However, she didn’t have time to worry about that now. She pulled up a map of the area, searching for a nearby school. Her eyes scanned the map until she found it—a small elementary school a few blocks away, beyond the 63rd drive.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, trying to calm her nerves. “We’ll meet there. We’ll—”

Suddenly, a sound outside made her freeze. Voices. Familiar voices.

Charlie crept to the broken window, peeking out carefully. Beyond the street, back toward the park she had come from, she saw them—multiple men, moving through the debris with unsettling precision. They were dressed in a hodgepodge of clothes, but there was something uniform about them—gang colors, bandanas, balaclavas. One of them was pointing in her direction.

Shit. They had seen her.

Charlie’s heart leaped into her throat, and before she could think, her body reacted. Fight or flight.

She ran.

She bolted toward the back office, not bothering to look back, not waiting to see if they were following. Her dress shoes pounded against the cracked linoleum as she pushed open a door at the back leading into an alleyway. She didn’t care where she was going—she just needed to get away. To get to that school, to find Vaggie. To survive.

The voices grew louder behind her, but she didn’t stop. The only thing she could focus on was the rhythm of her steps, the pounding of her heart, and the sound of her breath in the stifling, suffocating air.

She had to keep running. She had no other choice.

Charlie’s legs burned as she sprinted down the street, her mind fixed on the school. She knew it was only a few blocks away, but with the sounds of those voices getting closer, it felt like an eternity. Her chest heaved, lungs aching for air, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

Gunshots rang out behind her, a rapid burst that sent her heart into overdrive. Panic surged through her veins, pushing her to run faster, her feet barely touching the ground as she tore down the street. She risked a glance back, but it was impossible to see much through the chaos of the alleyways and crumbling buildings. All she knew was that they were behind her and getting closer.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, her breath ragged as she glanced down at her phone again. The map was still there, the tiny blinking dot showing her location—just two more streets and she’d be at the school. She could make it. She had to make it.

The road opened up ahead, and there it was—a small, dilapidated elementary school nestled between two overgrown lots. But something stopped her in her tracks. Several black pickup trucks were parked outside the main entrance; their matte finishes stood like a beacon against the dull, overgrown landscape. They didn’t look abandoned like most of the vehicles scattered around Brooklyn. They were parked too neatly, too purposefully. And they were all the same make, model, and jet black.

Her pulse quickened as her mind pieced it together. The gang. It had to be. There was no way it was a coincidence, not with the same trucks all lined up like that. Charlie swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her earlier assumptions crashing down on her. Hostile survivors. A gang. Armed and organized.

Shit. This was worse than she’d imagined.

For a split second, she considered turning back, retreating into the shadows, but the sound of another gunshot snapped her back to reality. She didn’t have time to think. She had to get off the street and fast.

She darted toward the side of the school, her eyes scanning for another way in. There—an old playground, the equipment rusted and falling apart, but it led straight to a set of doors. She could use the cover of the swings and slides to make her way inside. Without a second thought, she ran for it, her feet barely making a sound as she wove through the overgrown grass and shattered concrete. The trucks were still there, and she could hear muffled voices—someone giving orders, someone else laughing—but they didn’t notice her.

Not yet, at least.

Charlie reached the side of the building, ducking behind the rusted shell of an old jungle gym. Her heart pounded in her chest as she glanced over her shoulder. The men from the trucks hadn’t spotted her, but they were getting closer. She had to move now.

The cafeteria doors were slightly ajar, hanging on their hinges like the rest of the dilapidated building. She slipped inside, wincing at the creak of the metal. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of decay and old food, but it was quiet—for now.

The cafeteria was just as wrecked as the rest of the city—overturned tables, broken chairs, and shattered glass scattered across the floor. Charlie moved carefully, her eyes darting around for any sign of movement. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone here.

But Vaggie. Vaggie could be close.

Her fingers tightened around the knife at her side as she crept through the room, her breath shallow and her steps light. Charlie crouched behind the counter, her back pressed against the cold, cracked tile of the cafeteria serving line. Her breaths were shallow as she tried to steady her heartbeat, gripping the Glock tightly. She'd only used it a handful of times, but the weight in her hand was oddly comforting—reassuring her that she could fight back if it came to it. Her pulse thudded in her ears as her mind raced. Vaggie. Where the hell are you?

Suddenly, a door slam echoed through the cafeteria, making her flinch. Multiple footsteps followed, heavy and deliberate. They were inside. Her grip on the Glock tightened, and she took a quick, silent breath to steel herself.

“¿Dónde está la rubia? ¡La vi correr hacia aquí!” one of them shouted, his voice rough and commanding.

Charlie’s blood ran cold. She had no idea what he just said, but she recognized a single word that she can translate to English. Rubia. Blonde. They were looking for her.

Damn it. She cursed herself again for not making effort in learning Spanish, even with her Spanish-speaking girlfriend. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the few words she caught, but it was useless. She could only hear the anger in their voices and the frustration in their footsteps as they searched the cafeteria.

“¡Encuéntrenla! No debe estar lejos,” another voice barked out, this one deeper and more composed.

Charlie flattened herself even more against the counter, her heart hammering in her chest. The group was spreading out, their boots scraping against the linoleum, chairs scraping as they moved them. She clenched her jaw, focusing on the noise around her, every fiber of her being urging her to stay still.

“¡Joder, apúrense! No quiero estar aquí toda la noche en esta maldita escuela.”

“Cálmate,” a third voice said, this one quieter but dripping with annoyance. “Primero la encontramos. Luego podemos divertirnos.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. She didn’t need to understand Spanish to grasp the threat laced in that last sentence. Fun. Sweat started to bead at the back of her neck. The thought of what they could mean sent a fresh wave of terror coursing through her, but she couldn’t let it show. She had to stay hidden. 

A few feet away, one of the men knocked over a chair, sending it clattering to the ground. Another kicked it out of his path and kept moving. They were getting closer, their voices growing louder and angrier.

“¡Maldita sea! Registren este maldito lugar de arriba a abajo.”

Charlie’s mind raced. She needed to think of a damn plan. She could hear the shuffle of footsteps coming closer, the men clearly on edge. If she stayed here, they’d find her. But if she made a break for it, she risked getting caught. 

Suddenly, one of the men slammed a fist against a table, clattering silverware to the floor. 

“¡Mierda! ¡Muévanse más rápido!”

The noise startled Charlie, but she didn’t move. She could hear their frustration mounting.

They wanted her, and they were willing to tear the place apart to find her.

Suddenly, amidst the rustling and muttered Spanish, a loud yawn cut through the tense silence. "Geez, can we just wrap this up already?” Charlie stiffened; didn’t expect an English speaker to cut in like that. She noticed a voice heavy with an American-Italian accent. “I mean, seriously, what’s the big deal with this blonde chick? Is this even necessary?" the man said, his voice thick with impatience.

One of the men responded in heavily accented English, sharp and impatient. “Shut up, Angel. We haven’t had any chicks in a while, and we find the blonde.”

Another one muttered something in response. “Si la encontramos primero, seremos los primeros en la fila.” His tone was sly, almost smug.

Before the men could move any closer, a sudden crack rang out—a gunshot, sharp and deafening. One of the men crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from a clean headshot. The rest of them immediately raised their guns, spinning in the direction the shot had come from, their eyes wild and panicked.

“¿Qué carajo?” one of them shouted, his gun shaking.

A voice echoed across the room, fierce and unrelenting, a woman’s voice dripping with anger. Her words were in rapid Spanish, but Charlie didn’t need a translation.

“¿Qué planean hacer con la rubia, imbéciles?” the woman shouted, her voice carrying through the cafeteria with terrifying authority.

Charlie’s breath caught in her throat. That voice—Vaggie. But something about it was different. Harder. Angrier.

The men barked orders to each other, their voices frantic now as they scanned the area for the shooter. One of them, the one with the thickest accent, shouted back, “¿Y tú quién diablos eres para amenazarnos?”

There was a pause, a thick, tense silence as the woman—Vaggie—responded, her voice cold and dangerous. “Soy la última persona que verás si no dejas de buscar a esa mujer.”

One of the gang members laughed nervously, trying to mask his fear. “¡Vamos! No puedes enfrentarte a todos nosotros, estúpida!”

Charlie swallowed hard, her mind racing. What the hell is happening? Vaggie was out there, alone, but the cold, calculated edge to her voice made Charlie realize something. Vaggie wasn’t just out there to defend herself. She was out for blood.

The gang members continued shouting back and forth with Vaggie, the tension in the room palpable. Charlie’s grip on her gun tightened. She could only hear parts of the exchange, but it was clear that Vaggie wasn’t backing down.

“Sal de donde estás,” one of the men taunted. “No duras ni un minuto más.”

Another gunshot rang out, and the man’s taunt was silenced as his body hit the ground with a thud.

What the fuck! Charlie then thought to herself as gunfire erupted, the sharp cracks of Vaggie’s pistol cutting through the air, interspersed with the rapid bursts of automatic rifles from the hostile survivors. The shots reverberated through the cafeteria, the clatter of bullets hitting metal and shattering glass filling Charlie’s ears. She kept herself low behind the counter, her breath catching with every shot. Her heart pounded furiously, but she forced herself to stay calm, gripping her Glock, waiting for an opening.

“¡Mierda! ¡Nos está matando a todos!” one of the gang members screamed, his voice high-pitched with panic. 

“¡Sigue disparando!” another barked back, returning fire. But Vaggie was fast, her movements swift and calculated. Every time they seemed to get a lock on her position, a new gunshot rang out from another direction. 

Charlie could barely keep track of it all. The sounds of boots scuffling, bullets whizzing through the air, and the angry shouts in Spanish were overwhelming, but she focused on surviving. Her hand shook slightly as she held her Glock, the weight of the moment bearing down on her.

Suddenly, she heard heavy footsteps retreating. The gunfire outside was subsiding, replaced by muffled shouts. The gang members were pulling back.

“¡Vámonos, ya!” one of the men yelled. “¡Es una maldita emboscada!”

More footsteps followed, heavy and rushed, as the remaining gang members scrambled toward the exits. The roar of engines igniting outside told Charlie they were making a quick getaway.

But just as the chaos seemed to ebb, Charlie felt something cold press against the back of her neck.

Her body went rigid as she realized she’d been grabbed. A lanky arm snaked around her torso, pinning her in place, and when she twisted to get a look, all she saw was a pair of green and blue eyes peering at her through the slits of a balaclava.

“Gotcha,” the man whispered in a voice Charlie instantly recognized with the American-Italian accent. It was the same guy who had complained earlier—the one who hadn’t been thrilled about hunting her down in the first place.

Before she could react, he tightened his grip, pulling her closer. “Hey! How about ya stop squirming, huh?”

But Charlie wasn’t going to give in that easily. With her free hand, she elbowed him hard in the ribs, grunting as she tried to break free. The man let out a grunt of surprise but didn’t release her.

“Ya are one feisty little bitch, aren’t ya?” he growled. “Should’ve known the fucking blondie would be trouble.”

Charlie gritted her teeth and shifted her weight, frantically scanning her surroundings. Her eyes landed on a metal tray lying nearby. Without a second thought, she grabbed it and swung it as hard as she could, smashing it into the side of the man’s head.

The tray connected with a sickening thud, and the man’s grip on her loosened instantly. He staggered back, dazed, his balaclava slipping down to reveal more of his face just as he slumped to the ground. 

He didn’t move after that, collapsing into an unconscious heap.

Charlie stood momentarily, panting, the tray still clutched in her hands. The roar of the trucks outside faded as they drove off, leaving the cafeteria eerily silent once more. Her legs wobbled, but she forced herself to stay upright, glancing down at the unconscious man.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself.

The gunfight had ended, Charlie stood still, her breath ragged as she surveyed the cafeteria. The bodies of the men who had been hunting her lay scattered across the floor, their lifeless hands clutching illegal AK-47s. The sight of the guns made her pause—how did these guys get this firepower? She wiped the sweat from her brow, still feeling the tremors of adrenaline coursing through her system. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she took in the mess—the wrecked tables, broken glass, and bullet-ridden walls. She wasn’t sure if it was over, but at least, for now, she could breathe.

Just as her breathing began to steady, Charlie’s ears caught faint footsteps from the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. Her grip tightened on the Glock, and she aimed it toward the doorway. Her body went rigid again, every muscle tensing in anticipation.

The door creaked open slowly, and Charlie’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes focused, ready to fire.

Then she saw her. Vaggie.

Without a second thought, the two women rushed toward each other, the relief and desperation to be together overwhelming any sense of caution. Vaggie’s arms wrapped around Charlie tightly, and despite Charlie’s towering height, Vaggie yanked her down and pressed their lips together in a long, passionate kiss. It was fierce, almost frantic—both silently reassuring the other that they were okay, that they had made it through this alive.

When they finally broke apart, Vaggie immediately grabbed both sides of Charlie’s face, her eye scanning her over as if checking for injuries. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay,” she demanded.

Charlie nodded quickly, her heart still racing but not from the fear anymore. “I’m fine, sweetie. I’m fine.”

Vaggie didn’t seem convinced, her hands still gripping Charlie’s face, her expression torn between relief and panic. “When I noticed you weren’t behind me, I saw those assholes moving down the street like they had a damn mission. I followed them, and then I heard them talking about doing... about doing horrible things to you. I couldn’t—I—”

Charlie cut her off with another kiss, silencing her worries. When they finally parted, she rested her forehead against Vaggie’s, her voice soft but firm. “I’m fine because of you. You saved me.”

Vaggie let out a breathless laugh, her lips trembling. “We both made it. We're safe.”

For a brief moment, they allowed themselves to laugh, the tension breaking as they held each other in the ruined cafeteria. But the reality of their situation quickly settled in again. They weren’t out of danger yet.

“We need to move,” Vaggie said, her voice more serious now. “The gunfire will attract the muertos. They’ll be here any minute.”

Charlie nodded but didn’t move just yet. She glanced at the unconscious man on the floor—the same guy who had grabbed her earlier. “Wait,” she said, tightening her grip on Vaggie’s hand. “We’re taking him with us.”

Vaggie’s brow furrowed, her eye narrowing in confusion. “Why?”

“We need answers,” Charlie said, her gaze hardening as she looked down at the man. “He’s with them. He knows things. And I’m willing to bet he knows much more than we think.”

Vaggie stared at the man briefly before sighing, her hands sliding down to Charlie’s waist. “Fine. But we move fast, okay? We don’t have much time before more of them show up—or worse.”

Without wasting a second, she crouched down beside the dead bodies, her movements quick and efficient. Her hands moved over the bloodied corpses, prying the illegal weapons from their cold fingers and rifling through their pockets for anything useful. Extra magazines, a few knives, and a bundle of pills—she grabbed everything that looked even remotely valuable. Time was ticking, and they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind that might help them later.

“Damn,” Vaggie muttered as she inspected one of the rifles. “How do they even get these? We’re talking military-grade.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Charlie grunted, bending down to hoist the unconscious man onto her shoulder. He was lean but heavier and taller than she expected, and she had to adjust her balance as his head lolled to the side. 

"At least we know they have connections," Vaggie continued, strapping one of the AKs across her back and stuffing the magazines into her pockets. She glanced at Charlie, her eyes scanning the unconscious man. "And he's the one who's going to tell us all about it."

Charlie nodded, her grip tightening around the man’s arms as she dragged him toward the door. Every step felt heavier, her muscles aching from the earlier fight and the weight of the man pressing down on her. “Let’s just hope he wakes up and feels chatty.”

Vaggie zipped open one last jacket on a corpse, retrieving a map with several red-marked areas. “This might help us figure out what they’re planning next,” she said, tucking it into her waistband. Her head snapped up as a low, distant moan echoed through the hallway—a sound both had grown all too familiar with. The zombies were closing in.

“Charlie, we gotta go—now.”

Charlie gritted her teeth, pulling the man more quickly toward the exit. “I’m moving as fast as I can!”

With one final glance at the dead men sprawled across the cafeteria, Vaggie stood up and sprinted toward Charlie. Together, they made their way out of the building.

Outside, the night was dark and heavy. They could hear the distant groans and the shuffling of feet as the zombies were drawn toward the sound of the earlier gunfight. Charlie huffed under the weight of the unconscious man, but she didn’t stop. Vaggie stayed close, eye scanning every shadow for threats as they headed toward the safer part of the city—or at least, what passed for "safe" in this hellhole.

As they ducked into an alleyway, Vaggie glanced at Charlie, her brow furrowing with concern. “You sure we need him? We could be faster without him.”

Charlie met her gaze, her expression hardening. “He’s coming with us. If we’re going to figure out about these guys with this kind of firepower, he’s our best shot. And if he knows anything else about what they’re planning…”

Vaggie sighed but nodded, wiping some of the grime off her face. “Alright.”

Charlie adjusted the man over her shoulder again, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

Chapter Text

09:12 pm

Hours had passed, and Charlie worked silently in the dim light of the master bedroom. The room was spacious enough for them to make it through the night. A tall dresser was shoved against the only doorway in the corner, blocking any unwanted entry. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

Charlie crouched by the window, fingers deftly knotting together the makeshift escape rope—strips of clothing she and Vaggie had scavenged from the bedroom’s closet. The fabric felt worn under her hands, but it would hold. She tested the strength of the final knot before securing it to the window frame, pulling on it a few times to make sure it wouldn’t give way. The last thing they needed was for their escape plan to fail.

She let out a low, tired sigh, her muscles aching from the shit she had dealt with that day. From her vantage point, she could see the city sprawled out below. The streets were eerily quiet, but further in the distance, she spotted movement—hordes of zombies shuffling toward the school where they had fought off the gang earlier. It was only a few blocks away, and Charlie could make out the figures stumbling aimlessly in the moonlight.

“Looks like they’re still drawn to the school,” she muttered, watching the undead shuffle closer to where they had barely escaped. Her breath fogged up the window momentarily before she wiped it away with her sleeve. “Good. At least they’re not heading this way.”

With a final tug on the rope, Charlie tied it off securely, satisfied they’d have an easy exit if things went south. She straightened up, glancing over at the man they had captured earlier. He was bound tightly with ropes—Vaggie had made sure of that—and sat slumped in the corner of the room. He was still unconscious, his head drooping slightly, the side of his face bruised from where Charlie had hit him with the metal tray.

“Still out cold, huh?” Charlie muttered, wiping her hands on her slacks as she stepped away from the window. She crouched beside him, checking the ropes to make sure he couldn’t slip free. The man’s chest rose and fell steadily but hadn’t stirred since they brought him here.

Closely observing his face since Vaggie took off the mask that he's been wearing. A fair-skinned man is disheveled with messy, short, platinum blond hair. Across his face, scattered with freckles and framed with an angular jawline. However, they noticed his long eyelashes and plump lips. Huh, they did not even expect a feminine-looking man to work with horrible people.

Behind her, Vaggie was pacing, her hands nervously twitching at her sides as she glanced toward the barricaded door. “You think he’ll talk when he wakes up?”

Charlie stood up, her fingers brushing through her tied-up hair as she sighed. “He’ll have to. We don’t have a lot of options here, and if we don’t figure out who these people are or how they got those guns… we’re in deeper shit than we thought.”

Vaggie paused for a moment, her eye narrowing as she watched Charlie. “And what if he doesn’t? What if he’s more of a problem than he’s worth?”

Charlie met her gaze. “Then… we deal with him.” She said it calmly. Her words lingered in the air as tension began to creep into the room. Vaggie’s pacing stopped abruptly. Her posture stiffened as she turned to face Charlie fully, her jaw clenched tight.

“You’re kidding. We won’t try to reason with him, are we?” Vaggie’s voice was sharp, edged with frustration. “He’s one of them, Charlie. You know damn well the kind of people they are—the things they do.”

Charlie could feel the weight of Vaggie’s words pressing on her, but she didn’t waver. “I know what they’ve done,” she said calmly, though her tone carried an undercurrent of exhaustion. “But that doesn’t mean we just kill him without trying to talk first. What if he was forced into this? We checked him earlier—he was only carrying a pistol, while the others had fucking assault weapons. Doesn’t that seem off to you?”

Vaggie threw her hands up, clearly exasperated. “I don’t care if he had a slingshot, Charlie! He grabbed you! He could’ve killed you if you hadn’t fought back. You can’t forget that because he has a baby face and a smaller gun!”

Charlie breathed, willing to stay calm as she tried to deflect Vaggie’s anger. “What if he didn’t have a choice? What if he was forced to do it, just like so many others are forced into these groups? You saw the way he hesitated back there. He wasn’t thrilled about coming after us. That’s got to mean something.”

Vaggie shook her head, her expression hardening as she crossed her arms. “You’re too damn forgiving, Charlie. This world isn’t the same anymore. People aren’t the same anymore. You know that better than anyone. We can’t trust anyone, especially not someone who’s already proven he’s willing to hurt you.”

Charlie could see the pain and fear in Vaggie’s eye, but she pressed on. “Do you remember when we first met? In that hospital? You didn’t trust me. Hell, you barely even spoke to me. You were recovering, scared, and unsure of everyone around you. But I didn’t give up on you, did I?”

Vaggie’s expression faltered slightly, but she didn’t respond, her arms tightly crossed over her chest.

Charlie stepped closer, her voice softening. “I did everything I could to show you that you were safe with me. That you could trust me. And eventually, you did. I gave you a chance, Vaggie. All I’m asking is that we do the same for him.”

For a moment, Vaggie was silent, her gaze flickering as if she were fighting an internal battle. Charlie could see the conflict written across her face—the way Vaggie’s protective instincts warred with her sense of reason.

“You don’t know him like you know me,” Vaggie finally said, her voice quieter now but firm. “You don’t know what he’s done or capable of.”

Charlie nodded. “You’re right. I don’t. But that’s why we talk to him first. We find out who he is and what he knows. And if we don’t like what we hear, we deal with it then. But we give him a chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

Vaggie looked away, letting out a long, defeated sigh. She rubbed a hand over her face, clearly torn, but she knew Charlie wouldn’t let this go.

“Fine,” Vaggie muttered, her voice tinged with reluctance. “You want to lead this? Go ahead. But I’m telling you right now, the moment he tries something, I’m not holding back.”

Charlie offered a small, tired smile, relieved that Vaggie was willing to meet her halfway. “Thank you,” she said quietly, knowing how much Vaggie needed to relent, even if just a little.

Vaggie didn’t respond, and her jaw still clenched as she turned back toward the unconscious man, her gaze hardening once again. “Just don’t expect me to be warm and fuzzy about this, okay?”

Charlie chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

As Vaggie returned to watching the bound man, Charlie stood by the window again, glancing at the approaching zombies in the distance.

The man stirred moments later, and a small groan escaped his lips as his head lolled to the side. Charlie’s attention snapped back to him, her eyes narrowing as she knelt beside him. Vaggie also stopped pacing, turning to face him with arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“He’s waking up,” Charlie whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

“Finally,” Vaggie muttered under her breath, already stepping closer.

Charlie considered for a moment. “Maybe a little splash of water will help wake him up.” She reached for her water bottle, thinking just a few drops might do the trick. But before she could unscrew the cap, Vaggie snatched it from her hands.

Without hesitation, Vaggie squeezed the bottle, drenching the man’s face with an abrupt splash. His eyes shot open in shock, sputtering as he tried to shake off the water.

“Vaggie!” Charlie protested, wide-eyed, with her tone a mix of frustration and disbelief. “That’s not what I meant! We don’t need to be inhumane about it.”

Vaggie, unfazed, gave Charlie a look that was equal parts irritation and amusement, pointing at the now fully awake man. “Inhumane or not, he’s up, isn’t he?”

Sure enough, soaked and disoriented, the man blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened. “What the fuck…?” he muttered, looking around the room with tired green and blue eyes, clearly confused.

Charlie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment before kneeling to his level. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you, we just—”

The man interrupted with a low, smug chuckle, his lips curling into a sly grin. “Safe? Babe, I’ve had one hell of a day, and now I’m tied up in some shitty bedroom with two chicks bathing me. If that’s your idea of safe, I’m dying to know what dangerous looks like.”

Charlie’s brows furrowed while Vaggie’s eye twitched in irritation. She crossed her arms even tighter, her patience already wearing thin. “We didn’t drag your sorry ass here for jokes. We want answers. Now.”

The man licked his lips, raising an eyebrow as his grin widened. “Answers? Sweetheart, I didn’t know I was signing up for twenty questions. But since ya asked so nicely…” He paused dramatically, leaning his head back against the wall. “Go to hell.”

Vaggie immediately stepped forward, her fists clenching at her sides. “Why, you fucker—"

Charlie quickly raised a hand, cutting her off. “Vaggie, wait.” She turned back to the man, trying to remain calm. “Look, we don’t have time for games. We want to know who you’re working for and how you got all those weapons. That’s it.”

The man’s eyes glinted with amusement as he looked Charlie up and down. “Oh, I see what’s happening here. Good cop, bad cop. Lemme guess—she’s the bad cop, and you’re the sweet one trying to butter me up.” He smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Hate to break it to ya, but I’m not falling for it.”

Charlie sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging as she looked over at Vaggie, who glared at the man. “This isn’t a game. We just need information.”

The man tilted his head, mockingly pouting his lips. “Aw, honey, you’re breaking my heart. But I’m not in a chatty mood, especially after your girlfriend here decided to go all firehose on me.”

Vaggie’s patience snapped. “I swear to God, if you don’t start talking, I’m going to—"

“—Going to what?” he interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Throw more water at me? Please, I’ve had worse.”

Charlie could sense Vaggie’s temper boiling over, so she quickly stepped before her. “Let me handle this,” she said softly, giving Vaggie a pleading look. Vaggie let out a frustrated huff but stepped back, her gaze fixed on the man.

Charlie knelt closer to the man, trying to soften her expression. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here, and we don’t want this to drag out any longer than it has to. Tell us what we need to know, and we’ll let you go.”

He snickered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he tilted his head toward her. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll let me go. After you’re done playing house with me.”

Charlie’s calm demeanor faltered momentarily, but she forced herself to stay composed. “We don’t have to make this harder than it already is. You could help us, and we could figure something out. It doesn’t have to end badly.”

He gave her an exaggerated look before letting out a mock gasp. “Wow. Ya believe that, don’t you? How cute. But here’s the thing, dollface—I don’t owe ya shit.”

Vaggie couldn’t hold back any longer. “That’s it, I’m done.” She pushed forward, fists clenched as she glared down at him. “You’ve had your fun. Now start talking, or I swear I’ll—”

Charlie stood firmly on Vaggie’s shoulder to stop her from lunging forward. “Vaggie, please,” she whispered, her voice low and urgent.

Vaggie let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she stepped back, clearly restraining herself from hitting him. “You’ve got five minutes,” she muttered under her breath, pacing to the far side of the room, though her gaze never left the man.

Charlie turned back to him, now more frustrated than before but still trying to maintain her calm. “You’re not making this any easier.”

The man leaned his head back, rolling his eyes as if this was the most boring conversation of his life. “Easier? Honey, if you’re looking for easy, you’re in the wrong business.”

Charlie clenched her jaw, trying not to let his taunts get to her. She crouched down again, lowering her voice. “What’s your name?”

He raised an eyebrow at her as if genuinely surprised by the question. “You wanna know my name? Gee, I didn’t know we were on a first-name basis. Tell ya what—I’ll give you my name if you give me yours. Fair?”

Charlie sighed, rubbing her temple. “It’s Charlie. Now, your turn.”

The man stared at her momentarily, clearly weighing his options before flashing a toothy grin. “Angel Dust. But ya can call me whatever ya want, babe.”

Vaggie groaned audibly from the corner. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Charlie exhaled slowly. “Alright, Angel. Now, can you just—”

“—Sweetie, ya think that’s my real name?” he interrupted with a laugh. “Please, you’re too much fun.” He winked at her, his entire demeanor oozing smug satisfaction.

Vaggie’s fists clenched again, but Charlie sighed, exhausted by the conversation. “We’re getting nowhere with this.”

Angel snickered, clearly pleased with himself. “Yeah, and whose fault is that, hmm?”

Vaggie started toward him again, her face set in a stern glare, but Charlie stepped in front of her again, holding her back with a gentle but firm hand.

“We’ll try again in a few hours,” Charlie muttered, shaking her head. “Hopefully, you’ll be a little more cooperative by then.”

Angel just smirked as they walked away, his voice dripping with amusement. “I wouldn’t count on it, sweetheart.”

Vaggie stormed out of the room, muttering curses under her breath, while Charlie lingered a moment longer, her hand pressed to her forehead. This was going to be a long night.

Moments had passed, and the tension in the room had settled into a more manageable quiet. Charlie and Vaggie were crouched at the other side of the bedroom, preparing a modest dinner of corned beef mixed with canned vegetables—corn, peas, and carrots. Vaggie had pulled out a tiny stovetop used for camping, which caught Charlie's attention.

Charlie raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Didn’t know you had this.”

Vaggie gave a slight shrug, and her eye focused on stirring the makeshift stew. “Picked it up from some supply run a while back. Figured it might come in handy.”

Charlie couldn’t help but smile. “You’re… full of surprises, sweetie.”

Vaggie allowed herself a brief smirk. “Survival teaches you to be crafty.” She paused, her voice lowering slightly. “You know, after… everything. You pick up a few things.”

As the smell of food filled the room, Angel Dust stirred from his spot in the corner, still bound tightly by the ropes. His stomach growled audibly, and he glanced toward the two women. “Hey, what’s a guy gotta do to get a bite around here? Ya gonna feed me, or just let me starve in this cozy little prison of yours?”

Neither Charlie nor Vaggie answered him, focused instead on plating their portions. Vaggie, in particular, didn’t even look in his direction as she set a portion of the food on Charlie’s plate. Her eye narrowed as she took in the unconscious jab of guilt from her companion, but she stayed quiet for now.

“Seriously, though,” Angel protested, his tone shifting from casual to annoyed. “What, you’re just gonna eat in front of me? Not even gonna give me a scrap? C’mon, I’m starving over here!”

Charlie looked down at her plate, the meager portion she’d set aside for herself. She hadn’t even considered increasing the portion size for him. Her stomach tightened with guilt, but she remained silent momentarily, glancing at Vaggie, who was more than ready to leave Angel out of their dinner plans.

Vaggie shot a glare toward him, her voice sharp. “We’re not sharing with prisoners. Do you think we’re just going to waste good food on someone who could’ve killed us earlier? Dream on.”

Angel scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Waste? Oh, sure, like I haven’t been through enough already. Ya tied me up, splashed water in my face, and now you’re gonna make me sit here and watch ya eat? Real classy.”

Vaggie opened her mouth to snap back, but Charlie suddenly stood, her plate still in hand.

“Charlie, don’t,” Vaggie warned, her voice edged with frustration, but it was too late.

Charlie knelt before Angel, her plate and two separate metal utensils in one hand. “Here,” she said, her voice softer as she handed him a fork and spoon. “You’re not going to get much, but it’s something.”

Angel stared at her, momentarily stunned. His usual cocky smirk faltered as he took the utensils, not sure whether to be grateful or to make another smart-ass comment.

Vaggie groaned from behind, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You’re making a mistake, Charlie. You can’t trust him.”

Charlie glanced back at her, holding up a hand. “I’m not saying I trust him. But he’s still a person.”

Angel, for once, didn’t have a snide remark ready. He eyed the food cautiously as Charlie offered him her portion, then handed him an extra bottle of water she had pulled from her bag.

“Seriously?” Vaggie muttered, shaking her head. “You’re too fucking soft.”

“Maybe,” Charlie said quietly, “but I can’t just sit here and let him go hungry.”

Angel’s eyes flicked between the two women before settling on the food before him. He hesitated momentarily before taking a small bite, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. “You’re not as dumb as I thought,” he muttered, chewing slowly. “I wasn’t exactly getting fed where I came from, either.”

Charlie looked at him, her curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

Angel swallowed another bite, shrugging. “The group I’m with? They don’t exactly share. It’s a fight for scraps half the time. Ya think I volunteered to chase you down? I’m as hungry as ya are, toots.”

Charlie’s expression softened slightly. She didn’t say anything, but the small gesture of sharing her meal seemed to shift something in the air between them. Angel continued eating, though he never lost his usual sarcastic edge.

“Don’t expect me to start singing your praises or anything,” he added, taking another bite. “But… thanks, I guess.”

From across the room, Vaggie shook her head in disapproval, though her gaze remained on Charlie, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration. “This better not come back to bite us in the ass, Charlie.”

Charlie didn’t respond, her eyes still on Angel as he finished his share. The last few bites were consumed in relative silence, save for the occasional scrape of a utensil against the plate or the faint rustling of clothing as the three shifted in their spots. Charlie sat beside Angel, having remained by his side long enough for him to finish the small portion she had given him.

Vaggie cleaned her plate, her movements sharp and precise, still irritated by Charlie’s decision. She glanced sideways toward the two, catching Charlie about to rise from her spot. Though far from filling, the makeshift dinner had at least quieted their stomachs for now.

Holding her plate and silverware in one hand, Charlie stood up when she felt a tug on her dress shirt sleeve. She looked down to find Angel’s hand gripping the fabric, holding her back just slightly. His expression, for once, was devoid of its usual arrogance.

“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, already bracing herself for another sarcastic comment. “You still hungry or something?”

Angel shook his head, his grip tightening momentarily before loosening again. “Nah, I just… I got something to say.”

Charlie blinked, clearly taken aback. “Okay?” Her voice filled with suspicion. The expectation of another one of his smart-ass remarks lingered.

Angel’s lips twitched, but instead of the usual smirk, there was a flicker of something else, something more sincere. “No, not my usual asshole crap,” he said, voice softer than usual. “I just… Look, I know I’m a piece of shit, but ya didn’t have to do what ya did. Ya didn’t have to treat me like I’m still a person.”

Charlie’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You are a person,” she said slowly as if the thought was apparent. “Being an asshole doesn’t change that.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, after all the shit I’ve thrown at ya? Ya should’ve just left me to starve.”

For a moment, Charlie didn’t say anything. She stared at him, unsure how to react to this unexpected moment of honesty. “I’ve dealt with worse,” she finally said, her tone casual, almost dismissive. “You’re not the first person to throw shit at me. Hell, you’re not even the worst. Before all this, I got my fair share of assholes, trust me.”

Angel’s brow furrowed, his eyes flicking toward her as if he was trying to gauge if she was being serious. “Ya mean… before the apocalypse?”

Charlie nodded, her voice softening. “Yeah. This whole thing didn’t make people assholes. It just… made it harder to hide.”

Angel’s mouth opened as if he wanted to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he looked at her momentarily before muttering, “Huh. Never really thought of it like that.”

Charlie gave him a faint smile, a mixture of sadness and acceptance in her eyes. “You’re not as hard to figure out as you think, Angel.” She stood up again, shaking her head. “Now, I’ve gotta put this away.”

She returned to the tiny camping stove where Vaggie was cleaning up. She set her plate and silverware aside, exchanging a glance with her girlfriend, who was watching her with a raised eyebrow.

“Still think I’m too soft?” Charlie asked, her tone light, but a more profound question was hidden in it.

Vaggie sighed, the frustration in her gaze softening just a little. “You’re too soft, but…” She glanced at Angel, still seated on the floor. “I get it.”

Charlie nodded, not needing to say more. She knew Vaggie understood, even if she disagreed. Then, with one last glance toward Angel, she returned to finish up.

Charlie settled down next to Angel again, her eyes flicking to Vaggie in the background, who was tidying up the remnants of dinner. She was cautious, knowing how quickly things could shift with Angel. Despite the rare vulnerability he'd just shown, his default mode was still antagonistic, especially when Vaggie was around.

Angel stretched his legs out, glancing over at Vaggie with a sneer. "So, when are you gonna get rid of her?" he asked Charlie, his voice dripping with his usual cocky attitude.

Charlie frowned, confused. "What?"

Angel rolled his eyes. "Her," he said, jerking his chin in Vaggie’s direction. "Ya don’t need her around. Just ya and me, we can talk. Get her out."

Vaggie’s body stiffened from across the room, and she turned to face them, glaring. "Excuse me?"

Charlie shot Angel a stern look. “No. She stays.” Her tone left no room for negotiation. “Vaggie’s my girlfriend. You don’t get to talk like that."

Angel raised his hands mockingly, a smirk spreading across his face. "Oh, girlfriend, huh? That’s cute. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down.” 

Vaggie’s glare intensified, her patience wearing thin. “Watch it, Dust,” she spat, stepping closer.

Angel, unphased by the rising tension, tilted his head with an infuriating grin. “Well, that explains a lot. The way ya two stick together like glue. Settle a bet for me, Charlie. Who’s the top, and who’s the bottom? Or do ya two take turns?”

Vaggie’s face twisted with anger, her fists clenching as she stepped forward. "You’ve got about two seconds to shut your mouth before I shut it for you, asshole."

Seeing the tension rising, Charlie quickly put her hand on Vaggie’s arm, holding her back. "Okay, stop," she said firmly, her voice severe but low. "That’s not nice, and we’re not doing this. If you’ve got something to say, say it and cut the crap."

Angel chuckled, clearly amused by the reaction he’d provoked. "Oh, come on, sweetheart. I’m just having a bit of fun. No need to get all wound up." He exhaled dramatically, the humor in his eyes dying as he leaned back against the wall. "Alright, alright. Let’s cut to the chase, then."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, still on guard but relieved he was finally getting to the point. "Go on."

Angel stretched his arms out lazily, glancing between Charlie and Vaggie before his smirk faded slightly. “Okay, fine. You wanna know why I’m here? Why was I sent after you?” His tone dropped, becoming more serious. “The group I’m with… they’re a cartel. A real nasty bunch who think they can take over Brooklyn.”

Vaggie, arms still crossed, frowned. "A cartel? Why the hell would a cartel want to take over Brooklyn in a zombie apocalypse? What’s the point?"

Angel pointed at her with his finger like she’d hit the nail on the head. "Exactly!" He laughed bitterly. “It’s insane, right? The world’s gone to shit, but they’re still playing the same old power games. Trying to carve out territory like it’s business as usual.”

Charlie blinked, trying to process his words. “So… why are you with them? Why would you even run with a cartel?” 

Angel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Before all this, I already had connections with them. Most of them were my regular clients.”

Charlie leaned in, curious. "What do you mean? Why would they have all those weapons? What kind of business were they doing before all of this?"

Angel snorted, looking at her like she’d just asked the dumbest question. "Business? Sweetheart, you don’t get it, do you? I wasn’t exactly running some corner store before the world went to shit."

Charlie blinked, still not catching on. "So… what? You mean… like drugs?"

Angel let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "No, honey. Sex. I’m a prostitute. Always have been. Most of those cartel guys? Regular clients of mine." He said it so bluntly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Charlie’s mouth snapped shut, her face flushing with embarrassment. "Oh…"

Angel chuckled, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Yeah, now you’re getting it. They were regulars, and they knew I could be useful. I know how to handle myself. They’ve got access to weapons you wouldn’t believe. Automatic rifles, grenades, stuff they shouldn’t even have.”

Vaggie, who had been quietly fuming in the background, looked intrigued now, her arms loosening from their crossed position. “And they want to use those weapons to take over Brooklyn? For what?”

Angel shrugged. “Power, territory, whatever. They’re obsessed with control. Even in a world full of zombos, people still want to be at the top of the food chain. Doesn’t matter if the world’s burning down around them.”

Charlie nodded. “So, they sent you after us because…?”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re in their way. They’re looking for anyone who might be competition. They think they’ll be the last ones standing when the dust clears if they can take out groups like yours. It’s all about survival, sweetheart.”

Vaggie let out a bitter laugh. “Survival? They sound like they’re just making things worse.”

Angel’s smirk returned, but it was more subdued this time, with a touch of bitterness behind it. “Welcome to the world, babe. Even before the apocalypse, it was always like this. Now it’s just out in the open.”

Charlie remained silent for a moment, processing everything Angel had just said. Her fingers absentmindedly traced her arm as she finally voiced the question gnawing at her.

"Why would the cartel think we’re competition?" she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. "It’s just the two of us. We’re not a threat. Why come after us?"

Angel shrugged, leaning back again with a casual air that didn’t match the gravity of the situation. "Cartel’s paranoid like that. They see anyone outside their little kingdom as competition. Besides..." He paused, his eyes flicking over to Charlie with a grim smirk. "It’s not always about competition. Now that law and order’s gone? They can do whatever they want. And you… well, you’d make a real nice trophy for them." 

Charlie felt her stomach twist at his words. The cafeteria at the school flashed in her mind, that moment when she realized how vulnerable she was, how quickly things could go from bad to worse. She forced herself to meet Angel’s eyes, trying to steady her breathing.

Vaggie, however, wasn’t having any of it. Her jaw clenched, and she stormed to the corner of the room where the stolen AK-47 leaned against the wall. "We’ll see about that," she muttered, grabbing the weapon and slamming a magazine into place. "I’ll shoot down every last one of those bastards."

Angel snorted, casually picking at his nails. "Yeah, genius. Because taking on a cartel that’s got way more numbers and weapons always works out great."

Vaggie’s hands tightened on the rifle, and she glared at him. "They’re not exactly sharpshooters themselves," she snapped, her voice a low growl. "I’ve seen how they operate. It’s brute force and spray-and-pray tactics."

Charlie’s head snapped up, her discomfort turning into alarm. "Vaggie, no! We can’t just start killing people. I’m not—" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "We’re not animals. We can’t just kill whoever we want because law and order collapsed."

Vaggie turned to face her, disbelief flashing in her eyes. "Are you serious, Charlie? These are horrible people. They would kill us in a second, and you’re talking about not killing them?"

Charlie stood, her hands shaking slightly as she faced Vaggie. "That’s not who we are!" she exclaimed, her voice rising. "We’re not like them! We don’t kill people just because we can!"

Angel chuckled darkly from his spot on the floor. "You’re cute when you’re all righteous, dollface. But I gotta say, I agree with shortie on this one. Those cartel guys? They’re scum. Killing them would be doing the world a favor."

Charlie shot him a look, her expression one of bewilderment. "You’re on board with this? I thought you were one of them!"

Angel’s smirk faded, replaced by something more tired, more resigned. "I wasn’t exactly treated like royalty, sweetheart. Especially as a gay guy. Valentino—the asshole who’s running the whole operation? Let’s just say he’s done things that make me very open to the idea of him getting a bullet in the head." His voice was bitter, the casual tone he used before gone.

Charlie’s throat tightened. She hadn’t expected that. "Valentino… did he…?"

Angel met her gaze, his eyes hard. "Yeah. And not just me. Plenty of others. But me? I was his favorite little plaything." His words hung in the air like a toxic cloud, and the room felt colder for a moment.

Charlie swallowed, struggling to find the right words. "I’m… I’m sorry, Angel."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Don’t be. Just saying, your girl’s crazy plan? Not the worst idea I’ve heard."

Charlie’s pacifist nature reared its head again, though now, it felt more conflicted. She understood Angel’s pain, but she couldn’t bring herself to agree with killing—even if they were people who did terrible things. "I… I can’t condone killing anyone, even if they’re as bad as Valentino. There has to be another way."

Vaggie, meanwhile, glanced at Angel with a raised eyebrow. "So you’re suddenly on board with taking out the cartel?"

Angel shrugged. "Look, I don’t have much left in this world, but if you’re gonna take down the guy who made my life hell, I’m not stopping you. Hell, I’ll even help, as insane as it sounds."

Charlie shook her head. "I’m not comfortable with this…"

Angel chuckled again, though it lacked his usual edge. "I get it. You’re the nice one. But look, sweetheart, the world’s different now. It’s them or us. And I’m guessing you two have a plan, right? Some safe place you’re heading for? I can help with that."

Vaggie stiffened slightly, her eye narrowing in a silent warning. She didn’t say anything, but her body language spoke volumes. Charlie caught the look and nodded, understanding Vaggie’s concern.

"We’re still figuring things out," Charlie said carefully, not wanting to reveal too much. "But once this is all sorted, we’ll let you know what’s next."

Angel raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, but he didn’t push further. "Alright, princess. I’ll hold you to that.”

Chapter Text

09:37 am

The morning sun filtered weakly through the clouds, casting a grayish hue over the abandoned streets of Brooklyn. Charlie’s dress shoes crunched against the rubble-strewn sidewalk as she shoved Angel forward, her face twisted into an expression of discomfort. The balaclava she wore itched against her skin, and every time Angel glanced back at her, grinning behind his restraints, she wanted to roll her eyes so far back she could see her brain.

“I could get used to this, y’know,” Angel teased, his voice lilting. “You playin’ the rough captor, me as the helpless damsel in distress? Feels like one of those trashy movies. What’s next, sweetheart? Gonna toss me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes?”

Charlie grimaced, tightening her grip on the back of his jacket, and pushed him harder. "Shush, Angel. You're supposed to be my prisoner, remember?"

Angel laughed, entirely too at ease for someone supposedly being held at gunpoint. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’ll have to work on your tough guy act, doll. You look like you’re about to apologize for this bullshit."

“I am about to apologize for this,” she muttered. “This whole plan is insane!”

They approached a corner, and Charlie instinctively scanned the area for movement. Her eyes darted toward the rooftops, hoping Vaggie had already found a vantage point. Her heart raced. Vaggie had taken off hours ago, heading for a higher spot where she could cover them with her stolen assault rifle. They hadn’t heard from her since, and that gnawing uncertainty sat heavy in Charlie’s chest.

Angel’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Don’t worry, toots. If this whole plan blows up, at least you get to say you escorted the prettiest prostitute in Brooklyn.”

Charlie’s face burned behind her mask. “Jesus, Angel. Stop saying that! You’re not helping.”

He winked over his shoulder, utterly unfazed by the situation. “Just trying to lighten the mood. You look like you’ll faint, and we can’t have that. You gotta stay in character. Besides...” He leaned in close, lowering his voice dramatically. “I bet they’ll think you’re one of them. I mean, look at you. That suit? Killer. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were some mob boss with that towering ‘I-don’t-take-shit-from-anyone’ thing you’ve got going.”

Charlie sighed, exasperated. "They're going to think I'm a guy, Angel. And I’m not exactly thrilled about that either."

“Well, at least you look the part! You know how many idiots out there think size means power? Your height alone's enough to make them piss themselves. Even I’m still way taller than you!" Angel’s grin faded slightly as they neared the New York Hall of Science. The building loomed ahead of them, and reality seemed to settle in. The once-renowned museum, now repurposed by the cartel, was guarded by makeshift barricades and sentries.

Charlie’s grip on Angel tightened as her nerves caught up again. “This is it.”

“That’s their base. Valentino and his fuckers run everything from here. You want to take them down, and you’ll need to get inside—quietly.” Angel, who’d pointed to the museum on the looted map, his finger tracing the streets they’d have to take. “ We need to get inside quietly,” Angel had corrected, raising a brow.

“You’re the only one who knows the layout,” Charlie had pointed out. “But if you try anything, Angel—”

“Relax, babe. I’m on your side. I want that bastard dead as much as you do.”

Now, standing just streets away from the base, Charlie still didn’t trust him entirely, but this was their best shot. The plan was simple: sneak in under the guise of bringing in the prisoner—Angel—while Vaggie provided cover from a distance. The fact that Angel had even joked about Charlie escorting him as if he were still a prostitute had nearly derailed the plan entirely. She’d blushed furiously, protesting at his bad joke.

“Charlie,” Vaggie had warned, her tone solemn, “Stay focused. Angel might be useful, but don’t forget—this is a cartel. They won’t hesitate to kill both of you if they figure it out.”

Now, in the present, as they approached the barricade, Charlie had to force her hands to stop shaking. She adjusted the balaclava again, hoping her 6’1" frame, broad shoulders, and choice of maroon slacks, vest, and dress shirt would sell the disguise as some hulking, unnamed cartel enforcer (even though that's her usual outfit in the damn apocalypse). Her dark clothing soaked slightly from the morning fog, clung to her form, adding to the illusion. With the balaclava concealing her face, she could almost pass for one of the brutes the cartel hired.

Angel, meanwhile, was practically skipping despite his tied wrists. He threw Charlie a sideways glance, his smirk firmly back in place. “Hey, when this is over, maybe you could try out a career in hostage negotiation. You’ve got the look down—suit, gun, the whole badass package.”

“Angel,” Charlie warned, “shush.”

They were close enough now to see two cartel guards lounging by the barricade, their weapons slung lazily over their shoulders. One of them straightened up as he noticed them approaching.

Charlie’s pulse quickened as she pressed the barrel of her pistol against Angel’s back a little harder than necessary. “Just stay cool,” she muttered.

Angel, true to form, threw her a wink. “Always am, babe.”

As they approached the guards, Charlie squared her shoulders, assuming a stern stance, trying her best to look intimidating. The taller guard, a skinny guy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, looked them over suspiciously.

“What’s this?” he grunted, eyeing Angel.

Charlie deepened her voice, the mask muffling her already low tone. “Prisoner,” she said shortly, giving Angel a shove.

Angel stumbled forward dramatically as if he were in some cheap action flick. “Please!” he cried out, putting on an over-the-top performance. “Don’t hurt me! I swear, I didn’t do anything!”

Charlie cringed internally at his theatrics, barely suppressing the urge to groan aloud. This is so fucking embarrassing.

The guards looked between Charlie and Angel, clearly confused. The one with the cigarette squinted. “You caught him?”

Charlie’s throat tightened as the guard squinted at her. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily in the damp morning air, but his eyes were sharp, taking in every detail. His partner shifted slightly, the butt of his rifle tapping against the barricade. 

“Escapee,” Charlie grunted, shoving Angel again. She lowered her voice even further, hoping to mask any hint of nervousness. “This idiot tried to slip out after the fiasco at the school last night. Caught him during patrols this morning.”

Angel gave an exaggerated yelp, stumbling forward with such dramatic flair that it nearly made Charlie’s stomach churn. "I didn't mean to! Please, I’m just trying to survive!" he cried, high-pitched and pleading. “I don’t want any trouble, I swear!”

Charlie’s face burned under the mask. God, he’s really milking this, she thought. Forcing herself to stay in character, she jerked her thumb in Angel’s direction. "Dumbass thought he could run," she growled, trying to sound annoyed, like a seasoned cartel goon dealing with a hassle.

The two guards exchanged a suspicious glance. The one with the cigarette took a long drag, eyeing her up and down. “What patrol?” he asked, his voice dripping with doubt. “Ain’t heard of any patrols in this sector. Who sent you?”

Charlie's heart skipped a beat, and a cold sweat trickled down her spine. Shit. She hadn’t anticipated this. Her mind raced for a response, grasping for anything that would make sense. Movies. She’d seen movies about criminals, right? Think, think!

Suddenly, a line from No Country for Old Men popped into her mind. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than freezing up.

“New orders,” she said, her voice tense but trying to sound gruff. “You know how it is. Valentino’s pissed after what happened at the school. He wants us on patrol, sweeping the area for stragglers and... potential threats.” She held her breath, hoping that would do the trick.

The guard raised an eyebrow, still not convinced. His partner, shorter and stockier, narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about? Patrols ain't something we usually do. Valentino doesn’t waste time with that kinda shit.”

Charlie’s heart pounded. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She quickly tried to salvage it, bullshitting with as much confidence as she could muster. “He’s changing it up,” she grunted, sounding like this was old news. “Wants tighter control now. Said something about how he doesn’t trust anyone. Sent some of us to sweep the area for anyone suspicious.” She shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Y’know how he is. Doesn’t want anyone pulling a fast one on him.”

There was a tense silence. Charlie could feel sweat beading at her hairline, her fingers tightening around the grip of her gun. Please, let this work.

Finally, the stocky guard scratched his head. “Actually… come to think of it, Valentino did send some of the guys out to look for this one specifically.” He jabbed a finger in Angel’s direction. “Valentino ain’t happy about him slipping through.”

Seeing an opportunity to add fuel to the fire, Angel upped his performance. “I didn’t mean to escape! I swear, I just wanted out! I didn’t know I was that important!” His voice cracked dramatically, and he even threw in a little sob for good measure. “Please! I don’t wanna go back!”

Charlie cringed hard under her mask but nodded as if Angel’s nonsense was legitimate. “Took some effort to track him down,” she said, her voice steady despite her fraying nerves. “Valentino’s been real clear. He wants him back alive. Made it real clear that... well, let's just say the boss ain’t in a forgiving mood.” She gave Angel a shove for added effect.

The taller guard frowned, exhaling a long puff of smoke. He eyed Charlie repeatedly, but this time, there was a grudging sense of acceptance. “Alright,” he muttered. “If Valentino wants him alive, you’d better bring him in. But I’m telling you now, if you’re fuckin’ with us, it’s not gonna end well for either of you.”

Charlie nodded, trying to suppress her relief. “Got it,” she replied, nudging Angel forward again. “Let’s go. Don’t wanna keep the boss waiting.”

Angel, ever the showman, shuffled forward with exaggerated reluctance. “I didn’t mean it! I swear!” he cried again, but Charlie gave him a more brutal shove this time. 

“Move it, Angel,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Angel, still playing up his role, put on his best pitiful expression. “Please, just take me to Valentino. I’ll explain everything!”

The taller guard waved them through. “Fine, fine. The boss’ll want to deal with him personally.”

As they passed the guards and moved toward the barricade, the tension in Charlie’s shoulders didn’t ease. The guards let them through, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d be watched. Angel glanced over his shoulder, flashing her a mischievous wink. 

“See?” he whispered. “Told ya you’d make a great captor.”

Charlie glared at him, though he couldn’t see it under her mask. “Angel, if you don’t shut it, I swear to god I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Angel whispered back, smirking. “Escort me some more?”

Charlie stepped through the barricade, her pulse racing as the cartel’s stronghold came into full view. The New York Hall of Science, once a place for education and exploration, now stood as a crumbling fortress in the middle of a devastated Brooklyn. The central dome was riddled with bullet holes and graffiti, and its glass panels shattered and replaced by hastily erected sheets of metal. Armed men and women—grimy, scarred, and dangerous-looking—patrolled the grounds with assault rifles slung across their shoulders.

Inside, the museum had been gutted, its once-sterile halls now serving as makeshift barracks and storage rooms. A thin layer of grime covered everything—counters, walls, floors, all scarred by the apocalyptic chaos. Where there had once been exhibits on space exploration and scientific discovery, now there were crates of stolen goods, weapons, and drugs stacked haphazardly. Some areas still had remnants of the old museum; faded banners for exhibits on physics or biology dangled limply from the ceiling.

The smell of sweat, stale smoke, and unwashed bodies filled the air, mixing with the tang of rusting metal. In one corner, a group of cartel members were loudly gambling around a table, their laughter echoing through the gutted halls. Others were in deep conversation, their voices low, sharp, and serious, punctuated by the occasional bark of orders.

Charlie kept her hand firmly on Angel’s back, but as they walked deeper into the building, she made him take the lead. "Alright, you know the way," she muttered, voice low. "Get us to Valentino without drawing any more attention."

Angel straightened up slightly, the playful grin never entirely leaving his face. “As you wish, toots,” he whispered, taking the lead with a calm air like a man used to navigating dangerous territories. Despite his seemingly carefree attitude, Charlie knew he had to be as tense as she was. No one strolled through a cartel base without their nerves on edge.

They passed through what was once the main exhibit hall, the walls now adorned with crude posters of gang symbols, bullet-riddled old televisions, and makeshift lighting systems powered by scavenged generators. Armed men leaned against pillars or sat on overturned crates, watching with lazy suspicion as Charlie and Angel moved past. Some recognized Angel and gave knowing smirks, but none stopped them.

The center of the room held a cage—a metal box where two men fought for sport, surrounded by jeering cartel members. Blood slicked the concrete floor beneath their feet, and Charlie quickly turned her head, trying not to let the sight or smell of the violence unnerve her. She glanced at Angel, wondering if he felt anything seeing this.

“Getting nervous, doll?” Angel teased over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s only a couple more turns.”

She rolled her eyes behind her mask but didn’t say anything. The further they went, the more the tension in her gut wound tighter. The men here didn’t look like your average thugs—they were hardened, dangerous, the kind that didn’t hesitate to kill at the slightest provocation. One wrong move, and they could both be dead.

Finally, they reached a pair of heavy double doors guarded by two more heavily armed cartel members. The men nodded at Angel, eyeing Charlie with wariness but not stopping them as Angel approached confidently.

“We’re here to see Valentino,” Angel said with a casual wave. “Got a present for him.”

The guards exchanged a glance, one of them speaking into a radio in Spanish strapped to his chest. A few tense seconds passed before he nodded, pushing the doors open and gesturing them inside. “He’s expecting you,” the guard said gravelly. “But don’t try anything stupid.”

Charlie’s grip on her pistol tightened as they stepped inside. 

The room was dimly lit by a chandelier that dangled precariously from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if it might collapse at any moment. Valentino’s office was a grotesque mix of luxury and decay—a massive wooden desk with gold trim dominated the center of the room. Still, everything else was a patchwork of stolen wealth. Velvet chairs with stuffing poking out, a massive painting of a battle scene, a chandelier from what must have been a high-end restaurant. It was all there, contrasting with the peeling walls and the cracks in the ceiling. Valentino was leaning casually in a high-backed chair behind the desk at the room's far end.

He was dressed impeccably despite the chaos around him. A white suit, gleaming shoes, and a blood-red tie caught the light in the dingy room. His long coat, hanging over the back of his chair, had fur-lined shoulders. Everything about him was slick and polished, from his neatly styled hair to the ever-present smirk that curved his lips and contrasted his dark skin. His greyed eyes, though—sharp, calculating, and cold—betrayed the smooth charm of his appearance.

“Ah, Angel,” Valentino purred, his voice like silk laced with poison. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled as his gaze flicked to Charlie. “And you brought a friend. How... interesting.”

Angel chuckled, tilting his head toward Charlie. “Yeah, I’d say we make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

Charlie stayed silent, her gaze fixed on Valentino, every muscle tense. Valentino leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening as he studied her.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” He waved a hand dismissively. “No matter. You’re here, and that’s what counts.” He shifted in his chair, lounging with the ease of someone who knew he was in control. “So, Angel,” he drawled, “where the hell have you been? You’ve disappeared on me from yesterday, and fuckers told me there has been a shootout.”

Angel stepped forward, unfazed by Valentino’s chilling presence. “Oh, we just thought you might wanna hear about the school thing that went down. This one here”—he nodded toward Charlie—“played a big part in making sure things didn’t get worse. Figured that’d be worth something to you.”

Valentino’s grin widened, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. He stood, slow and deliberate, crossing the room with a lazy grace until he was face-to-face with Charlie, towering over her slightly.

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “You know, I don’t like to be kept waiting.” He tilted his head, studying her with a curious glint in his eye. “But since you’re here, let’s see if you’re really worth my time.”

Charlie forced herself to stay still, resisting the urge to shrink away from his intense gaze. She could feel the weight of his authority pressing down on her, but she didn’t waver. Not now. Not when they were so close.

Valentino circled Charlie like a predator sizing up his prey, his gaze lingering on her with an unsettling curiosity. He was too calm, too controlled, like someone who enjoyed stretching out the tension just to see how far things could be pushed before they snapped. His smirk grew, but there was nothing friendly about it.

“And this... friend of yours,” Valentino mused, glancing at Angel. “You trust him enough to bring him here?” His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying edge—something dangerous simmering beneath the surface.

Angel shrugged, his usual cocky demeanor wavering ever so slightly under Valentino's scrutiny. "He’s got skills. Figured you'd appreciate someone with a bit of backbone."

Valentino's eyes darkened. "Oh, I appreciate backbone, alright." His voice dropped to a near-whisper as he stepped closer to Angel, his fingers brushing lightly over Angel’s jaw. "But I appreciate loyalty even more."

Charlie’s stomach twisted, her hand inching toward her concealed pistol. Something in the way Valentino’s fingers lingered on Angel sent alarms blaring in her head. This wasn’t just about power—this was personal. Obsessive, even.

Valentino’s gaze never left Angel’s as his fingers trailed down, and for a brief moment, the room felt suffocating as Valentino’s smirk became more predatory. “You’ve been running for too long, Angel. And while I find your little games amusing, I’m starting to lose patience.”

Angel’s jaw clenched, his usual swagger faltering. He was good at playing things off, but something about Valentino—his quiet intensity, the dangerous undercurrent—unsettled him in ways Charlie hadn’t seen before. “Come on, Val,” Angel said, sounding casual. “You know me. I’m always lookin’ for the best deal.”

Valentino’s fingers tightened on Angel’s jaw, his grip firm but not enough to bruise—yet. “You always think there’s a better deal out there, don’t you?” Valentino’s voice was deceptively soft, like a coiled snake ready to strike. “But I’m tired of chasing you, Angel. You belong to me.”

Angel flinched, trying to pull back, but Valentino’s grip held firm. Charlie’s pulse quickened, her hand steadying on her pistol grip, but she held off—for now. Valentino hadn’t done anything overt yet, and if she made a move too soon, it could cost them their lives.

Valentino’s gaze flicked toward Charlie briefly, his smirk widening as though he could feel the tension rolling off her. “And you,” he purred, finally addressing her directly. “You’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to bring him back here.” He released Angel, turning his full attention to Charlie. “Do you know who you’re dealing with?”

Charlie swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze without flinching. “I know enough,” she growled, her voice low but steady. “I know you're dangerous. And I know this isn't going to end the way you think.”

Valentino laughed, the sound rich and dark. He strolled toward his desk, his fingers idly trailing along the edge as he spoke, almost as if bored. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how this will end. But don’t worry—you’ll learn soon enough.”

Before Charlie could respond, a loud BOOM rocked the building, shaking the walls and sending dust raining down from the ceiling. The explosion sent a shockwave through the room, shaking the chandelier above and causing the walls to tremble. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, and the faint sound of groaning—like the distant cries of the undead—grew louder, mixing with the muffled chaos from outside. Zombies. Holy shit, Vaggie’s signal.

Valentino’s head whipped toward the door, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell was that?”

In the moment of distraction, Angel saw his chance. He lunged for a heavy brass lamp sitting on Valentino’s desk and swung it with all his strength, aiming for Valentino’s head. The lamp struck with a dull thud, but Valentino barely flinched. His smirk widened as he straightened, shrugging off the blow like it was nothing. Angel, his eyes wide with disbelief, stepped back, but Valentino was already on him.

With the strength of a man used to assert his dominance, Valentino grabbed Angel by the collar, and his expression twisted into pure, sadistic delight. “You think you can take me down with a fucking lamp?” he snarled, his voice low and menacing. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist into Angel’s face, sending him crashing to the floor.

“You’re nothing, Angel,” Valentino hissed, his eyes flashing angrily. “I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me? By trying to take me down? Pathetic!”

Charlie’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched Valentino rain blows down on Angel, his punches brutal and precise. Blood sprayed from Angel’s mouth, and his arms flailed, trying to shield himself from the assault, but it was no use. Valentino was too strong.

“No!” Charlie shouted, drawing her gun and taking aim, but before she could fire, Valentino’s eyes snapped toward her. With terrifying speed, he abandoned Angel and charged at her. Charlie squeezed the trigger, but Valentino was already on her. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with brutal force. He yanked her toward him, twisting her arm until the gun fell from her grasp and clattered to the floor. The next moment, he had her pinned against the desk, his massive hands gripping her wrists like steel cuffs.

**

“Brave, but foolish,” Valentino hissed, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot against her skin, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. In one swift motion, he yanked off her balaclava, exposing her face. “Ah, there she is,” he murmured, his voice dripping with malice. “Look at you. I thought you were some hulking brute all this time, but you’re just a little girl playing dress-up. Much prettier than I imagined.”

Charlie struggled against his grip, her heart racing in her chest. “Let me go, you sick—”

Valentino cut her off with a cruel laugh, pressing her harder against the desk. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. You came into my world. Now you’re mine.” His hands roamed down her body, and Charlie’s stomach twisted in disgust as his fingers dug into her waist.

Desperation surged through her as she struggled, her legs kicking out uselessly. Valentino’s sheer size and strength overpowered her completely, his weight pressing her down as he leaned in close. “I think you’re gonna learn what happens to people who cross me.”

Charlie’s vision blurred with panic, her mind racing for a way out. She tried to scream, but Valentino clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling her cries. Just as his other hand began to wander lower, a loud BANG echoed through the room.

**

Valentino froze. His body went rigid, and his eyes went wide with shock. For a moment, he looked confused, as if he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Then, slowly, his grip slackened as his body jerked slightly. Blood began to trickle down his forehead, and he swayed for a moment before collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud.

Behind him, Angel stood, battered and bloody, a fierce determination burning in his eyes. In his hand was Charlie’s Glock, the barrel still smoking from the shot. He stumbled forward, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and pointed the gun at Valentino’s lifeless body, breathing heavily.

Charlie, trembling, pulled herself off the desk, her heart still racing. She stared at Valentino’s corpse, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. Angel, his voice hoarse and weak, broke the silence.

“Told ya... I’m always lookin’ for the best deal,” he muttered, a shaky grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

Charlie’s knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, breathing heavily. She stared at Angel, then at the gun in his hand. Her pulse was still pounding in her ears, but the room was eerily silent now, save for the distant groans and screams outside. For a long moment, they just sat there, bloodied and shaken, both barely holding onto consciousness.

Finally, Charlie managed to find her voice. “Holy shit,” she gasped, pushing herself off the desk and staring at Valentino’s lifeless body. “You… you did it.”

Still leaning heavily on the desk, Angel let out a shaky laugh, “Y-Yeah, I did…” He then lowered the gun. “Didn’t plan on dying today. Besides... couldn’t let that asshole touch you.”

Charlie rushed to his side, helping him stay upright as the reality of what had just happened settled in. The explosion outside still rumbled in the distance, but for now, inside this room, it was over.

“We need to get out of here,” she whispered, forcing herself to stand despite the exhaustion weighing her down.

Angel nodded weakly, wincing from the pain. “Lead the way, dollface.”

With one last glance at Valentino’s body, Charlie helped Angel to his feet. Together, they moved toward the exit.

Charlie wasted no time. She rushed to Angel’s side, slinging his arm over her shoulder, helping him to stand upright. His weight leaned heavily against her, and she could feel him wincing with every step, but they didn’t have the luxury of resting. Not now.

“C’mon, Angel, stay with me,” she muttered.

Angel grunted, his usual cocky demeanor reduced to pained gasps as they moved. “I’m... I’m good,” he rasped. “Take the next hallway to the left... it’ll lead to a staircase... back way out.”

They staggered forward, their footsteps eerily quiet compared to the muffled sounds of chaos outside. The distant groaning of zombies echoed through the building, growing louder by the second. They needed to move fast, but Charlie couldn’t help but notice the occasional flicker of shadows outside the windows—zombies shambling closer.

They reached the hallway Angel had mentioned, and Charlie quickly peeked around the corner. To her horror, two cartel members were standing guard near the staircase, their guns slung casually over their shoulders as they talked in low voices. For a brief second, Charlie’s heart froze—until both men dropped to the ground, headshots clean and precise.

Charlie blinked in shock, her eyes darting to the windows where she saw the glint of an iron scope in the distance. Her heart swelled with relief. Vaggie.

Angel gave a weak chuckle. “Looks like your guardian angel’s here,” he muttered, barely able to stand straight. 

“Let’s not waste her effort,” Charlie tightened her grip on Angel, pushing forward. 

They reached the dead cartel members, and Charlie quickly scanned their bodies, finding a few magazines and a pistol. But Angel’s eyes lit up when he spotted a familiar case next to one of the corpses—a heavy, black case with scratches.

“My baby,” Angel breathed, crouching down and having difficulty opening it. Inside was his prized Tommy gun, polished and ready. He grinned despite the blood trailing down his face. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, though the tension in her chest eased slightly. “You’re gonna be lugging that thing out of here while bleeding everywhere?”

Angel loaded the Tommy gun with a magazine, the grin not leaving his face. “You’d be surprised what adrenaline can do.”

They moved cautiously, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the windows. The groans of zombies grew louder outside, but Vaggie’s cover fire kept any human threats at bay. Cartel members who ventured too close to the windows were taken down with expert precision before they could even see Charlie and Angel.

At one point, they ducked behind a toppled display case as a group of cartel soldiers rushed past them, guns raised. Angel tensed beside her, but Charlie whispered for him to stay still. Sure enough, two of the soldiers dropped dead, rounds ripping through their skulls. The others scattered, shouting in panic, which gave Charlie and Angel enough time to slip by unnoticed.

After a few more tense minutes, they finally reached the fire escape Angel had mentioned. The metal stairs led down the side of the building, overlooking a dark alley filled with debris and the occasional wandering zombie. Charlie held her breath as she helped Angel down the steps, the clanging of metal echoing through the night. Her pulse raced, every noise sounding louder than it should’ve been. One wrong move and the zombies would be on them.

“Almost there,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

They reached the bottom of the fire escape, ducking behind a rusted dumpster to catch their breath. Angel slumped against the wall, his breathing ragged but steady. He clutched the Tommy gun tightly, his fingers trembling slightly from the pain, but he still managed to give Charlie a lopsided grin. “Told ya I’d make it out.”

Charlie smirked, shaking her head. “Not yet, we haven’t.”

Angel grunted as he pushed himself upright, wincing with the effort. “Yeah, well, close enough.”

They moved through the alley, staying low and avoiding the wandering zombies. After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the rendezvous point—an abandoned storefront just a few blocks away. The windows were boarded up, and the door barely hung on its hinges. Charlie pushed it open, guiding Angel inside.

Once they were safely behind the cracked, dusty counter, Charlie allowed herself to breathe. “We made it,” she muttered, slumping against the wall next to Angel.

Angel grinned weakly, his eyes half-closed as he leaned back, cradling his Tommy gun. “Not bad for a day’s work, huh?”

Charlie leaned her head against the wall, the adrenaline finally ebbing away, leaving a heavy ache in her bones. The weight of everything—Angel’s injuries, the zombies, the cartel, all of it—settled onto her shoulders. For a moment, the world was just the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant, muffled gunshots beyond the storefront walls.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” she murmured, her gaze shifting to Angel, who was still cradling his Tommy gun like it was his baby.

Angel chuckled weakly. “You should see the other guy.”

Charlie leaned against the wall, trying to slow her breathing. The room was quiet—way too quiet.

She glanced over at him, her mind heavy with the things he’d mentioned. Now seemed like the time to ask. “Angel,” she started softly, hesitant, “about Valentino…”

Angel’s cocky smile faltered just for a second. He sighed, his fingers tightening around the gun. “What about him?” His voice was bitter, laced with something darker, more complicated.

Charlie shifted slightly, feeling the tension between them. “I don’t know the whole story. But… what you’ve said. It sounds like he had a hold on you, like he—”

“Like he owned me?” Angel’s voice was sharp, cutting her off. His usual humor, the devil-may-care attitude, was replaced by something raw. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Pimp, boss, whatever. He thought I was his body and soul.” He let out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes closing for a beat too long. “It started with business—drugs, connections, all that crap. Then it turned into something else.”

Charlie didn’t say anything. She just waited, watching as Angel seemed to retreat inward, his voice a little hollow.

“It got to a point where I couldn’t tell if I was more than his property. He’d say he cared, but...” Angel’s laugh was harsh, brittle. “You know, I almost believed him. But he made sure I knew my place. Made sure I felt like I wasn’t worth a damn thing.” He shook his head, his eyes distant. “Kept me in line with the usual—fear, control. Threatened me, hurt me. Said I couldn’t survive without him.”

Charlie’s heart ached to hear the anger behind his words. “He controlled you… made you feel like you were nothing without him.”

Angel snorted, the sound more bitter than amused. “Yeah, well, he was good at that. Valentino liked having power. Over people, over me. Made sure I knew I was nothing without him. Worthless.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Charlie swallowed, trying to find the right words. “Angel, you’re not worthless. Not by a long shot.”

Angel didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the floor, his fingers drumming lightly on the Tommy gun. “I know that now, at least, I think I do. But when you hear it enough… you start to believe it.”

Charlie felt a lump form in her throat. “He’s dead, Angel. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Angel blinked, his eyes distant. “Yeah. I know.”

Before Charlie could say more, the back door creaked open. Charlie and Angel stiffened, their eyes snapping to the entrance—only to relax when Vaggie stepped through, her AK-47 slung over her back. Her eye scanned the room, hard and sharp, but the moment she spotted Charlie, her expression softened.

Without thinking, Charlie rushed to her, wrapping her arms tightly around Vaggie. The relief, the fear, the adrenaline—all of it crashed down on her in that single embrace. “I missed you,” Charlie whispered, her voice trembling. “Fuck, the shit back in that museum… Vaggie… you should’ve seen him. Valentino was… he was a monster. He had Angel by the throat, tossing him around like he was nothing. Then he—he came for me.” She tightened her grip on Vaggie, her breath shaky as the words tumbled out. “I tried to stop him, but he was so strong. He pinned me down, and he… he was touching me, Vaggie, like I was some fucking toy. If Angel hadn’t—”

Vaggie’s body went rigid in Charlie’s arms, her jaw tightening. Slowly, she pulled back, her hand finding Charlie’s cheek, her thumb brushing away the tears that had formed in her eyes. “Where is he?” she asked, her voice low and lethal. “Valentino. Where is he?”

Before Charlie could respond, Angel’s voice, hoarse and weak but laced with dark satisfaction, answered from behind her. “He’s dead.” His usual cocky grin was back, though it was tempered with exhaustion and pain. “Put a bullet right between his eyes. The bastard’s not hurting anyone anymore.”

Vaggie’s gaze flicked to Angel, then back to Charlie, her eye still simmering with rage, but there was relief, too. She let out a long, slow breath, her fingers curling into fists before she forced herself to relax. “Good. He deserved worse, but that’ll have to do.”

Charlie nodded, her whole body still shaking, but her chest tightened just a little. She felt Vaggie’s grip on her shoulder tighten before Vaggie turned her attention to Angel. “You look like hell,” she muttered, pulling her backpack off her shoulder and kneeling beside him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

Angel chuckled weakly, wincing as he shifted to let Vaggie get a better look at his wounds. “Careful, dollface. I’ve had worse.” He winced as Vaggie prodded a particularly nasty bruise on his ribs. “Okay, maybe not that much worse.”

Vaggie’s lips twitched, though her expression stayed focused and severe as she cleaned the blood from his face and started bandaging him up. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing,” she said, wrapping a gauze around his arm. “Next time, try not to get yourself beaten half to death.”

Angel flashed his usual grin, though it was crooked from the split in his lip. “What can I say? I’ve got a knack for pissing off the wrong people.”

Charlie leaned back against the wall, watching them, the tension slowly easing from her body. She didn’t say anything for a while; she just listened to the sound of Vaggie’s efficient movements and Angel’s occasional winces. Finally, though, she broke the silence.

“So, Angel,” she asked, her voice a little lighter now, though still tinged with exhaustion, “what now? You sticking around, or are you gonna disappear on us again?”

Angel shrugged, wincing slightly as Vaggie tightened the bandage around his torso. “Cartel’s gone. Valentino’s gone. Don’t really have anywhere else to be. Figure I might as well hang around, see what kind of trouble you two get into.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You sure about that? Vaggie and I aren’t exactly the easiest people to keep up with.”

Angel grinned, his usual swagger creeping back into his voice. “Sweetheart, if I can survive Valentino, I can handle anything. Besides, someone’s gotta watch your back.”

Vaggie rolled her eye but couldn’t hide the slight smile on her face. “Just don’t make me patch you up every time we get into a fight.”

Angel chuckled. “No promises.”

Charlie sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. For the first time in what felt like forever, a tiny flicker of hope sparked inside her, making her feel giddy.

Oh, Dad… you’re going to like Angel.

A week had passed since the brutal encounter with the cartel, and Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel found themselves deep in Queens, having trekked through the quieter streets between Brooklyn and their destination after Angel’s injuries were healed enough for him to be able to walk on his own. Most of the zombie population had been drawn to the cartel base, allowing them to navigate without much hassle, but the journey had been far from easy. 

Angel, as much as he complained, had been invaluable. He had an uncanny knack for unlocking cars, which allowed them to loot supplies and occasionally find shelter for the night. Even more impressive, he could hotwire a vehicle faster than Charlie could reload her Glock (a skill Charlie couldn’t begin to comprehend and didn’t want to know the history of how Angel got this knowledge in the first place). But as valuable as his skill was, it had become a sore point. Each time they found a car, it was the same story. Empty tank. Other survivors had siphoned the gas weeks ago, or they were unlucky.

"Fucking seriously? Another one?" Angel grumbled, leaning against the latest car he'd hotwired. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and his face twisted into a scowl. "I swear, if I have to do this one more time—How the hell is every single car in this city bone dry? This is ridiculous.”

Charlie stifled a laugh, giving him a sympathetic look. “Maybe people got to them before us. Gas was the first thing people probably went for when all this started.”

Angel shot her a sour look. “I’m not asking for an excuse, I’m just saying this sucks. Why is it always me who has to get these things open?”

“You’re the one with the skills, Angel,” Vaggie teased, her voice laced with mock innocence. “You’ve got this whole criminal mastermind thing going on.”

“Yeah, well, this criminal mastermind is getting tired of it,” he grumbled, tossing the crowbar he’d been using to the side.

Charlie sighed, sharing a look with Vaggie. “Alright, we’ll stop asking you to hotwire every car we see.”

“We’ll save it for when it matters,” Vaggie agreed. “Like a gas station or parking lot. Hell, maybe even a dealership if we’re lucky.”

Angel’s mood didn’t lighten much, but at least he looked less annoyed. “Fine.” He huffed, slamming the door of the car shut. “I’m getting real tired of doing all this work for nothin’. You two don’t know how hard it is to keep cracking these things open. My fingers are cramping, dollface. But if I find a car that actually has gas, I’m calling dibs.”

Charlie smirked. “Deal.”

Vaggie scans the empty street ahead. “If you want to keep riding in style, we need gas, and if we find a car with it, your magic touch is our best bet.”

Angel grunted but didn’t argue. He knew they needed his skills, and despite his constant griping, Charlie and Vaggie realized just how much easier Angel had made the journey. Without him, they would’ve been stuck on foot the entire time, hauling supplies like pack mules.

"Still," Charlie added with a sympathetic smile, "we’ll give you a break. No more unnecessary hotwiring unless it’s critical."

Angel shrugged, his usual cocky demeanor slipping back into place as he tossed his hair back. “You better. Otherwise, I’m filing a complaint with management.”

“Come on,” Vaggie said, retaking point. “Let’s find a spot to camp for the night. Preferably one that doesn’t involve Angel picking another lock.”

Charlie nodded in agreement, and the three moved forward, their footsteps the only sound in the quiet streets.

8:14 pm

The sky had begun to shift into deep purples and blues, the fading light casting long shadows across the abandoned streets of Queens. The trio moved cautiously through the neighborhood, the day's exhaustion creeping into their bones. That was when they saw it.

"Queens College," Angel muttered, squinting through the dim light at the sign. "City University of New York."

The campus stretched out ahead of them, its gates boarded up with haphazard wooden barriers. From the looks of it, someone had tried—unsuccessfully—to turn the place into a survivor base. Tents were scattered across the grounds, some of them collapsed or torn. Rusty nails barely held together the wooden planks across the gate. It was eerily silent, the quiet that made Charlie's skin crawl.

"Looks like a failed base," Vaggie said, eye scanning the area. "Think anyone’s still in there?”

Charlie shook her head, her brow furrowed in thought. "No way to know for sure. Could be abandoned. Could be crawling with zombies.”

“Or worse,” Angel added, his voice low, “could be people who aren’t too friendly.”

They stood silently for a moment, the weight of the decision hanging over them. The campus offered shelter—albeit a questionable one—and the thought of wandering the streets all night, trying to find something better, seemed exhausting.

Vaggie broke the silence first. “We could stay here for the night. If it’s empty, it might be our best bet.”

Angel looked around, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, but if it’s not empty, we could fall into a trap. Or a nest.”

Charlie bit her lip, weighing their options. They were all tired, and she could feel the strain in the group. The idea of pressing on to find somewhere else was daunting. But staying here... it came with its own set of risks. Still, they needed rest. 

“We don’t need to clear the whole place,” she said. “Let’s just find one room. We can secure it for the night, get some rest, and leave first thing in the morning. If something’s here, we’ll deal with it as it comes. But we can’t keep walking around like this.”

Vaggie nodded, her face drawn with fatigue. “Yeah. One room, one night.”

Angel shrugged. “Fine by me. Just don’t expect me to be the one playing hero if something goes sideways.”

With the decision made, they approached the gate. The wooden barricade looked like it had been thrown together quickly, pieces of plywood and old signs nailed sloppily across the entrance. Angel cracked his knuckles and reached for the crowbar he’d been carrying. 

“Well, let’s see what I can do,” he muttered, wedging the crowbar between the boards. It took a few tries, the wood creaking and groaning as he pried at the nails. The whole thing felt like it could collapse with a stiff breeze, and Angel worked quickly to unhinge the gate without making too much noise.

With a final pull, the barricade gave way, and the gate swung open just enough for them to slip through.

“After you,” Angel gestured, feigning a gallant bow.

Charlie rolled her eyes but led the way, her senses on high alert as they stepped onto the deserted campus. The place was dead—at least, it seemed that way for now. The trio crept close together as they scanned the area for signs of life or worse.

Charlie took the lead, gripping her flashlight as she clicked it on. The beam cut through the encroaching darkness, sweeping across the abandoned campus. Behind her, Vaggie followed, holding her spear in a firm grip. Angel brought up the rear, his pistol in hand, the makeshift silencer—a plastic bottle taped to the barrel—giving it a strange, uneven appearance. His finger hovered over the trigger, ready for anything.

As they walked, Charlie’s light illuminated the remnants of a once-organized camp. Tents were scattered across the grounds, some still standing, others collapsed or torn apart by weather, or worse. Crates and plastic storage bins were stacked in uneven piles, their lids hanging open, exposing empty food wrappers and discarded supplies. It was clear that survivors had been here, trying to make a stand. But they were long gone now.

What gnawed at Charlie, though, was the absence of bodies.

Not a single one.

She shook her head, trying to brush off the unease creeping up her spine. Maybe they’d left in a hurry. Perhaps they’d all made it out alive. 

But that didn’t sit right with her. 

Her dress shoes crunched on the gravel as they neared the main building, the looming structure dark and uninviting. It was a typical college building—glass doors at the entrance, an expansive brick facade, and tall windows stretching into the night. Charlie stopped shy of the doors and turned back to Vaggie and Angel.

"You two good?" she whispered, her breath visible in the cool evening air.

Vaggie nodded once, adjusting her grip on the spear. "Let's just get inside, sweetie. The longer we stand out here, the worse I feel."

Angel didn’t say anything, just gave a tight-lipped nod. His expression was tense, and Charlie could tell he wasn’t thrilled even in the dim light. He hated places like this—too many corners, too many places for something to hide. But he kept his gun up, his eyes scanning the area behind them, covering their backs.

Charlie returned to the double doors, their glass panes smeared with dust and dirt. She eased them open with a slow, deliberate push, wincing at the faint creak that echoed through the space.

They stepped into the lobby, and the beam of her flashlight revealed a stark, eerie emptiness. The room was large, with a reception desk at the far end and long hallways stretching out on either side. Desks were overturned, and chairs were scattered. Papers littered the floor, rustling slightly as the night breeze seeped through the cracked windows. The stale, dusty air of the college greeted her, the faint scent of mildew and decay still lingering in the halls. It had been months since anyone had properly occupied the building, but now it felt like a forgotten tomb, barely holding together as the world outside collapsed.

She paused, holding the door for Vaggie and Angel to slip in behind her. When they were all inside, she let the door shut softly, the noise barely registering in the building's oppressive silence.

"Do you think this place is clear?" Charlie asked, her voice steady but low.

"No," Vaggie replied. "But it doesn’t matter. We need somewhere to sleep."

Angel scanned the area again, the flashlight he had strapped to his belt casting a dim glow that complemented Charlie’s. "Just don’t get us killed in our sleep," he muttered. "I’m not in the mood to go out like that."

But as they moved forward, carefully navigating the debris scattered across the floor, Charlie couldn’t shake the nagging thought in her mind.

Where were the bodies?

The survivors had been here. They’d set up their camp, made a base, and tried to carve out some safety. But now... nothing.

She shook her head again, pushing the thoughts aside. There’d be time to worry about that later. 

Charlie moved cautiously toward the reception desk, her flashlight sweeping across the disorganized mess of papers and debris. Her eyes caught a large laminated map pinned against the back wall behind the desk. She stepped around it, careful not to make too much noise, and pulled the map free from its rusted nails.

“Found something,” she called softly, waving it over to Vaggie and Angel, who were still checking their surroundings. They both turned and approached, curiosity piqued.

Charlie spread the map on the desk, the edges fraying slightly, and studied the campus layout. "Alright, looks like we’ve got options. The main lecture halls, some offices, and a few dormitories are in the back. We could either hit the dorms or find a classroom off the beaten path.”

Vaggie frowned, glancing at the map as if it were in a foreign language. "I’ve… never been in a college before. Aren’t classrooms full of windows? Doesn’t seem like the safest option.”

Angel snorted, leaning in to look closer. “Same here. College wasn’t exactly my scene. What’s the best place, genius?”

Charlie sighs, shaking her head at their cluelessness. “Most college buildings are structured pretty similarly. Lecture halls tend to have fewer windows than classrooms, especially the bigger ones, so that we could go there. Offices could work too, but they’re usually smaller and exposed.”

She tapped the map, pointing to a lecture hall just a short distance from them. “This one’s tucked toward the middle of the building. Big doors mean less chance of anything breaking in overnight. We can hole up there, and it should be far enough from the main entrance to avoid anything wandering in.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “So what, you’ve been to this place before?”

“No,” Charlie replied, “but I went to NYU, and I’m guessing this place isn’t all that different.”

Angel let out a low whistle, nudging Vaggie with a smirk. “NYU, huh? Fancy. I didn’t know you were sleeping with a scholar here.” He then nudged to Charlie, “Fucking Ivy Leaguer leading us to safety.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “NYU isn’t Ivy League.”

Angel waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. You’re still smarter than us regarding this stuff, so lead the way, Miss NYU.”

Charlie smiled, “You got it.”

With the decision made, they gathered their things and prepared to move. Charlie tucked the map under her arm, her flashlight still in hand, and led them toward the hallway that would take them to the lecture hall. Angel, ever watchful, kept his gun raised while Vaggie held her spear close.

The trio tiptoed down the darkened hallway, Charlie leading the way with her flashlight, the map tucked under her arm. The walls were cold and damp, and a few rustling papers were the only sound apart from their cautious footsteps. The lecture hall wasn't far now, and though the building felt eerie and abandoned, the silence still hung too heavily in the air, putting Charlie on edge.

Then, from ahead, a faint noise made them freeze in their tracks. 

Shuffling. 

It came from the far end of the hall, just beyond the reach of their light. Charlie’s heart skipped a beat as the unmistakable sound of shuffling footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. She quickly gestured for Vaggie and Angel to press against the wall, and they did so in unison, their backs pressed tight against the cold concrete. Angel held his pistol, ready, while Vaggie gripped her spear tightly, her eye scanning the shadows ahead.

Then, they heard voices—low, almost a murmur—and the faint clinking of chains dragging along the ground.

Charlie squinted, peering into the dim light at the end of the hall. Three figures emerged from the shadows, their silhouettes barely visible. The tallest of the trio walked in front, his posture upright and composed, his steps precise. Behind him was a shorter, burly man, his movements heavier, more sluggish. And last, a smaller, almost petite figure trailed behind. The dim lighting makes it impossible for Charlie to see their faces or details. She narrowed her eyes and realized that something—chains, cuffs, or some restraint—was attached to the strangers' ankles and wrists.

The tallest figure stopped abruptly, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. It was smooth and deep, with a strange, old-fashioned transatlantic accent that sent a chill down Charlie’s spine. "Well, well, well," he said, his tone eerily calm. "It appears we’re not alone in here, are we?" His words echoed in the hall, carrying an unsettling certainty.

Charlie’s heart raced. She could feel Vaggie tense beside her, and Angel let out a low, quiet curse under his breath.

“We shouldn’t let them see us,” Vaggie whispered urgently, her voice barely audible. “We don’t know who they are—”

But before she could finish, Angel, always impulsive, stepped away from the wall, his gun raised. “I’ve got a gun!” he called out, his voice sharp, filled with defiance.

The strangers immediately froze. 

From the shadows, the second figure—a deep, gravelly voice—growled in response. “Shit! They’ve got a fucking gun!” His tone was laced with frustration and fear.

The tallest man, however, seemed unfazed. His voice remained calm, almost amused. “Now, now. There’s no need for such hostility. We’re unarmed, I assure you. My, my... it seems we’ve all found ourselves in a bit of a predicament, haven’t we?”

Charlie cursed under her breath, giving Angel an exasperated glare, but it was too late now. She had no choice but to reveal herself. With a glance at Vaggie, who nodded reluctantly, Charlie stepped forward, her flashlight illuminating the space just enough to make herself known.

“Who are you?” she demanded, keeping her voice steady as she looked toward the three figures, still unable to make out their whole appearance.

The man with the transatlantic voice chuckled, the sound light and almost theatrical. “Ah, names—such trivial things. But if it’s introductions you seek, I am more than happy to oblige. We are but humble travelers like yourselves. Unarmed, as I’ve mentioned. Merely trying to survive this lovely little apocalypse.”

He spread his arms wide as though presenting himself as harmless. "So, what say you? Are we friends... or something else entirely?"

Charlie didn’t lower her flashlight, her eyes narrowing as she tried to gauge their intentions. Behind her, Angel kept his gun trained on them, his posture tense.

She glanced at Angel and whispered, “Keep your gun on them, but don’t shoot unless I say so.”

Angel gave her a tense nod, his finger still hovering over the trigger.

Charlie took a deep breath and raised her voice again. “Alright, listen carefully. We don’t want trouble, but we’re not taking chances either. Keep your hands where we can see them, and walk toward us. Slowly. No sudden movements.”

There was a tense silence as the three strangers stood frozen, their shadows flickering in the low light. Then, slowly, the tall man raised his hands, the chains clinking with the movement.

“As you wish,” he said smoothly, slowly stepping forward. The others followed, their hands raised as well, though the burly man muttered a few choice curses.

Charlie’s grip tightened on her flashlight, her pulse quickening. This would either go smoothly, or things were about to take a turn for the worse.

Chapter Text

The three strangers began to walk toward Charlie, their chains rattling with every step. The dim beam of Charlie’s flashlight flickered across their figures, revealing more details as they approached. The tallest man led the way, his hands raised but his posture still somehow confident, a small, unsettling smile tugging at his lips.

Now that they were closer, Charlie could see them more clearly. They were all dressed in orange prison fatigues, the kind that instantly told her where they'd come from and why chains bound them together. Their wrists and ankles were locked in heavy iron cuffs, and the chains connecting them rattled loudly with each step.

The tall man leading the group had a composed, almost unnerving demeanor. His brown skin had a slight pallor, and his face bore the lines of age (somewhere in his early fifties? Charlie guessed), with short brown hair and hazel brown eyes gleaming. His frame was thin, but a certain sharpness to his posture made Charlie uneasy.

Behind him, the burly man grumbled under his breath. He had the dark, weathered skin of an older man (probably in his sixties?). His face was etched with experience, the kind that told stories of challenging years with his untrimmed beard, and his short afro was speckled with gray. He moved heavily as each step cost him effort, his thick arms and dad-bod physique straining slightly against the ill-fitting prison fatigues. His black eyes darted nervously, but Charlie could tell he was sizing them up as if ready for something to go wrong.

Lastly, the woman. She was tiny, even shorter than Vaggie that Charlie thought, and had delicate Asian features (I guess due to her slanted eyes… okay, that’s a bit racist?). Her peachy skin contrasted with the orange jumpsuit. Though she looked significantly younger than the others—early twenties at most—something was unsettling about how she carried herself. Her short brown hair framed her face, and her hazel eyes were wide and alert, flicking between the group as if she were a cornered animal. Despite her petite frame, her movements were calculated and cautious.

The three stopped a few meters away from Charlie and her group. The tall man was still holding his hands up, his eyes calmly fixed on her.

“Well,” he began in that same smooth, transatlantic tone, “as you can see, we’re in no position to cause trouble. My associates and I—” He glanced back at the burly man and the young woman. “—are simply trying to survive, much like yourselves.”

Angel kept his gun trained on them, his jaw clenched, but Charlie could tell he was watching the tall man closely. Vaggie’s grip tightened on her spear as she stood next to Charlie, her gaze shifting between the strangers.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” Charlie stepped forward slightly. “Who are you? Why are you chained up like that?”

The tall man raised an eyebrow, his smile widening slightly. “Ah, that’s quite the story, isn’t it?” His eyes flicked to Angel’s gun momentarily before returning to Charlie. “But for now, suffice it to say we’re unarmed and uninterested in unnecessary confrontations.”

The burly man let out a low grunt. “Could you put that thing down, kid?” he growled, his deep voice rough and irritated. “It’s makin’ me nervous.”

Charlie ignored the request, turning her attention to the young woman at the back, who had been silent so far. Her wide hazel eyes met Charlie’s, and she quickly looked down, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller.

Without taking his eyes off the strangers, Angel muttered, “You sure about this, toots? I don’t trust these guys.”

“Well… we first see where this goes,” Charlie whispered, then raised her voice to address the strangers. “I asked for your names.”

The tall man opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a faint but unmistakable sound echoed from the far end of the hallway—the groaning and shuffling of the zombies. The chain-bound strangers stiffened.

“Shit,” Vaggie muttered. “The noise from those damn chains must’ve attracted the muertos.”

Shit. They were too close to risk a fight here. "Alright," she said quickly, her voice steady despite the rising tension. “Move, now. Get inside the lecture hall.”

She grabbed the door and heaved it open, the weight of the massive thing groaning against its hinges. Without hesitation, the tall man took a brief, appraising look at Charlie, something unreadable before he ducked inside. The burly man and the young woman followed quickly, their chains clattering as they shuffled in.

Charlie, Angel, and Vaggie turned to look down the hallway. Their flashlight beams caught the shadows of the zombies moving faster than they’d seen before, bodies lurching and stumbling with unnatural speed. She gritted her teeth and waved for Angel and Vaggie to get inside.

“Move!” she barked.

They all slipped into the lecture hall, Charlie pulling the door shut behind them just as the zombies reached the far end of the hallway. The heavy thud of their bodies crashing against the other side of the door sent vibrations through the thick wood. Wasting no time, they grabbed whatever furniture they could find—desks, chairs, and a few loose pieces of debris—to barricade the entrance.

The zombies pounded relentlessly against the door, a sickening rhythm echoing through the lecture hall, but the barricade held—for now.

Breathing heavily, Charlie stepped back, her heart still racing. She turned to check on Vaggie, leaning against one of the desks, catching her breath. Charlie reached out for Vaggie, her hand finding hers as they both caught their breath. The brief touch between them was grounding, like a reminder with I’m still here, still alive. Vaggie gave her a small, tight-lipped smile, her fingers squeezing Charlie’s hand for reassurance.

But the burly man’s voice cut through the tense silence before they could linger.

“For fuck’s sake, can you please tell him to lower that damn gun?” He complained, glaring at Angel. “I get it, alright? We’re strangers. But that thing is making me more nervous than the dead fuckers outside.”

Angel didn’t budge, his finger resting just a little too close to the trigger for comfort. “Don’t give me a reason, then,” Angel's eyes still locked on the group of prisoners. “I don’t trust any of you, and I’m not about to let my guard down because of some sob story.”

The tall man remained calm, his hands still raised. His gaze moved between Angel and Charlie as though waiting for someone to intervene. The younger woman shrank further into the shadows behind the burly man, her wide hazel eyes darting nervously from Angel to the rest of the group.

Charlie stepped forward, gently pulling Vaggie with her. “Angel,” she started calmly. “I get it. I don’t trust them either, but we can’t keep that gun on them forever. They’re chained up. They’re not going anywhere.”

Angel’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking briefly to Charlie before returning to the prisoners. “I’m not lowering it, dollface,” he snapped, his voice low. “Not until I’m sure they’re not gonna try something.”

Charlie could feel the tension between them rising, and the thuds of the zombies against the barricade only made it worse. “Damn it,” she stepped in closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “I need you to trust me, okay? Pointing that thing at them the whole time won’t make this situation better.”

Angel hesitated, his grip on the gun tightening, but after a long moment, he exhaled sharply and finally lowered the weapon. “Fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth, though he held the gun ready. “But I’m not letting them out of my sight.”

The burly man exhaled loudly, a relieved grunt escaping him as he shook his head. “Finally,” he grumbled. “Thank you.”

The tall man gave Angel a slight nod, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile. “A wise choice,” his tone carried an undertone of amusement. “We appreciate the, uh, vote of confidence.”

Charlie ignored the remark and turned back to Vaggie, her eyes asking the silent question: Are you okay? Vaggie gave a quick nod in response, her lips pressing together. They still had to figure out who these strangers were and, more importantly, what they wanted.

“Alright,” Charlie’s voice cut through the room. “We’re safe for now. But this doesn’t mean we’re friends. What are your names?”

The tall man’s smile returned, though it seemed more measured now. “I believe it’s time we introduced ourselves properly, then, wouldn’t you agree?” He glanced at the other two before speaking again. "My name is Alastor. This—" he gestured to the burly man, "—is Husker, and the young lady is Niffty. As for why we’re chained… well, we’ve come from a nearby prison bus. Escaped, if you will. As you might imagine, the dead are far less forgiving than the living."

Vaggie stepped forward, her eye narrowing as she stared at the tall man. “Alastor?” she repeated with a suspicious tone.

Alastor tilted his head slightly, the smile on his face unwavering. “Yes, that’s correct.” His voice was almost too calm for this shitty situation.

Charlie watched Vaggie closely, noticing how her grip on the spear tightened. Something about that name had struck a nerve with her, and it wasn’t their usual wariness toward strangers.

“And… where are you from, Alastor?” Vaggie’s voice was steady, but Charlie could sense the growing intensity behind it, like a boiling kettle.

“Louisiana,” Alastor answered with a cheerful tone as though they were discussing something trivial. “A lovely place, though I doubt it’s as charming as it used to be in this new world—” He was interrupted as Vaggie suddenly lunged forward, her spear in hand, and then pinned Alastor to the ground. The movement was so fast that everyone froze for a split second. Before Alastor could react, the sharp tip of the spear was pressed against his throat, and Vaggie’s eye were blazing with fury.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Charlie shouted, rushing over to grab Vaggie’s arm.

Not far behind, Angel unholsters his gun, his face twisted in confusion and anger. “Shit, Vags, what the fuck is going on?”

Husk and Niffty stayed where they were, their eyes wide but silent, as if waiting for the situation to explode.

“He’s the fucking Radio Demon,” Vaggie hissed through clenched teeth, her spear trembling as she glared down at Alastor. “Alastor… the radio host serial killer from the news!”

Charlie froze. She suddenly remembered the broadcast from months ago, before the world fell apart. Alastor, the radio host, was arrested for multiple counts of murder across the states. The details were vague, but the name and face were unforgettable—the charming voice that had hidden a darkness beneath.

Alastor didn’t struggle beneath the spear. Instead, his smile remained, though it had lost some of its cheerfulness. “Ah,” he said lightly, his voice almost mocking. “You’ve heard of me.”

Vaggie pressed the spear closer to his throat, her voice shaking angrily. “I should’ve killed you the moment I heard that name.”

Charlie pulled harder at Vaggie’s arm. “Vaggie, stop! We don’t know for sure—”

“I know,” Vaggie shot back, her eye still locked on Alastor. “I know what he did. He slaughtered people, Charlie. He’s a fucking monster.”

Angel kept his gun trained on Husk and Niffty, but his eyes flicked nervously between Charlie and Vaggie. “What the hell? Is she serious?”

Charlie didn’t answer right away. She could barely think straight, torn between trusting Vaggie and needing to control the situation before it spiraled out of hand. She looked down at Alastor, the calm, unsettling way he gazed up at Vaggie, even with the spear at his throat. He wasn’t afraid. Not even a little.

“Vaggie,” her voice is more measured now. “If he really is who you think he is… we still need to keep our heads on straight. Killing him won’t solve anything.”

Alastor chuckled softly. “She’s right, you know,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “What can I say? I’ve changed since then. But if you want to finish me off, I won’t stop you. I’ve always admired a decisive woman.”

Vaggie’s grip on the spear faltered momentarily, her rage battling with the logic in Charlie’s voice. She looked down at Alastor, her face mixed with fury and disgust, then back at Charlie.

“We can’t trust him,” Vaggie whispered harshly. “We can’t let him walk out of here alive.”

Charlie glanced at Angel, then back to the prisoners. They were in the middle of a zombie-filled hellscape, and now, apparently, they had a notorious serial killer in their midst.

“Then we don’t let him out of our sight,” Charlie spoke firmly. “But we don’t kill him. Not yet.” She gently but firmly pulled Vaggie back, raising the spear from Alastor’s throat.

Vaggie hesitated, then reluctantly stepped back, gazing at Alastor with hatred. “If he so much as breathes wrong, I’m killing him.”

Charlie nodded, but inside, she wasn’t sure how they would handle this.

Obviously, Charlie needed to regain control of the situation before things worsened. She turned to Angel, who still had his gun trained on Husk and Niffty. “Put the gun away,” she voiced, her voice firm but calm. Thankfully, Angel just huffed and lowered the gun.

Charlie knelt before Alastor, who had sat himself up, rubbing his throat where Vaggie’s spear had been pressed moments ago. He flashed that same unsettling smile as if the near-death experience hadn’t fazed him in the slightest.

Charlie locked eyes with him, trying to make sense of the man before her. “Alright, Alastor,” her voice was steady as if carrying the weight of command. “I need you to be honest. Tell me your story—everything.”

Alastor’s smile softened slightly, a hint of amusement glinting in his sharp brown eyes. “Honesty? Well, that’s quite the request,” he chuckles. “But since you’ve asked so nicely… Your lovely New York Police Department apprehended me. They were kind enough to inform me I was being sent back home to Louisiana—something about the death penalty. Such an honor, isn’t it?”

Charlie’s stomach twisted at how casually he spoke about it as if it were nothing more than a trivial inconvenience, but she stayed silent, letting him continue.

“I was to be transported in a charming little prison bus, but the apocalypse does tend to throw a wrench into such well-laid plans.” Alastor gestured toward the others with a tilt as though they were mere traveling companions. “Husker and Niffty here were passengers on the same fine bus. Husker for reasons of his own, and Niffty…” He glanced at her, his smile growing, “well, let’s just say she’s quite the character.”

Charlie turned her attention to Husk, her voice cautious. “And you? What’s your story?”

Husk shifted uncomfortably, clearly not as eager to talk as Alastor. He sighed, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Manslaughter,” he muttered, his voice gruff and tired. “Life in prison. I was on my way to Nevada to rot in some desert cell.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “Manslaughter, huh? What’d ya do, throw a guy off a roof?”

Husk snorted, shaking his head. “Something like that.”

Charlie nodded slowly, processing the information. Husk seemed more worn down than anything, like a man who had accepted his fate long before the world ended.

Finally, she turned to Niffty, who had been eagerly listening to the conversation, practically bouncing on her feet despite the chains. “And you, Niffty?” Charlie asked though she felt that she wouldn’t like the answer.

“Oh! My story? Well!” Niffty began, her voice unnervingly chipper for the situation. “I used to work as a housekeeper in a lovely little hotel! Loved it there—cleaning rooms, keeping everything nice and tidy… But some of the… male guests weren’t so nice.” Her eyes narrowed slightly before her grin returned, wider than ever. “So, I poisoned a few of them! Just a little something to make them stay longer, you know? I liked the company.” She giggled. “And once they… well, died, I found some other uses for their bodies. Kept things interesting!”

Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel stared at her in stunned silence, each struggling to process the cheerful and disturbingly casual way Niffty described her crimes. Her cheerful demeanor made her confession even more disturbing.

Angel, in particular, blinked in disbelief, his voice low and almost incredulous. “You… poisoned men? And you’re happy about that?”

Niffty’s smile only grew wider. “Oh, absolutely! They weren’t good men, so it’s not like they’d be missed!” She giggled again. “Besides, I like things clean and orderly. And dead people don’t make a mess—well, after a bit of cleanup, anyway!”

“Okay… what the actual fuck?” he cursed under his breath.

Vaggie, who had just been on the verge of killing Alastor, now seemed speechless. She shot a look at Charlie, silently asking if they were seriously going to keep these people around.

Charlie ran a hand through her hair, trying to gather her thoughts. This was worse than she’d imagined. Not only were they dealing with a notorious serial killer, but now they had a poison-happy housekeeper and a man convicted of manslaughter chained along. This was becoming a nightmare, yet she somehow felt they had no choice but to keep them close for now.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” Husk started eyeing the three, “Why won't you tell us your names too? To make things fair.”

“Oh. Right,” Charlie clears her throat, then gestures to herself, “I’m Charlie, and this is—” She points to Vaggie, “Vaggie and—”

“Angel Dust, at your service,” Angel quickly interrupted.

“Okay,” Charlie enunciated, her voice a little unsteady as she stood back up. “This… this isn’t what I expected.” She glanced at Vaggie and Angel, her mind racing as she tried to think of the best way forward.

It is suffocating. These people were dangerous, and she knew Vaggie, in particular, wouldn’t take this lightly. But at the same time, Charlie wasn’t one to resort to violence if she could avoid it. They had enough threats out there, and turning on each other inside was the last thing everyone wanted.

“We need to talk,” Charlie stated softly, nodding toward the far corner of the room where they could speak without the convicts overhearing. Vaggie and Angel exchanged glances but followed her.

Once they were out of earshot, Vaggie crossed her arms, her frustration bubbling. “You’re not seriously considering letting them come with us, are you? Charlie, they’re killers. We can’t trust them, Charlie. Especially not Alastor. You know what he’s done—what all of them have done.”

Angel crossed his arms, his brow furrowed, but there was a hint of a smirk on his face. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ they’re angels—no offense, Vags—but they’ve got skills especially being able to survive for months in that garb. Especially Alastor.” He glanced over his shoulder at the group, keeping his voice low. “The guy’s a freak, but did you see how calm he was? He’s been through worse than a couple of zombos. If he can kill them with ease… I’m just sayin’ he could be useful.”

Vaggie shot Angel a stern look, her voice sharp. “Useful? He’s a serial killer, Angel. Just because he’s good at taking out zombies doesn’t mean we let him follow us around like some sort of ally. And Niffty—she's insane. You heard her! She enjoyed killing people.”

Charlie remained quiet for a moment, weighing her options—the idea of abandoning—or worse, killing—the convicts is almost unbearable. But Vaggie was right. These weren’t just ordinary survivors; they were dangerous criminals. Yet… Angel had a point, too. In this world, where the dead outnumbered the living, having people around who knew how to handle themselves—no matter how morally dubious—might keep them alive longer.

Charlie sighed, rubbing her temples as she tried to think clearly. “Fuck, I know,” she said softly. “I get it, baby. They’re dangerous. But…” She hesitated, glancing at the convicts again. She knows survival often means making impossible choices. “We’re in the middle of the city. They don’t have anywhere else to go; if we just leave them behind, they might not survive. Or worse—they might survive and come back after us.”

Vaggie opened her mouth to respond, but Charlie affectionately held onto her cheeks to stop her. “I’m not saying we trust them, but we don’t have to kill them either. If they’re willing to cooperate, we can keep them close. Watch them. Alastor might be able to help us, and if we need to get rid of them later, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Angel shrugged, looking more relaxed now that Charlie seemed to be leaning in his direction. “You’re talkin’ sense, dollface. Might as well get what we can outta them before they turn on us, right?”

Vaggie’s eye flared with frustration, but gently removed Charlie’s pale hands from her face. “You’re talking like this is just a game, Angel! There’s no ‘might’ about it—they will turn on us.”

Charlie met Vaggie’s gaze. “And if they do, we’ll deal with it then. But right now, we can’t afford to make any more enemies. We’re running low on supplies, the city’s crawling with zombies, and God knows if the fucking gang’s still out there. Alastor and Husk look like they can pull their weight. As for Niffty…” She trailed off, unsure how to even approach Niffty’s chaotic nature.

“She’s creepy as hell,” Angel shakes his head. “I don’t know if I wanna be sleepin’ anywhere near that one.”

Vaggie crossed her arms, clearly unsatisfied. “You’re making a mistake, Charlie. Keeping them with us is just as dangerous as leaving them behind.”

Charlie looked at her lover, her expression soft but determined. “I know it’s a risk, Vaggie. But if they can help us survive a little longer… then I’m willing to take that risk.”

Vaggie let out a frustrated breath, but after a moment, she nodded stiffly. “Fine. But I’m not letting my guard down. Not for a second.”

“Me neither,” Angel added, though there was still a trace of amusement in his voice. “But hey, if Alastor can take out a few zombies for us, I won’t complain. Also…” he glanced back at the prisoners, then at the chains around their wrists and ankles. “But those chains make a hell of a lot of noise. That’s what almost got us killed earlier.”

Charlie nodded. “That’s why I need you to unlock them.”

Vaggie’s eye widened in disbelief. “Charlie, are you insane? You want to free them?”

“I want to make sure they don’t attract more zombies,” Charlie sighed. “The chains are loud. If they stay shackled, we’re as good as dead. But if we let them loose—and they behave—then we can at least get out of New York City in one piece.”

Vaggie shook her head, the frustration clear on her face. “And if they don’t behave?”

Charlie’s gaze softened. “Then we’ll do what we have to do.”

Angel sighed exaggeratedly, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is a bad idea, but… fine. I’ll lockpick the chains.”

Charlie nodded and smiled faintly, feeling a bit more in control now. “Alright. Let’s see how this plays out.”

She turned back toward the convicts, still sitting quietly, watching the trio from their place on the floor. Charlie approached them cautiously, and Vaggie and Angel were close behind her.

“Okay,” Charlie began, addressing the group. “Here’s… the deal. We’re willing to let you stick around—for now. But there are conditions. You stay in line, follow our lead, and don’t try anything. If you prove you can help us survive, we’ll figure out the next steps. But if any of you step out of line…”

Vaggie tightened her grip on her spear for emphasis, her gaze fixed on Alastor.

“... you’re on your own. Do we have a deal?”

Alastor’s smile returned, this time with a touch of amusement. “Why, of course, dear. We wouldn’t dream of causing trouble.” His tone was light and almost playful, but something was unnerving in how he spoke as if he were already calculating his next move.

Husk just hummed in agreement while Niffty beamed, bouncing slightly in her chains. “Deal! This’ll be fun!”

Charlie swallowed, hoping she hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

The room had quieted down after the confrontation with the convicts. Alastor, Husk, and Niffty eventually settled on the far side of the room. Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel took up a corner on the opposite side, keeping their distance while trying to get comfortable for the night.

Charlie sat against the wall, her mind still racing. Angel had already dozed off, his back resting against the cold wood. He snored lightly as if the tension from earlier had melted away in his sleep. Alastor and his crew were quiet, too, either asleep or pretending to be.

As time passed at 11:23 pm, the silence was broken only by the occasional groan of zombies outside the lecture hall. The darkness of the night crept in through the cracked windows, making the world outside feel even more distant.

Charlie stayed awake, watching out the window from her position in the corner, sitting by the lone wooden chair. The moonlight illuminated the empty campus beyond, casting long shadows from the abandoned tents and debris. Her thoughts wandered as she slowly unbuttoned her filthy dress shirt to expose her cleavage, feeling sweaty. Her decision to keep the convicts with them gnawed at her. Was she making the right call? Would they regret this?

Footsteps softly padded toward her. Charlie glanced up, startled out of her thoughts, and saw Vaggie approaching. She was missing her usual Henley shirt and left in just her black sports bra, revealing the toned muscles of her tattooed arms and abdomen. The dim light played over her skin, and for a moment, Charlie felt her heart skip.

Vaggie’s expression softened as she sat on Charlie’s lap, facing the blonde. A small, teasing smile tugged at her lips. “You’re staring,” she whispered, her voice playful yet low, trying not to wake Angel.

Charlie felt the heat rise to her cheeks, and she quickly averted her eyes, looking back out the window. “I-I wasn’t… I’m just—”

“I’m just messing with you,” Vaggie teased, scooting closer. Her presence was warm, the soft brush of her shoulder against Charlie’s arm sending a familiar, pleasant shiver.

Charlie swallowed, her mind suddenly too occupied with how close shirtless Vaggie was. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

Vaggie shrugged lightly, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check on you. Seems like you’re having trouble, too.” She leaned a little closer, her breath warm against Charlie’s ear. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve had any time alone.”

Charlie’s pulse quickened. She could feel Vaggie’s gaze lingering on her, making her feel dizzy in the best way. She turned her head slightly, meeting Vaggie’s eye—that sharp, beautiful amber eye now looking at her with that same intensity they always had.

“Yeah,” Charlie breathed softly, her voice almost a whisper. “It has.”

Vaggie smiled, her fingers grazed lightly against Charlie’s arm. “You’ve been holding everything together, hon,” she said softly. “But you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

Charlie blinked. “I just want to protect all of us,” she admitted quietly, her voice wavering just a little. “I don’t… want to lose anyone.”

Vaggie cupped Charlie’s cheek gently, her touch grounding. “I know. But you’re not in this alone.” Her thumb brushed lightly over Charlie’s skin, and then, before Charlie could think or say anything else, Vaggie leaned in and pressed her lips softly to hers.

The kiss was tender at first, a gentle lips meeting that sent warmth flooding Charlie’s chest. But as the seconds passed, the day's bullshit seemed to melt away. Charlie responded, kissing Vaggie with more desperation, the pent-up emotions from days of stress and fear finding release in that moment.

Vaggie shifted closer, her hands moving to Charlie’s waist, pulling her in just enough to make Charlie’s breath hitch. The intensity of their closeness faded everything else—the zombies outside, the convicts on the other side of the room… The two of them were wrapped in the quiet, fragile intimacy they’d been missing for so long.

When they finally broke apart, they were breathing a little heavier. Vaggie rested her forehead against Charlie’s, and her eye half-lidded as she smiled. “I’ve missed this,” she whispered.

Charlie could only nod, her heart still racing from the kiss. “Me too.”

After Charlie's soft response, Vaggie’s smile deepened, her gaze flicking down briefly before she darted, straddling Charlie’s lap further. The shift caught Charlie off guard, and she instinctively gripped Vaggie’s hips, feeling the warmth of her body pressed close. The brunette leaned in again, but her kiss was far from gentle this time.

It was hungrier—demanding, raw. Charlie gasped against Vaggie’s lips as her hands moved instinctively, sliding up Vaggie’s sides, her fingers finding the edge of her sports bra.

Vaggie’s hands were on Charlie, too, quick and unrelenting as she tugged at the front of Charlie’s bra, the fabric still damp with sweat from the long day. Charlie’s breath hitched when Vaggie’s fingers brushed against her breasts, her body responding with nervous excitement and need.

Charlie’s hands trembled slightly as her long, pale fingers slid beneath Vaggie’s sports bra, her touch grazing Vaggie’s breasts. Vaggie let out a muffled moan against Charlie’s lips, her own hands wandering lower, pressing firmly against Charlie’s hardened nipples. The sensation made Charlie arch into her, the layers of fabric between them suddenly feeling too much, too restricting.

Vaggie pulled away briefly, just enough to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling with the same quickened pace as Charlie’s. Her lone eye was dark in desire. She then leaned back in, her lips brushing against Charlie’s ear as she whispered in a husky voice, “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Charlie could only respond with a soft whimper, her fingers curling deeper into Vaggie’s bra, feeling the warmth of her tits, the beating of her heart. Vaggie’s own hands were bolder now, exploring, teasing, as she caressed Charlie’s breasts beneath the thin fabric, each touch sending waves of heat and electricity through Charlie’s body.

But as Vaggie’s lips found Charlie’s neck, leaving soft, heated kisses along her skin, a faint sound from the far side of the room brought Charlie back to reality.

Angel’s snoring had stopped.

Suddenly, the room felt more petite, the darkness closing in as Charlie’s senses came crashing back. The quiet was loud now, the faint breathing of the convicts barely audible on the other side of the room.

Charlie froze beneath Vaggie, her heart still racing for a different reason. Her fingers, still entwined with Vaggie’s, stilled their movements. “V-Vaggie,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “Wait…”

Vaggie, still hovering close, pressed one last lingering kiss against Charlie’s neck, clearly reluctant to stop. But the sound of Angel stirring, a slight shuffle from his corner of the room, forced her to pull back just enough to catch Charlie’s blue eyes. Her gaze was heated, but there was a flicker of understanding there, too. They couldn’t afford to let their guard down—not entirely.

Vaggie sighed, her breath warm against Charlie’s flushed skin. “Always at the worst times,” she murmured with a soft smile.

Charlie swallowed hard. “We should…” she began, her voice trailing off as her gaze flicked toward Angel’s form, slumped in the corner. He was still asleep, as far as she could tell.

Vaggie followed her gaze, her smile softening into something more tender as she leaned forward again, resting her forehead against Charlie’s. “I know,” she whispered, her hands still resting on Charlie’s sides. “We’ll pick this up later.”

Charlie exhaled slowly, trying to calm the heat still coursing through her. She nodded, though part of her ached at the thought of stopping now. At this point, they needed to be careful. With everything going on—they couldn’t afford to lose focus, no matter how much she wanted to get lost in Vaggie’s touch.

Vaggie lingered for a moment longer, her thumb brushing gently across Charlie’s jawline before she leaned back and settled beside her by the chair, one arm casually draped over Charlie’s thigh as they quieted down.

“Are you okay?” Vaggie asked softly as she looked at Charlie, her fingers still lightly tracing patterns on her leg.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor before she looked down at her. “I just… needed this.”

Vaggie smiled. “Me too,” she leaned in to kiss Charlie’s cheek softly, this one slower, filled with quiet reassurance. “We’ll have our time. I promise.”

Charlie returned the smile, her hand resting lightly on Vaggie’s. “I’m holding you to that.”

Just as they shared that quiet moment, Angel groaned from his corner, stirring in his sleep. He mumbled something incoherent, shifting slightly, but his snores soon resumed their rhythmic pattern, signaling that he hadn’t fully woken up.

Vaggie chuckled softly. “Guess we’re safe… for now.”

Charlie sighed in relief, drumming her fingers against Vaggie’s shoulder, and repeated, “For now.”

5:48 am

The pale light of dawn crept in through the cracks in the windows, casting a dull glow over the room. Charlie sat where she had been all night, her back still against the wall, eyes tired but alert as she watched the convicts on the far side of the room.

Alastor, Husk, and Niffty stirred groggily, shifting their positions. They were still chained, with barely enough room to stretch out. Even with their defiance the night before, Charlie noticed how uncomfortable they seemed now, confined to the cold floor without any sense of privacy or dignity.

Alastor caught her watching and flashed a sly grin. Charlie quickly looked away, her attention drifting to the barricaded doorway where Vaggie and Angel were already working, prying away the makeshift barriers they’d set up for the night.

Vaggie had stripped down to her tank top again, her tattooed muscles flexing with every push and pull as she worked to loosen the debris. Angel, next to her, mumbled something under his breath, probably a sarcastic complaint about the early morning, though he helped in his begrudging way.

Charlie tried to figure out their next move and how they would deal with the convicts once unchained, but her thoughts kept returning to Vaggie. Watching her work, sweat already glistening on her skin as she moved, Charlie couldn’t help but feel a mixture of admiration and apprehension.

Lately, it felt like they weren’t always on the same page. Vaggie was decisive, sometimes too much, making quick calls that seemed harsh to Charlie. Like with the convicts—Vaggie didn’t want them around and made no secret of it. Conversely, Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving them behind might only create more enemies or lead to their deaths.

Was she being too soft? Too idealistic?

Charlie exhaled softly, her gaze lingering on Vaggie’s sharp movements. She admired her strength and fierce protectiveness over their small group, but she couldn’t ignore the unease in her chest. Lately, Vaggie’s decisions felt colder, more ruthless. She’d been making calls that Charlie struggled to align with, and the weight of that disagreement pressed harder on her than she liked to admit.

She wasn’t sure if she was the leader she thought she was (hell, Charlie wasn’t even sure if she deserved to be a leader). Vaggie had been right so many times—about the dangers, about staying tough. And yet, the more Vaggie seemed to push in one direction, the more Charlie found herself pulling in another.

Was she doing what was best for everyone? Or was she just too afraid to make the hard choices?

Her fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the edge of her filthy shirt as her mind spiraled into self-doubt. Was she being a bad leader? Worse, was she being a bad girlfriend? Shouldn’t they be in sync, especially now, in the middle of all this bullshit? She had always admired Vaggie’s strength and clarity of thought, but sometimes that clarity made Charlie feel… small. Like she couldn’t keep up.

“Hey.” Angel’s voice cut through her thoughts. He leaned against the doorframe, puffing out the smoke with the cigarette dangling from his lips. “You’re spacing out again.”

Charlie blinked, realizing she had been staring at the same spot for too long. “Sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly.

“Ya alright?” Angel asked, flicking ash onto the floor. His tone was casual, but his green-blue eyes showed a hint of concern. “You’ve been looking real… intense, staring at everything like you’re in another world.”

“I’m fine,” Charlie replied automatically, but even as she said it, she knew she wasn’t. She felt fractured—torn between what she wanted to be, what she thought was right, and the brutal reality of surviving in this fucked-up world.

Angel raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push. “If ya say so,” he muttered, stepping back toward the barricade. “But we need ya with us. Don’t go all zombie-brained on me.”

Charlie managed a weak smile at his half-hearted joke. She turned her attention back to Vaggie, who was still working steadily, not glancing back as if she knew Charlie was watching. Maybe Vaggie didn’t feel the same disconnect. Perhaps it was just Charlie overthinking everything as usual.

But as she sat there, watching the convicts stir and Angel smoke, she couldn’t shake the growing knot in her chest—the gnawing feeling that, somehow, she was losing touch with herself, with her relationship, and with the leadership she had taken on.

What if she couldn’t balance it all? What if she lost the most important person to her in trying to protect everyone?

Her gaze shifted again, this time back to Vaggie, and the weight of her indecision pressed down even harder.

“Am I really doing the right thing?” Charlie whispered to herself, then took a deep breath, forcing herself to push aside the self-doubt, at least for the moment. There wasn’t time to sit and spiral; they had to keep moving. They couldn’t afford to stay here much longer—her Dad was calling (not literally, but Charlie hopes he calls these days), and with it, the promise of supplies, shelter, and, hopefully, safety.

She stood up, her legs stiff from sitting too long. Glancing at Angel and Vaggie, who were still dismantling the barricade, she walked across the room toward the convicts. Alastor, Husk, and Niffty were fully awake now, eyeing her with varying degrees of curiosity or indifference. Alastor, as usual, wore his trademark smirk.

Charlie stopped a few feet from them, doing her best to stand tall, to project some semblance of confidence. “We’re leaving soon,” she said. “We’re heading into the city. You can come with us if you want—but only if you behave. No funny business, no violence. We’ve got enough to worry about without adding more chaos to the mix.”

Alastor tilted his head, the chains rattling slightly as he shifted his position. “My, my,” he drawled, his tone smooth and almost mocking. “How generous of you, leader. To extend such an invitation to the likes of us.” He looked sideways at Husk, who did not comment, and Niffty, who flashed an eerie grin. “But tell me, what exactly do you expect us to do once we’re out there? You think we’ll just follow along like good little puppies?”

Charlie stiffened. What the fuck does he mean by that? “I expect you to do… whatever it takes to survive,” she replied firmly. “But if you want to stick with us, there are rules. We protect each other, and we don’t turn on each other. Simple as that.”

Alastor chuckled, and he sounded amused. “And what happens if we… test those rules?” He looked her tall frame up and down. “Surely you can’t expect everyone to play by your rules forever. It’s a harsh world out there, darling. Morality… well, it tends to fade in the face of survival.”

Charlie clenched her fists, trying to keep her calm. She could feel Vaggie’s eye on her from across the room and imagine her girlfriend’s posture squaring up even without looking. Vaggie had never trusted Alastor, and in moments like this, Charlie understood why.

“We’re not animals,” she replied. “We’re not going to survive by turning on each other. If you want to go out on your own and do whatever you want, that’s your choice. But if you stay with us, you follow the rules.”

Alastor’s grin widened, his filthy teeth flashing. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be on our best behavior, dear Charlie.” He leaned forward slightly, the chains rattling as he did. “But perhaps we can be useful to you. After all, we’ve been here a while. We know this campus—what’s left of it, anyway. I’m sure there’s plenty of loot to be found, supplies hidden away in the main building, maybe even a few weapons if you know where to look.”

Charlie hesitated. The idea of scavenging the main building wasn’t entirely unreasonable—they could use whatever supplies they could find before heading deeper into Queens. But something about the way Alastor said it made her uneasy. He was testing her, probing for weaknesses, trying to see how far he could push her.

Before Charlie could respond, Vaggie’s voice cut in. “We don’t need you leading us into some fucking trap, Alastor. We’ve survived this long without you, and don’t try to manipulate us into doing something stupid.”

Alastor turned his gaze toward Vaggie, his smile never faltering. “My, my, such hostility. I merely offered a suggestion, my dear. No need to bite my head off.”

Vaggie stepped closer in her protective stance. “We’re not falling for your games. You’re still chained up for a reason.”

Charlie could feel the tension rising, the air in the room growing thicker with each word. She glanced at Angel, who had paused in his work, watching the scene unfold with narrowed eyes. Even he could feel that Alastor was pushing boundaries, testing them all.

Charlie took a deep breath, stepping between Vaggie and Alastor before things could escalate further. She needed to regain control of the situation to show them she could lead without shit falling apart. “Enough,” she said, her voice firmer now. “We’ll scavenge the main building for supplies. But we’re doing it on our terms, not yours. And if you even think about trying something, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Alastor’s grin remained, but his eyes flickered with something darker—something calculating. “Of course, Charlie. We’re all in this together, after all.”

Charlie didn’t respond, instead turning to Vaggie and Angel. “We need to move out soon,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Let’s get this over with.”

Without thinking, she turned toward the final piece of barricade—a heavy, old wooden desk—and kicked it with all the force she could muster. The desk screeched across the floor, sliding away from the door with a loud bang that echoed in the lecture hall. Her leg ached instantly, sending a sharp pain shooting up her calf, but she didn’t care. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the raw release of energy momentarily satisfying.

Vaggie and Angel paused at the sound, their eyes flicking toward Charlie, surprised. Even Alastor raised an eyebrow, his grin faltering for a split second, though it quickly returned as if he found her outburst amusing.

“Door’s free,” Charlie muttered, her voice tighter than she wanted. She avoided their eyes, hoping they wouldn’t notice the slight limp in her step as she moved toward the entrance. Her body wasn’t built for brute strength, after all. But for once, it felt good to let something out.

She gripped the door handle, pulled it open with a grunt, and stepped out into the corridor. The familiar stale, dusty air of the college greeted her once again. Charlie didn’t look back as she moved into the hallway, not wanting the others to see the faint grimace on her face from the pain in her leg. She needed to keep her composure, especially in front of Alastor. She couldn’t afford to show weakness—not when he was testing her like this.

Behind her, she could hear the others filing out of the lecture hall. Vaggie was probably watching her with concern, but Charlie knew she had to push forward. There was no time to dwell on feelings or second-guessing herself.

Charlie unfolded the crumpled map she had gotten from the lobby. Although yellowed, it was still legible enough to guide them through the building. She traced her finger over the faded lines, following the route from their current location in the lecture hall to the cafeteria. That was their next target. Supplies—food, maybe even weapons—could make the difference between surviving another week and starving out.

As they walked, she focused on the map, her brow furrowed in concentration. Behind her, the rest of the group shuffled along quietly, though she could still hear the faint murmur of conversation between Alastor and Husk.

“...heard the military occupied the school when the outbreak hit,” Husk said in his gravelly voice. “If that’s true, the cafeteria might’ve been a stockpile. We’d be stupid not to check.”

Alastor responded with a low chuckle. “Indeed, my friend. I’d wager there’s more than just spoiled cafeteria lunches waiting for us there.”

For Charlie, what they were saying made sense. She remembers Vaggie telling her that the military had used the school as a temporary base during the early days of the outbreak, and the cafeteria could’ve been turned into a supply depot. And given how well-barricaded the place had been, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that something useful was still inside.

They made their way through the darkened halls, the air thick with the stench of rot and decay. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the occasional shuffle of debris underfoot. Angel and Vaggie moved in sync behind her, their weapons at the ready, while Alastor, Husk, and Niffty trailed behind, their chains by their wrists now unlocked but still clanking faintly by their ankles.

The cafeteria loomed ahead, its large double doors slightly ajar, as if something—or someone—had recently passed through. Charlie swallowed her nerves and signaled for the others to stop.

“Be careful,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the group. “We don’t know what’s inside.”

They pushed the doors open slowly, the hinges creaking ominously as they stepped into the large, open cafeteria. Dust hung in the air, and broken tables and chairs were scattered around the room. The shelves that once held food trays were empty, but the storage rooms and kitchens might still have something valuable beyond the cafeteria counters.

As they moved deeper into the room, Charlie felt the weight of every step, as if shit was about to go down in each passing second. Angel and Vaggie spread out, scanning the area for immediate threats, while the convicts exchanged glances with each other.

That’s when Charlie heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible shuffle. Her heart skipped a beat, and she stopped, motioning for the others to be still.

It was too late.

Snarls echoed from the back of the cafeteria, followed by the unmistakable feet scraping against the tile. There were zombies—lots of them. They had been hiding, likely drawn by the noise or movement, and now they were stirring.

Before Charlie could react, the doors at the room's far end burst open, and a flood of the undead poured in. Their eyes glazed over with hunger, their mouths twisted in feral snarls.

“Shit!” Angel cursed, drawing his gun as Vaggie whipped out her spear.

The horde was moving fast, faster than they’d expected. Charlie barely had time to raise her pistol before the first zombie lunged at her. She fired off a shot, the bullet tearing through its skull, but more were already swarming. The cafeteria had turned into a death trap.

Chaos erupted. Vaggie sliced through the nearest attackers while Angel unloaded round after round, his Tommy gun barking at rapid speed. Alastor and Husk were fighting, too, but Charlie couldn’t spare a glance to see how. She had her hands full just trying to stay alive.

Her pulse hammered in her ears as she moved, dodging one zombie’s outstretched arms before shooting another square in the chest, but didn’t budge. She was starting to sweat, her muscles aching from the frantic pace. Her pistol clicked—jammed. She fumbled to rack the gun, but her fingers were trembling. Then one of the zombies lunged for her, its hands grabbing at her shirt.

Charlie stumbled backward, and her legs tangled in the debris of trash. The zombie was on her in an instant, its rotten breath hot on her face. Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled, her mind racing, knowing she didn’t have enough time to reload and shit! She’s not holding her Glock—

A gunshot rang out.

The zombie collapsed on top of her, its head blown clean off. Charlie blinked in shock, her vision blurred by adrenaline. When she looked up, Alastor stood above her, a smoking Glock in his hand.

“I believe this is yours,” he said smoothly, flipping the gun around and offering it to her, handle first.

Charlie’s hand trembled as she took the pistol, her mind reeling. She had dropped it, and now here was Alastor, saving her life.

The chaos around them continued—zombies were still swarming, but the group held their own. Husk and Niffty were fighting with a surprising level of skill, fending off the undead with whatever they could find (Was that a damn fork that Niffty is using to stab?! What the fuck!). Angel and Vaggie worked like a well-oiled machine, back-to-back, as they slashed and shot their way through the horde.

Everything was a blur—gunshots, snarls, the smell of decay. But slowly, the numbers began to dwindle. Charlie scrambled to her feet, her heart still pounding in her ears as she rejoined the fight. The remaining zombies fell, one by one, until the cafeteria was finally still.

Silence followed, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors.

Everyone was alive. Battered and bloodied but alive.

Charlie stood there, clutching her gun, staring at Alastor. The man who had just saved her life, the convict she hadn’t trusted for a second, had just proved that—at least for now—they were on the same side.

“Thanks,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Alastor just smiled with that same unsettling charm. He held her gaze for a moment, then glanced down at the Glock she was still clutching, her knuckles white. "You know," he began casually, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "it’s all about keeping a steady hand. Panic gets you nowhere in situations like this… when you’re under pressure, your body tends to fight you. Hands shake, breathing quickens... heart pounds." He tapped his chest lightly for emphasis. "All perfectly natural, but what you need to do is control it. Breathe in through your nose... slowly... hold it for a second, then let it out through your mouth. It’ll steady you enough to aim without trembling."

Charlie absently nodded, her mind still racing. Breathe. Right. She hadn't realized how shallow her breaths had become until he pointed it out. She took in a slow breath, trying to follow his instructions.

“And as for the gun,” Alastor said smoothly, reaching over to adjust her grip ever so slightly, “hold it firm but not too tight. You want control, not a death grip. You’re not trying to strangle it; just guide it.” He tilted slightly, his voice lowering, “And always know where your spare rounds are. You were so focused on the horde that you didn’t even realize you dropped your gun, hm?”

Charlie blinked, glancing down at the gun in her hand. Since when had she dropped it? She didn’t even remember when it had slipped from her grasp.

"Situational awareness," Alastor added, his voice almost a purr now. "If you’re aware of your surroundings and your own limitations, you’ll never be caught off guard again."

For a moment, Charlie stood there, stunned. His advice—while unsolicited—was good. In any other context, she might have scoffed at the idea of taking lessons from a convicted murderer, but right now? He had saved her life, and she had to admit… he wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah… okay,” she mumbled, nodding absently, more to herself than to him. The absurdity of taking advice from a serial killer briefly flashed through her mind, but she pushed it aside. She didn’t have the energy to question how Alastor knew so much about firearms. It was obvious, after all. Of course, someone like him would be familiar with guns and panic situations. He'd probably been in far more violent, controlled situations than she could imagine.

Charlie quickly holstered the Glock, shaking off the unnerving sensation between them. She felt exposed under his gaze, but Alastor didn’t press further. He simply nodded and walked past her, back to Husk and Niffty.

The group finally had a moment to breathe. The heavy silence in the cafeteria was only broken by the occasional rustle of debris beneath their feet. Blood splattered across the walls, the floor, and their clothes—just an average day in the fucking apocalypse. Charlie leaned against a nearby table, her gun still gripped tightly in her hand, as she scanned the room. Angel was inspecting his gun, muttering to himself, while Vaggie paced near the doors as if expecting another wave of undead to crash through at any second.

Charlie noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Alastor, Husk, and Niffty were moving purposefully toward the kitchen. Her curiosity piqued, she pushed herself off the table and quietly followed them.

The three convicts moved strangely in the dimly lit kitchen, its lightbulb flickering as if they knew exactly where to look. Charlie watched as Husk knelt and pulled a crate from under a counter. When the lid came off, the contents revealed themselves—supplies. Not just any supplies—National Guard crates filled with rations, medical kits, and some folded civilian clothes.

Angel had followed her, standing just behind Charlie. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he took in the scene. "How the hell do you know about that?" he asked, his tone more accusatory than curious.

Before Husk could respond, Niffty chimed in, her voice bright and cheery. “Oh, that’s easy! Husk knows a thing or two about military contingency plans. Y’know, where they usually stash their important stuff. He might not look it, but he’s got brains up there, doesn’t he?”

Husk grunted but didn’t bother to correct her. He was busy rummaging through the crate, pulling out what looked like a fresh pack of cigarettes—a rare luxury these days.

Charlie exchanged a glance with Angel and Vaggie, who had now joined them. Clearing out the cafeteria had been a group effort, and the fact that the convicts had gone off on their own to claim the supplies wasn’t surprising, but Charlie couldn’t help but feel the weight of mistrust hanging heavy in the air again.

“Looks like you guys hit the jackpot,” Angel muttered, his voice edged with suspicion. “You planning on keeping all that to yourselves?”

Niffty, still wearing her eerie grin, looked up from the crate she was inspecting. “Well, we did find it first,” she said with a small giggle, but there was no malice in her tone. She seemed almost amused by Angel’s skepticism. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t share.”

Charlie blinked, taken aback. “You… you’re offering to share?”

Niffty nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! You guys helped us clear this place out. Would’ve been swarming with freaks if it weren’t for you three. Right, Husk?”

Charlie’s gaze flicked to Husk, who lit one of the cigarettes with a flick of his lighter and took a long drag. He shrugged, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Yeah, sure. Doesn’t bother me. You earned your share.”

Charlie stared at him for a moment, half-expecting there to be a catch. But Husk’s disinterested expression didn’t change. He really didn’t care.

Vaggie crossed her arms, still wary. “You’re just going to… give us some of your supplies? Just like that?”

“Finder’s keepers don’t mean shit if you’re dead,” Husk muttered, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Besides, we all contributed. No point in hoarding everything. It’ll just get us killed faster.”

Angel looked skeptical but seemed to relax a bit, his posture loosening. “Well, damn. Didn’t expect that.” He glanced at Charlie. “Guess this whole ‘working together’ thing ain’t a total loss.”

Charlie felt the weight in her chest eases slightly. The tension from the fight and their previous mistrust was still there, but it wasn’t as suffocating. The convicts had proved themselves, at least for now. They weren’t just deadweight or potential traitors. They had fought to survive alongside her, Vaggie, and Angel.

Charlie finally allowed herself to relax just a little. She turned to Niffty, who was now digging through another crate with excitement. “Thanks,” she said quietly, the word feeling strange in her mouth, directed toward people she still wasn’t sure she could trust.

Niffty’s grin widened. “No problem! You’re lucky we found clothes too! I’m done with this prison uniform, honestly. You should grab some too, Charlie. You’ve earned it.”

Before Charlie could respond, Alastor kneels in between them. "Well, well, well!" he declared, his voice oozing theatrical delight. "It appears fate has bestowed upon us the perfect opportunity for a change of attire. And I must say, there’s a rather crisp-looking suit in here that’s calling my name."

He moved beside the crate and held up a neatly folded vest jacket—black, pristine, and in far better condition than anything they had worn in months. "Ah, impeccable tailoring!" he continued, smoothing out the jacket with a flick of his wrist. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I simply must change. This drab prison uniform no longer suits my... exalted tastes."

Charlie, barely batting an eye, shrugged. "Knock yourself out." Her tone was flat, indifferent to his theatrical antics. She gestured loosely to Husk and Niffty. "In fact, all of you should change out of those prison outfits. You guys stick out like a sore thumb in those things."

Behind her, Husk gave a low grunt of approval, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Good riddance," he muttered, tapping ash from his cigarette onto the floor. He didn’t bother looking down at his jumpsuit—his disdain for it was obvious. "If I gotta wear this shit one more day, I swear I’m gonna burn it off myself."

Alastor, now examining his reflection on a cracked metal surface, smirked. "Indeed, dear Husk. One must always look the part, and these uniforms simply scream ‘incarceration,’ don’t they?" He pulled on the vest with a satisfied sigh, smoothing the lapels. "There. Much better."

Niffty giggled, twirling a floral dress she’d fished out of the crate. "Ooh, this is cute! Definitely better than that ugly orange, don’tcha think?" She slipped into the dress with quick efficiency, her movements jittery but precise, like she’d been waiting for this moment. "Don’t you want to change too? There’s plenty of clothes in here."

Charlie looked down at her worn-out set of business clothes with her rose-colored vest, white dress shirt, and dark slacks that she had worn since the early weeks of the apocalypse, stained with blood, dirt, and god knows what else. She hadn’t thought much about changing since the outbreak. But now, seeing everyone else slip into something new, she hesitated.

"Maybe later," she said, pushing the thought aside as she looked at the pile of supplies. Civilian clothes, medical kits, food—everything they needed to survive another day. She took a deep breath, realizing they were all on the same side now. They were far from allies, but maybe, just maybe, they could survive as something more than enemies.

After the convicts had swapped out their prison garb for more practical civilian attire, the group decided to explore the college further. The atmosphere was still tense—temporary alliances, no matter how necessary, never came without friction—but the pressing need for supplies overshadowed any lingering doubts.

Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel took the lead, with the convicts following closely behind. The group fanned out through the darkened hallways, methodically checking each classroom and storage room they passed. They were on the lookout for anything useful—backpacks, more food, weapons. The initial discovery of National Guard supplies had renewed their hope, even if just a little. Carryable storage, however, was scarce, and Charlie knew they couldn’t haul much without proper bags.

It took about an hour of searching before they stumbled upon a particularly unsettling sight. The hallway they entered was filled with rotting corpses, some stacked against the walls, others sprawled across the floor in gruesome poses of death. The decay stench hit them immediately, even worse than the blood-drenched cafeteria. Most of the bodies were young, college-aged, dressed in what remained of hoodies, jeans, and university shirts. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, the dark stains of dried blood splattered over posters advertising events that had long since passed.

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Charlie slowed to a stop, her stomach tightening as she took in the scene. "Jesus…" Angel muttered under his breath, gripping his gun a little tighter.

Vaggie, her face pale but composed, stepped carefully through the bodies, her eyes scanning the ground. "Looks like they were caught by a military patrol or something," she whispered. "A horde, maybe."

For a brief moment, that explanation seemed plausible—this apocalypse had forced desperate measures on everyone. But as Charlie crouched beside one of the bodies, something gnawed at her. None of the corpses bore the usual signs of infection: no yellowish-gray skin or decayed flesh that signaled a person had turned. She looked closer and realized most of the bodies hadn’t been shot in the head, either. There was no evidence of the brutal efficiency soldiers often used when dealing with the undead—zombies had to be killed with a shot to the head, after all. But these people… they hadn’t been put down like zombies.

They’d been executed.

"This wasn’t a zombie attack," Charlie murmured, her voice tight as she stood up. "They were alive when this happened. None of them show symptoms of the virus."

Vaggie knelt down next to Charlie, her brows furrowed in thought as she ran her fingers over a bullet-riddled wall. "You’re right. The military did this… to students."

Angel scanned the scene and gave a low whistle. "What the hell was this? Some kind of massacre?" His words hung heavily in the air, the uneasy silence wrapping around them.

Alastor, however, seemed unfazed. While the others stood frozen in horror, he began casually rummaging through the pockets of the bodies, humming a haunting tune under his breath. He lifted an intact backpack from one of the corpses, inspecting it with the same indifference he might show picking fruit from a tree. "Hmm," he hummed, discarding the textbooks and other miscellaneous stuff, then slinging the bag over his shoulder. "Seems they had some useful belongings after all. It would be a shame to let these supplies go to waste, wouldn’t it?"

The others looked at him with a mix of disbelief and revulsion. Charlie’s stomach churned at the sight of him rifling through the bodies, but the pragmatism of the situation wasn’t lost on her. They needed backpacks, and this hallway—this massacre—was the only place they’d found them.

With a reluctant sigh, Charlie knelt down beside a body, gingerly unhooking the straps of a bag slung over a girl’s shoulder. "You guys needed this," she whispered, as if justifying it to herself. "But this… this is wrong."

"Dead is dead," Alastor said casually, as if reading her thoughts. "We must take advantage of what the fallen no longer need."

Charlie shot him a cold glare but said nothing. She unzipped the backpack and checked its contents—some notebooks, a water bottle, and a phone with its dead battery. Useless. She tossed it aside, her throat tight as she moved to another body. The others began to do the same, albeit with far more reluctance.

Angel swore under his breath as he yanked a backpack off a boy no older than eighteen, his face still twisted in pain, even in death. "I don’t know, man… this ain’t right," he muttered, his voice thick with disgust. "These kids didn’t deserve this."

Vaggie pragmatically picked up a backpack of her own but refused to search the bodies any further. "We don’t have to like it," she said quietly. "But we don’t have a choice. Let’s get what we need and get the hell out of here."

Charlie nodded numbly, her hands trembling as she fastened a new backpack onto her shoulders. The weight of the supplies felt heavy—too heavy—but they needed them. Still, as she moved through the carnage, she couldn’t shake the overwhelming guilt settling over her like a dark cloud.

What had these students done to deserve this? And if the military could gun down innocent people like this, what kind of world were they really trying to survive in?

Charlie stood up, her knees aching slightly as the weight of her new backpack settled on her shoulders. She glanced at Vaggie, who was staring blankly at the bodies with indifference. Something about how Vaggie carried herself—so composed and unaffected—made Charlie’s stomach twist.

She knew Vaggie’s past, at least some of it. Vaggie had served in the military and was deployed overseas in some of the worst conflict zones. Charlie didn’t know the details, and Vaggie rarely talked about it. But now, at this moment, the sight of those bullet-riddled students seemed to affect Vaggie far less than it did the others (besides Alastor). Charlie could feel the distance between them, an unspoken chasm created by the memories Vaggie carried that none could fully understand.

Does this remind her of her past? Charlie thought. Has she… been through something like this before? Did she ever…?

The thought crept into her mind before she could stop it, an uncomfortable image of Vaggie, rifle in hand, standing over civilians lined up against a wall. She quickly pushed it away, disgusted with herself for even entertaining the idea. No. Vaggie’s not like that. She wouldn’t… she couldn’t.

But still, the question lingered. Vaggie had seen things, done things, in her past life as a soldier. Things she might never talk about, things that might have hardened her in ways Charlie couldn’t fathom. Maybe that was why this whole ordeal didn’t seem to bother her—or maybe she had just learned to hide it better than the rest of them.

Charlie didn’t want to think about it anymore. Vaggie was a good person. She’d been the one to keep them safe when things got bad. She’d stood by Charlie’s side when others had faltered. That was all that mattered now.

As she shifted her focus back to the present, she saw that Angel had finished securing his own bag, though his face was still etched with discomfort. Alastor, of course, was completely unfazed, humming to himself as he adjusted his new backpack like a man preparing for a leisurely hike.

"Let’s move on," Charlie said, her voice a little hoarse. "We’ve got what we need."

The group began to walk again, moving down the darkened hallway in silence. The air was thick with the lingering scent of death and decay, but now they were equipped with something—anything—that could help them survive a little longer.

Vaggie took the lead this time, her movements swift and efficient. Charlie watched her for a moment, wondering if this whole ordeal had stirred any memories for her. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Some things were better left unspoken.

The search through the college had felt like an eternity, the silence only broken by the occasional scrape of shoes on the floor or the faint rustle of backpacks being adjusted. As they neared the exit, Charlie focused on their next step. Supplies were essential, but so was the strategy. They couldn’t stay here—this place, full of death and memories of what had just happened, was no longer an option.

Before they left the building, Charlie turned to Angel. “Unlock the last of their chains,” she said, nodding toward the convicts. The tension between them had loosened ever so slightly, but she still felt the weight of this decision. Freeing them completely felt like an enormous risk, but keeping them chained didn’t sit right with her.

Angel hesitated momentarily, glancing at the convicts before looking back at Charlie. "You sure about this?"

Charlie nodded. "They won’t get far like this. Besides, we agreed—if they behave, they can stick around." Her tone was firm but measured, balancing leadership and the uncertainty of trusting dangerous people.

Angel sighed but did as she asked. With his two bobby pins, he picked the lock on the last of the chains, the metal clattering to the ground. The convicts rubbed their wrists and shook their ankles, grateful for the release.

As the group prepared to leave, Charlie’s heart skipped a beat when she heard Alastor’s voice. “You know, darling, I do believe we’ll be coming with you.” His tone was casual, almost too casual, given the circumstances.

Charlie’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean by we?"

Alastor gestured toward the other two, who were standing behind him, both seemingly unbothered. "Husker and Niffty will join us as well. We've proven ourselves rather capable, don’t you think?"

Charlie blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity. The idea of traveling with a known serial killer and a couple of convicts wasn’t exactly the plan she’d had in mind. She opened her mouth to protest, but Angel cut her off.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy,” Angel said, stepping forward. “But they survived the cafeteria, right? Without them, we'd be dead. We could use them—strength in numbers and all that. I mean, this world is fucked-up insane. Might as well have some fucked-up people on our side."

Charlie paused, weighing Angel’s words. Alastor and his group had survived here, navigating through zombie-infested territory. And in this world, every person, no matter their past, could be useful. More people means a better chance of survival, she reminded herself. Still, the idea felt dangerous, like she was making a deal with the devil.

After a deep breath, she finally nodded. "Okay. You can come. But if any of you step out of line—if you endanger any of us—you’re out."

Alastor’s grin widened. "Darling, you won’t even know we’re here. Well… until you need us."

Vaggie stood silently by Charlie’s side, her jaw tight. Charlie could feel the tension rolling off her in waves. But Vaggie wasn’t one to argue in front of the others, not when a decision had been made. "You really think this is a good idea?" she muttered under her breath, low enough for only Charlie to hear.

"I don’t know," Charlie whispered back, "but we need them right now. We’ll be careful."

Vaggie let out a quiet sigh, nodding reluctantly. "Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on them."

As they left the building, Husk squinted, flicking a cigarette butt to the ground and stepping on it. “So, what’s the game plan? You’ve got some grand idea, or are we just wandering off until something kills us?” His tone was blunt, but his gaze was steady as if sizing up the weight of Charlie’s leadership.

Charlie glanced at Vaggie, feeling a sudden surge of anxiety. This wasn’t just a question of survival anymore—it was about trust, and not just from the convicts. Even Angel, who had been with them since the week before, didn’t fully know what she and Vaggie had planned.

“Is it okay to tell them now?” Charlie asked, keeping her voice low as she turned toward Vaggie. “Even Angel doesn’t know everything.”

Vaggie’s expression softened slightly, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “It’s time. They need to know.”

Charlie took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves before addressing the group. “Alright, listen up.” She shifted her weight, trying to make eye contact with the others. “I… we’ve known about a place for a while now. A safe one. It’s not just a random house or some abandoned building. It’s secure—really secure. High fences, reinforced gates, and a huge house big enough to keep all of us safe. We’ve been planning to get there, but it’s not close. It’s far away from here… way out beyond Long Island.”

Angel cocked his head, intrigued. “A safehouse? And you’re just telling us now?”

Charlie rubbed the back of her neck, feeling the weight of her decision. “We weren’t ready before. We were still dealing with… everything else. I didn’t want to make promises I wasn’t sure we could keep. But now, with the supplies we’ve found and all of us here… I think we can do it.”

Alastor’s grin never wavered. “Long Island, you say? Sounds positively charming. A vacation from this dreadful city.”

Husk raised an eyebrow. “And you’re sure this place exists? You’ve been there?”

Vaggie stepped in, her voice firm and steady. “She’s been there. It’s real and safe—at least, it was when Charlie left. If we can make it there, we’ll have enough resources and space to build something. Maybe even live in some kind of… peace.”

Charlie nodded, adding, “It’s not going to be easy. The journey is long unless we find a working car, and the area between here and there is crawling with zombies and… well, people like the ones we’ve dealt with. But once we’re there, we can stop running.”

Niffty, who had been eerily quiet, piped up with a wide, unsettling smile. “Sounds like a dream! I’d love to see a big house! Maybe I can even clean up the place—make it all nice and tidy!”

Angel crossed his arms, thinking it over. “A safehouse sounds good to me. But we’ve gotta be realistic. It’s gonna be a nightmare getting out there. We can’t just waltz through zombie land like we’re on some road trip.”

Vaggie nodded, her jaw tight with the weight of their reality. “We know. It’ll be dangerous, but we’ve made it this far, haven’t we? The most important thing is that we have a destination now, a goal.”

Husk exhaled a puff of smoke, his eyes narrowing as he considered the offer. “Fine. I’m in. I don’t have a better option, and this place is a death trap anyway.”

Angel shot Husk a sideways glance. “Well, looks like we’re all in agreement then. A magical safehouse that dollface knew or bust.”

Charlie felt a rush of both relief and dread. The plan was out in the open now, and they were all committed. Every step they took from this point forward would bring them closer to safety—or deeper into danger.

“We’ll head out now.”

Chapter Text

Charlie glanced at her watch, the familiar apple insignia catching the light as she tilted her wrist. The hands ticked steadily toward 09:37 am. It was such a simple thing, the mechanical watch her dad had given her as a college graduation gift. Even now, she could picture his proud smile as he handed it to her, a piece of her life before all of this. Her family was obscenely wealthy, and she could’ve had a designer timepiece encrusted with diamonds if she wanted. But that wasn’t Charlie.

With its understated elegance, this watch meant more to her than any expensive accessory ever could. It wasn’t about flaunting wealth; it was about the thought behind it, the care her dad had put into choosing something that would last. It was still ticking strong over a decade later, maybe because her dad had insisted on something with a spring watch or something. He always thought ahead like that.

She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the face of the watch. In a world falling apart like shit, it was a small comfort to know that some things still worked and that not everything broke down.

As the thought passed, Charlie lifted her gaze, scanning the expressway towering above them, casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt. The structure stood as a crumbling monument to a world gone four months ago, its once mighty expanse now weathered and broken. Debris from the decaying city littered the ground, remnants of a life none would ever get back. The sun was already high, but the silence weighed on them more than the heat, save for the occasional distant growl of zombies.

She could feel it, the exhaustion settling into her bones. It had been hours since they last stopped, and every step felt like it carried the weight of a thousand more. Their breaths were shallow, and each footfall echoed in the stillness. It’s like each little haunting reminder of the fucked-up reality with zombies and people’s drive to kill one another.

Behind her, Angel muttered something under his breath, but Charlie didn’t respond. Then, his voice cut through the thick air. “Seriously, how much longer are we gonna keep walking? My feet are about to fall off,” he griped with frustration. He kicked at a small piece of debris on the ground, sending it skittering ahead of them.

Vaggie, walking just ahead, glanced over her shoulder and shot him a glare. “As long as it takes, Angel. Complaining won’t make it go any faster.”

Angel rolled his eyes, the sarcasm thick in his voice as he replied, “Oh, great, thanks for that nugget of wisdom. I feel so much better now.”

Charlie didn’t engage; her eyes focused on the road ahead, but she could feel the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. They’d been walking for hours without a break, and the strain was starting to show on all of them.

Angel let out an exaggerated groan, dragging his feet slightly. “Fucking hell. Are we sure this place even exists? Or is it some fantasy you and Vags cooked up to keep us moving?”

“It exists,” Charlie said. “It’s just… farther.” She didn’t meet his eyes, keeping her gaze straight ahead.

Angel huffed, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “Yeah, well, my feet would appreciate some specifics, you know? A ballpark figure, maybe? Couple more hours? Days?”

Vaggie shot him another withering look. “If you keep whining, I’ll give you something to complain about.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the shuffling of their feet and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. Angel grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t push further. The group continued in strained silence, the weight of their exhaustion settling over them like a heavy blanket. Every step felt like a monumental effort, but they had no choice but to keep moving.

The silence between them didn’t last long.

“I’ve been thinking, hon,” Vaggie’s voice cut through in a low voice. “I still don’t understand why you trust those convicts. Letting them travel with us…”

Charlie could hear the exhaustion in Vaggie’s voice as this had been simmering for a while. Vaggie had kept quiet until now, but she was clearly at her breaking point.

Charlie didn’t turn around, keeping her gaze locked on the crumbling horizon. “We needed them, Vaggie. We wouldn’t have made it out of the cafeteria without their help. You know that.”

“But at what cost?” Vaggie snapped. “Alastor’s a serial killer, for god’s sake! And the other two? Convicts! How do we know they won’t turn on us the second they get a chance?”

Charlie felt her stomach twist. She understood Vaggie’s fears—hell, she shared them—but they couldn’t afford to turn people away in a world like this. “I’m not saying I trust them completely, but we need every able body we can get right now. They’ve been useful so far.”

“Useful,” Vaggie muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “You sound just like Angel.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Angel interjected, annoyed. “And for the record, I stand by what I said. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re running on fumes here. Our supplies are almost gone. We’re walking into God knows where for three damn days, and it’s only a matter of time before one of us screws up and gets us all killed.”

Charlie’s patience was wearing thin. “We’re going to the safehouse,” she repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Once we’re there, we’ll be safe. We can regroup, rest, figure things out.”

“And what if it’s not there?” Angel shot back. “What if we’re walking toward nothing? We’re down to our last few cans of food, we’re low on water, and we haven’t seen a safe place in days. How long do you think we can last like this?”

The bickering between Angel and Vaggie continued, their voices rising with each passing moment. It was as if the cracks in their group were widening, threatening to split them apart at any moment. The convicts—Alastor, Husk, and Niffty—kept their distance, but Charlie could see the restlessness in their eyes. They weren’t part of this argument, but they were clearly getting impatient.

Alastor’s smile had faded into a contemplative frown as he adjusted his bowie knife, his eyes shifting between the others. Husk and Niffty lingered nearby, quietly exchanging glances, their usual banter absent. The weight of the situation was pressing down on everyone.

Charlie clenched her fists. The exhaustion, the hunger, the relentless walking—it was wearing on all of them. It felt like they were one wrong step away from falling apart. She could feel her own frustration bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

She hasn’t felt overstimulated in a long while.

“Enough!” Charlie’s voice rang out, sharp and loud, cutting through the argument like a knife. Angel and Vaggie fell silent, startled by her outburst. Even Alastor raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Charlie continued, her voice calmer now. “Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s frustrated. Arguing isn’t going to get us to the safehouse any faster, and it sure as hell isn’t going to solve anything. We need to take a break.”

The group looked at her. She knew the cracks were there and how close they were to splintering. But they couldn’t afford that—not now.

“Let’s rest,” Charlie said. “We gotta find a temporary shelter first. Get some water, sit down, clear your heads. We can’t keep walking like this. We’re losing our minds.”

Angel muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue, dropping his pack to the ground with a sigh of relief. Vaggie crossed her arms, her jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything more. Even the convicts seemed to relax slightly, though Charlie could still see the tension lingering in their movements.

Charlie rubbed her temples, trying to push the headache forming behind her eyes away. This was supposed to be the start of something—something better, something safer. Instead, it felt like they were falling apart before they’d even begun.

Charlie couldn’t help but glance at her watch again. 09:47 am. Just ten minutes since she last checked, but it felt like hours had passed. She rubbed her eyes. They had been walking for far too long, and even she couldn’t deny that they needed to rest, to gather themselves before exhaustion pushed someone into a fatal mistake.

Her mind was already racing with possibilities. Staying under the expressway wasn’t an option; it was too exposed, too open to threats, both human and otherwise. They needed shelter.

She glanced off to the side of the expressway, where a residential neighborhood stretched out, mostly obscured by the slight overgrowth of nature reclaiming what was once a suburban sprawl. It was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. But the fact that there weren’t any zombies stumbling through the streets felt like an opportunity—a rarity.

Charlie gestured to the others, catching their attention. “We’ll head into the neighborhood, see if we can find somewhere to rest. It looks clear.”

Angel raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face. “Clear? This place?” He motioned at the stillness around them. “Doesn’t feel right. Since when do we get a free pass like this?”

“We don’t,” Vaggie replied, already moving toward the overgrown path that led away from the expressway. “That’s why we’ll be careful.”

Angel sighs under his breath but follows anyway, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Alastor, Niffty, and Husk followed in silence, though Charlie could see the weariness in their movements.

As they descended into the neighborhood, the silence grew heavier, but not with the distant moans of zombies they had grown accustomed to. No, this silence was unsettling in a different way—like the calm before a storm. Houses stood in varying states of decay, their windows shattered or covered in grime. The streets, once teeming with life, were now empty.

The group moved cautiously, their footsteps muffled by the overgrown grass that cracked through the pavement. Charlie kept her hand close to the weapon strapped to her side, her eyes scanning the windows of the houses for any sign of movement.

After a few minutes of walking, they came upon a house that stood out from the others. It wasn’t pristine by any means, but it looked… less destroyed. The windows were still intact, the paint only slightly chipped, and the front door was slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry.

“Looks clean,” Charlie murmured, looking narrowly at the slightly opened door.

Vaggie stood beside her, her expression serious. “You sure it’s safe?”

“No. But it’s the best we’ve got.”

The group gathered at the front of the house, their eyes on the slightly open door. Vaggie adjusted her spear. “I’ll go in first, check it out.”

Charlie nodded, stepping to the side to give Vaggie room to enter. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Vaggie gave a curt nod and pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking loudly in the eerie silence. She stepped inside cautiously, her spear raised as she moved through the small hallway that led into the main living room.

Charlie followed close behind, scanning the room for any signs of danger. The house was eerily quiet, but there was no immediate sign of any threat. Dust covered the furniture, and old, faded family photos hung on the walls. It felt like stepping into the remnants of someone else’s life, frozen in time.

Vaggie moved silently, sweeping the room with her eye before turning to Charlie. “Clear.”

Charlie exhaled, though the tension in her body didn’t ease entirely. “Let’s check the rest of the downstairs. The others can handle upstairs.”

She motioned to the rest of the group, and Angel, Alastor, Niffty, and Husk moved toward the staircase, ready to clear the upper floors.

Vaggie and Charlie split off, moving through the ground level of the house. They checked the kitchen first—empty, except for the scattered long-expired food and broken dishes. Cabinets hung open, ransacked, but there were no signs of recent activity.

Next was the dining room. It was a mess of overturned chairs and broken glass, but again, no sign of danger. Vaggie glanced at Charlie, her expression grim. “Whoever was here left in a hurry.”

“Or worse,” Charlie muttered, her grip tightening on her weapon.

They moved toward the back of the house, checking the final room on the ground floor. It was a small office, cluttered with papers and old magazines, but aside from the disarray, it appeared untouched.

Vaggie let out a breath. “Looks clear.”

“Good,” Charlie replied, her eyes scanning the room one last time. “Let’s head back to the others.”

They regrouped at the foot of the staircase, where Angel was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. “Upstairs is clear. No zombos, no people.”

Niffty, standing beside him, gave a quick nod with a hum. “Looks like it’s been abandoned for a while.”

Charlie glanced around at the group, sensing the exhaustion that weighed heavily on them all. “Alright. Let’s take a break. We’ll rest here for a bit, but stay on your guard. I don’t trust how quiet it is around here.”

Angel let out a tired sigh of relief, slumping down onto the floor. “Finally.”

Vaggie stayed standing, her eye still scanning the house as if she couldn’t fully relax. “We should take shifts. Just in case.”

Charlie nodded in agreement, though her body was screaming for rest. “Yeah. We’ll take turns keeping watch.”

They settled into the house, each of them finding a corner to rest in, but even as they sat down, Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was too quiet. Too still.

Charlie had barely settled into the old, creaky dining chair when Husk called her name from the corner of the kitchen. She blinked, surprised, and met his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he stood, like he’d been sitting on something for a while and it was finally about to come out. Wordlessly, she followed him, weaving through the dusty furniture until they reached a small nook by the table, partially hidden from the rest of the group.

“Sit,” Husk said, pulling out another chair and plopping down into it casually. Charlie lowered herself onto the seat, her body already on edge. She trusted Husk, at least enough to have kept him around, but the way he was acting now—something was up.

Husk didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he tossed a crumpled magazine onto the table between them. It slid across the dust-covered surface, stopping just in front of her. She frowned and glanced down.

TIME magazine. The cover was worn and bent, but the headline was still clear enough to read: Person of the Year: The Billionaire Philanthropist Changing the World.

And the cover photo—her. Charlie, standing tall and confident in a pristine maroon suit, her blonde hair styled neatly in a low ponytail, and a big, warm smile on her face. A piece of her past life. Before inheriting the hotel. A life that felt like a million years ago.

Her heart sank. Shit.

For a few seconds, Charlie couldn’t speak. She hadn’t seen this magazine in… hell, since everything went to hell before and after the zombies existed. The sight of who she used to be, and the last thing she wanted was for anyone in this group to know about it.

“I’ll be damned,” Husk muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was low, more to himself than to her. “Wasn’t expecting this.”

Charlie swallowed hard, her fingers itching to shove the magazine off the table and bury it under something. “Where’d you find that?” she asked quietly than she intended.

Husk leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes were narrowed, not with anger, but with something closer to curiosity. “In one of the bedroom drawers upstairs. It’s a bit of a relic now, isn’t it?”

Charlie’s mouth felt dry, but she forced herself to speak. “Yeah. A relic.”

There was a long pause before Husk finally spoke again, his voice even but carrying a weight of something darker. “You know, I never liked rich people. Especially the ones that pretend to care about the rest of us. All that philanthropy bullshit… just a cover, right? Makes them look good, feel good, while they sit on their piles of money, never really understanding what it’s like down here.”

Charlie’s stomach twisted. She could feel the accusation, even if it wasn’t directly pointed at her. “Husk—”

“I’m not finished,” he interrupted. “People like that, they always have an angle. Maybe some of ‘em actually believe their own hype. Maybe they think they’re doing something good. But in the end, it’s always about them, about staying on top. Keeping the world running in their favor.”

He paused again, his eyes locking with hers. “And then there’s you.”

Charlie tensed, her hand instinctively brushing against her watch. She didn’t know where this was going, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

“If I had known,” Husk continued, “that you were the Morningstar’s kid—before all this, I mean—I would’ve had some choice words for you. Probably would’ve thought you were just another spoiled rich kid, playing at being a hero.”

Her throat tightened. “And now?”

Husk shrugged, his expression softening just a little. “Now? Now I’m glad I didn’t know. ‘Cause I got to know you first—the real you. Not the shiny, polished version they put on a magazine cover.”

Charlie exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest loosening just a fraction. Husk didn’t look angry. Frustrated, maybe. Bitter, definitely. But not angry.

“I’m… not that person anymore,” she said quietly. “Its not like I wanted to be born in a rich family. I mean, I did what I could to help, but… it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And now… none of it matters.”

Husk leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Maybe it doesn’t matter like it used to. But it matters now. Out here? It’s who you are that counts. And so far, you’ve been solid. Hell, if I’d known back then who you were, I might’ve written you off. But you’re not like the rest of ‘em.”

Charlie didn’t know what to say. She had spent so much time trying to leave her old life behind, trying to be someone different, someone better. But it was all still there, lurking in the shadows, ready to remind her of the person she once was.

She swallowed, searching for the right question, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. “How am I different?” she asked. “How am I not like the rest of them?”

Husk didn’t hesitate. He leaned back in his chair, his arms still crossed, but the edge in his expression had softened just a bit. “You gave me a chance. Hell, you gave all of us a chance. Me, Niffty, even Alastor for fuck’s sake. And you don’t think we know what your friends want? They are itching to leave us behind. To cut the dead weight.”

Charlie winced. She couldn’t deny it. Vaggie had made her opinion clear, and Angel, even though he agreed to let the convicts join, but she knew he wouldn't hesitate to shoot them down if he wanted. Still, she had held her ground. Husk wasn’t wrong.

“They’re right to be cautious,” Charlie said slowly. “You three… your pasts, the things you’ve done…”

“Yeah, we’re a rough bunch,” Husk interrupted with a small, bitter laugh. “Convicts, criminals, monsters in your eyes, I’m sure. But you… you’ve got that bleeding heart of yours. You could’ve left us behind. Hell, Valeria was ready to ditch us at the first sign of trouble, but you didn’t let her. You looked at us and saw something more. Something worth saving.”

Charlie looked down at her hands, the weight of those words pressing on her. She had always tried to see the good in people, even in the worst circumstances. But it hadn’t been easy to convince the others that taking the convicts along was the right choice. She wasn’t even sure it was the right choice herself sometimes.

“I just… I just don’t believe anyone is beyond saving,” she said quietly. “I don’t believe anyone’s life is worth less because of their past mistakes.”

Husk let out a low grunt, not quite disagreeing, but not convinced either. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just naive. But either way, you didn’t have to give us a chance, and yet here we are. Still alive. Still part of this little group, trying to make it to your safehouse.”

He paused, his gaze steady on hers. “You want to know how you’re different? That’s how. You could’ve taken the easy way out, left us to fend for ourselves. But you didn’t. You offered to let us join you. You didn’t just spare us, kid. You let us in.”

Charlie felt a lump form in her throat. She wasn’t sure if Husk meant it as a compliment or an accusation. Maybe it was both. Either way, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the responsibility she had taken on. Keeping them with her was a risk, and every day it felt like a gamble she wasn’t sure she could win.

“We’re all just trying to survive,” she said after a long pause. “And I think… I think maybe we have a better shot if we stick together.”

Husk chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Maybe. But hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

He stood up then, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. “Just know this, kid—you’re playing a dangerous game, trying to save everyone. Not all of us are worth saving. But for now, you’ve given us a lifeline. I won’t forget that.”

Just before he stepped away, Husk glanced over his shoulder and added, “For what it’s worth, I hope you’re right about us. About me… and you’re different. You actually give a damn.”

Charlie felt a strange mix of relief and guilt wash over her. She wanted to believe that was true—that she was different. But she knew she had a long way to go before she could fully shed the weight of her past.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means a lot.”

Husk gave a half-hearted shrug, his usual gruffness returning. “Don’t get too sentimental on me. I still don’t like rich people.”

Charlie smiled faintly, the tension between them easing just a little. They sat in silence for a moment longer, the dusty dining room around them feeling less oppressive than before.

Eventually, Husk stood up, pushing his chair back with a small grunt. “I’ll get back to the others. The boy’s probably making a mess of things.”

Charlie nodded, watching as he walked away. Her gaze dropped back to the magazine, the smiling, polished version of herself staring back at her. She couldn’t help but think about how much had changed—and how much hadn’t.

Looking at the year when that edition was published… yep, it’s definitely way back when she first met Vaggie.

With a deep breath, she folded the magazine in half and tucked it into her pack.

11:27 am

Charlie rejoined the group, her mind still spinning from the shit that happened in the last few hours. But the present demanded her attention—people were tired, hungry, and morale had been slipping steadily.

“Let’s make a decent meal,” Charlie suggested as she rummaged through their dwindling stash of canned food. “Something hearty. We’ve been running on fumes for days.”

Vaggie shot her a look. “Charlie, we don’t have the supplies to waste. We’ve got enough for small portions. Stretch it out.”

“I know,” Charlie replied, keeping her voice level. “But look at everyone. We need more than just food right now. We need… something to feel good about, even if it’s just for today.”

There was a brief silence before Vaggie relented with a sigh, waving her hand as if to say, Fine, but this is your call. Angel smirked at Charlie, giving a small nod of approval before leaning back and taking a drag from one of his stolen cigarettes.

In the end, they made a meal—simple, just canned beans, some preserved veggies, and a bit of mystery meat they’d scavenged along the way. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to fill everyone’s bellies for once.

The group sat together around the small dining table, eating in quiet relief. The occasional clink of spoons against tin cans echoed in the otherwise silent room, and for a brief moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.

But Charlie noticed the way Vaggie barely touched her food. She picked at it absently, her eye distant, as if her mind were miles away. Once she had eaten just enough to be polite, she stood up from the table without a word and slipped away, her footsteps barely audible as she headed upstairs.

Charlie hesitated, her gaze lingering on Vaggie’s empty seat. She could feel the tension in the room, everyone too tired to say much. After a moment, she quietly excused herself, leaving her pack with the others as she carefully made her way upstairs.

As she ascended, the creaks of the old wooden stairs under her feet seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness. The house had the feel of an ordinary suburban home, with faded wallpaper peeling at the edges and a few dusty family photos still hanging on the walls. The second floor was cramped, with narrow hallways and doors leading to small, dimly lit rooms.

“Vaggie?” Charlie called out softly, just loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to disturb the eerie quiet of the house. Her voice seemed to bounce off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness.

She walked cautiously, her steps light as she passed one room after another. It wasn’t until she reached the end of the hall that she saw her.

Vaggie was standing in the corner of a small room. The nursery, Charlie realized with a sinking feeling. The wallpaper here was faded, but it was clear it had once been decorated with cheerful designs—little animals and stars painted on the walls. There were old toys scattered on the floor, covered in dust. And in the center of the room, a small wooden crib.

Vaggie stood over it, motionless. Her hands were resting on the edge of the crib, her head bowed. As Charlie stepped closer, she saw the splatter of dried blood staining the pale sheets inside the crib, the crimson marks contrasts against the soft fabric.

Charlie froze, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t need to ask what had happened here. The scene spoke for itself—the family must’ve brought their sick baby to the hospital as there wasn't an abandoned car by the driveway and a lack of bodies in the house. A child, lost to the fucking virus.

Vaggie didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just stood there, staring down at the crib, her expression unreadable. But Charlie could feel the weight of it—the grief, the anger, the exhaustion that had been simmering under the surface for days.

Charlie swallowed hard, her voice soft as she approached. “Vaggie…”

Vaggie didn’t look up, but she spoke, her voice low and tight. “I… I just needed a moment.”

Charlie stepped closer, her hand gently brushing against Vaggie’s shoulder. “You didn’t eat much.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” Vaggie replied flatly, her gaze still fixed on the crib.

A long silence stretched between them. Charlie didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t offer comfort, not really. Not when the world was like this. Not when the reality they faced every day was filled with so much loss.

“I keep thinking…” Vaggie finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “About how easy it is to forget. How we just… keep moving. Keep fighting. And then you see something like this, and it all comes back. The cost of it all. The things we’ve lost.”

Charlie stood there, her hand gently rubbing Vaggie’s shoulder, trying to offer comfort without words. She could feel the tension in Vaggie's body, the way her muscles tensed beneath her touch, as if she were holding everything in, unwilling to let go.

Vaggie’s voice broke the silence again, quieter this time. “This place… it reminds me of him. My baby brother.”

Charlie hummed softly, letting Vaggie know she was listening, her hand moving in slow, reassuring circles on her partner’s back.

“I miss them, Charlie,” Vaggie continued, her voice wavering slightly. “My family. I don’t even know if they made it through the outbreak. For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t there when—” Her words caught in her throat, and she took a shuddering breath. “Fuck, I never got to find out what happened to them. I just keep hoping that somehow… they’re alive. That they made it.”

Charlie felt her chest tighten, knowing there was nothing she could say to fill that void, to ease that pain. She just stayed close, letting Vaggie speak, letting her unload the weight.

“The last time I held a baby,” Vaggie said, her voice growing distant, as if she were reaching back into some long-buried memory, “was my little brother. Way before my deployment years ago. He was so small, you know?”

Charlie swallowed hard, her fingers gently squeezing Vaggie’s shoulder in response. She wanted to tell her that maybe her family had survived, that there was still hope, but the world they lived in now made that hard to believe. Instead, she stayed quiet, offering comfort through her presence rather than empty reassurances.

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the weight of the nursery and its dark history pressing down on them both. It was Vaggie who broke the quiet again, her voice small and raw. “I’m sorry.”

Charlie blinked, surprised by the apology. “For what?”

“For being an asshole today,” Vaggie muttered. She let out a harsh sigh, her hands gripping the edge of the crib tightly. “I’ve been on edge all morning. Snapping at you, acting like a—” She stopped, exhaling in frustration. “I don’t know. I’ve just been an ass. And you’re just trying to keep us together, trying to take care of everyone. I shouldn’t take that out on you.”

Charlie felt a small smile tug at her lips. She took a deep breath and shook her head. “It’s okay, honey. It’s been a long couple of days. We’re all tired and hungry. I get it.”

Vaggie turned her head slightly, glancing at Charlie from the corner of her eye. “That doesn’t make it right, though. I shouldn’t be a jerk to my girlfriend, especially when she’s doing everything she can.”

Charlie’s smile softened. She could see the guilt in Vaggie’s eye, the way she was struggling to reconcile the hardness she’d built around herself with the vulnerability she rarely let show.

Without a word, Charlie leaned down and wrapped her arms around Vaggie from behind, resting her chin lightly on her shoulder. The embrace was warm, grounding. Vaggie tensed at first, but then slowly relaxed into it, letting Charlie’s presence calm her.

“You’re doing the best you can, too,” Charlie whispered. “We’re in this together, remember?”

Vaggie closed her eye, leaning her head back slightly against Charlie’s. “Yeah… together.”

For a moment, Vaggie didn’t move. But then, slowly, she leaned into Charlie’s arms, letting the weight of the world fall away, if only for a moment.

Vaggie and Charlie made their way back downstairs. The others were already packing up the cooking supplies, preparing to move out again soon. Vaggie immediately set to work, gathering the carriable pots and utensils they had used for the shared meal, while Charlie took over at the sink, washing the remaining items with the still-working tap water (what a miracle! or maybe the State’s water pumps are still working).

As they regrouped, folding up tarps and dividing the supplies, a noise came from the backyard—distant, but enough to make everyone stop. The soft murmur of conversation died away, replaced by silence. Each person instinctively reached for their weapons, their gazes flickering between one another, uncertain of what was waiting outside.

Angel rolled his eyes, breaking the silence with a half-hearted joke. “Well, it’s probably not the Girl Scouts selling cookies.”

The corners of Charlie’s lips twitched into a brief smile and Angel was already on his feet, sauntering toward the backdoor. His hand hovered over the knife at his hip. He opened the door, stepping outside with an exaggerated casualness, like this was just another routine check.

Seconds passed. Then minutes.

The noise continued, low and unsettling, but Angel hadn’t come back.

Charlie exchanged a worried glance with Vaggie, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. Slowly, the rest of the group followed Angel outside, moving cautiously but unable to suppress their growing unease. As they stepped into the backyard, they saw Angel standing still, his knife drawn but his body rigid, like he was frozen in place.

Charlie’s eyes followed Angel’s line of sight, her breath catching when she saw what he was looking at.

It was a child—a painfully thin, gaunt figure standing at the edge of the yard, its small frame barely supported by skeletal limbs. Its skin, mottled and gray, stretched tight over bones, and its eyes were clouded with the unmistakable glaze of the infected. It let out a low, guttural noise, its body jerking awkwardly as it sensed the group’s presence.

Charlie’s stomach twisted violently, her heart racing in her chest. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. The sight of the child, of what it had become, reminded her too vividly of the teenage boy she had tried to save at the very start of the outbreak—four months ago. He had been so full of life, desperate to survive with his mom, and she had sworn she would protect him. But then the car crash… the blood… his broken body.

Her mind flashed with the memory of his corpse, mangled and unrecognizable after the accident. And now, staring at this infected child, she felt that same helplessness crash over her like a wave.

The group stood frozen, caught completely off guard. No one moved. No one knew what to do.

It wasn’t just another zombie.

It was a child.

Before anyone could react, Alastor stepped forward, his face impassive with his usual smile. He unsheathed his bowie knife, the blade glinting for a moment before he plunged it into the infected child’s head. The sound of steel sinking into bone and flesh was disturbingly intimate. The child fell instantly, collapsing in a heap on the ground, lifeless once more.

The group remained frozen, stunned by the brutal efficiency of the act. No one spoke. No one moved.

Charlie felt her knees weaken, her mind reeling from the moral cost of what had just happened. It wasn’t just survival anymore. It was the weight of every life they took, even the infected ones—especially this one.

Alastor stood over the child’s body, his smile still in place as he casually flicked the blood from his bowie knife. His voice broke the silence with a detached nonchalance that felt disturbingly out of place. "Well, that was inconvenient. Should’ve packed up sooner."

The others didn’t react. They were all still frozen, processing what had just happened. Husk stood apart from the group, his face pale. He’d been holding it together for so long, the tough exterior, the gruff comments, the walls he built around himself. But this… this was too much. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, and he couldn’t stop staring at the small, lifeless body.

The group slowly trudged back into the house. No one spoke. They were all too drained to form words, too overwhelmed by what had just happened. The lifeless body of the infected child lingered in everyone’s minds, a dark shadow cast over the fragile peace they’d carved out for themselves in this dying world.

Charlie led the way, her feet moving automatically as she tried to focus on the next steps—packing up, getting out of here, moving on. But her mind kept replaying the scene over and over, the flash of Alastor’s blade, the sickening crunch of bone, the child collapsing in a heap. It was too much, all of it. How were they supposed to keep going after something like that?

The others spread out in the small, worn-out living room, sitting on the faded furniture or slumping against the walls. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on them, both physical and emotional.

Vaggie sat down heavily next to Charlie, her face pale and drawn. Charlie wanted to reach out to her, to offer some kind of solace, but the words stuck in her throat. What was there to say?

Minutes passed, and the group still wrapped in silence, when Charlie’s eyes darted around the room. She frowned, her brow furrowing as she counted the faces around her.

Husk was missing.

Panic fluttering in her chest. He had been with them when they returned from the backyard, hadn’t he? She’d seen him walk away from the child’s body, pale and shaken but still with them. And yet now… he was gone.

She stood abruptly, her stomach knotting as she scanned the room again, hoping she’d just missed him. But Husk wasn’t there.

"Where’s Husk?" she asked, her voice a little louder than intended, breaking the fragile silence that had settled over the group.

Vaggie glanced up, her brow furrowing as she too looked around. Angel shifted uncomfortably on the couch, casting a glance toward the doorway as if expecting Husk to walk back in at any moment.

“He was here a minute ago,” Angel muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe he went for a smoke or something.”

But Charlie knew better. She had seen the look in Husk’s eyes after the child was killed—the raw, unfiltered horror that had flashed across his face. He wasn’t just out for air. He had walked away because he couldn’t handle what had happened.

Her pulse quickened. She felt the weight of leadership press down on her like never before. Husk was part of her group. He was her responsibility. She needed to find him, to make sure he was okay.

Charlie took a deep breath, trying to center herself. She looked at Vaggie, who was watching her closely, worry etched in her expression.

But before she could say anything, Vaggie stood up beside her, placing a hand on Charlie’s arm. Her touch was gentle, but there was a firmness to her gaze that reassured Charlie, even if only for a moment.

“I’ll go look for him,” Vaggie said softly, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “You need to stay here. They need you.” There was no question in her words that left no room for argument.

Charlie hesitated, torn between the responsibility of staying with the group and the growing fear gnawing at her about Husk. But Vaggie understood her too well, saw the worry etched in her face. It was more than just loyalty driving Vaggie; she was worried about Husk, too. Vaggie had her own history with trauma and breaking points, and she understood better than anyone what Husk might be going through.

“I’m coming, too,” Angel interjected suddenly, pushing off the couch and standing up with a nonchalant stretch. “Can’t leave the big guy to wander off by himself, now can we?”

Charlie shot him a look, knowing that Angel wasn’t the type to admit he cared, but deep down, Charlie knew he understood Husk’s situation better than he let on. Maybe that’s why he wanted to help.

Vaggie gave a small nod, her face tight with resolve, and Angel grinned, already heading for the door like it was just another day. Just as the two were about to head out, Alastor’s voice broke through the silence, “You know,” he began, “it’s no surprise that Husk wandered off like this. Man’s been running from his demons long before any of this apocalypse business.”

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, that eerie smile still fixed in place. “Used to be a bartender. Spent most of his days drowning other people’s sorrows in liquor… and his own. Funny, really, how people think alcohol can make the pain go away.” His eyes gleamed as he continued, speaking with a kind of detached familiarity that made Charlie’s skin crawl. “But the weight of those regrets? They don’t stay buried. Not for long. And today, well… I imagine the sight of that poor little child was enough to push Husker right over the edge.”

The room was quiet, Alastor’s words hanging heavy in the air. Something was chilling about the way he spoke, so casually dissecting Husk’s pain as if it were just another mundane fact. But surprisingly, he knows more about Husk’s past, just enough to know he was carrying more than his fair share of guilt and regrets. But now, the idea of Husk wandering off into the city, alone and trying to escape the weight of everything…

“He’ll drink himself into oblivion if he finds a stash,” Angel muttered, his usual sarcasm gone. “Seen it before.”

Charlie’s chest tightened. She didn’t know how to fix this. Every time they made progress, something pulled them back into the darkness. She nodded at Vaggie and Angel, trying to find her voice. “Just… find him. Bring him back. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Vaggie placed a reassuring hand on Charlie’s hand before turning to follow Angel out the door. As they disappeared, Charlie stayed behind to watch over Alastor and Niffty. How could she lead them all through this when even the quiet moments were enough to make them unravel?

She sat down slowly, her hands trembling as she ran them through her hair. Husk wasn’t just wandering off to clear his head. He was lost, drowning in a sea of guilt and memories he couldn’t escape from. And somehow, Charlie had to find a way to bring him—and the rest of them—back from the edge.

Vaggie and Angel walked side by side down a quiet alley, the bright, narrow passageway was different from the open streets. The silence between them wasn’t like back at the house. Vaggie was focused, scanning their unfamiliar surroundings for any sign of Husk, her hand gripping her spear tightly.

“Fucking hell,” Vaggie clicks her tongue in frustration. “I’m not familiar with this area,” she muttered, more to herself than Angel, who was walking a few paces ahead.

Angel glanced back at her, raising an eyebrow with a smirk tugging at his lips. “You don’t know your way around here? Thought you were supposed to be the brains of this shit.”

Vaggie shot him a look, not in the mood for jokes, but Angel just shrugged, his smirk widening. “Lucky for you, I’m familiar here and I know a bar down the street. If Whiskers is looking to drown his sorrows, that’s probably where he’ll end up.”

Vaggie blinked, a bit surprised. “You know your way around Long Island, really?”

Angel’s grin widened, clearly enjoying her reaction. “Oh, you know,” he began with an exaggerated shrug, “when you’re working the streets as a sex worker, you tend to learn every corner of the city. And trust me, I’ve been to corners you wouldn’t expect.”

Vaggie rolled her eye, muttering, “Of course. Should’ve expected that.”

“You always should.” Angel’s grin widened, pleased with himself.

As they reached onto Suffolk Avenue. The street stretched out before them, littered with overturned cars and debris. Further down the road, where the sight that greeted them wasn’t encouraging—zombies were shambling all over the road, some wandering aimlessly, others drawn by the faint sounds of movement in the distance. Vaggie cursed under her breath, pulling Angel back into the shadows of a nearby storefront.

Angel’s eyes scans the scattered group of infected. “Well, this looks like fun,” he whispered with a smirk, hand resting on his knife.

“Don’t even think about it,” Vaggie warned, tugging him back again before he could make any sudden moves. “We’ll have to do this quietly. Stealth, remember?”

“Stealth, huh? I don’t know, Vags, that’s more your thing. My feet don’t hurt, but—”

“Angel!” Vaggie hissed, cutting him off before he could finish his joke, clearly not in the mood for his usual innuendos. “I swear to God if you make another joke… and I really don’t want to hear more about your old job.”

“Fine, fine,” Angel chuckled softly, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Lead the way, stealth master.”

Vaggie sighed, crouching low as she gestured for Angel to follow her lead to show him how to stick close to the walls, avoid loose gravel, and use the sounds of the wind and distant noises to mask their footsteps. He wasn’t new to dangerous situations, but stealth in a zombie-infested city is out of his league.

Angel does his best to mimic her movements, though his natural instinct was to rely on his speed and quick reactions. But he had to admit, Vaggie knew what she was doing. The two of them slipped from cover to cover, avoiding the larger groups of infected as they slowly made their way down the street, staying close to the walls and ducking behind broken-down cars.

They reached an old store, its windows cracked and dusted with grime, and Vaggie motioned for them to duck inside. The building offered temporary cover as the zombies shuffled past outside.

“I’m impressed,” Angel whispered, catching his breath. “Didn’t think you’d be this good at sneaking around.”

Vaggie gave him a sideways glance. “I’ve had practice. And if you don’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll get more practice sneaking away from you.”

Angel chuckled, but there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. He watched as Vaggie peered out of the window, gauging their next move. Her focus and determination were hard to miss, and despite his usual jokes, Angel respected her more than he let on.

Once the coast was clear, they slipped out of the store then Angel took the lead, guiding them down side streets and through back alleys. Every so often, they’d pass a store with its windows shattered, and Angel would motion for them to check it for supplies. But each time, they’d move on quickly—Husk was their priority.

Finally, after sneaking past a particularly large group of zombies, they saw it—the bar Angel had mentioned. Across the street, Bar Las Palmeras stood with its once-vibrant neon sign now dim and flickering. The letters were barely legible, some missing entirely, but the outline of a palm tree remained. The building was squat and narrow, tucked between two abandoned shops. The exterior paint had peeled away, revealing rusted metal and chipped brick beneath. Broken glass littered the sidewalk from the shattered windows and looted supplies.

A few old barstools were scattered just outside, tipped over and coated in grime, and the front door was slightly ajar, creaking gently in the wind. The faint smell of stale alcohol and mildew wafted from inside, mixing with the unmistakable scent of decay.

Angel surveyed the scene and grinned. “Ah, brings back memories. Looks like my kind of place.”

Vaggie shot him a look. “Not the time, Angel.”

“Just saying,” he shrugged.

Vaggie gripped her spear tighter, her knuckles white as she readied herself. She kept her body low, scanning the area for any signs of movement. Angel’s hand hovered near his knife as he nodded for a go signal, falling in step behind her. Vaggie took the lead, moving across the street quickly but carefully as the distant groans of the infected still echoed from the far end of the street.

They finally approached the entrance of the bar and as they reached the door, Vaggie paused, taking a deep breath and holding up her hand to signal Angel to stop. She nudged the door open wider with the tip of her spear, the rusty hinges squeaking in protest.

“You ready for this?” Angel whispered, leaning in close.

Vaggie didn’t answer, her eye locked on the darkened interior. With her spear in hand and Angel following closely behind, she stepped inside. The door groaned as it swung open further and the air inside was thick with the smell of stale alcohol, mold, and something more acrid—like something had died and been left to rot. Dust clung to every surface, motes floating lazily in the faint light filtering through the shattered windows. The room was filled with overturned tables and chairs. Bottles and glass shards littered the floor, crunching softly under their boots as they moved deeper into the bar.

Angel followed closely behind, his eyes darting to every corner, hand never straying far from his knife. The long, narrow bar stretched across one side of the room, bottles still lined up behind it, some shattered, others untouched. A mirror, cracked and grimy, reflected their ghostly outlines as they made their way toward the back of the room.

Then they saw him.

Husk’s burly form was hunched down by the counter, his broad shoulders slumped, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand. He sat on one of the old barstools, his head bowed, staring at nothing. Several empty bottles lay discarded at his feet, and as they moved closer, Vaggie could see the glaze in his eyes, the dullness of a man who had been drinking to forget.

Vaggie hesitated. She knew this wasn’t just about the alcohol—it was the child, the blood on his hands, the world closing in around him.

Angel broke the silence first, his voice low but steady. “Husk, man, what the hell are you doing?”

Husk didn’t respond, instead, his hand tightened around the neck of the bottle to raise the bottle to his lips and took another long, slow drink. The sound of the liquid sloshing inside the bottle echoed in the quiet bar. His voice was rough, his words slurred slightly. “Who’s with ya?”

Angel nodded in Vaggie’s direction. “Vaggie.”

Husk squinted, turning his head just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. “Thought it’d be Charlie. She send you?”

Vaggie shook her head, stepping a little closer. “I volunteered.”

Angel smirked, trying to lighten the tension. “She’s good like that.”

As the two of them moved closer, Vaggie stepped up beside Husk, her eye locking onto his. She could see the weight he carried in his expression—the lines of guilt, the weariness in his face. She glanced at the whiskey bottle in his hand before quietly asking, “How many have you had?”

Husk chuckled, raising the bottle in a mock toast. “Not enough.”

Vaggie sighed, glancing back at Angel, who remained silent. She returned her focus to Husk. “Let’s finish this up back at the house, alright? We all need you—Charlie, the others… Hell, I need you. A guy like you, with your medical skills—you're not done here.”

Husk snorted, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. “Medical skills, huh? And here I thought we were all just walking corpses waiting to rot.”

Angel, leaning against a nearby table, added with a more serious tone. “You’re not wrong, but someone’s gotta keep the rest of us from getting there too soon.”

Husk set the bottle down on the counter with a hard thud, turning his bleary eyes to Vaggie. “Aren’t you military too? You were, weren’t you?”

Vaggie didn’t deny it, but her expression tightened. “Yeah. I was.”

Husk’s laugh was harsh, his eyes filled with a kind of pain only someone who had seen too much death could understand. “Then you should get it, Vaggie. You should understand. We’re fucking surrounded by death, every day, every hour. This virus—it doesn’t stop. There’s no cure. The kid… that damn kid and the nursery back at the house. There’s no hope, not for any of us.”

Vaggie’s jaw clenched. She stepped in closer, her voice lowering, but carrying an edge. “I do understand. I know what it’s like to lose people, to feel like there’s no way out. But Husk, we keep going because we have to. Because if we don’t, what’s left?” Vaggie leaned in. “Husk, you once talked about hope, remember? You said that when Me, Charlie and Angel showed up at the college, when you three were chained up… that felt like hope.”

Husk scoffed, slumping further on the stool. He repeated the word, his voice thick with sarcasm, “Hope…”

He stared into the bottle for a long moment, his mind drifting back. “You know, when I first saw you, Charlie, and Angel walk into that hallway… I didn’t have hope. Hell, I didn’t even think we’d make it through the day. I figured me, Alastor, and Niffty—we were goners. Not from the zombies, but from people. That’s usually how it goes, right? People kill each other long before the dead can get to ‘em.”

Vaggie stayed silent, letting him talk, letting him get it out.

Husk’s lips curled into a grim smile, remembering. “Then Charlie herself did something I didn’t expect. She gave us a chance. You could’ve killed us, and I would’ve understood it. But instead, Charlie tells Angel to unlock those damn chains, set us free. For the first time in a long time, I thought maybe, just maybe, there was a miracle left in this world. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there was hope.”

He took a long, deliberate drink from the bottle, the alcohol burning down his throat. “Turns out it was a sham. A bait and switch. Get my hopes up, then rip the rug out from under me. I let myself feel something that day, and that makes me a fool. Everyone saw it.”

Vaggie’s eye softened as she looked at him, understanding where his bitterness was coming from but knowing he wasn’t beyond saving. “You’re not a fool, Husk.”

Husk chuckled a bitter edge to it. “Yeah? Well, you deserved better than that. Better than whatever broken mess I’ve become.” He took another swig of whiskey, his gaze dropping again as if he could disappear into the bottle itself.

Vaggie knew getting through to Husk wasn’t going to be easy, especially in his state. She could see it in his glazed eyes—the alcohol had done more than dull his senses, it had fortified his stubbornness. She stood there for a moment, realizing the futility of talking to him like this. With a huff, she turned and began walking toward the door.

Angel blinked, confused as she moved away. "Uh, Vaggie? What are we doing? Just gonna wait for him to pass out?"

From behind them, Husk’s voice rasped, rough with the slur of whiskey. “Just leave. Both of ya. I don’t need no babysitter.”

Vaggie paused near the door, her hand hovering on the handle. She didn’t look back as she spoke. “I promised Charlie I’d bring you back safe.”

Husk scoffed, his voice thick with bitterness. “Like how she promised she’d bring everyone to that so-called magical ‘safehouse’?”

Silence settled over the bar, heavy and uncomfortable. Angel glanced between them, his easy-going demeanor faltering as the tension thickened. Vaggie’s jaw tightened, and she took a deep breath. She shook her head and turned around, walking back to Husk with a brisk, determined pace. Her footsteps echoed on the creaky wooden floor, her patience visibly fraying.

“So what’s your plan, huh?” Vaggie’s voice was sharp. “Finish that bottle? Drink yourself to death while you fucking piss and whine like this?”

Husk’s eyes narrowed, his temper finally sparking. With a grunt, he stood up from the barstool, swaying slightly but finding his balance. His voice was low and full of anger. “Stop telling me how to give a shit about my life.”

He stepped closer, his burly form looming as he continued. “You wanna talk about whining? Don’t you fucking dare tell me I’m the only one losing it. Everyone else is doing the same thing, just in different ways. So don’t stand there pretending you’re all high and mighty.”

Vaggie’s face hardened, her hands tightening around the spear. “At least they’ve accepted it, Husk. The world’s already destroyed. We’ve all had to deal with it, just like you.”

Husk’s voice rose, the anger spilling over. “Accepted it? I never asked for any of this! Getting arrested, sentenced to life in prison, then the world turns to shit, and now what? I’m stuck here, having to bicker with some fucker who takes no responsibility—unlike your girlfriend.”

Vaggie’s voice came out in a shout. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m standing right here, trying to fix this, trying to get through to you!”

The tension hung between them, thick and bitter. The silence between them stretched. Husk's eyes were dark, his expression almost unreadable. Vaggie stood her ground, not backing down from the intensity of his gaze.

Finally, Husk broke the silence, his voice slow and deliberate, his words slipping out in between long pauses. “Yes… yes you are…”

For a moment, it felt like something was about to shift, but instead, Husk turned his back on her, trudging back to the bar. He grabbed the bottle, the last dregs of whiskey swirling at the bottom, and tipped it back, draining it completely.

Vaggie sighed, her frustration simmering beneath the surface, but she forced herself to walk back toward him. Standing next to him, her voice softened, trying a different approach. “Husk… Charlie needs you. We all need you. You’re more than just some prisoner we picked up. You’ve saved us, more times than you’ll admit.”

Husk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, not meeting her eye. “I don’t want to believe that,” he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness. “Just like I didn’t want to believe my ex-wife when she told me she was leaving, taking my kid with her. Just like I didn’t believe it when I killed a man in a bar fight, when they told me I’d never see daylight again.”

Vaggie remained quiet, sensing he wasn’t finished.

“They put me in cuffs and sentenced me to rot in prison for the rest of my life. I didn’t believe that either. And then the world turns to shit—people eating each other while I’m being shipped to that hellhole.” Husk let out a bitter laugh. “Even then, I couldn’t believe it. I told myself it was just a sickness. People would get better. It couldn’t be real.”

His voice cracked slightly, and for the first time, he glanced up at Vaggie. “Not until I saw that kid. That’s when it hit me. The world wasn’t just sick. It was gone.”

The mention of the child made Vaggie tense up. Husk caught the shift in her expression, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You didn’t believe it either, did you? The way you looked at that zombie kid—hell, I’d bet you had a family member that age. Someone you lost.”

Vaggie’s breath hitched, but she remained silent.

Husk went on, his voice quieter but no less raw. “And that eye of yours… I’ve seen soldiers like you before. I’m guessing that’s how you got discharged, right? Something you couldn’t come back from. Same as me. We’re the same, Vaggie, you and me. We both know there’s no hope left.”

His words hung in the air like a death sentence, and for a moment, Vaggie couldn’t find the strength to argue. Husk’s pain was raw, his denial deep-rooted, and the weight of the world had crushed him long before they’d ever crossed paths.

“There’s no hope for any of us,” Husk murmured, his voice barely audible.

Vaggie clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white as she fought the urge to lash out, to scream at him, to tell him he was wrong. But deep down, she knew he wasn’t entirely off the mark. The world they lived in now… it was hard to hold on to hope when every day was a battle for survival.

But she also knew Charlie. Knew how hard she fought, how much she believed. And that belief, that stubborn hope, was what kept them all going. Vaggie wasn’t about to let Husk drown in his despair, no matter how close she felt to sinking herself.

Vaggie’s fists unclenched as she exhaled sharply, frustration flooding her voice. “Look, I’m done, Husk. I’m not doing this anymore. I’m not cleaning up after you, watching you drink yourself into shit. You know what the truth is?”

She waited, giving Husk a moment to respond, but his silence only fueled her determination. Her tone shifted, becoming sharper as she cut through the thick air between them.

“Nothing’s changed. Death has always been there, waiting. Car accidents, heart attacks, cancer, overdoses, murders, muertos. What’s the difference?” Her words were a challenge, daring him to come up with some grand revelation. “You didn’t think it was hopeless before, did you? When life was throwing every shitty thing at you—when your wife left when you were locked away—you kept going, didn’t you?”

Husk looked at her, but his expression remained stone cold, unreadable. Vaggie didn’t back down.

“There are people back at the house, people still alive in this hellhole, trying to hang on. They need us, Husk. Even if it’s just for some stupid reason to keep going. Even if we don’t believe in hope, we give them that reason. We give them something to cling to.”

Husk’s grip on the bottle tightened, and Vaggie noticed his jaw clenching.

“And you know what? This isn’t about what we believe anymore. It’s about them. Our families might be gone, but we have each other. And that’s gotta be worth something, right? It has to be.”

For the first time, Husk faltered. His gaze dropped, staring at the bottle in his hand. The words cut through the armor he’d built around himself, the armor he’d clung to so tightly since the world fell apart. Without a word, he tipped the bottle back and swallowed the last bit of whiskey, slamming the empty glass onto the bar.

Vaggie and Angel exchanged a glance, a flicker of relief passing between them. Husk stood, his large frame swaying slightly but steadier now, a weight seemingly lifted off his shoulders. Vaggie exhaled, feeling the tension start to ease as they prepared to leave the bar.

But just as they turned to the door, the creak of hinges and the sound of heavy footsteps stopped them in their tracks. The door slammed shut behind two men who had just walked in. One, a skinny man, held a revolver loosely in his hand. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene.

“Son of a bitch… they’re still alive,” the man said, his voice dripping with disbelief.

The other man, larger and more imposing, had a two-handed gun strapped across his back, though Vaggie couldn’t make out the exact type. It didn’t matter—the danger was clear. The three of them froze, eyes locked on the intruders, the atmosphere in the room thick with impending violence.

Angel's hand inched toward his knife, his breath catching as he glanced at Vaggie and Husk. None of them moved, each waiting to see what would happen next.

The skinny man grinned, raising his revolver ever so slightly. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a party.”

The skinny man sat at the bar, casually pouring himself a drink as if he owned the place. His revolver rested within reach, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned about using it—yet. He took a slow, lazy sip, a smirk spreading across his face. The larger man stood nearby, leaning against the bar island, his eyes scanning Vaggie, Husk, and Angel with cold amusement.

"Name’s Eddie,” the skinny man drawled, setting the glass down with a soft clink. He gestured lazily toward the larger man. “And that big lump over there? That’s Mason. Real sweetheart, don’t let the size fool you.”

Mason grunted in response, his voice a deep rumble as he crossed his arms. “Keep talking like that, Eddie, and I might just eat you alive.”

Eddie let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure, like that time you almost bit your own tongue off chewing on a ration bar. The scariest shit I’ve seen all week.” He took another small swig of whiskey, clearly enjoying the banter.

Across the bar, Vaggie and Husk sat on stools, while Angel stood behind the counter, eyes darting between the two men, clearly calculating their next move. The three exchanged uneasy glances, but they remained silent, waiting for Eddie to make his point. Something was unnerving about how relaxed he seemed, even though they’d just walked in on them. It wasn’t clear yet if these men were a threat or just two survivors making conversation.

Eddie swirled the whiskey in his glass before setting it down again. “You wanna know how we met? Hell of a story, actually. Me and Mason, we crossed paths on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading into the city. I was driving a busted old truck, barely hanging on, and there’s Mason here, walking down the middle of the road like some kinda bear. Nearly ran his ass over.”

Mason chuckled from his spot at the bar island. “You probably should’ve run me over.”

“Maybe,” Eddie said, laughing. “But nah, I got out, asked if he needed a ride. He just looks at me and says, ‘You ain’t gonna eat me, right?’ I tell him, ‘Nah, I’m not into stringy meat.’” Eddie took another sip of whiskey, clearly enjoying his own story. “And that was it. Been stuck with him ever since. Hell of a partnership, though. We make a good team.”

Mason nodded in agreement, his gaze still fixed on the group. Eddie leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with a sudden sharpness. “We were headed into the city, just like everyone else tryin’ to outrun this mess. Funny how you think you’re gonna find safety somewhere, but it’s all the same shit, just different streets.”

Vaggie exchanged a brief glance with Husk, who kept his face neutral, though his hands gripped the edge of the bar tightly.

Angel was the first to break the silence, flashing his usual cocky grin. “Well, it’s been a while since I met some new people. Nice to see we’re not the only ones alive out here. Name’s Angel.”

Vaggie followed her voice flat and measured. “Valeria Rodríguez.”

Eddie’s gaze shifted to Husk, a curious smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “How about you, pal? Care to share your name?”

Husk grunted, his voice low. “I just quit.”

Eddie chuckled, swirling the whiskey in his glass again. “Got a unique sense of timing, my friend.”

Vaggie stepped in, her tone softening a little as she glanced at Husk. “This is Husk. We… lost someone.”

Eddie’s smirk faded for a moment. “I’m… so sorry about that.” He poured himself another shot of whiskey, raising the glass in a mock toast. “To better days and new friends.”

Mason, Vaggie, and Angel each took a shot glass, lifting them in unison. Husk stayed quiet, his hands gripping the bar tightly but not reaching for a drink.

Mason spoke up, his deep voice solemn. “And to our dead. May they be in a better place.”

The four of them downed their shots in silence. The burn of the whiskey settled in the air between them, thickening the tension just a little more.

After a beat, Eddie pulled out his revolver, twirling it casually in his hand. “Got this from a veteran, actually,” he remarked with a chuckle. His eyes glinted as he looked over at Vaggie, clearly testing the waters.

Vaggie’s eye narrowed, and she tilted her head slightly. “I’m a veteran too.”

Eddie’s grin widened, unbothered. “Well, this one’s already dead.”

He chuckled again, though Vaggie didn’t join in. She glanced over at Mason, who was still leaning against the bar, his expression unreadable. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel uneasy as if he were sizing her up.

Without missing a beat, Vaggie poured herself another shot and tossed it back. Her voice was steady as she spoke, though her eye never left Mason. “Must’ve been rough, coming all the way from New Jersey.”

Eddie set his revolver back down and sighed, leaning back on his chair. “Feels like a long way from anywhere these days.”

Vaggie nodded. “So what brought you two to New York City?”

Eddie shrugged, wiping his mouth again after a sip of whiskey. “Well, it wasn’t for the weather. Must’ve dropped 30 pounds in sweat alone down here.”

Mason grunted, “I wish.”

Eddie laughed, tapping the table with his finger. “Nah, first it was D.C. Heard there might be some kind of refugee camp there. But the roads were so jammed, we never even got close. Decided to get off the highways, into the sticks, keep hauling ass.” He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as he continued, “Every group we came across had a new rumor about a way out of this thing. People talk, you know? Desperation makes folks believe anything.”

Mason chimed in. “One guy told us there was a Coast Guard center down in the Gulf, sending ferries to the islands. Whole safe zone out there, they said.”

Eddie snorted, tapping the table with his finger in a rhythmic pattern. “Yeah, but we didn’t buy it. Then the latest one we heard was about a rail yard in Montgomery. Supposedly, they're running trains west, takin’ people to the other side of the country… Utah, Arizona…”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “Arizona?”

Mason smirked, pushing off from the bar island a little. “Everyone’s got a gun there. You’re more likely to get shot than eaten by the freaks.”

Angel chuckled, running a hand through his blond hair. “Kinda makes sense.”

Eddie glanced over at Angel, an amused glint in his eye. “You ever been to Arizona, kid? There’s a reason they call 'em flyover states.”

Mason let out a hearty laugh at the joke, and even Vaggie, despite herself, cracked a small smile. It wasn’t much, but the bad joke helped ease just a little. She reached for another shot and tossed it back, letting the burn take the edge off her nerves. She set her empty glass down with a soft clink, her fingers lingering on the rim for a moment. “So, what’s your plan? You keep moving, hoping to find another rumor, or you settling down somewhere?”

Eddie leaned in slightly, his eyes darkening with something more serious. “Depends. What’s your plan?”

Vaggie hesitated for a split second, considering her options. There was no way she’d risk telling them about Charlie’s getaway location. Instead, she crafted a believable lie. “We’re headed to Fort Ticonderoga. Eventually.”

Eddie’s face twisted into a half-amused, half-pitying smile. “I hate to piss in your cornflakes, soldier, but… we ran into a grunt who used to be stationed at Ticonderoga. Said the place was overrun by lamebrains. Nothing left but ruins and the dead.”

Vaggie had expected something like that. The rumors about the fort had always been shaky, but it was the best story she could come up with on short notice. She didn’t flinch, but the slightest flicker in her expression was enough to show she wasn’t surprised.

Angel, however, couldn’t hide his reaction. He blinked in disbelief, his brow furrowing. “Wait, that place is gone? Are you for real?”

Eddie nodded, his voice lower, almost regretful. “Sadly, I am.” He paused, letting the weight of his words hang before continuing. “The truth is, there’s no way out of this mess. Just keep bouncing from one pipe dream to the next, praying one of those mindless freaks doesn’t get a hold of you while you sleep.”

Mason grunted. “If you sleep.”

The bleak reality of their situation settled in the room like a heavy fog. For a moment, no one spoke, the weight of survival hanging over their heads.

But Eddie, ever the one to keep things moving, quickly shifted gears, glancing at the three. “Yeah, doesn’t seem like you folks are setting down roots here either. So, where are you holed up? Got a base or are you just passing through like us?”

A silence filled the room as Vaggie weighed her response, feeling Eddie’s gaze on her. The seconds stretched long, but finally, she answered, her voice cool and vague. “Not really.”

Eddie leaned back, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “That so?” His eyes flicked over them, assessing. “Y’know, I couldn’t help but notice… you three don’t seem to be carrying much. It’s impossible to travel long distances with so little, not if you’re moving from one place to another like you say.”

Vaggie crossed her arms, leaning back slightly, her face unreadable. “We travel light. Can’t get overburdened, or you won’t make it far.”

Eddie shook his head slowly like he wasn’t buying it. “That’s funny, ‘cause from where I’m sitting, you don’t look like people who’ve been scraping by. You look… well off, like you’ve got yourself a place to bunker down in.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “So where’s all your gear? Can’t be out here on just whiskey and hope.”

Before Vaggie could respond, Husk, who had been sitting quietly, finally spoke up, his voice rough and tired. “We’re with a larger group. Out scouting. Thought we could use a drink.”

Eddie looked momentarily baffled, blinking a few times as if he’d misheard. “A drink? Husk, I thought you quit.”

The room fell into silence again, the tension palpable. Everyone seemed to be sizing each other up, trying to decide if they were friends or foes.

Finally, Eddie broke the quiet, his tone shifting back to something more casual, though there was still a keen edge to his words. “We’ve been thinking of setting up around here, actually. It’s far enough from the main city where the dead overrun everything, but Long Island? Seems manageable. Might be a good place to start fresh.” He then leaned in slightly. "So… is it safe here?"

Angel, always quick to lighten the mood, grinned. “Safe? Sure, if you don’t mind killing a few zombies every now and then. Hell, I took out two on my way over here, one with a—”

As he kept talking, he caught Vaggie’s sharp glare from the corner of his eye—a clear, unmistakable "shut up" look. He trailed off, realizing he was saying too much.

Eddie raised an eyebrow, catching the moment. “Zombies, huh? That’s what you call ‘em?”

Angel chuckled, shrugging. “Yeah, what else would I call ‘em?”

Eddie nodded as if thinking it over. “Y’know, I never thought about it. ‘Zombies’... that’s good. Classic.” He glanced at Mason for his input.

Mason, ever the brooder, chimed in with a more profound tone. “It fits. The dead walking, devoid of thought… fitting label for the world we live in.”

Eddie smirked. “Listen to this guy. You sure you didn’t finish college, Mason?”

Mason grunted, cracking a half-smile. “Only two years. Then the world went to shit.”

Another silence settled between them, but this time, Eddie wasn’t content to let it linger. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “But seriously now. You three set up somewhere on the outskirts, right? Got a little hideaway?”

Mason, never missing a beat, stood up, holding his shotgun loosely by his side. “What is it? Trailer park? Or maybe one of those fancy houses?” He walked casually to the other side of the room, positioning himself uncomfortably close to Vaggie, Angel, and Husk. His eyes glittered with something darker.

Vaggie didn’t answer, her jaw tightening as she tried to keep calm.

She turned to her right, noticing Mason standing off to the side, shotgun propped against the wall as he casually took a piss on the floor. The blatant disrespect sent a wave of unease through her.

As Mason relieved himself, he turned his head slightly, half-smirking. “So… is it safe where you are? Gotta be, right?”

Eddie, sensing the shift in the room, jumped in. “You got food? Water?”

Mason, without missing a beat, added with a crude chuckle, “You got cooze? Ain’t had a piece of ass in weeks.”

The comment made Vaggie’s skin crawl. Her discomfort was clear, but before she could react, Eddie raised his hands in a mock apology, his tone light. “Ah, listen, pardon my friend. City kids… they got no tact.” He flashed a grin, but there was a coldness behind his eyes. "So, listen, Angel—"

Before he could finish, Vaggie cut him off, her voice sharp and commanding. “We’ve said enough.”

Eddie raised his hands in mock surrender but didn’t stop. “Aw, how about a little hospitality? The kind New Yorkers are known for. Open arms and all that.”

Vaggie gazed to Mason, who was now uncomfortably close, hovering just to her right as he paced slowly. His presence was heavy, and threatening. Eddie continued, playing it casual. “See, we got buddies back at camp. Been havin’ a real hard time. I don’t see why you can’t make room for a few more. We could pool our resources… manpower.”

Vaggie shook her head, her voice firm. “Look, I’m sorry. That’s not an option.”

A heavy silence followed her words, Mason’s irritation clear as he shot Eddie an impatient look. Eddie’s smile faltered, replaced by something colder. “Doesn’t sound like it’d be a problem,” he said, his tone hardening.

Husk, who had been quiet up until this point, finally spoke up, his voice flat. “We can’t. We can’t take in any more.”

Eddie chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. “You guys… you’re something else. I thought—” he paused, a hint of hurt creeping into his voice, “I thought we were friends.”

Vaggie met his eyes, her voice steady but edged with tension. “We’ve got people to look out for, too. We don’t know anything about you.”

Eddie nodded, the weight of her words hitting him. His tone turned grim. “No, that’s true. You don’t know anything about us. You don’t know what we’ve had to go through out there. The things we’ve had to do.”

He let the words hang, watching her reaction. “I bet you’ve had to do some of the same things yourself, huh? Am I right?”

Vaggie remained quiet, her face pensive, trying to gauge where this conversation was heading. Eddie pressed on, desperation creeping into his voice. “Because nobody’s hands are clean in what’s left of this world. We’re all the same.”

He leaned forward, his voice softening, almost pleading. “So come on, let’s… let’s take a nice, friendly hayride to this base of yours with your other friends. We can get to know each other.”

Vaggie’s mind raced, analyzing the situation. It smelled like a trap. She didn’t trust Eddie’s story, let alone his intentions. Her thoughts immediately went to Charlie, to the Morningstar residence, to everything she’d risk if she let her guard down for even a second.

She glanced down at her hands, twiddling with the shot glass before setting it aside. Then, she looked up at Eddie, her voice cold, decisive. “That’s not gonna happen.”

Eddie’s expression shifted, his tone darker. “Valeria…”

Mason, on the other hand, spat on the floor, his patience clearly gone. “This is bullshit.”

Vaggie didn’t even look at him as she spoke calmly. “Calm down.”

Mason, his face reddening with anger, took a step closer, towering over her. “Don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t you ever tell me to calm down!”

Eddie stepped back slightly, sensing the tension explodes. “Whoa.”

Mason closed the distance between him and Vaggie, his shotgun slung but his posture threatening. “I’ll shoot you three assholes in the head and take your damn house!”

While he was threatening, Vaggie’s face darkened, her scowl deepening. She abruptly stood up and faced Mason head-on. Despite her smaller stature, she held her ground, standing tall and unflinching, her eye burning with a steely intensity that made Mason pause.

Eddie immediately stepped between the two, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "Relax, Mason. Relax." He glanced at Vaggie, his voice taking on a smooth, almost soothing tone. "Nobody’s killing anybody. Nobody’s shooting anybody, right, Valeria?"

Vaggie looked over to Eddie, watching closely as he began to climb over the bar counter. Her senses sharpened, and her hand instinctively hovered near her holstered pistol on her right side.

As Eddie landed on the other side of the counter, Vaggie heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking from behind her, where Mason stood. She didn’t turn, knowing it was likely his pistol. Instead, she kept her focus locked on Eddie.

Eddie, with a disarming grin, pulled out his revolver—but instead of aiming it, he gently set it down on the counter. “Just friends having a drink, that’s all,” he said, stretching his hands out wide, trying to diffuse the situation. “Now, where’s the good stuff, huh?”

Angel, sitting nearby, glanced nervously between Vaggie and Eddie, his eyes flicking to Mason in the foggy bar mirror in front of him. The big man was still standing, watching Vaggie intently, shotgun slung on his back, but his body language screamed that he was ready to pounce.

As Eddie reached down beneath the counter, Vaggie’s instincts kicked in hard. Her hand gripped the holstered pistol tightly, prepared for the worst. She didn’t break eye contact, not even for a second.

Eddie’s hand emerged with a fresh bottle of whiskey. He set it on the counter, pouring himself a drink. “You gotta understand,” he said in a low voice, his tone almost pleading. “We can’t stay out there. It’s like—”

“Yes, I do understand,” Vaggie interrupted, her voice sharp. “But the group’s too crowded as is. I’m sorry. You’ll have to keep looking.”

Eddie’s face twisted into a bitter expression as he repeated her words mockingly, “Keep looking.” He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “But what do you suggest we do, huh?”

The silence followed. It was as if Eddie were daring her to respond. Vaggie’s eye narrowed. “I don’t know... I hear Arizona’s nice.”

Eddie let out a forced, sarcastic laugh, his smile growing twisted. “Arizona… this bitch…” His grin vanished in an instant. His hand disappeared beneath the counter again, but this time, Vaggie was faster.

In a blur of movement, Vaggie drew her pistol and fired. The gunshot echoed through the room, and Eddie staggered backward, clutching his chest as blood bloomed through his shirt. Mason reacted instantly, reaching to ready his shotgun, but Vaggie was already one step ahead. She pivoted and fired again, the bullet catching Mason in the shoulder, knocking the shotgun upwards as it discharged into the ceiling.

With a final shot, Vaggie aimed and fired directly at Mason’s chest, dropping him where he stood. The room fell into a deadly silence, save for the heavy breathing of those still standing.

Angel, eyes wide with shock, glanced at Vaggie, then back at the bodies on the floor. Vaggie lowered her pistol, her hand steady, though her mind raced with what had just happened.

Vaggie stood still for a moment, her gaze fixed on Mason's lifeless body. The room reeked of gunpowder, blood, and the faint scent of whiskey. The adrenaline pumping through her veins made her hyper-aware of everything—the silence, the tension still thick in the air, the weight of the pistol in her hand. She exhaled slowly, her mind racing as she tried to process the situation.

Angel and Husk stood beside her, both wide-eyed but composed in the aftermath. Vaggie turned to Angel, her voice steady, though there was an undercurrent of concern. “You alright?”

Angel blinked and nodded quickly. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. I just—” He let out a breathy laugh, disbelief still evident in his tone. “I can’t believe you quick-drew those two like you were straight outta Clint Eastwood.”

Vaggie’s expression didn’t shift, her eye scanning Angel for any sign of injury. When she was satisfied, she turned to Husk. “You good?”

Husk, who had been silent through the whole ordeal, gave her a brief nod. “I’m good.” His voice was gravelly, almost detached, as he gestured towards the dead bodies. “We need to head back. Now.”

Without a word, Vaggie knelt beside Mason’s body. She grabbed his shotgun, checking the weapon quickly before patting down his pockets. More shells—just what they needed. She stood and handed both the shotgun and the ammunition to Husk, who accepted them without hesitation.

Meanwhile, Angel had already started looting Eddie’s body. His movements were quick, almost instinctive, as he pulled the revolver from Eddie’s cold grip and then moved to the bar counter to retrieve the rifle. With a swift check of the ammo, he handed the revolver and spare bullets over to Vaggie. She took them wordlessly, sliding the revolver into her belt.

“Let’s go,” Vaggie muttered, her voice low, her eye darting to the front door.

As the three of them moved towards the exit, Vaggie stopped in her tracks. Something outside caught her attention—cars in the distance, growing closer. Her stomach twisted with a sudden sense of foreboding.

She whipped her head around, signaling the other two to get down. “Hold up,” she whispered urgently. “Cars. In the distance.”

Husk and Angel immediately dropped down behind the nearest cover, their eyes following Vaggie’s line of sight. From their position, they could see the cars slowly approaching, kicking up dust as they neared the bar. The rumble of engines echoed faintly through the desolate street.

Vaggie’s mind raced. If these were Eddie and Mason’s friends, they’d be in for a fight. She quickly checked the magazine of her pistol, counting the bullets left. Not many. If things went south, they’d have to be smart, precise, and fast.

She glanced at Angel and Husk, who were both readying themselves for whatever was coming. “Stay low,” she instructed, her voice tense but calm. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. But be ready… for the worst.”

Chapter Text

Vaggie crouched low, her pistol steady, as she positioned herself just by the entrance. Her back pressed against the wall, and she could feel her pulse racing in her ears. Across from her, Angel mirrored her position on the opposite side of the door. Sweat dripped down his face. Husk was tucked behind a toppled table near Angel, gripping Mason’s shotgun tightly, his eyes trained on the door. The air inside the bar was thick with the suffocating quiet.

The bar was deathly quiet, except for their ragged breathing. Vaggie’s heart pounded in her chest as they waited for the first sign of movement outside, every second stretching out painfully.

Then, the faint crunch of gravel and heavy footsteps broke the silence, growing louder. Vaggie’s pulse quickened, her eye narrowing as she strained to hear. Voices followed, the unmistakable sound of multiple men approaching.

“Eddie! Mason!” a voice called out, gruff and impatient.

Vaggie’s stomach dropped. Her assumption was correct. The cars were part of Eddie and Mason’s group. She shot a glance toward Angel and Husk, both of whom were equally on edge.

“Shut the fuck up!” Another man hissed, his tone sharp with frustration. “There are roamers around here. You wanna bring in the noise?”

“We all heard the shots,” a third voice protested. His tone was panicked, desperate. “Are you fucking deaf? Something’s wrong, man.”

“Just stay close and keep quiet, dumbass. You don’t know what’s out here,” the second man snapped back, clearly trying to maintain control of the situation.

“They wouldn’t shoot without a reason,” the first man argued. “Eddie? Mason? You there?”

“Fucking Christ. Shut it, man. We’ll figure it out.”

Vaggie carefully raised her head just enough to peer through one of the cracked windows. The men were in the distance, their dark silhouettes creeping between the shadows, making their way toward the abandoned store next door. Most of the group had moved on, but one man stayed behind, lingering closer to the bar’s entrance.

“Mason! Eddie!” the straggler called again, but his voice was low this time.

Vaggie held her breath, her body still as a statue. The man was close, too close for comfort. Her grip tightened on her pistol, readying herself to fire if necessary. She could hear Angel’s breathing from across the room and the quiet shuffle of Husk adjusting his stance behind the table.

“Hey!” another voice called out from the direction of the store, just loud enough for the man near the bar to hear. “Stay close! You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

The straggler hesitated, his footsteps pausing as if debating whether to keep searching or follow the group. After a moment, he finally relented, turning away from the entrance and heading toward the others.

Vaggie let out a slow breath through her nose, her gaze flicking toward Angel and Husk. She gave a slight nod, signaling them to stay low. They were lucky—for now. But how long could they sit here before someone noticed the men’s absence?

As the footsteps faded toward the store, Vaggie’s mind raced, weighing their options. She then slowly straightened, her knees stiff from the crouched position, and carefully adjusted the curtain with two fingers, peering out into the street. She scanned the area, expecting to see more figures lingering, but the street was empty. No more men, just the faint glint of the setting sun reflecting off the parked cars in the distance.

She exhaled softly, then turned to sneak back across the room, where Angel and Husk waited. Angel broke the silence when she was close enough with a quiet, annoyed whisper.

“Why won’t these guys just fuckin’ leave already?” he muttered, glancing back toward the entrance with a frustrated look.

Husk gave a quiet grunt. “Would you?” he asked, his voice low and dry. The implication was clear—if it were their group, and two of their people had vanished, they wouldn’t leave either.

Considering Husk's point, Vaggie pressed her lips together, but time wasn’t on their side. She crouched beside them, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t sit here any longer,” she said. “We need to head back to the kitchen and take the back way out. We make a run for the house.”

Angel and Husk exchanged glances, both nodding in agreement. Vaggie’s plan was their best shot. Staying here only made them sitting ducks.

Just as they were about to rise and move, the sharp crack of three gunshots echoed outside, freezing them in place. Instinct kicked in immediately—Vaggie, Angel, and Husk dropped back into their original positions, low to the ground. Vaggie crawled back to the window and cautiously peeked out again.

Through the dusty glass, she saw one of the men standing in the street, his pistol raised, still smoking. Another man jogged up to him, “What the hell, man? What happened?”

“Roamers,” the man with the pistol said. “Took care of ‘em.”

“There’s no sign of them. These people just disappeared,” one of the men said, his voice frustrated.

“Yeah, well, we’ve cleared every building but this one,” another man added.

The bickering grew louder, more frantic, as the men went back and forth. “What about the bar? Has anyone checked it yet?”

When one of them answered no, one man, the loudmouth, snapped, “We’re looking for Eddie and Mason, and no one’s even checked the damn bar yet!”

Vaggie’s expression tightened. Her fingers reflexively checked the chamber of her pistol, ensuring it was loaded and ready. She glanced at Angel and Husk, who were both poised and ready. The door creaked, a faint rustle signaling that someone was about to push it open.

Just as the handle turned, Angel sprang into action. With a sharp intake of breath, he flung himself against the door, using his back to slam it shut. The door rattled loudly, the force enough to keep it from opening, but it wouldn’t hold for long.

“Shit,” Angel hissed, pressing his total weight against the wood, trying to keep it from giving way.

“What the hell?” one of the men outside said, confused. “Someone just pushed that door shut! There’s someone in there.”

A pause followed, and another man’s voice broke the silence. “Hey! Is there someone in there?” His tone was less aggressive now, cautious even. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re just looking for our friends.”

Vaggie, still poised with her pistol aimed at the door. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. She could hear the faint whisper of one of the men outside.

“Bust the door open,” someone suggested in a low voice.

“No,” another quickly shot back. “We don’t know how many are in there. Relax.”

Vaggie’s gaze flicked toward the bar, catching sight of Eddie and Mason’s bodies, still and bleeding out. Her mind raced, her palms slick with sweat. They were running out of options.

“Look,” the man outside called again, his tone almost pleading now, “we don’t want any trouble. We just need to find our friends. If something happened to them, tell us. We just need to know.”

Vaggie felt a sickening dread settle in her gut. She could hear the group outside murmuring to each other, strategizing. “Guard the door,” someone ordered. “Whoever’s in there might know what happened to Eddie and Mason.”

Vaggie’s mind raced. Fuck. We are cornered. Still holding the door shut with his body, Angel shot her a look, silently pleading for her next move.

Vaggie cursed herself under her breath, her teeth clenched. Finally, her voice broke through the silence, loud enough to be heard outside. “They drew on us!”

The words echoed in the room. Husk’s head whipped toward her, his eyes wide—whether in surprise or silently screaming what the fuck, was unclear. Angel shot her a nervous glance, his lips pressed together in a tight line, unsure if that was the right move.

There was a heavy pause from outside, and then one of the men shouted back, his voice demanding. “Eddie and Mason—are they in there? Are they alive?”

Vaggie’s throat tightened, her mind racing, overthinking every possible outcome. She knew how these people operated—telling the truth could unleash a hail of bullets. They had the advantage in firepower: shotguns, rifles, while Vaggie and Angel were armed only with pistols. And then there was her lack of depth perception, a glaring weakness she couldn’t afford to forget. Husk’s drunken state was another liability. They were in no condition to fight like this, yet lying could escalate things just as fast.

Her mouth went dry, and she took a quick breath before answering. “No.”

A beat of silence followed, and then a low, grim voice echoed from outside. “They killed Eddie and Mason.”

One of the men muttered something under his breath, but another responded louder. “We have to leave.”

“No way!” someone shouted back. “I’m not leaving! And I’m sure as hell not telling Lydia. I’m not going back and telling them Eddie and Mason got shot by some assholes hiding in a bar!”

Vaggie, crouched low against the wall, could feel every muscle in her body tighten, a war raging inside her.

Shoot. Just shoot already, a voice in her head urged. Her finger twitched near the trigger, her body tense, ready to act. But something held her back—Charlie’s voice, whispering in the back of her mind. We don’t have to kill them all. There’s another way. Charlie’s way.

She’d tried that with Eddie and Mason before, and it failed spectacularly. They’d drawn first. They’d given her no choice, and now two bodies lay bleeding out just a few feet away. Charlie’s shit didn’t work, her mind argued. It’s not going to work now.

But still, Vaggie hesitated.

Her breath was shallow, her heart racing. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, her thoughts swirling in a storm of indecision. Just shoot! End this! But something deeper in her, something she shared with Charlie, fought back. Try. One last time.

Gathering her resolve, Vaggie shouted toward the men outside. “Your friends drew on us!” Her voice was loud and clear, though strained with desperation. “They gave us no choice! I’m sure we’ve all lost enough people. Done things we wish we didn’t have to. But it’s like that now—you know that!” She frowns but forces herself to be neutral before continuing, “So let’s all chalk this up to what it was. Wrong place, wrong—”

The deafening sound of gunshots cut off her plea. Glass shattered, raining down over Angel as he shielded himself beneath the window, covering his head as shards bounced off the floor. Vaggie flinched, ducking lower as she gritted her teeth.

Fuck, so much for that.

Vaggie’s body moved on autopilot, instinct overriding hesitation as she stood up, aiming her pistol over the shattered window. She fired back without a second thought, her shots aimed at the vague silhouettes of the men outside. “Get outta here!” she yelled, her voice barely audible over the gunfire. “Go!”

Angel and Husk didn’t need to be told twice. They scrambled toward the back exit, ducking low as bullets rained down around them. The sound of gunfire was deafening. Bullets tore through the bar, splintering wood and shattering bottles behind the counter. Glass rained like shards of ice, tinkling against the floor.

Angel nearly slipped as he dashed behind an overturned table, the sound of bullets whizzing past his head, making his heart pound in his ears. In his panic, he dropped his pistol, cursing under his breath as he dove for cover near an old piano, his hands shaking too much to grab the weapon in time.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered under his breath, glancing toward the gun just a few feet away, knowing he couldn’t make a move without risking a bullet to the skull.

Husk crawled toward the dropped pistol, dodging gunfire as he moved. When he finally reached it, he slid the weapon across the floor to Angel, who snatched it up with trembling hands, relieved.

Vaggie, crouched low under the shattered window. She could feel the bullets ripping through the space around her, and she knew better than to expose herself. Firing back blindly wouldn’t help. Instead, she kept her head low, waiting, thinking.

The gunfire was relentless, but then, as quickly as it began, it stopped. Silence fell over the room. Vaggie’s ears rang, the sharp noise of gunfire replaced by an eerie stillness.

Why did they stop? Her mind raced. Slowly, she unloaded her pistol’s empty magazine, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to keep herself calm. Why the hell did they stop?

Acting instinctually, Vaggie forced herself to take a deep breath, then yelled toward the men outside. “Hey! We all know this isn’t gonna end well! There’s nothing in it for any of us! Back off, and no one else gets hurt!”

She quickly reloaded, sliding a fresh magazine into her pistol and racking the chamber. There was no response from the men outside, just the faint sound of shuffling feet from the building next door. They’re flanking us.

She glanced at Angel, who had his gun raised and was positioned closer to the kitchen. Vaggie motioned for him to move.

Angel sprinted toward the back. His footsteps were quick as he approached the kitchen door, gripping the handle and carefully easing it open. The kitchen was dimly lit, shadows cast across the grimy tiles and broken countertops. The air was thick with the stench of decay, but Angel didn’t let it distract him. Every sound—his shoes on the tiles, the squeak of an old refrigerator—made him wince.

It was too quiet. The silence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Every step he took felt like he was walking into a death trap.

As he neared the back exit, Angel heard the unmistakable sound of a voice. “Shit,” one of the men outside cursed. Angel’s eyes flicked toward the door as the doorknob began to turn slowly. Without thinking, his gun was up, finger on the trigger, and before he could second-guess it, he fired through the wooden door.

BANG!

The gunshot echoed in the kitchen, deafeningly loud in the confined space.

Back in the bar, the gunshot jolted Vaggie into action. “Angel!” she called, panic edging into her voice. She quickly got to her feet, moving toward the kitchen with her pistol raised. Still, by the long wall, Husk saw her movement and got to his feet, ready to follow.

Hearing Vaggie’s voice, Angel raised his arm in a silent signal. “I’m good!” he shouted back. “I’m good…” He crouched behind a metal counter, checking his pistol's chamber to ensure it was fully loaded.

Meanwhile, Vaggie reached Husk’s side. “I’m gonna hold them here,” she said. “You cover Angel. Tell him to pull back—we’re running for it. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

Husk, still slightly buzzed but surprisingly coherent, frowned. “You sure about this? You want me covering for him?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Vaggie’s face. “You still remember how to shoot, right? All those military days gonna come in handy?”

Husk grunted. “I know how to shoot. A little rusty, but…” He gave a nonchalant shrug, then started toward the kitchen.

Angel was still crouched behind the counter when he heard approaching footsteps. Instinctively, he turned, raising his gun—only to freeze when he realized it was Husk.

Unimpressed, Husk pushed the gun down gently, smirking. “Easy there. Vaggie wants you to make a run for it. Head around the street, back to the house.”

Angel let out a dry, sarcastic laugh. “Try?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Husk just gave him a tired smile. “You’re gonna try and succeed. I’ll cover you.”

Angel sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Great plan,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on his pistol. Angel gripped the back door handle, taking one last look at Husk before he cautiously pulled it open. The alley behind the bar was eerily still, illuminated only by the setting sunlight casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. Angel's steps were slow and deliberate as he edged forward, keeping low to avoid being an easy target.

Husk lingered behind at the doorway, shotgun in hand. It wasn’t long before something caught his attention—a flicker of movement near an abandoned car parked at the far end of the alley. A figure emerged, a gun raised, aimed directly at Angel.

"Angel, down!" Husk barked.

Angel dodged just as the shot rang out, the bullet narrowly missing him. Husk’s reaction was immediate. He fired his shotgun with a deafening blast, the spread hitting the man square in the chest. The distance dulled the impact, but the man collapsed, groaning in pain, clutching his torso where pellets tore through fabric and flesh.

Husk stepped into the alley, his gaze dropping briefly to the body by the doorway—the man Angel had shot earlier—before he turned his attention back to the groaning figure on the ground. Husk didn’t react; the man’s pained moans seemed to fall on deaf ears as he focused instead on the alley ahead.

Vaggie hurried out from the kitchen, eye darting between Husk and the downed man. “What happened?” she asked tensely.

“He fired,” Husk gestures toward the dumpster. “Angel must’ve been hit. He’s behind there, not moving. No smartass comments either, so he might be in shock.”

The man on the ground moaned louder, calling for help. Vaggie ignored him, and her focus was solely on Angel. Her back hugged the wall as she approached the dumpster. Both of her guns were raised, sweeping the alley in both directions.

“Angel!” Vaggie called with her low voice. “You hit?”

No response.

She inched closer. “Angel, talk to me. You hit?”

Finally, a shaky voice came from behind the dumpster. “No… I’m not hit.”

Vaggie released a relieved breath, holstering the revolver as she crouched beside Angel. He was pale, breathing shallowly, clearly rattled by the near miss. “You’re okay,” she said softly, touching his shoulder. “We’ll get out of this.”

Angel nodded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Vaggie scanned the empty street, her senses on high alert. The silence was unnerving as if something far worse was lurking just out of sight. She turned to Angel. “We need to move.”

But as they stood to leave, gunfire erupted from across the street, sending them ducking back behind the dumpster. Bullets ricocheted off the metal, forcing them to huddle low. “Get back!” Vaggie yelled, pressing Angel down as the shots rang out.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the gunfire ceased, leaving only the distant rumble of engines and the frantic shouts of the men outside.

“Roamers are everywhere! We gotta get out of here!” one man yelled, his voice filled with panic.

Another voice called out desperately, “Is he with you?”

“He got shot!” another man replied, his voice strained with fear. The chaotic exchange continued as cars screeched into motion, their engines roaring to life.

Vaggie and Angel remained crouched, listening to the fading voices. “Hurry up!” one shouted. “They’re coming! We can’t stay here!”

One of the men from the rooftop yelled, “I’m jumping!”

A sickening thud echoed down the street, followed by a gut-wrenching scream. “Help! Help me!” the man’s cries were frantic, filled with agony.

The other men hesitated. “Shit. We gotta go! We can’t get him!”

Vaggie, who had heard everything from her position, winced at the man’s cries. She turned to Angel, her expression hardening. “Go get Husk.”

Angel nodded and sprinted back to the bar. He skidded to a stop at the alley’s entrance, breathless and rattled. He was about to call out to Husk, but something made him freeze. Just behind Husk, there is an unmistakable shuffling of zombies.

“Shit,” Angel whispered under his breath.

The zombies stumbled toward the downed man, the one Husk had shot earlier. His weak groans of pain turned into screams of terror as he realized what was coming. Standing right outside the back door, Husk watched with a grim, detached expression. He didn’t move or even flinch as the first zombie bent down, grabbing hold of the man's ankle.

The man thrashed, screaming louder, pleading for help, but it was too late. The zombie sunk its teeth into his leg, ripping flesh and muscle away in chunks. Blood splattered across the pavement as the man howled in agony, his fingers clawing at the ground in a desperate attempt to crawl away. More zombies descended on him, their growls low and guttural as they tore into him. One grabbed his arm, gnawing down to the bone. Another dug its rotten fingers into his chest, ripping at the skin with such ferocity that his ribs cracked audibly under the pressure.

The man’s screams reached a horrific crescendo as one of the zombies buried its face into his abdomen, tearing through his shirt and ripping out his intestines. The slick, gory coils spilled onto the pavement like wet rope, the zombies fighting each other to get at the fresh meat. His screams turned into gurgles as blood filled his mouth, and his head lolled to the side, his eyes wide and glassy in death.

Husk finally turned away, his jaw clenched tight. He strolled toward Angel and didn’t say a word as he approached. Angel’s eyes were wide, still processing the gruesome scene behind Husk.

“The gunfire must’ve drawn them in,” Husk muttered as he met Angel halfway. “Where’s Vaggie?”

Angel swallowed hard. “She… she ran across the street.” He pointed toward the other side of the street.

Husk stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. “Hell, we can’t leave without her.” Without waiting for a response, he took off in the direction Angel had pointed, shotgun at the ready while Angel trailed close behind.

They reached the other side of the street, the narrow alley flanked by two small stores. In the distance, they could see Vaggie standing near the metal picket fence that separated the buildings.

As they approached, a voice interrupted the quiet, a desperate plea.

“Don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave me!”

The man’s voice was broken, barely audible over the distant sound of the zombies feasting. His leg was impaled on the sharp tip of the metal picket fence. Blood dripped down in steady streams. The man’s face was pale, twisted in a grimace of pain, his hands clutching the wall as he tried and failed to free himself.

Husk was the first to reach Vaggie’s side, his breath heavy. “We gotta move. Now,” he said urgently, glancing down at the impaled man but making no move to help.

The man on the fence groaned, his face contorting with pain. “Please... don’t leave me... I can’t... I don’t wanna die.”

Vaggie hesitated, her gaze flickering between Husk, the man, and the distant sound of approaching zombies. Angel finally caught up to them, panting as he saw the man hanging on the fence, his body trembling from blood loss and shock.

Vaggie bit her lip, her resolve faltering. “We can’t just leave him like this,” she muttered, her eye darting between Husk and the wounded man. “He’ll bleed out. We could—"

“Are you kidding me?” Angel interrupted. “This asshole and his buddies shot at us, toots. We barely made it out alive, and you wanna save him?”

Vaggie stood her ground, her expression hardening as she ignored Angel’s rising temper. “We’re not leaving him to die like this, Angel. We can tourniquet his leg, pull him off the fence, and staunch the bleeding. If we’re quick, he might survive.”

“Survive?!” Angel shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “The place is crawling with zeds! We don’t have time to play doctor, and even if we did, it’s not like we’re swimming in meds. We can’t save everyone!” His voice echoed down the alley as he pointed toward the darkness. “He’s dead weight, and you know it!”

Husk hummed in agreement, loading another shell into his shotgun. “He’s right. We don’t have enough medicine to save his ass, even if we managed to get him down from there. He’s as good as dead.”

Vaggie shot them both a fierce glare, and her fists clenched at her sides. “I’m not leaving him to die like this.”

Angel shook his head, pacing in tight circles as his frustration boiled over. “Damn it! This is exactly what Charlie would do—she’d try to save everyone, no matter what. And look where that’s gotten us!” He pointed back toward the alley they’d just come from, his voice growing angrier. “You’re acting like her, and it’s gonna get us killed! We need to leave now.”

Vaggie snapped. “Don’t bring Charlie into this, Angel! I’m not her; this isn’t about some naïve sense of morality. This is about not becoming like them. We’re not them!”

Angel clenched his jaw, glaring at the bleeding man before returning to Vaggie. “Charlie would’ve spared his ass no matter what,” he spat, folding his arms. “Always the saint, right?”

Vaggie bristled at the fact he kept talking about her. “Charlie knows how to read people. She wouldn’t spare just anyone.”

Angel shot her a sharp look, his frustration mounting. “Oh yeah? Then why don’t you read him like you read that shit between Eddie and Mason back at the bar?”

“That was different!” Vaggie snapped back. “They weren’t stuck on a damn fence, bleeding out!”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is!” Angel snarled, throwing up his hands.

Husk had enough. “Both of you shut the fuck up!” He yelled, then stepped toward the impaled man, who was now barely conscious, his eyes fluttering open and shut in pain. “Fuck it. We’re haulin’ him off this damn fence. Angel, help.”

Angel opened his mouth to protest, but Husk’s glare stopped him cold. Before he could argue, the distant sound of shuffling feet and groaning grew louder. Zombies were closing in from both sides of the alley.

“Shit!” Angel cursed under his breath, his face twisting in frustration. “Fine! But if we get eaten alive, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Vaggie’s eye darted between the man on the fence and the approaching horde. “We need a stick or something,” she muttered, turning to Angel and Husk. “To tourniquet his leg before we pull him off. Otherwise, he’ll bleed out faster.”

Angel frantically looked around until he spotted a broken piece of wood nearby. He grabbed it, tossing it to Vaggie. “Here, use this.”

Without wasting a second, Vaggie quickly wrapped the stick and her handkerchief around the man’s thigh, tying it tightly to cut off the blood flow. The man groaned weakly, his body trembling from shock.

“Hold still,” Vaggie ordered. She gripped the man’s leg near the wound and looked at Husk and Angel. “On three, we pull him off.”

“Great,” Angel muttered, his face tight with dread.

“One... two... three!” Vaggie shouted, and all three of them yanked the man’s leg off the fence. The metal scraped against bone and flesh, and the man let out a blood-curdling scream.

Before the sound could attract even more attention, Vaggie clamped her bare hand over his mouth, muffling the noise. “Shut up!” she hissed as she fought to keep the man quiet.

The man's muffled screams continued, his face contorted in agony, but Vaggie pressed harder, her hand slick with blood as she held him down. The zombies’ groans were getting louder, echoing from both ends of the alley.

“Hurry up!” Angel urged, his eyes darting between the injured man and the approaching zombies. “They’re almost on top of us!”

Vaggie tightened the tourniquet as best she could. Husk lifted his shotgun, covering one side of the alley. “You two, get him up! I’ll buy us some time.”

Angel grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him to his feet, and together with Vaggie, they started dragging him down the alley as fast as they could. The man was barely conscious, his legs wobbling beneath him as they hauled him along.

Husk fired a round into the oncoming horde, the blast echoing through the alley. “Move!” he shouted, stepping back to cover their retreat.

As they moved as quickly as they could through the narrow alley, the weight of the bleeding man slowed their pace. Vaggie’s sharp breaths came faster, and she glanced at Angel, his face tight with strain. “Let him go, Angel,” she ordered. “I’ll carry him. You’ll move faster without him.”

Angel hesitated, his brows knitting together, but Vaggie’s gaze was steely. He let go of the man, stepping aside as Vaggie expertly hoisted him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The man groaned weakly, but Vaggie kept moving.

Husk fired another round at the approaching zombies before turning to Vaggie. “What’s the plan now?” he asked, reloading quickly. “We can’t drag him back like this.”

“We’ll head back to the neighborhood,” Vaggie replied, her voice strained under the man’s weight. “But first, we must find a nearby house to treat his leg properly. He won’t make it if we don’t stop the bleeding soon.”

Husk gave a sharp nod. “I hope you know what you’re doin’.”

Angel sprinted ahead, not saying a word. He was frustrated but knew better than to argue when things were falling apart.

Vaggie gritted her teeth, trying to keep up with the others. The man was heavier than he looked, and every step sent a fresh wave of pain through his body, causing his leg to bleed more. The sticky warmth of his blood-soaked through her clothes, and she felt the slickness of it against her skin.

The three veered off from the main street, darting into a side road with tightly packed houses. Vaggie’s legs trembled as she carried the man, feeling the hot pulse of blood dripping from his leg. “We need to stop soon,” she grunted, her eye scanning the houses ahead. “His leg’s getting worse.”

Husk glanced at the surrounding area and pointed to a similar suburban house ahead. “There! We’ll take him inside.”

Angel was already by the door, frantically checking for any signs of movement inside. “It’s clear!” he called back.

Vaggie staggered forward, her breath ragged as she carried the barely conscious man into the house.

Inside the abandoned house, Husk, Vaggie, and Angel barged in. Angel slammed the front door shut behind them, quickly sliding an old, heavy bookcase in front of it as Husk scanned the windows. He moved around the room, yanking the dirty, moth-eaten curtains shut, blocking any street visibility.

Meanwhile, Vaggie guided the barely conscious man toward the filthy couch in the living room. His weight made her knees buckle slightly, but she lowered him carefully, setting him down with surprising gentleness.

Vaggie crouched beside him, pulling a grimy blanket from the back of the couch as a makeshift cushion for his head. She tore off the blood-soaked bandage she had used earlier and examined the man’s leg. The wound was deep, but fortunately, the tourniquet had slowed the bleeding more than she’d expected.

Husk crouched beside her, his voice low. “How bad is it?”

“He’s in shock, but he hasn’t bled out as much as I thought,” Vaggie said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “We’ve got a chance to save him.”

She dug into her bag, pulling out a small first-aid kit they’d scavenged days earlier. It wasn’t much—just some gauze, tape, and antiseptic wipes. There are not enough severe injuries, but it’d have to do. “Angel, hand me that jacket,” she called out.

Angel, pacing by the window, grabbed an old jacket off a nearby chair and tossed it to her. Vaggie tore it into strips, fashioning a more secure tourniquet around the man’s thigh, pulling it tight to stem the blood flow further.

“Hold him steady,” she ordered, and Husk braced the man’s shoulders as Vaggie cleaned the wound with one of the antiseptic wipes. The man stirred briefly, his face twisting in pain, but he didn’t wake. His dark skin was pale, his breathing shallow, but he was still alive. That was all that mattered for now.

After she cleaned the wound as best she could, Vaggie packed the hole with gauze and wrapped the leg tightly with the jacket strips, securing it with tape. She tied off the tourniquet again, checking the pressure to ensure it would hold.

Husk watched her work in silence, impressed by how quickly she moved. He exhaled, nodding. “That should hold for now.”

Vaggie sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on her pants, exhausted. “We’ll need more supplies if he’s going to make it, but at least we’ve stopped the bleeding. He just needs time to recover.”

Angel stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “And what if he doesn’t? We’re out of meds, and this place crawls with those things. What then?”

Vaggie shot him a tired look and leaned back against the couch, her muscles aching from carrying the man. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. For now, he’s stable, and we rest.”

Husk grunted, settling into an old chair beside the couch. “He’s in shock, but if he makes it through the night, he’s got a shot.”

Angel ran a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration as he shot a glare at the man lying unconscious on the couch. "I can’t believe we wasted our time and energy on this fucking guy," he muttered, shaking his head. “We should’ve just left him to die. What if this gets us killed?”

Vaggie was about to snap back, her temper rising, but Husk spoke up first. “None of us liked it, Angel. You think I wanted to save him? Hell no. But you gotta remember, we’ve all been through some messed-up shit before Vaggie and Charlie showed up. You were working with the cartel, and I was a convict, same as Alastor and Niffty—chained up in our prison uniforms when they found us.”

Angel stopped pacing, turning toward Husk, who sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Everyone’s been fucked up in one way or another. That’s just the world we live in now. And Charlie? Miss Bleeding Heart herself? She’s the one who decides how we handle this bullshit. It'll be her call when we bring this guy back to the house.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Angel scowled, but his shoulders slumped in reluctant agreement. “I hate that you’re right,” he grumbled, kicking at the floor. “Still, this guy better wake up by the time we get back to start questioning him.”

Vaggie rolled her eye, sitting beside the man to keep an eye on his condition. “Question him? What’s the point? His people abandoned him. They left him to die.”

“Yeah? And that’s supposed to mean something?” Angel shot back, leaning against the wall by the window with crossed arms. “Eddie and Mason were begging to meet up with the rest of our crew, and their whole group screams bad news. Armed to the teeth, and they had no problem shooting at us, just like they were about to shoot you back there.”

Vaggie bristled, her eye flashing as she snapped back, “Did you even notice that this guy didn’t fire a single shot? He wasn’t part of the gunfight. He didn’t look like he wanted to be there. Just because someone’s caught up with a bad group doesn’t mean they signed up for all of it. Or have you forgotten your fucking situation with the cartel?!”

Angel’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He opened his mouth to retort, but Husk stepped between them, cutting the argument off before it could escalate further.

“Alright, enough! Both of you!” Husk sharply interrupted as he fixed them both with a stern look. “We’ve wasted enough time here already.” He looks at Vaggie, “You’re carrying this guy back to the house while Angel and I will cover you.”

Vaggie and Angel exchanged frustrated glances, but no room left for protest. Husk’s authority, even in his usual semi-intoxicated state, was undeniable. They both sighed, nodding reluctantly.

“Fine,” Angel muttered.

Vaggie bent down, hoisting the unconscious man onto her shoulder once again. “Let’s move,” she said.

The trio slipped out the backdoor of the abandoned house, stepping into the cool night air. The sun had long since set, and the only light now came from the flickering streetlights that barely illuminated the dark streets. They knew this would be risky; the night was always more dangerous, but they had no choice. The distant groans of zombies echoed through the alleys, the moaning growing louder near Suffolk Avenue, but they weren’t the only threat.

Vaggie gritted her teeth under the weight of the unconscious man on her shoulder. Husk, slightly swaying, followed close behind, his grip tightening on his gun while Angel took point.

They slipped out the back and into the narrow alley, crouching low as they maneuvered between the houses. The night air was cool, and they needed to return to Charlie and the others, yet the streets were far from safe.

Vaggie adjusted her grip on the unconscious man slung over her shoulder, her muscles aching under his weight. The man was tall, heavy, and dead weight. She could feel her legs burning with each step as they began their careful descent down the street.

Angel took the lead, creeping, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. He was tense, frustrated, and annoyed with the whole situation. But Angel couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, his eyes catching hers as he whispered, “You good?”

“Just keep moving,” Vaggie hissed, her voice tight with effort.

Behind him, Husk staggered slightly, his intoxication evident in the way he struggled to keep his balance. He grumbled under his breath but did his best to stay focused, shotgun in hand, ready to shoot at any sudden movement. He reeked of alcohol, but the adrenaline of the situation was keeping him on his feet—barely. His boots scuffed the pavement occasionally, earning sharp glances from Angel, but Husk just muttered, “I’m fine.”

As they snuck down Fulton Street, the shadows from the buildings stretched long across the ground, making the path ahead feel more claustrophobic. They stuck close to the walls, moving in short bursts between cover. Aside from the faint groaning in the distance, the streets were eerily quiet.

Despite the relative quiet, the challenge of sneaking while Vaggie carried the unconscious man was growing harder by the minute. Her steps were becoming heavier, and she could feel her body starting to strain under the weight. “Angel,” Vaggie hissed, her breath labored, “I can’t carry him much longer. We need to move faster.”

Angel glanced back, his frustration clear, but he nodded. “Almost there, just a couple more blocks. Hold on.”

Vaggie gritted her teeth and adjusted her grip again, forcing herself to keep moving.

Finally, after an eternity of sneaking through darkened streets and alleys, they reached the block where Charlie, Alastor, and Niffty were holed up in a suburban house. The house came into view, its windows dark but the front door faintly visible in the dim light.

Angel darted forward, checking the perimeter before motioning for the others to follow. Vaggie staggered behind him, finally reaching the door as Angel opened it. Husk raised the rear, his shotgun still in hand, though his steps were unsteady.

The inside of the house was a massive contrast to the danger outside. It was quiet, almost peaceful. Charlie looked up from where she was sitting, her expression shifting to concern as she saw Vaggie struggling under the man's weight. Alastor was by the window, keeping watch, while Niffty busied herself sorting the group’s inventory as if they weren’t living in the middle of an apocalypse.

Charlie’s face softened with relief when she saw the three enter the house. “You guys made it back. Husk, you good?” She asked, noticing his swaying stance. Her eyes quickly shifted to the unconscious man Vaggie was struggling with. “Who’s that?”

Vaggie carefully lowered the man onto the floor, finally freed from the burden. She stretched her arms and took a deep breath before answering. “Found him while we were dealing with some… other guys. He’s injured but still alive. Barely.”

Charlie knelt beside the man, examining the makeshift bandages and torn fabric holding the wound together by his left thigh. Observing him, he has dark skin and his black hair is tied in a messy bun. Basing the wrinkles on his face, must’ve been slightly older than Charlie. “And you brought him here?” Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just a bit surprised.

“Yeah,” Vaggie exhaled, sitting back and rubbing her sore shoulder. “We couldn’t just leave him to die. He’s not one of them… at least, not willingly.”

Angel leaned against the door, his arms crossed. “That’s what Vags thinks, but we don’t know for sure as shit. We risked a lot dragging this guy back here, dollface. He better have some answers when he wakes up.”

Charlie glanced up at Angel, her brows knitting together. “You think he’s a threat?”

Angel shrugged. “I think we’ve got enough problems without adding another stranger to the mix. But hey, it’s not my call.” He shot a look at Husk. “You good, old man? It looked like you were about to pass out back there.”

Husk grunted as he dropped heavily into a chair. “Ain’t dead yet, am I?” He slumped, wiping sweat from his forehead. “But dragging this guy back was a real pain in the ass.”

Niffty bounced over from the corner, her usual energy at odds with the tense atmosphere. “At least the bad boy’s not a zombie, right? I’ll grab some more bottled water for everyone.” She zipped off to the kitchen, leaving the group in a moment of silence.

Charlie’s eyes softened as she looked down at the man, her hand resting on his arm gently. “If he wakes up, we’ll find out who he is. But for now, let’s give him a chance. We’ve all needed one at some point, haven’t we?”

Vaggie nodded, wiping her brow. “He’s in shock, but I patched him up as best as I could. We’re low on meds, but… he should pull through the night.”

Angel sighed, pacing the room, his nerves still on edge. “Fine. But we better get something useful out of him. The last thing we need is another fucking asshole.”

Alastor, silently watching by the window, finally spoke, his tone light-like in a singsong voice. “Trouble seems to have a way of finding us, regardless of who we drag along, doesn’t it?”

Charlie gave a small smile, stood up, brushed dust off her slacks, and adjusted her folded sleeves. “We’ll handle it,” she said.

Vaggie sat back on her heels, looking between the group. “Just… something about him felt different.”

Angel scoffed but didn’t push it further. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

Niffty returned with bottled water, passing it around before glancing at the unconscious man. “I could clean him up a bit, make him more comfortable?”

Charlie smiled at her. “Thanks, Niffty. But for now, let’s just watch and wait.”

Vaggie, Angel, and Husk each took long gulps from their bottled waters like they hadn’t had a proper drink in days. Husk, in particular, drained half the bottle in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a satisfied sigh as he leaned back in the chair.

Angel, finishing his drink, broke the brief silence. “That hit the spot.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Charlie, watching the unconscious man, finally broke the silence. She turned her gaze toward the group. “We’re not hitting the road again until he wakes up. We’ll stay put for now, rest up. No use pushing ourselves any further tonight.”

There were no protests. Everyone seemed to agree with the plan, even Angel, who simply nodded. Husk didn’t say anything, just leaned back in his chair, trying to shake off the exhaustion. Alastor, as always, remained indifferent as if nothing held his interest. He gave a slight hum, acknowledging the decision, and returned to gazing out the window.

After a moment, Charlie walked over to Vaggie and lightly tapped her shoulder. “Hey, can we talk?” she asked, a little quieter and more personal. Vaggie, still drained from the day, nodded.

She took Charlie’s extended hand, allowing her to help her up from the floor. The exhaustion from the bullshit of the day’s events weighed heavily on her, but there was something comforting about Charlie’s presence.

Charlie led her toward the guest room on the other side of the staircase. Once they were inside, Charlie quietly locked the door behind them. Vaggie sat on the edge of the bed, setting her water bottle aside, curious about what Charlie wanted to discuss. “What’s on your mind—” Vaggie began, but before she could finish, Charlie stepped closer to kneel and pressed her lips against hers in a sudden, soft kiss.

Vaggie’s eye widened in surprise, her body tensing for a moment. But as the shock wore off, she leaned into it, her exhaustion melting away in the warmth of Charlie’s touch. The kiss grew deeper, more passionate, as Charlie’s hands slid up to cup Vaggie’s face, pulling her closer. Charlie’s breath was hot against Vaggie’s lips, and the latter responded in kind, her arms wrapping around Charlie’s shoulders, drawing her in as if she’d been craving this connection for longer than she realized.

Finally, Charlie pulled back, her face flushed, breathless from the kiss. “I missed you,” she whispered, her voice shaking slightly. “God, I’ve been so worried about you—about all of this. When you and Angel went after Husk, I couldn’t stop thinking about what could’ve happened. I—” Her words were cut off by Vaggie’s gentle finger pressing against her lips.

Vaggie touched Charlie’s lips gently, shushing her with a soft, affectionate smile. “Shhh,” Vaggie murmured, her voice tender. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I get it. I’m here.”

Charlie’s eyes softened, and she leaned her forehead against Vaggie’s, letting out a shaky breath. “I just… I didn’t know how to say it.”

Vaggie smiled, her thumb brushing over Charlie’s cheek. “You just did.”

Charlie pulled back slightly, just enough to gaze into Vaggie’s eye, though it was clear she had to consciously stop herself from glancing away after a moment. “What happened… when you went after Husk?” she asked softly, her fingers lingering on Vaggie’s arm.

Vaggie hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor as if weighing how much to say. She took a deep breath and finally spoke, her voice low. “When Angel and I found Husk, he was… well, he was drinking himself to death in some rundown bar.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Took a while to convince him to come with us.”

Charlie frowned, concern etched across her face as she listened closely. “But you got him back. That’s what matters, right?”

Vaggie nodded, but her shoulders tensed slightly. “Yeah, but… then…” She trailed off, her voice faltering. It was clear that whatever had happened next weighed heavily on her.

Charlie’s frown deepened, her brows knitting together. “Vaggie, what is it?” she asked gently, though the concern in her voice was unmistakable. “You can tell me.”

Vaggie sighed, glancing up at Charlie. She knew Charlie wouldn’t let it go, and honestly, keeping things bottled up didn’t seem like the best idea these days—especially when death seemed to linger around every corner. “We… we met two strangers,” Vaggie finally said, her voice softer now. “Just as we were about to leave the bar after convincing Husk to come along, they walked in.”

Charlie’s eyes widened slightly. “Strangers?” she asked, her concern deepening. “What happened with them?”

Vaggie hesitated again before giving the vaguest answer she could muster. “They didn’t make it.”

Charlie blinked, her mouth opening slightly to ask more, but she stopped herself. Instead, she just took a steadying breath, trying to process it. “I’m sorry, Vaggie,” she whispered, reaching out to take her hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it’s hard…”

Vaggie nodded, her expression tight as she squeezed Charlie’s hand back, but she was grateful Charlie didn’t press for details. The memory of what had happened wasn’t something she was eager to relive right now.

After a pause, Charlie asked, “And the injured man? How did you find him?”

Vaggie exhaled, shaking her head. “His group attacked us. Out of nowhere—a gunfight broke out. We didn’t even see them coming.” She paused, remembering the chaos of bullets flying through the air. “There were several casualties, and… the man? He got injured trying to escape. He jumped off a rooftop to avoid getting shot, but when he got hurt, his people just left him behind like he was nothing. That’s when we found him.”

Charlie’s face tightened with a mix of sympathy and frustration. “They abandoned him?”

“Yeah,” Vaggie muttered. “Didn’t even look back.”

Charlie shook her head in disbelief. “We’ll take care of him. We’ll figure out what to do when he wakes up, but… at least he’s got a chance now.”

Vaggie gave a slight nod. “Yeah… he does.”

Charlie sat back, processing everything Vaggie had just told her. She gently brushed a strand of hair behind Vaggie’s ear, her touch soft.

“You’ve had a hell of a day,” Charlie said quietly.

Vaggie let out a tired sigh, her body slumping just a little. “You could say that.”

Charlie shifted, sitting beside her on the bed. The warmth between them felt like an anchor, a rare moment in a world that refused to slow down. “I wish I could make all of this easier for you,” Charlie whispered, her fingers grazing Vaggie’s wrist. “For all of us.”

Vaggie leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder, closing her eyes. “Just being here helps,” she admitted. “It’s more than I can say for most things right now.”

They sat silently for a few moments, the sounds of the outside world muffled through the house's walls. For now, at least, they were safe.

Charlie’s mind wandered back to the man they had brought back, still unconscious downstairs. “When he wakes up,” Charlie murmured, “I’ll… talk to him. See if there’s anything we can do to help. He’s had enough of being left behind.”

Vaggie nodded against her shoulder. “You’re always thinking about how to help people,” she said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Even in all this bullshit.”

Charlie gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I guess I can’t help it.”

Vaggie sat up slightly, turning to face Charlie. “It’s what makes you… you,” she stated, filled with tenderness. “That's why I love you.”

Charlie’s eyes flickered with a soft vulnerability, her lips parting slightly as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, she reached out, cupping Vaggie’s face again, letting the silence speak for her.

Vaggie leaned into the touch, feeling the world's weight lift just a little. “We’ll get through this,” she whispered, more to reassure herself than Charlie.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah…” she trailed off.

11:32 pm

After what felt like an eternity, Vaggie eventually fell asleep on the dusty bed. Charlie had taken the time to dust off the sheets beforehand, happy to make her partner as comfortable as possible after all the bullshit throughout the day.

Now, with Vaggie breathing softly beside her, Charlie quietly slipped out of the bed, careful not to wake her. She paused for a moment, watching Vaggie’s peaceful expression. It was rare to find moments like these—moments of peace—and Charlie cherished them when they came.

She tiptoed out of the guest room with a soft exhale and gently closed the door behind her. The house was eerily quiet now. As Charlie returned to the living room, she noticed everyone else had already dozed off.

Husk was sprawled out with his jacket draped haphazardly over him on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge as he snored softly. Even in sleep, Charlie can imagine his brow remained furrowed even in sleep, but at least he was getting some rest (and possibly getting hungover by the following day). Over by the window, Alastor had rested his head on the sill, his eyes closed, and Niffty curled up at the dining table, using her bag as a makeshift pillow. Her petite frame looked almost childlike as she slept, her body fitting perfectly on the table’s surface.

But then Charlie spotted Angel standing off to the side, his gaze fixed on the unconscious man they had brought back. Despite the exhaustion etched into his face, he hadn’t allowed himself to rest. His body swayed slightly, and his posture was slumped, but his green-blue eyes remained locked on the man as if ready to act at a moment’s notice.

Quietly, Charlie walked over to him, her footsteps barely sounding on the wooden floor. Angel didn’t move as she approached, but she knew he had noticed her.

“Hey,” Charlie whispered. “You should get some rest.”

Angel turned his head slightly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Can’t,” he muttered, his voice low and husky. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on him.”

Charlie glanced at the unconscious man, her brow furrowing slightly. “I get it,” she said gently. “But you’re gonna collapse if you don’t rest soon.”

Angel snorted softly, shaking his head. “I’ve been through worse. Ain’t my first rodeo, doll.”

Charlie offered him a small, understanding smile. “I know. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, there was a silence between them. Angel’s eyes flickered toward the others, watching their peaceful slumber, and for just a second, a flicker of vulnerability passed over his face.

“I don’t trust him,” Angel said quietly, gesturing toward the man on the floor. “But I don’t want anyone else gettin’ hurt either.”

Charlie reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch light but reassuring. “We’ll handle it,” she whispered. “But you need to take care of yourself, too.”

Angel let out a long, tired sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly more. “Yeah… maybe.”

“Come on. Let me keep watch for a while. You’ve done more than enough.”

After a pause, Angel finally gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. With that, Charlie gave Angel a slight squeeze on his arm before carefully kneeling beside the unconscious man. She hesitated momentarily before reaching toward his jacket pocket, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric as she began to search.

Behind her, Angel shifted in the loveseat, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “I already searched him, y’know,” he said. “He only had a pistol.”

Charlie paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. “That’s not what I’m looking for,” she replied quietly, her focus returning to the man. Her hands continued their search, more methodical now as they moved to the pockets of his jeans.

Angel gave a slightly tired shrug, leaning back against the seat. “What, hopin’ for a love letter? A secret treasure map?”

Charlie ignored him as her fingers eventually brushed something solid in the back pocket of his jeans. She pulled it out carefully, revealing a weathered wallet. The leather was scuffed and worn, but it seemed intact. She sat back on her heels, turning the wallet over in her hands before opening it.

Inside was the usual—some folded bills, a couple of credit cards, and a laminated ID card tucked into the corner. She pulled the ID out and studied it closely, narrowing her eyes at the faded text. It was hard to make out in the dim light, but the man’s face was clear enough. He looked younger in the photo, smiling even.

“Bingo,” she whispered, pulling out the card.

Angel tilted his head, intrigued now. “What is it?”

Charlie studied the ID closely. “It’s a special engineer’s license,” she murmured. “Pentious… Sir Pentious.” She furrowed her brow. “But his real name’s… Xavier Bennett.”

Angel snorted. “Sir Pentious? Please. What, is he some kind of steampunk supervillain?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “It’s just a name, Angel.” She thumbed through the rest of the cards, frowning slightly when she found a few business cards, all worn and smudged with grime. Nothing seemed particularly out of place.

“Yeah, well, sounds like he named himself after a bad comic book villain.” Angel leans back again. “What’s next? He’s got a secret lair under the subway? Betcha he even wears a top hat.”

“Maybe he’s a mad genius,” Charlie shot back, a smirk on her lips. “You ever think about that?”

Angel snickered. “Oh yeah, sure. A mad genius, engineer, and a guy who jumped off a fuckin’ roof. Real genius move, that one.”

Charlie shook her head, but there was curiosity in her eyes as she tucked the ID back into the wallet. “At least he’s certified. We could use someone like that.”

“Certified crazy, more like,” Angel muttered, but his smirk didn’t fade. He glanced at the man, now known as Xavier Bennett—Pentious. “So what, you think he’s gonna wake up and build us a bridge or somethin’?”

“Maybe,” Charlie teased. “Or maybe he’ll fix all those cars we keep running into.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, if he doesn’t blow himself up first.”

Charlie smiled, sliding the wallet back into the man’s pocket. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” She glanced back at Angel. “Say, did he say anything before he passed out?”

Angel shook his head. “Nah, just a lotta whining and begging when he fucked up his leg. Didn’t tell us a damn thing before he blacked out.” He shrugged again, this time more nonchalantly. “Guess we’ll have to wait till he wakes up.”

“Huh,” Charlie hummed thoughtfully, sliding the wallet back into Pentious’ pocket. Her fingers lingered momentarily before she quietly muttered, “Vaggie was right. He was probably forced into this mess. He’s a engineer… a civilized guy before all this.”

Angel, who had been lazily listening, raised an eyebrow and sighed exasperated. “You agree with that nonsense?” he scoffed. “Doll, we’re in the apocalypse. Ain’t nobody ‘civilized’ anymore. The second the world fell apart, people let out their inner demons, stopped givin’ a shit about civility. Mister Engineer Pentious over there? He’s probably got as many skeletons as the rest of us.”

Charlie frowned, mulling over his words. “I don’t know, Angel. Some people didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Angel snorted. “No one’s innocent when the world goes to hell, Charlie. Not anymore.”

There was a moment of quiet before Charlie, her voice softer, almost too innocent, asked, “Angel, what was your life like before you… you know, became a prostitute?”

Angel’s face immediately twisted in irritation. His jaw clenched, and he gave her a hard stare. “What the fuck kinda question is that?” he snapped. “I’ve always been one! For more than a decade!”

Charlie froze, her eyes widening. “Wait… always?” She hesitated, her voice lowering even more. “Are you saying… you started when you were a minor?”

Angel stared at her, his eyes flashing in disbelief. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? No! I started when I was 18, okay? Been doin’ it for at least 12 years now.”

Charlie blinked, processing the information before offering an awkward, almost sheepish, “Ohhhh.”

Angel gaped at her, completely baffled. “Hold up, how old did you think I was?”

Charlie blushed, stumbling over her words. “I-I don’t know. I thought you were younger… like… way younger.”

Angel stared at her for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Charlie. I’m not some spring chicken! I’m 30, alright? Hell, I wish I was still 20.”

Charlie covered her face with her hands, the embarrassment radiating off her. “I didn’t mean it like that!” she mumbled.

Angel shook his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself. “Yeah, well, next time, maybe don’t assume shit. I might look fabulous, but I’ve been through the wringer more than you know.” He crossed his arms, his earlier irritation fading slightly. “Alright, I gotta ask—why are you askin’ me all this in the first place?”

Charlie shifted her weight, sitting back on her heels and thinking momentarily before responding. “I guess… I’m trying to prove something,” she admitted. “I don’t think the world falling apart brought the worst out of people. I think it brought out desperation. People change when they don’t have the resources they need. When you’re fighting for survival every day, it messes with your head. It’s not always about morality; it’s about scarcity.”

Angel watched her, his grin fading.

Charlie continued. “When I was doing social work… I saw it all the time. Good people—just… pushed into bad decisions because they were out of options. It’s not that they were evil or ‘letting out their inner demons.’ They were just trying to survive in a world without caring about them. I think that’s happening here, too.”

Angel tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “So you’re sayin’ Pentious is desperate, not evil?”

“Maybe,” Charlie replied with a slight shrug. “Look at what happened to you, Husk, and Vaggie by the bar. He could have been forced into doing terrible things, just like many people. We can’t jump to conclusions about him until we hear his side. I want to hear him out.”

Angel sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “You really don’t let this stuff go, do ya?”

“Nope.”

There was a brief pause before Angel shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “Fine, fine. You win, Miss Sunshine. You always gotta give people the benefit of the doubt, huh?”

Charlie gave him a soft, grateful smile. “It’s how I see the world, Angel. We don’t know what he’s been through.”

Angel rolled his eyes, though it was more amusement than exasperation. “Well, you’ll be disappointed if this guy ends up tryin’ to bite our heads off when he wakes up.”

“Maybe,” Charlie shrugged. “But I have to try.”

Angel sighed long, his tiredness creeping back into his voice. “Alright, whatever you say. But don’t come cryin’ to me if he turns out to be some psycho.”

“I won’t,” Charlie promised.

After a brief silence, Charlie stood up, glancing over at the rest of the group, who were still sound asleep. She turned back to Angel, her voice softening. “Go get some rest, Angel. I’ll take it from here.”

Angel blinked, then narrowed his eyes at her. “What about you?”

Charlie’s smile turned a little wry. “I’ve got trouble sleeping, remember? I don’t mind taking the night watch this time.”

Angel gave her a long, skeptical look, but then he shrugged, too tired to argue. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya if you pass out on your feet.”

Charlie chuckled softly. “I’ll be fine.”

Angel settled back into the loveseat, letting out a soft groan as he shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Despite his earlier protests, his exhaustion quickly caught up to him, and within moments, his breathing evened out, signaling he’d finally dozed off.

Charlie watched him for a beat, her expression softening. Angel could be a handful, but she understood where his wariness came from. Like the rest of them, he’d been through hell, and it was only natural for him to keep his guard up—especially around strangers like Pentious. She hoped she was right, that Pentious wasn’t as bad as Angel thought. Angel’s instincts were sharp; if something felt off to him, there was usually a reason for it. Still, Charlie had to believe there was more to the story.

Turning her gaze back to Pentious, she knelt beside him once more. His face was still slack with unconsciousness, his breathing shallow but steady. He didn’t seem like a monster, but she knew appearances could be deceiving. She could only hope that when he woke up, he’d have answers—and that he wasn’t just another dangerous wildcard.

Charlie sighed quietly, leaning back against the wall. Even if Vaggie had already explained most of it, she couldn’t imagine what had happened in the bar where they first found Husk. Who were those strangers? What had led to that gunfight? Was Pentious really an unwilling participant, or was there something else? She wanted to hear it from him—to know what had happened before she could make her own judgments.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Vaggie’s account of the events. Something was nagging at Charlie—a need to piece it all together for herself, to understand the whole story. She wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but it did. Maybe it was because this world had taught her that nothing was ever black and white. People were complicated, and so were their choices.

Charlie let out a long, slow breath. She leaned her head against the cold wall, her eyes drifting toward the window where the moonlight filtered faintly through the cracks. It was quiet now, the only sounds being the distant wind and the occasional creak of the old building settling.

She allowed herself to relax for a brief moment, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon.

Chapter Text

THUD! THUD!

Charlie was jolted awake by a sudden burst of noise. Her eyes flew open, the remnants of sleep falling away as she took in the surrounding scene. The living room was eerily quiet now, utterly vacant except for herself. Disoriented, she blinked a few times to shake off the grogginess. Her muscles ached from sitting against the cold wall all night, her neck stiff as she slowly turned her head. The last thing she remembered was taking the night watch. Now it was morning—she could tell by the light filtering through the cracks in the not-so-stable barricaded window.

To make sure, she checks the time with her wristwatch, which shows 08:31 am.

As she sat up, her eyes instinctively flicked to the spot where Pentious had been lying. Her stomach dropped. The space was empty, the blanket draped over him haphazardly thrown to the side.

Charlie rubbed her eyes, trying to push through the lingering fog of sleep. Where the hell was everyone? Her pulse quickened as she noticed the distant commotion—muffled voices, hurried footsteps, and the occasional shout echoing through the house.

A creeping sense of panic quickly replaced her sleepy disorientation. She ran a hand through her blonde hair, trying to push down the rising dread as her mind raced. Why didn’t anyone wake me up? Why was Pentious gone? And what was all that noise?

Charlie stood, her movements clumsy at first. Her legs felt stiff from sitting against the wall for hours, but she forced herself to move. The house was alive with activity, the sounds growing louder. She felt a sense of dread claw at her chest as she feared that all the noise might attract nearby zombies.

She checked the living room first, scanning every corner, but there was no sign of anyone. The kitchen was next, but it was empty aside from the stashed supplies they’d been rationing. Everyone was missing, and the noises grew louder, and Charlie’s pulse quickened further. Could they be fighting? With everything that had happened, the last thing they needed was for Pentious to cause trouble and turn the group against each other.

She moved from room to room on the first floor, especially by the guest room where Vaggie was supposed to sleep, but it was vacant. Where was Vaggie? She was always the first to wake Charlie, especially if something went wrong. The fact that Vaggie was nowhere to be found only added to the rising tide of anxiety in Charlie’s chest.

She was about to move toward the staircase when a loud shout echoed through the house, stopping her cold.

“CHARLIE SHOULD BE THE ONE WHO’LL JUDGE, NOT YOU!”

The voice was sharp and angry—Vaggie’s voice.

Without wasting another second, Charlie sprinted up the stairs, the panic settling. She bounded up the steps two at a time, the floor creaking beneath her as she ascended. Whatever was happening, she had to get there and figure out what had gone wrong before it spiraled out of control.

Charlie burst onto the second floor, her breath coming fast as she entered the narrow hallway. The noises from before were louder, the sound of raised voices unmistakable. She could hear Vaggie’s angry tone, intense as she was back in the school against the cartel, and then Angel’s muffled voice as if he responded.

The hallway stretched out in front of her. At the very end, the door to the master bedroom stood closed. She made her way toward it, not wanting to think about what she might find behind that door, but her mind raced through the worst-case scenarios. Had Pentious done something? Or had Angel and Vaggie taken matters into their own hands? Neither option sat well with her, but she had to know.

Ignoring the throbbing in her head, Charlie reached for the door. She didn’t bother knocking as she pushed it open.

The room beyond was damn tense, just as she feared. The rest of the group was there—Alastor leaning against the wall, Husk sitting by the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, and Niffty seated on the floor, staring hard at the scene unfolding in front of them. But the most alarming sight was at the center of it all: Vaggie, standing toe-to-toe with Angel, flushed with anger as she glared at him. Despite Angel being a foot taller, Vaggie showed no signs of backing down.

Angel, for his part, stood there with his arms crossed, his expression somewhere within defiance. Whatever they were arguing about, it was clear things had escalated.

But what drew Charlie’s eyes next was at the far end of the room—Pentious, bound to a love seat with ropes, his brown eyes are wide with fear. His chest heaved with panicked breaths. His expression looked similar to a damn terrified hostage, as if expecting the worst while his face was pale and his body trembling slightly.

Charlie blinked, from the sight of him tied up like that and the makeshift ropes digging into his arms… she struggled to make sense of the situation. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She thought as she strode further into the room.

“Charlie should be the one to decide!” Vaggie’s voice was harsh, her gaze not leaving Angel’s. “Not you!”

Angel rolled his eyes. “I’m just sayin’, we can’t be soft on him! You want to coddle the guy who could’ve gotten us all killed last night? You think he deserves sympathy?”

Vaggie took a step closer, her finger jabbing into Angel’s chest. “I’m saying we don’t get to make that call! That’s for Charlie to decide, not you! We don’t need your impulsive fucking vigilante justice.”

Angel’s expression hardened, his voice dropping slightly, but the anger simmered beneath the surface. “Oh, right, because Charlie’s always right, huh? Just let Miss Sunshine here wave her magic wand and fix everything. Wake up, you bitch, this isn’t some fairy tale!”

Vaggie’s face flushed red, her fists clenching. “What the fuck did you just say?!”

Before anyone could react, Vaggie’s fist came up, connecting with Angel’s jaw in a sharp, precise right hook. The force of it made Angel stumble back, a mix of shock and anger flashing across his face.

The room exploded in chaos. Husk sprang up from the bed, moving toward Angel before things worsened. Still reeling from the punch, Angel started to lunge forward, his eyes blazing with fury. But before he could make another move, Husk grabbed him, holding him back with surprising strength for a man who seemed perpetually half-asleep and hungover.

“Enough!” Husk shouted, his grip firm on Angel’s sleeves. “You’re not helping.”

Meanwhile, Charlie sprinted across the room, closing the gap between herself and Vaggie. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around her girlfriend from behind, pulling her into a tight, restrictive embrace. Vaggie struggled at first, still vibrating with anger, but Charlie held firm.

“Valeria, stop!” Charlie’s voice was sharp, a tone she had never used on her before. “This is not how we handle things!”

Vaggie froze, the weight of Charlie’s words sinking in. She stopped struggling, her breathing ragged as she stayed in Charlie’s arms. It was the first time Charlie had ever scolded her like this.

Charlie held her a moment longer before loosening her grip slightly. “What the hell were you thinking? You can’t just hit him!”

Vaggie’s frustration boils over. “I’ve had enough, Charlie! He’s been provoking everyone, acting like he’s the only one who knows what’s best. He was about to scare the hell out of that man!” She gestured toward Pentious, still bound and trembling on the loveseat.

Still held back by Husk, Angel spat angrily, “I was trying to get him to talk! We don’t know what this guy’s planning!”

Charlie released Vaggie and whirled on Angel. “We don’t know anything yet! That’s why I wanted to handle it calmly. But all of this—" She gestured around at the scene. "This isn’t helping anyone.”

Vaggie, still bristling, snapped back, “How can you stay so calm when he’s doing this? You know what happens when people like him take control—he’s gonna push us into danger!”

“I’m not taking control of anything!” Angel shouted, his voice rising. “I’m trying to keep us safe! You think you can just talk your way out of everything?”

The noise, the shouting—it was all too much. The tension in the room, the raised voices, the panic in Pentious’s eyes, the hostility—it all pressed down on Charlie, suffocating her. She could feel herself spiraling, flooding her senses, and even making it hard to focus.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Charlie’s voice erupted louder than anyone had ever heard it before. The room fell silent, everyone freezing at once.

Charlie stood there, her hands shaking, her breathing uneven. The overwhelming combination of anger, fear, and exhaustion had pushed her to the edge. She rubbed her temples, trying to bring herself back under control.

“Everyone… just… stop,” she muttered, her voice hoarse. “This isn’t helping. None of this is helping.”

The room remained tense, but at least now, it was quiet.

Vaggie lowered her gaze, guilt flickering in her eye, while Angel, though still defensive, said nothing. Husk let go of Angel, and Pentious shifted uncomfortably, his wide eyes fixed on Charlie, waiting for what would happen next.

Charlie took a deep breath. She stood in the heavy silence of the room, her body trembling as she fought to regain control of her breath. Her gaze swept from Vaggie to Angel and finally to Pentious, still bound on the loveseat. She couldn’t let this continue any longer.

Letting out an exhale, Charlie spoke, her voice calmer now. “Alright… can someone tell me what happened here? From the beginning.”

Angel opened his mouth, ready to launch into his version of events, but Husk beat him to it, stepping forward with a tired sigh. “Let me handle it, Angel,” Husk said, his voice gruff but steady. “I’ll tell it straight.”

Angel scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall, clearly irritated but choosing not to argue. Charlie gave Husk a nod, signaling for him to go ahead.

Husk rubbed the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the others before starting. “So, this morning, after we got up, this guy here—” He jerked his thumb toward the man tied up on the love seat, “—was acting all suspicious. Kept hanging around the windows, muttering about something. We didn’t know if he was planning on sneaking out or what.”

He paused, casting a glance at Angel. “Angel thought it’d be a good idea to, y’know, get some answers out of him. That’s when the idea came up to tie him up. Figured he wouldn’t get anywhere if we kept him locked down.”

Charlie’s gaze flickered between Husk and Angel, her face a mask of concentration as she listened.

“Angel’s idea,” Husk continued. “He grabbed the ropes and started tying Pentious up before the guy could even say anything. I was sittin’ there, just watchin’—didn’t seem like the worst plan at the time. But then Vaggie came in.”

He glanced at Vaggie, who had calmed somewhat but still looked agitated, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Vaggie wasn’t havin’ it. She stormed in and stopped Angel before he could start questioning the guy. Thought we were gonna spook him into doing something worse. That’s… when things got heated. Vaggie wanted to untie him, said he didn’t deserve to be treated like some prisoner, but Angel thought if we let him loose, he’d try to run or get us into more trouble.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked to Angel, who clenched his jaw but remained silent.

Husk finished with a heavy sigh, “That’s when the bullshit argument started. I didn’t think it’d come to blows, but Vaggie and Angel kept pushing each other’s buttons until… you saw the rest.”

The room was silent for a beat. Charlie took it all in, feeling the pressure of being the one who had to mediate.

Before anyone else could speak, Vaggie added, her voice tense but softer than before, “I wasn’t just going to sit there and watch him tie up someone who didn’t deserve it. I tried to untie the guy, Charlie. But every time, Angel stopped me, like he thought I was making everything worse.”

Angel snorted a bitter sound. “You were.”

Charlie raised a hand, silencing him before the argument could flare up again. “I get it, Vaggie. I understand why you were upset.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “But that doesn’t excuse you punching Angel. We can’t just resort to violence like that, not against each other.”

Vaggie bit her lip, her eye lowering. “I know… I just—” She struggled to find the right words. “I lost my patience. I couldn’t stand the way he was acting.”

Angel started to speak again, but Charlie cut him off with a sharp look. “Both of you need to stop,” she said, her tone more serious. “We can’t keep fighting like this… we’re a team, and we’re supposed to trust each other for fuck’s sake. Tying people up, throwing punches—that’s not how we handle things.”

Charlie let out a long exhale, rubbing her face with her hands as if she could physically wipe away all the frustration built up within her. "Alright," she started softly. "I’ll handle the rest of this. You all stand back—unless I need you, just let me take it from here."

Vaggie was the first to respond, nodding curtly as she stepped back toward the doorway. Her arms were still crossed tightly over her chest, and though she had calmed down, Charlie noticed she didn’t move to her side as usual. Instead, Vaggie lingered at the door, ready to step in if things went wrong. A small knot of worry twisted in Charlie’s stomach at Vaggie’s distance, but she pushed it aside for now.

Still frustrated but exhausted from the confrontation, Angel exchanged a glance with Husk before he moved toward the bed. Husk gave a nonchalant shrug as if to say he was over the whole ordeal and sat down on the edge of the bed, lighting up another cigarette. Angel stayed close to Husk, leaning against the bedpost but keeping his eyes locked on Pentious.

With everyone finally calm and giving her space, Charlie turned her attention back to the man tied up on the loveseat. His eyes were wide, darting between each of them like a cornered animal, fear etched into every line of his face. She took a slow, steadying breath as she approached him.

She knelt beside him, moving with deliberate care, making sure her actions were slow and nonthreatening as she reached for the ropes around his wrists. “Pentious,” she noticed. He looked startled as if questioning how the fuck do you know my name?! “I’m going to untie you, okay? We just want to talk. No one here is going to hurt you.”

Pentious didn’t respond at first, his body still tense, but Charlie could see how his breathing slowed ever so slightly. She carefully untied the ropes, her fingers working with quiet precision.

She spoke again as she loosened the final knot, keeping her tone gentle. “I know you’re scared. But I promise, this isn’t about punishing you. We just… we need to understand what’s going on. That’s all.”

Pentious flexed his hands slightly as the ropes fell away, rubbing at his sore wrists but keeping his eyes on her. He still hadn’t spoken, but Charlie could sense a shift—a softening of the rigid fear that had gripped him moments ago.

She sat back on her heels, giving him space. “Look, I don’t know what you were thinking earlier,” she continued, “but we’re not here to play judge and jury. We’re all just trying to survive, same as you.”

Pentious swallowed, his throat dry as he shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting back to the window as if contemplating his next move. His voice, when he finally spoke, was shaky but low. “I… I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I was just—looking for a way out.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes slightly. “You wanted to escape?”

Pentious hesitated, rubbing his wrists. “Yes. I wanted out… I didn’t think I could stay here much longer. I needed to get away.”

Charlie’s mind worked quickly, sensing the shift in the room. Behind her, she could feel the group’s eyes on them—it was all a mask. They were all paying closer attention now, though none said anything.

But Charlie ignored their reactions for the moment, turning back to Pentious. “Were you planning to go back to your group?” Like the one Vaggie mentioned last night?

Pentious shook his head slowly, his face tight with a mix of resentment and something more—something more profound. “No. I wasn’t going back to them… They left me behind. Abandoned me.” His voice grew bitter, the memory of it raw. “I don’t have anyone now.”

Charlie’s eyes softened with a hint of sympathy. “I’m sorry about that. But what were you planning if you weren’t going back to them?”

He hesitated again before answering. “I was hoping… to get back to their camp. Just to grab my stuff. I left some things behind, but I know it’s too late for that now.”

Charlie nodded, understanding. “I get it. But who are they, exactly? This group you were with?”

Pentious shifted in his seat, glancing toward the floor as if picking his next words carefully. “It’s just a small camp over by Bay Ridge,” he said quietly, but the information made Charlie’s brow furrowed in thought.

“Bay Ridge?” she asked. “What were you doing so far out here in Long Island?”

For a moment, Pentious seemed unsure, reluctant to continue. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, and Charlie watched his expression twist in hesitation. “It doesn’t matter now,” he muttered, almost too low to hear. Then, with a resigned sigh, he looked up at her. “We were… looking for a place to settle. Somewhere sustainable. The cities… Manhattan, Brooklyn—they’re overrun. We needed somewhere less crowded with… them.”

Charlie’s thoughts churned, understanding some of that logic. It wasn’t an unfamiliar story—groups moving from place to place, desperately searching for something better.

Pentious took a deep breath, his eyes darting nervously toward Vaggie and Angel. His voice wavered slightly as he continued, “While we were scouting… we saw people. Alive.” His gaze lingered on Vaggie and Angel as if trying to convey something unsaid.

Charlie noticed the subtle implication, her suspicion growing as she narrowed her eyes slightly, but she held her tongue, letting him continue.

“There were two guys from our group—Eddie and Mason. They thought it was a good idea to, uh, approach them. Talk to them. See if we could figure out where they were staying.” Pentious’ voice started to trail off, his expression turning bitter as he spoke. “But that wasn’t all they had in mind…”

Charlie leaned in slightly, encouraging him to continue.

“They… they weren’t planning on just talking,” Pentious muttered. “Once they found out where their base was, the plan was to return the info to the rest of the group. Then, they’d…” He hesitated, his jaw clenching before finishing. “They’d kill everyone. Take everything. Supplies, weapons, whatever they could find. And then… take over.”

A heavy silence blanketed the room. Charlie’s stomach churned as what Pentious had revealed settled in. The air grew thicker, and she felt the unease spreading to the rest of the group. They remained still, but she could feel the tension rolling off them like waves.

Pentious, feeling the sudden shift in the room’s energy, started to stammer nervously, his hands trembling in his lap. “I—I wasn’t part of it,” he stuttered, panic rising. “I swear. I never agreed to it. That’s why they left me behind! I didn’t want any part of what they were planning.”

Charlie studied him closely, weighing his words. The bitterness in his voice and the fear etched into his expression felt genuine. But still, the implications were heavy.

Pentious swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I just… I didn’t want to die for something like that. I was only with them because I didn’t have a choice.”

Charlie sat back slightly, her mind racing through the possibilities. Whoever these people were, it sounded like they had no problem resorting to violence to get what they wanted. And if Pentious's words were valid, their small group could be in danger.

But first, Charlie needed to know how much of this was the truth. She glanced at Vaggie and Angel, noticing the stiff set of their shoulders and the guarded look in their eyes. They were quiet, too quiet, and that alone made her uneasy. She knew there was something more here—something neither had mentioned.

She inhaled deeply, her mind racing to keep control of the situation before things spiraled. “Look, I appreciate you telling me this, Pentious, but… I need you to be completely honest with me now.” She kept her voice calm but firm. “If you weren’t part of their plan, why didn’t you leave sooner? Why wait until now?”

Pentious shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided her gaze. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought maybe I could get out quietly, find my way. But Eddie and Mason were… persistent. I couldn’t just leave them without putting a target on my back. And after they decided to come out here, I figured I’d wait for a better chance. But when they… when they started talking about killing people, I knew I couldn’t stay.”

Charlie nodded, her brow furrowed. “And these people… the ones they wanted to kill. You said you saw them.” She paused, squinting slightly in suspicion as she caught the way Pentious glanced nervously toward Vaggie and Angel’s direction. “You mean them, don’t you?”

Pentious didn’t answer immediately, but his silence was all the confirmation Charlie needed. He nodded slowly, his eyes darting between the two of them again. “Yes… them.”

Angel released a slow, exasperated breath, shaking his head but saying nothing. Vaggie, on the other hand, looked more tense than ever, her jaw clenched as her gaze locked on Pentious.

Charlie’s suspicion deepened, but she decided not to push it. She still needed to hear the rest. “Alright,” she said, her voice measured. “You said they were planning to kill… was that always the plan?”

Pentious’ expression twisted in bitterness again, a sour taste in his mouth as he recalled the moment. “Yes. It was Eddie’s idea. After we saw them, he said he and Mason were gonna act friendly, ask where their base was, and gather as much info as we could. Then… when they least expected it, we’d ambush them. Take what we needed, and leave no one alive.” His voice cracked slightly at the last part as though the memory of those words haunted him.

“And you didn’t agree to it,” Charlie pressed, her tone still even.

“I swear, I didn’t,” Pentious answered quickly, almost desperate. “I never wanted that. I told them it was wrong, but Eddie’s the type who doesn’t care. He made it clear that if I didn’t go along with it, I’d end up dead too.”

The room fell into a heavy silence again. Charlie glanced back at Vaggie and Angel, gauging their reactions. Vaggie looked as if she wanted to say something but was holding back—her jaw tight, her eye locked on the floor.

Pentious then continued willingly. “Eddie and Mason… went off to try and find the people they saw—those two.” He nodded slightly toward Vaggie and Angel again. “It was only supposed to be a quick scout, nothing major. They thought it’d be easy just to talk their way in.”

Charlie leaned forward slightly, her gaze intent. “And what happened next?”

Pentious let out a shaky breath. “We waited for them to come back. An hour passed… then, out of nowhere, we heard gunshots. Not just one or two—several. I knew something had gone wrong, so we rushed over to see what was happening. When we got there, we searched for them… and when one of the guys tried to get in the bar, it got closed or something, and they tried to talk, asking what happened to Eddie and Mason. We then heard this woman say… ‘They’re dead.’ That’s when I knew… it was over.”

Charlie’s heart sank. She turned to Vaggie, who had been standing tensely in the corner. Her expression was stony, but Charlie could see the weight in her eyes. Vaggie let out a slow exhale, uncrossing her arms.

“I didn’t have a fucking choice,” Vaggie said abruptly. “Those two men—came into the bar as we were about to leave, acting all friendly at first. But it didn’t take long for their real intentions to show. They kept asking too many questions about where we were staying, pushing for more details than we were willing to give. It was fucking obvious what they were after.”

Vaggie lets out a shaky sigh. “I thought maybe I could talk our way out of it, but then… then they positioned themselves like they were about to go for a damn gunfight. I had no choice, Charlie. I had to shoot them first. If I hadn’t, they would’ve killed us on the spot.”

There was a beat of silence as her words settled over the room. Charlie took it all in, her mind racing. She turned her attention back to Pentious, who sat nervously on the loveseat.

Pentious’s hands trembled as he spoke, still rattled by the memory. “After Eddie and Mason were shot, the woman… she tried to reason with the rest of us. Told us to back off and said we didn’t have to make this worse. But of course, the others didn’t listen. They were furious after finding out Eddie and Mason were dead. There was no stopping them. They wanted revenge. Hell, one of them told me to go up to the rooftop to get a vantage point in case we needed to—”

Before he could finish, Charlie interrupted him gently. “It’s okay, Pentious. You can stop. I believe you.”

Pentious blinked, looking up at her in surprise. “You… you do?”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, I do. I don’t think you wanted any part of this. And… now that the two men from the bar are dead, there’s a good chance that group won’t come looking for us. Especially if they’ve already written you off.”

Pentious’s relief was almost instant, his shoulders slumping slightly as if a weight had been lifted. But a new voice cut through the tension before he fully settled into that comfort.

“Well,” Alastor started, his voice dripping with eerie amusement. “Quite the tale, my friend. But I do have a burning question.” He stepped forward, his tone as charming as it was unsettling. “How exactly did you end up with such a delightful group of miscreants in the first place?”

Pentious visibly tensed, his discomfort at Alastor’s presence clear. He glanced nervously at the others, unsure if he should answer. Alastor’s grin widened slightly, the gleam in his eyes making it impossible to tell whether he was being genuine or simply playing with the poor man.

Charlie noticed Pentious’ hesitation and leaned in slightly, reassuringly nodding. “It’s okay, Pentious. You can tell us. Let’s shift the focus here—how did you meet them?”

Pentious hesitated, but the gentle prompting from Charlie seemed to help ease his nerves. He swallowed hard and finally spoke, his voice quieter now. “I… I met them over a month ago. I was all over Manhattan, trying to get out. Ever since the start, I have been looking for my wife and son. I thought maybe they’d made it to the outskirts or somewhere safer. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“And… that’s when you found the group?”

Pentious nodded slowly. “I was wandering through Brooklyn, and I ran into them. They had supplies, food, weapons… I didn’t have a choice. I joined them because I thought maybe, just maybe, it’d help me survive long enough to find my family…” He trailed off, his voice thick with regret.

"Did you… ever find them?" Charlie asked softly, her tone gentle. She seemed almost reluctant to know the answer.

Pentious shook his head, his gaze falling to the floor. "No. I never found them. Every time I thought I was close… I’d hit a dead end. My group was more interested in looting, fighting, surviving… I was the only one who ever asked about missing people."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy with unspoken grief. Alastor’s unnerving grin had faltered slightly, though his demeanor remained calm. He shifted his weight, hands clasped behind his back, his curiosity not yet sated.

“Fascinating,” Alastor murmured. “A man driven by the most noble of goals—family. And yet, you find yourself entangled with the most unsavory of characters. Quite the paradox, wouldn’t you say?”

Pentious swallowed, clearly uncomfortable under Alastor’s gaze. Charlie shot Alastor a warning look, and he raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin returning in full force.

“I’m just curious,” Alastor said with a shrug. “Survival brings out the most interesting traits in people, wouldn’t you agree?”

Charlie ignored him, turning her attention back to Pentious. “You don’t have to explain yourself to him,” she said firmly. “But you’re not with those people anymore. You chose to leave, and that’s all that matters now.”

Pentious nodded slowly, though he still looked uncertain. "I just... I don’t know what to do now. I have no one left. No purpose, no direction. It’s like I’m just... floating."

For a moment, the room was still. Even Angel, who had been relatively quiet throughout the exchange, glanced at Pentious with something almost like sympathy.

"You have a choice now," Charlie said gently. "You can move forward and not have to be stuck in the past… or still try to look for your family. I mean, the military's been evacuating people ever since the outbreak started. Your wife and son could be in one of the safe zones, or maybe they were taken to a shelter before things got terrible.”

Pentious looked up at her, his expression full of doubt. “You think they could still be out there? Alive?”

Charlie nodded firmly. “It’s possible. There are so many places they could have gone. Some of those military safe zones… were kept secret for a reason. They wanted to protect people, not just from the infected, but from others who might try to take advantage.”

Before Charlie could continue, Niffty shouted, “Oh! Speaking of military evacuations!” she chirped, her eyes wide with excitement. “Do you guys still remember when you were back at Queens College? You know, where we first met?” She didn’t wait for anyone to answer and looked at Pentious. “From what we’ve seen, the campus was a safe zone at one point and is left abandoned, and everyone’s dead. It’s nothing new that the government messes things up.” She giggles, “Then, we ran into a hallway full of dead students! Full of bullet holes, and they weren’t even infected! Can you believe it?”

Niffty laughs as if it’s the funniest joke she ever said, “They said they were ‘controlling the situation’ or whatever, but it was more like a massacre!”

The room froze. Everyone fell silent except for Niffty’s laughter. Pentious paled, his hands trembling again as the uncomfortable reality of what Niffty had just described sank in. The possibility that his family could have met a similar fate twisted painfully in his chest.

Even Alastor’s ever-present grin remains. He seemed more intrigued than disturbed, as expected.

Charlie blinked, taken aback by Niffty’s version of the story and the oblivious way she recounted it. Realizing how much her words had affected Pentious, she cleared her throat and smiled gently. “Well, uh, thanks for sharing, Niffty… but let’s not recall that, okay?”

She turned back to Pentious, trying to steer the conversation more positively. “There’s… still a good chance your family’s in a safe place, maybe evacuated by the military… and even if things are bad in some areas, it doesn’t mean they didn’t make it out.”

Angel then chimed in with his typical bluntness. “Or, you know, we can confirm they’re dead when we see their corpses. That’s always an option, too.”

Charlie shot him a sharp look, but Angel simply shrugged as if his comment was reasonable.

Charlie let out a slow breath, trying to regain her composure. “Well… yeah, sure, I guess. But let’s focus on the hopeful part for now, okay?” She forced another awkward smile, trying to bring some lightness back to the conversation.

Pentious managed a weak nod. Charlie could only hope that somewhere, somehow, his family was still out there—alive and waiting to be found.

As the atmosphere in the room eased a bit, Charlie glanced around at the group. It was clear that the tension still felt heavy. Pentious sat quietly, fidgeting with his hands, still looking uncertain. Charlie knew they needed to break the ice and help him feel more comfortable—and maybe give the group a chance to start trusting the newcomer.

She cleared her throat and gave a soft smile. “Alright, since we’re all here and we’ve got some time, how about we do a quick round of introductions? Get to know each other better, yeah?” She glanced at each person in turn, daring them to refuse.

Vaggie gave a soft sigh, but after a pause, she nodded. Angel, meanwhile, just smirked. Husk groaned, clearly not thrilled, but Charlie’s firm look left him no room to argue. Alastor remained disturbingly entertained by the idea, his sharp grin ever-present, and Niffty was excited.

Charlie turned to Pentious first. “You already know a little about us, but we’ll go around so you can hear it straight. I’ll start.” She adjusted herself, straightening up a little. “My name’s Charlie. I… used to own a hotel here back in Manhattan. You know, casual business activities before everything… well, before things fell apart.” She avoided mentioning her eccentric family background, keeping her story simple.

Pentious nodded politely, though his eyes showed interest.

Vaggie went next, crossing her arms and speaking in her usual no-nonsense tone. “I worked under Charlie at the hotel, handling management, security, and… other things.” She wasn’t about to reveal more before that, keeping it as vague as possible. Her eye flicked briefly to Pentious, studying him as she spoke.

Angel leaned forward with a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying his turn. “Angel Dust, baby. I used to be a sex worker, and let me tell you, I was good at my job. Still am, if anyone’s interested.” He winked dramatically, earning an eye-roll from Husk, who muttered something under his breath.

Husk took a drag from his cigarette and grumbled when it was his turn. “Husk. I was a bartender. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.”

Alastor chuckled softly, ever the entertainer. “Alastor! You might have heard of me. I was a radio host, spinning tales and tunes on the airwaves before all this mess. People loved my shows. Maybe one day, I’ll start again—if we can get this world back on its feet, that is.” He delivered it as if he was still performing for an audience.

Finally, Niffty chirped, “I’m Niffty! I used to be a housekeeper. Cleaned all sorts of places, from big houses to hotels. I’m great with keeping things tidy!” She beamed at Pentious, her energy as bright and unrelenting as always.

Pentious blinked, processing all the various personalities in the room. When the group turned their attention to him, he hesitated before speaking.

“Uh… well, my name’s Pentious. I worked as a mechanical engineer for a big company, but I also spent much of my spare time inventing things. Mostly weapons.” His cheeks flushed a little, clearly embarrassed by how unusual that sounded. “I, uh… got inspired by comic books when I was younger. Loved the idea of building gadgets, so I started making some of my own. It’s a bit of a hobby, but, uh… I guess it’s come in handy now.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as the group took in what Pentious had just said. Charlie and Angel are well aware already that he’s a mechanical engineer but a part-time inventor who also happens to craft weapons inspired by comic books? He was clearly more valuable than anyone had expected.

Charlie’s eyes lit up with a newfound sense of opportunity. She leaned forward, her voice encouraging. “That’s… really impressive, Pentious. I think you’ll fit right in with us.”

Her mind quickly filled with reasons to keep him around. A registered engineer was an invaluable asset—someone with practical knowledge who could help them survive in ways the others couldn’t. Not to mention, he had nowhere else to go. The idea of sending him off alone was risky and unthinkable for Charlie’s sympathetic heart. And despite his awkwardness, Pentious didn’t seem like a bad person.

“You’re staying with us,” Charlie decided without second thoughts, “You’ve got potential skills, and you’ll be safer with us than out there on your own. Besides…” she smiled gently, “we could always use more company.”

Pentious blinked, surprised but grateful, and then he nodded quickly. His lips trembled, and before anyone could react, he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Thank you, Charlie. I… I don’t know what to say. You’ve given me more than I could’ve asked for.” His gratitude was palpable, and his grip, though a little shaky, was firm as he shook her hand.

Charlie smiled warmly, gently squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to say anything, Pentious. Just stick with us, and we’ll make it through.”

Before Pentious could say more, Angel chimed in with a smirk. “So, Pentious, since you’re all about those fancy weapons and gadgets… do you even know how to use a gun?” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you had one when we hauled your ass here.”

Pentious flushed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… yes. I know how to use it. But… I’m not exactly the best shot. I don’t get a lot of practice,” he admitted, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

Angel looked at Charlie. “So, doll face, what do you think? Should we return the guy's gun or keep it locked?”

Before Charlie could answer, Vaggie cut in. “Give him his gun back. He needs something to defend himself.” Her tone left little room for debate, though her eye flicked briefly to Pentious as if assessing him further.

Angel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wait, you’re just gonna trust him like that? You’re the one always being cautious about new people.”

Vaggie shrugged. “If Charlie vouches for him, I vouch for him too.” The confidence in her voice left no room for argument.

Angel sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. “Fine, fine.” He reached into his pack and pulled out Pentious’ Beretta, flipping it so the handle faced out. “Here you go, genius. Just don’t accidentally shoot yourself.”

Pentious carefully took the pistol, holding it like it was precious yet dangerous, as if afraid to touch it. “Thank you,” he mumbled, still a little unsure.

But before the conversation could continue, a soft, rhythmic knocking echoed from downstairs. The group immediately froze. The distant groans that followed made it clear: zombies were near, possibly drawn by the noise from their earlier argument.

Charlie’s expression tightened. “That’s… not good.”

Vaggie and Angel exchanged guilty looks, knowing full well their heated exchange earlier might have drawn the undead closer. However, Charlie quickly whispered to them. “It’s not your fault.”

She turned to the group, her mind already working through a plan. “We need to barricade the door. Angel, Alastor—help me move the dresser.”

Without another word, Angel and Alastor moved into action. The three carefully slid the heavy dresser across the room, positioning it against the door. As they worked, the knocking downstairs grew louder, the groans more insistent, making it clear that the zombies had found their way inside the building.

Charlie glanced over her shoulder, watching as Vaggie stood by with her hand on the handle of her sheathed Bowie knife while Pentious clutched his pistol tightly, his knuckles white, clearly anxious but trying to stay composed.

After the dresser was firmly in place, blocking the door, Charlie immediately began rummaging through the drawers. The worn, moth-eaten clothes inside were perfect for what she had in mind. She tossed them onto the bed, her hands working swiftly to tear strips of fabric and knot them together, forming an improvised escape rope.

As Charlie worked, Niffty’s voice cut through the tense silence. “Uh, guys… most of our supplies are still downstairs in the kitchen.” Her words made everyone freeze for a second.

Charlie’s brow furrowed. She hadn’t considered that in the rush to barricade the door. They couldn’t abandon their supplies; they had a long way to go before reaching her house. Leaving behind food, water, tools, and other weapons could be detrimental.

“We can’t just kill the damn muertos,” Charlie overhears Vaggie muttering, thinking out loud. “We don’t know how many are down there, and my spear is missing.” Oh. Charlie hadn’t noticed until now that Vaggie’s trusted weapon was gone. Had she discarded it somewhere yesterday when she and Angel searched for Husk?

Angel frowned. “You lost your spear?”

Vaggie gave him a look that shut down any further comment. “It’s not like I had a damn choice. It’s probably still in that alley back in the bar.”

“Well, we can’t just start firing guns,” Husk added, flicking his cigarette as if he’s irritated, “The noise will bring even more of the fucking freaks, and we’ve got limited ammo. We’re not turning this into a domino effect of disaster.”

Charlie paused her knotting, her mind racing through the options. They couldn’t abandon the supplies, but trying to fight their way through the zombies would be a suicide mission. Using firearms was a last resort—they were already low on ammo, and the risk of drawing more attention was too high.

“Then what do we do?” Angel asked as he used his fingers to brush through his blonde hair nervously. “We can’t just sit here until they bust through the door.”

The group fell into a heavy silence; the only sound was the muffled groans from downstairs. Charlie continued knotting the rope, her thoughts spinning. They were running out of options, and time was ticking. She was about to speak when Pentious silently observed and moved toward the windows.

He glanced outside, first at the street, then at the backyard. His eyes darted between the two, calculating something. Before anyone could ask what he was thinking, he returned to the room and walked to the bedside table. He opened the drawer and searched it briefly before pulling out an old analog alarm clock.

Everyone stared at him, puzzled.

“What are you doing?” Vaggie asked suspiciously.

Pentious didn’t answer immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting the dials and knobs on the alarm clock. His fingers moved deftly. “I’ve got an idea,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Angel cocked an eyebrow. “Care to share with the class, genius?”

Pentious looked up briefly. “It’s… a distraction. I can set this alarm to go off in a few minutes. We drop it out the window and let it go down the backyard. The noise will lure the zombies away from the house, allowing us to slip downstairs, grab the supplies, and get out.”

The group blinked, considering the plan.

Charlie stopped knotting the rope, her mind clicking into place. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was clever—probably their best shot at getting out with the supplies intact. “It could work… huh, shit.”

Vaggie then spoke up. “Alright, we need a few people fast enough to get in, grab the supplies, and get out. Niffty,” she pointed to her, “you know exactly where everything is downstairs. You’re in.”

Niffty grinned, more than ready. “Okay!”

Vaggie turned toward Angel and Pentious next. “Angel, you’re going with her. You’ve got speed and strength to carry the heavier stuff. And you,” she gestured to Pentious, who immediately tensed up, “are going too.”

Pentious’ eyes widened, and he shook his head, panic creeping into his voice. “Me? No, no, I—I’m not built for this. I mean, I’m more of a behind-the-scenes type…”

Vaggie gave him a sharp look. “You’re capable enough to dodge through zombies. You’ll be fine.”

Angel smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “Yeah, genius. Consider this your first trust-building exercise.” He winked, clearly enjoying Pentious’ discomfort.

Pentious looked between them, exhaling sharply. He hesitated momentarily, then took a deep breath and nodded, resigned. “Okay… fine. I’ll do it.”

Charlie, still working on the rope, chimed in. “We’ll first escape through the window.” She gestured toward the rope. “I’ll go last and use this to make sure everyone gets out before the alarm goes off. It’ll lead to the street, and we’ll have enough time to slip away.”

The group collectively nodded. Charlie tied off the last knot, pulling the rope taut to test its strength. “Okay. It’s ready.”

Pentious, still holding the alarm clock, swallowed nervously, then approached the window overlooking the backyard. He hesitated for a second, silently praying the clock wouldn’t break. With one final deep breath, he tossed the clock out the window.

It landed softly in the dirt and grass below, safe from damaging impacts.

Angel peeked out, grinning. “Lucky toss.”

Charlie cracked open the window that faced the street. The cool morning air rushed in, and Alastor stepped forward, agilely slipping out. He moved to the roof’s edge, carefully attaching the rope to the gutter of the porch overhang.

Charlie leaned out the window and whispered, “Alastor, is the street clear?”

Alastor glanced at the street below and gave her a thumbs-up, confirming it was safe.

With the plan in motion, Charlie looked to the others. “Alright, everyone, one by one.”

Niffty, quick on her feet, was the first to climb out, sliding down the rope gracefully. Angel followed her next, dropping with ease, while Vaggie kept an eye on Pentious, silently urging him forward.

Pentious paused to compose himself before he grabbed the rope, looking down nervously. “Okay… here goes nothing.” He slid down the rope, slower than the others but safely to the ground.

Charlie was the last, watching as the rest of her group landed quietly below. Once she confirmed everyone was in place, she slipped out the window and descended the rope.

As Charlie’s feet touched the ground, she exhaled a breath of relief. But that relief was short-lived. Her eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a zombie standing mere feet away, just beyond the porch, its back to her.

Instinctively, Charlie crouched down as low as she could, her body tensing to avoid detection. She barely breathed, eyes darting around to see where the rest of the group was. To her relief, they were already moving toward the side of the house, except for Vaggie, who lingered nearby as if she were waiting for her.

Vaggie made eye contact with Charlie, giving her a quick, understanding nod. Together, they moved quietly and slowly, and their footsteps muffled against the soft dirt. Every creak of the house or distant groan from the zombies seemed louder than it was.

As they reached the side of the house, Angel whispered in a low voice, “Where are we meeting up?”

Vaggie pondered a bit before responding, “Back at the Suffolk Avenue intersection.”

Angel gave a nod, accepting the plan. Husk, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. “I’ll hang back. Make sure the three of them can get the supplies.” His words were casual, but there was a slight edge in his voice that Charlie couldn’t ignore.

Charlie frowned, her concern obvious. “Are you sure, Husk? You’re still hungover. I don’t want you—”

Husk waved her off with a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ve done worse while drunk. Besides, someone’s got to make sure they don’t screw up.” His grin was crooked, but his eyes were clear, showing he was ready.

Charlie hesitated, then nodded. “Alright… just be careful.”

Husk tipped his head in acknowledgment, his usual nonchalance masking any lingering doubts. “Good luck to you too, kid.”

Charlie, Vaggie, and Alastor started down the street, crouching low to avoid drawing attention. The groaning and shuffling zombies faded as they distanced themselves from the house. Once they were far enough away and out of sight of the house, they slowly stood up, stretching out from their tense crouches.

The morning air was cool against their skin, and she kept herself alert as they hurried toward the intersection, hoping Husk, Angel, Niffty, and Pentious would return with the supplies unscathed.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

Charlie, Vaggie, and Alastor immediately turned their heads at the familiar whine-yell behind them. What greeted their eyes was nothing short of confusing. Angel stood there, looking slightly winded but with his usual flair, while Husk and Niffty also seemed relatively okay, though with a few bloodstains on their clothes. But Pentious…

Charlie’s eyes widened. Pentious was a complete mess, his body bloodied and clothes tattered, as if he’d just fought through a war zone. Slinged over his shoulder were an AK-47 and Angel’s Tommy gun, both of which seemed to weigh him down. His face was smeared with grime and blood, a mixture of (hopefully not) his own and—Charlie feared—something else entirely.

They all stood by the side of the empty road, an odd sight in the cool morning light.

Of course, Charlie’s concern immediately bubbled over. “What the hell happened?” she took a few steps forward, her gaze shifting from Pentious to the others, looking for clues.

Angel laughed exhaustedly, letting the backpacks drop heavily onto the ground with a dull thud. He strode forward, though his movements seemed more sluggish than usual. “Oh, you would not believe the bullshit we just went through, babe,” he said, running a hand through his disheveled hair before throwing his arms up in dramatic exasperation. “So we go by the living room, right? Everything’s chill, and dead guys stumble around the backyard; it's no big deal. Kitty and a lil doll are grabbing supplies, and I’m just standing there, minding my own damn business.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this was going.

Angel smirked, his voice rising in pitch as his story gained momentum. “Then, outta nowhere, this guy”—he pointed a thumb at Pentious—“started to fucking panic!”

Pentious shot him a glare but said nothing, too tired to argue. Charlie’s gaze shifted between the two, her concern deepening.

Angel crossed his arms, leaning in toward Charlie like he was sharing some juicy gossip. “We’re all fine, minding our business, grabbing what we need, when suddenly, Pentious here grabs the guns—just the guns, mind you—and completely forgets to use them! Doesn’t fire a single shot. Nope! He’s just standing there, holding onto them for dear life like they’re some kind of his fucking blanket.”

“I mean… it’s good he didn’t use them, right? But…” Charlie’s mouth fell open slightly as she looked at Pentious. “... why?”

Pentious’ face reddened. “I don’t know! It was the first time I saw that many roamers at the same time! I—there were too many of them, and I didn’t—”

Angel interrupted with a laugh, clearly not done yet. “And then, guess who the zombos decide to go after? Not me, not Husk, not Niffty—oh no, they went straight for our new guy because, well, he’s the one flailing around like a fucking fish!” He mimicked Pentious’ panicked movements with exaggerated gestures, making Vaggie snicker.

Niffty chimed in, bouncing slightly on her feet. “It was impressive how fast they swarmed him! But it’s okay; we handled it.”

Husk grunted, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Handled it, alright. We were the ones slicing up the damn zombies while he”—he pointed at Pentious—“just stood there. I swear I’ve never seen someone freeze that hard.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, her mind racing. “Are you all okay?” she asked, scanning them for any visible injuries.

Angel, still grinning, wiped some blood from his cheek. “Yeah, we’re fine. Good thing we all had our knives—‘cause this dumbass didn’t fire a single bullet! It's a part of the plan, but come on! We had to do all the work, stabbing at those straggling fuckers and all.”

Pentious’ expression turned sheepish as he looked away. “I… I didn’t expect them to come at me like that…”

Husk gave a half shrug. “We only took out the ones that mattered, grabbed what we needed, and dipped. No point in wasting energy on the rest.”

Angel chuckled, “At some point, I had to grab Pentious by the arm and yank him out of there ‘cause he was still standing there. Look, toots, the guy’s got guts, and I’ll give him that—just not the kind that’s useful in a zombie fight.”

Pentious sighed, wiping some of the grime off his face. “Next time, I’ll… actually use the guns. Even if it’s risky.”

Angel snorted. “Yeah, you better. Next time, we won’t be pulling your ass out of there.” He smirked, but his tone carried a trace of fondness. Despite the bullshit, they’d made it out.

“Gracias a Dios, carajo. It's a good thing none of you got bitten,” Vaggie rubbed the bridge of her nose as they all nodded in agreement.

Charlie finally relaxed, “Well…” She tugs her sleeve like a tic rather than adjusting it. “Let’s not push our luck next time.”

With the supplies in hand and everyone still standing, the group grabbed their respective backpacks and supplies, rationing everything evenly as they prepared to move on. Charlie quietly observed as Pentious, still looking shaken, returned the AK-47 to Vaggie and handed the Tommy gun back to Angel. He seemed bummed, avoiding eye contact, clearly rattled from the ordeal back at the house.

Angel, ever perceptive, sauntered over to Pentious, his tone surprisingly softer. “Hey, are you good?” He cocked his head, his typical grin playing on his lips.

Pentious glanced at him, hesitating before offering a small, almost embarrassed smile. “Yes… I just wanted to thank you for pulling me out of there. I would’ve been screwed without you.”

Angel laughed, patting Pentious on the back with exaggerated force. “Ah, don’t sweat it, babe! That’s what we do—keep each other alive, even when you’re being a dumbass.”

Pentious flinched at the smack but appreciated the gesture, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. Just then, Husk wandered over, flicking away his cigarette with a casual smirk. “Gotta say, kid, the plan worked. You did good.” He gave Pentious a solid pat on the arm, reassuring but firm, as if letting him know he’d earned his place despite everything.

Pentious nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the first relief he’d shown since their escape. Charlie, who had been watching the exchange from the corner of her eye, couldn’t help but smile. She bent back over her bag, finishing packing up, but her attention drifted toward Vaggie, who was busy securing her supplies.

Charlie moved closer, lowering her voice so only Vaggie could hear. “It was a good move… not leaving Pentious behind. I’m glad you didn’t.”

Vaggie paused, her hands still momentarily as she looked at Charlie with mild confusion. “Why are you thanking me for that?”

Charlie’s smile softened as she spoke affectionately, “For having a good heart.”

Vaggie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, her expression unreadable. After a brief silence, she nodded slowly as though trying to convince herself of Charlie’s words. “I’m glad, too,” she finally said, her voice low, before turning back to her bag, her movements deliberate but quieter now.

As Charlie finished packing and stood up, Vaggie’s hands slowed, the motion of tightening her bag straps faltering as Charlie’s words echoed in her mind.

For having a good heart.

Her lone eye drifted downward, gazing at her rough, calloused hands—hands that had done things and made choices she wasn’t always proud of. Could someone with a “good heart” have literal and metaphorical bloodstains on their hands? Could someone like her even be that?

Memories came flooding back, uninvited and unwanted—over a decade ago, long before the outbreak existed. Way before Charlie had appeared before Vaggie had ever entertained the thought of hope. Back when no one had ever told her she had a good heart. No one would have dared.

The pools of blood, the restrained wrists, the blurred faces she left behind, the violence she didn’t flinch from—the people who had crossed her, who had begged for mercy. A good heart, she thought bitterly. Would someone with a good heart make those kinds of choices?

Then, her voice nudged in. Reawakened.

“Fucking Christ, Valeria. Stop being such a wuss and deal with it.”

It jolted her back to reality. Her lone eye flickered as she glanced sideways at Charlie, who was already shouldering her bag. She looked calm and content as if she genuinely believed Vaggie was someone good.

It made her feel both exposed and guilty.

Vaggie’s fingers tightened around the straps of her bag, and she quickly shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. This wasn’t the time to question herself. The past was the past, and whatever Charlie saw in her… that was something to think about later. If there even was a later.

She then rushed the rest of her packing.

Chapter Text

The room was alive with laughter and clinking glasses. Marines in their formal blues gathered around round tables. A newly promoted sergeant sat among them, her messily styled bob cut with a swept fringe across her forehead as she leaned back in her chair.

Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, eyes drifting over the lively scene before her, but her thoughts were miles away—back to the recent grueling deployment in Haiti. It had been the most stressful period of her life, days that blurred into nights, moments where she wasn't sure if she'd make it through. But now, there was a break. The conflict had settled, at least for now. The relief of knowing she wouldn’t have to return to that damn war zone just yet settled over her, but the relief was tempered with a pang of sadness.

She wasn’t going home next week like she’d hoped. Her mamá and hermanos were expecting her, and the thought of missing them again gnawed at her. Still, she forced herself to focus on the present. She was here with her fellow marines, and she should be celebrating. But her heart wasn’t quite in it.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a figure slid into the seat beside her. A fair-skinned woman with a similarly styled bob, though much shorter—almost an undercut—leaned close.

“Hey,” Lauren’s voice was raspy but soft with concern as she peered at her. “How’re you holding up?”

The newly minted sergeant turned, blinking as if pulled from a distant world. She smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in that subtle way Lauren always recognized.

“I’m fine,” she replied, though her voice didn’t carry the usual conviction.

Lauren narrowed her eyes slightly. "You sure about that?" she asked skeptically. "You’ve got that look. The ‘I’m pretending everything’s fine’ look.”

The sergeant let out a small chuckle, shaking her head. "I'm serious. It's just been... a long couple of months, you know? But I’m fine now, really."

Lauren didn’t seem convinced, leaning in closer and lowering her voice so the others couldn’t overhear. “You don’t have to keep it all in, Valeria. You can talk to me. You know that, right?”

The sergeant—Valeria—kept her smile in place, her fingers still tracing the glass, but her amber eyes shifted away. “I appreciate it, Lauren. But I’m good. I just… need a little time to process everything, that’s all.”

Lauren observed her, her gaze softening as she realized Valeria wouldn’t open up yet. “Alright,” she said finally, leaning back in her chair, though the concern in her hazel eyes didn’t fade. “But you know where to find me when you’re ready. Whether it’s tonight or whenever.”

Valeria’s smile grew a little, touched by Lauren’s persistence. “Yeah, I know. I’ll keep that in mind.”

But inside, Valeria wasn’t ready to talk about Haiti. Not here, not tonight. The party was a distraction, a way to forget for a little while, and that was precisely what she needed. Sharing everything she was carrying would break that illusion, and she wasn’t ready.

For now, she’d keep pretending she was okay to hold herself together a little longer.

The party went on in a blur for Valeria. The laughter, clinking glasses, and music all melded into background noise, not quite penetrating the fog in her mind. The distraction wasn’t working, while her fellow marines were quickly loosening up. She couldn’t shake it, and it left her mostly sober, unlike the rest of her unit, who were now laughing loudly and toasting to anything and everything.

Lauren, sitting beside her, seemed to pick up on it. "Looks like it's just you and me holding down the fort," she muttered with a smirk, glancing at their increasingly inebriated comrades.

Valeria raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re… surprisingly sober for someone who’s had just as much to drink as them.”

Lauren chuckled. “High tolerance. I could probably drink this whole place dry and still be fine.”

Valeria couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I’m glad one of us is watching the kids.”

Lauren shot her a mischievous grin. “Speaking of kids… I’ve got an idea. How about we take them on an adventure? Times Square via subway. Ever done it before?”

Valeria blinked. “The subway? No… I’ve only ever seen it on TV. Isn’t it, like… chaotic?”

Lauren shrugged. “Depends on the day, but it’ll be more entertaining than sitting here babysitting drunk marines. C’mon, when’s the next time you’ll get to ride a New York City subway?”

Valeria hesitated momentarily but nodded, figuring it’d be an excellent way to stay occupied. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Gathering the rest of their unit was easier said than done, but after some coaxing, Valeria and Lauren managed to herd them out of the venue and toward the nearest subway station. Valeria was still unsure about the whole thing—New York City seemed like such an expensive, glamorous place from what she’d seen on TV and the internet, where people paid through the nose for a coffin-sized apartment.

Of course, it wasn’t glamorous at all. The station was grimy, with chipped paint and flickering lights, but it was alive with activity. People of all kinds hurried past them—commuters, tourists, performers setting up for an impromptu show in the corner. Valeria had never seen anything like it.

They boarded the train, which was just as crowded and chaotic as the station. Valeria found herself pressed between her unit and strangers, one loudly chatting on his phone about stock prices while another played the saxophone like a private concert.

A few stops in, a man dressed in medieval knight armor stepped onto the subway. Valeria blinked in surprise, but no one else seemed to bat an eye.

As the ride went on, Valeria noticed more of the quirks she’d only heard about—the guy breakdancing in the middle of the train car while everyone just shuffled to make space for him, the street preacher loudly proclaiming the end of days (“The plague will end it all!”), and the group of tourists with giant backpacks struggling to figure out where to get off.

The train had rattled through a few more stops, dropping off some locals and picking up others, and it was time to hop onto a different subway line to head into Manhattan, just as Lauren had planned. Each station they passed through had a distinct feel—some grimier than others, some with chipped tiles and ancient advertisements plastered over the walls. But as they got closer to Manhattan, Valeria noticed a shift. The subways began to look… nicer, cleaner even. Brighter lights, less graffiti, and more tourists mixed into the usual crowd of commuters.

She quietly observed it all; it was strange how different parts of the city seemed like separate worlds. The parts further out felt worn down and forgotten. But as they neared the heart of Manhattan, it seemed more polished and cared for, as if the city prioritized what it showed to the world.

Finally, they arrived at the Times Square stop. The unit poured out of the subway car, loud and rowdy from their drunken antics. Lauren kept a loose eye on them, her casual, almost amused demeanor masking how closely she was watching over everyone. On the other hand, Valeria slowed down, letting the others move ahead as she took a moment to absorb the scene around her.

The station was bustling, filled with people rushing in and out. The ceiling above was crisscrossed with beams and signs pointing in different directions. Despite the late hour, it was alive with energy, like the city's pulse was strongest in the belly of Manhattan. The neon lights from above ground seeped through the grates, casting a strange glow in certain station parts. Street performers played just beyond the turnstiles, their music echoing in the vast, cavernous space.

Valeria couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place, her marine blues standing out in the sea of people dressed for the night or even for work. It was surreal to think that she had been at a formal event just hours ago, and now here she was, at the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world.

Up ahead, her unit was still loud and energetic, drawing glances from passersby, though no one seemed to mind too much. This was New York, after all. But Valeria couldn’t help but stay a step behind, her eyes flicking around the station, watching people rush to their next destination. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—maybe nothing.

Lauren glanced over her shoulder, noticing Valeria lagging, but she didn’t call out. She simply gave her a knowing smile before turning her attention back to the unit and guiding them toward the exit.

Valeria’s gaze wandered as they moved through the subway station. The station’s walls were lined with sleek, LED billboards flashing advertisements that tried to outdo each other for attention. Vibrant colors, catchy slogans, and fast-moving graphics bombarded her senses. It was just a blur of consumerism—luxury brands, fashion lines, tech gadgets—until one particular billboard caught her eye, standing out from the rest like it was dominating the entire platform.

The image that greeted her was glaringly polished, featuring the grinning face of a woman she vaguely recognized. A billionaire? Who else could afford to rent a damn NYC Subway billboard? The name below the picture—Charlotte Morningstar—sounded familiar, though Valeria couldn’t place exactly why. She wasn’t exactly up to date with the ultra-rich and had little patience for how wealth seemed to ruin any ordinary person’s day. But it was unavoidable, plastered across the billboard in bright, glaring colors.

“Inside of every person is a rainbow. – The Morningstar Enterprises,” the bold quote beside the image read as if it was meant to inspire the masses. Valeria rolled her eyes at the sentiment. The last thing she needed was a billionaire telling her where to find fucking rainbows.

She studied the advertisement for a moment longer, her eyes narrowing slightly at Charlotte’s face. The woman’s wide grin seemed forced in its perfection, showcasing prominent dimples on either side. Her striking blue eyes, not even looking directly at the camera, gave the impression that she was glancing off into some invisible horizon. Her maroon vest and pink dress shirt, accented by a sharp black necktie, clashed oddly against the soft blue background. It was a strange mix of colors, meant to stand out but making her feel oddly disconnected.

Valeria found herself staring longer than she intended. There was something oddly magnetic about the billboard. Charlotte’s blue eyes, the confident grin, the effortless way she seemed to radiate power and control—it was hard not to admire, even if Valeria hated everything the woman stood for. She wondered what it would be like to wield that kind of influence, to have people hang on your every word, to be able to shape entire industries with a mere smile.

A slight sense of envy crept in, though Valeria quickly dismissed it. She had never been one to fantasize about wealth or power, yet here she was, lingering on the image of a woman she barely knew.

“Valeria!” Lauren’s voice cut through the haze, yanking her back to reality.

Valeria blinked, her gaze snapping away from the billboard. In the distance, she saw Lauren standing at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the street, her hand on the railing, waiting patiently. The rest of the unit had already made it outside. Lauren tilted slightly, smirking as if she knew precisely what Valeria had been thinking.

“You coming?” she called out, the casual tone masking her underlying concern.

Valeria glanced at the billboard, taking in Charlotte Morningstar’s perfect smile and unreadable eyes, then sighed softly to herself. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to linger, why the woman’s face seemed to stir something in her. But whatever it was, it would have to wait. She wasn’t about to get lost in a daydream here, not with Lauren and the rest of her unit waiting.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Valeria finally responded, shaking off the strange feeling as she started walking toward the rest of her unit.

A week had passed since Pentious joined their group, and they had made surprising progress. They traveled by foot and reached Bohemia in the middle of Long Island. Unlike the cities they had navigated in the more populated towns back on the western side, the zombie presence here wasn’t nearly as dense. However, the roads were cracked, overgrown with weeds, and dotted with abandoned houses and shops, but the group could pass by without much hassle.

The relative quiet allowed for easier conversation. Pentious, who mainly had been reserved in his first few days with them, finally spoke up as they took a break under the shade of a decaying gas station.

“Do you mind for a suggestion…” he began, hesitating slightly, “if we found a working car, we could get to the safe house faster. Traveling like this…” He trailed off, motioning to their weary legs and heavy backpacks. “It’s fine for now, but I can fix up a car if we find one. I just need the right tools.”

Everyone exchanged glances, considering the suggestion. They had been walking for days, their energy stretched thin.

“I like the sound of that,” Husk grumbled. “Walking’s good and all, but I wouldn’t mind sitting behind the wheel again.”

Without another word, Charlie pulled out her phone. Miraculously, they still had a connection, though how much longer that would last was anyone’s guess. She quickly searched for a nearby hotspot for cars, and after a few moments of scrolling, Angel peered over her shoulder and grinned.

“There’s a dealership,” he said, pointing to the screen. “We’re not too far from one, and a shit ton of cars to choose from.”

Charlie nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Let’s head there and see if we can find something that works.”

The group moved in a tight formation, with Charlie leading the way, her phone in hand as she checked the map. Despite the miraculous persistence of a working internet connection, she knew they couldn’t rely on it forever. Behind her, Vaggie kept her eye alert, her hunting knife in hand, while Angel and Husk flanked Pentious, who was still adjusting to the group’s pace. Finally, Alastor walks confidently while Niffty skips her steps, the two side by side.

The quiet of Bohemia was eerie, even by post-apocalyptic standards. Four months into the collapse, the once-bustling streets had become a wild, overgrown landscape. Houses that once had well-maintained lawns were now half-hidden behind ivy walls and uncut grass. The cracked pavement was crisscrossed with weeds, some tall enough to reach their ankles. Many of the storefronts they passed were either shattered or boarded up, but it was clear that nature was winning the battle for control—vines snaked their way over brick walls, through broken windows, and across doorways that had long been abandoned.

Once confined to parks and backyards, some more giant trees had spread their seeds onto the sidewalks and roadways, sprouting young saplings that would likely grow into forests if left unchecked. A few buildings showed signs of former human occupation, with barricades and “Stay Away” signs painted in bold, red letters on the front of houses or stores. They passed an old coffee shop, its outdoor seating now rusted and covered in moss, the windows too filthy to see through. Yet, despite all of the overgrowth and decay, the group encountered only a few stray zombies—most were slow (thank fucking God). They walked past what had once been a grocery store, its parking lot nearly unrecognizable beneath the layer of tall grass and shrubbery that had overtaken it.

A few more minutes passed, and they reached a small residential block. Some houses were gutted by fire or looting, while others stood eerily intact, their doors closed and windows dark. Occasionally, they caught glimpses of movement inside—a figure lurking, watching, though it was hard to tell whether it was human or otherwise. None of them wanted to find out.

Meanwhile, Charlie glanced back at Vaggie, her brow furrowing in quiet concern. Vaggie had been unusually quiet for the past few days. Sure, when they were alone, Vaggie would still initiate tender moments—cuddling, stealing kisses, those little gestures that told Charlie her girlfriend was still there, still present in some way. But when strategizing or leading the group, Vaggie had become more withdrawn, leaving much of the decision-making to Charlie. That shift was unsettling.

Usually, Vaggie was the one to figure out their formations and suggest which direction to take. Now, it seemed like Charlie was pushing them forward, glancing at the map, and taking charge. She wanted to ask what was wrong—was it the constant stress, the weight of the responsibility they’d taken on? Maybe Vaggie just needed space to think. But there was a lingering fear that maybe, just maybe, Charlie was being too clingy, that her worry would smother Vaggie’s need for independence.

Charlie understood all too well the desire to withdraw—she had done it herself countless times in social situations, going non-verbal when shit became too overwhelming. Was Vaggie feeling that now? Was this just her way of processing everything?

Charlie’s thoughts spiraled, but she didn’t voice them. She didn’t want to push, didn’t want to invade Vaggie’s space. Maybe when they found somewhere safe, she’d find a quiet moment to talk—without making Vaggie feel cornered.

Her internal debate was abruptly cut short when Angel’s voice broke the silence.

“Is that it?” he asked, pointing ahead.

Charlie blinked, refocusing her attention. Just a little down the road, she saw the signs hanging above a lot filled with rows of cars. The words “LEASE FOR LESS!” “#1 AUTO BROKER!” were plastered in massive, fading fonts on banners that hung crookedly from the building. It was unmistakably the dealership they’d been heading for.

“Yeah, that’s the place,” Charlie said, squinting at the lot. If they could find a working car, they’d be one step closer to their goal—and maybe, just maybe, they could rest a little easier.

“Let’s check it out,” she added, adjusting the strap of her backpack and giving Vaggie one last glance before leading the group toward the lot.

The group stepped cautiously into the car lot, the rows of vehicles stretching before them. Charlie observed the cars as they walked between them. Dust and grime covered the windshields, and some of the cars had dents and scratches that had no doubt occurred during the early days.

Angel, growing restless, broke the silence. “Hey, Pentious,” he called over his shoulder, “mind checking some of these out? See if we’ve got anything usable?”

Pentious, his brow furrowed in concentration as he examined a nearby sedan, shook his head. “Cars that have been exposed like this for months, without any maintenance… they’re most likely broken down beyond quick repair. The engines could be seized, and the batteries would be dead. Tires may be dry-rotted, too.”

Angel's frustration was immediate, and he threw his hands up in exasperation. “Are you kidding me?” He let out a rough laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. “I’ve been hotwiring every car we’ve come across—me, Charlie, and Vaggie—and none of those pieces of shits worked either! We wasted so much time on that.”

Charlie winced, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled. “We thought maybe one of them would eventually work. But yeah… none of them even started.”

Pentious hummed. “That’s not uncommon. Like I said, cars out here are exposed to the elements, and without regular maintenance, they’re probably beyond saving.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Angel muttered, kicking a rock on the ground in frustration.

Pentious raised his hands to calm him down. “W-We still have options! There could be cars inside the building—those would have been protected. If we’re lucky, we might find something in better condition.”

The frustration in Angel’s expression slowly faded as Pentious’s words sank in. They continued moving through the lot, heading toward the entrance of the dealership’s main building, a looming structure with large glass windows smeared with dirt and grime.

Charlie glanced back at Vaggie, who had been silent throughout the exchange. Her girlfriend’s typically sharp, analytical mind hadn’t contributed to the conversation, which worried Charlie more than she wanted to admit. Vaggie’s quietness wasn’t just strange—it felt off.

The dealership doors creaked open as Pentious pushed them forward, revealing a dimly lit showroom. The air was still heavy compared to the wild, overgrown lot outside. Inside, everything seemed preserved. Cars lined the floor in neat rows, their surfaces coated in a thin layer of dust but otherwise untouched. Some still had “New!” signs slapped on the windshields, as though waiting for buyers who would never come.

“Well, this is weird,” Husk muttered, peering around the space. “It’s like nobody even thought to loot this place.”

Angel whistled low, impressed despite himself. “At least it’s not trashed. Maybe we’ll get lucky after all.”

Pentious walked over to one of the pickup trucks, trying to pop the hood but kept stubbornly closed. He tugged at the pickup truck's door handle, but it didn’t budge. His brow furrowed in mild frustration as he gave it another yank. “Of course, it’s locked,” he muttered, letting out a breath. “We’re gonna need keys for these.”

Before anyone could respond, Angel stepped forward, grinning mischievously. “Hey, no problem. I can probably get this thing unlocked in no time—”

Alastor’s smooth voice cut him off. “No need to waste time fiddling with it. We’re in a dealership, effeminate fellow. The keys are bound to be in the office somewhere.” He gestured towards the back of the showroom, where several closed doors led into what appeared to be a row of offices. “They likely kept spares for the cars they were trying to sell.”

The group exchanged glances and murmurs of agreement. It made sense. Charlie nodded and turned to the others. “Sure, let’s check the offices.”

As they prepared to follow Alastor, Charlie scanned the room, her gaze landing on Vaggie, who was unmoving by the reception desk. She looked lost in thought, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It was a position Charlie had seen before—one that meant Vaggie was wrestling with something inside, something she wasn’t ready to share yet.

Charlie’s heart tugged with worry. She debated whether to approach her, knowing Vaggie’s quiet demeanor was unusual. Finally, she turned back to the group. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Pentious gave her a brief nod, Angel shrugged, and Alastor’s eyes glanced between the blonde and Vaggie in the distance, then tipped his head in acknowledgment, all of them heading towards the offices without further question.

Charlie lingered for a moment before quietly walking over to Vaggie. She sat beside her, careful not to break the silence too quickly. “Hey,” she said softly, keeping her tone gentle.

Vaggie didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the floor as though trapped in whatever thoughts weighed her down. The silence between them was thick, and Charlie felt its ache in her chest. Carefully, she reached over, gently taking Vaggie’s hand. Her pale thumb stroked lightly against the calloused surface of Vaggie’s smaller hand, hoping the simple gesture would ground her partner and pull her back from whatever was holding her so tightly.

Vaggie’s fingers twitched slightly at the touch, and she closed her eye, letting out a slow, controlled exhale. For a moment, Charlie wasn’t sure if she was going to say anything at all. But then, in a voice quieter than Charlie was used to hearing from her, Vaggie spoke.

“You haven’t given up on me,” she said abruptly.

Charlie blinked, tilting her head slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”

Vaggie’s grip on her hand tightened just a little like she was holding on for stability. She took another breath, still not looking at her. “Back at the hospital,” she continued, hesitant, “when I was… hostile to you—trying to make you leave. I was so angry. Broken. And yet, you stayed. You kept coming back. Why?”

The question hung between them. Charlie felt her throat tighten. They had never really discussed their time at the trauma hospital in detail—when Vaggie was still recovering, and Charlie was just a volunteer social worker. It was one of the most stressful periods in both their lives, and the fact that they had ended up together afterward still felt, at times, like a fragile miracle.

Charlie’s mind raced for an answer, but she struggled to form the words. She knew that Vaggie deserved more than a quick, thoughtless response. She had to dig deep, past the discomfort, and give her something real.

After a long pause, Charlie finally spoke. “Because…” she started softly, still stroking Vaggie’s hand, “you deserved a chance. I saw you, Vaggie. The real you, not just… who you were in that moment.” She swallowed, steadying herself. “I knew you were hurt and lashing out. But I also knew that wasn’t all there was to you. I knew you had a fire in you, something worth fighting for. And I wasn’t going to walk away from that.”

Vaggie’s eye remained closed, but her breathing had slowed, her shoulders less tense than they’d been moments ago. She didn’t respond immediately, but Charlie could feel their subtle shift.

Vaggie’s silence stretched on, but when she spoke again, her voice was rough. “Is that why you said I had a good heart?” she asked, her words spilling out quickly as if they had been bottled up for too long. “Even after all this time? Even when I’ve been nothing but a fucking mess?”

Her eye flickered, filled with a turmoil that Charlie recognized all too well. Vaggie’s words grew more erratic as she ranted, not giving Charlie a chance to interrupt. “You say I have this ‘good heart,’ but I’ve hurt you, I’ve hurt others… so, so, so many others! I’ve been angry and reckless and—”

As Vaggie rambled, her free left hand crept up toward her eyepatch. Slowly, almost unconsciously, Vaggie’s fingers dug into the edge of the patch, her nails scraping against the skin beneath it as if trying to hurt herself.

“No—Vaggie, stop!” Charlie quickly reached over, grabbing Vaggie’s wrist and pulling her hand away, holding both hands firmly between hers. She held her tight, grounding her with her touch, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re not a mess. Don’t do this—”

Charlie’s words died on her lips as she noticed Vaggie’s trembling hands, once gripped in Charlie’s, began to shake harder. Her body had gone rigid, her eye unfocused. A quiet, desperate whisper escaped her lips.

“I’m sorry…”

Charlie’s jaws clenched, realizing Vaggie wasn’t here anymore—reliving something trapped in the memories. Charlie squeezed her hands gently, trying to ground her girlfriend, but Vaggie’s voice was barely audible as she continued to mutter, “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to…”

Her breathing grew shallow, and her trembling worsened. She flinched slightly, her gaze distant, staring past Charlie as though she was seeing something terrible that had already happened and couldn’t be undone.

Charlie’s heart sank, a familiar helplessness settling over her. This wasn’t the first time she had seen Vaggie like this—most of the time, it happened at night when the darkness pressed in and Vaggie’s terrors surfaced in her sleep. But seeing it now was even more heartbreaking in the cold light of day.

She tightened her grip on Vaggie’s hands, her voice soft. “Hey… it’s okay. You’re here with me, Vaggie. You’re safe.”

Charlie kept her movements slow and controlled, remembering how, in moments like this, sudden actions could pull Vaggie deeper into the spiral. She shifted closer, her hands still holding Vaggie’s as she whispered reassurances, “You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t have to be sorry. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Vaggie’s muttered apologies continued. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry…” She was stuck in the loop, her breaths coming faster now.

Charlie then remembered that Vaggie needed the most gentle, grounding contact to remind her that she wasn’t alone.

She hesitated momentarily, knowing how fragile Vaggie could be in these moments. She didn’t want to touch her without asking, without making sure Vaggie was aware of her presence.

“Valeria,” Charlie whispered, leaning in just enough so her voice could cut through the fog of her partner’s panic. “Can I touch you? Just to help, okay? You’re safe, I promise.”

Vaggie didn’t speak but gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was all Charlie needed—confirmation that Vaggie was aware and was still there somewhere.

With infinite care, Charlie began tracing slow, gentle strokes along Vaggie’s arms, starting at her hands and working her way upward. Her touch was featherlight, a deliberate effort to keep it non-intrusive. “You’re here, Vaggie,” she murmured. “With me. You’re safe.”

Charlie took her time, running her fingers along Vaggie’s toned arms. She could feel Vaggie’s muscles gradually start to loosen, though her gaze remained distant, her apologies slipping out occasionally.

Charlie then worked her way up, resting her hand gently on Vaggie’s cheek, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She traced her fingers along the curve of her jaw. “I’m here,” she repeated softly, her thumb brushing Vaggie’s cheek in slow, soothing circles. “Stay with me.”

She knew it would take time, just as it had in the past. When Vaggie slipped into these states, Charlie had learned that patience was key and that she would stay right by her side no matter how long it took. There was no rushing this, no easy fix.

Hopefully, the rest of the group will still be back at the offices so as not to witness this vulnerable moment, although Charlie hopes none of them will try to do something stupid like pull a fire alarm or something.

For fuck’s sake, don’t jinx it, Charlie.

As the minutes passed, Vaggie’s trembling slowly started to ease, though her breathing was still shaky and uneven. Her eye blinked rapidly, like she was trying to hold back something, but it was clear that the emotions were breaking through. And then, finally, a tear slid down her cheek.

“I’m so sorry…” Vaggie’s voice cracked, the tight control she had been holding onto crumbling. She then held on to Charlie’s slender arms and faltered as she let out a broken sob.

Charlie felt her own throat tighten, but she didn’t let go. She wrapped her arms around Vaggie, pulling her into a tight embrace. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath as Vaggie’s tears soaked into her chest. “You’re not alone. I’m here, and I always will be.”

Vaggie’s sobs came in waves now, deep and raw, as though the pain she had tried so hard to bury was finally spilling out. Charlie held her close, rocking her gently, her hand running through Vaggie’s hair as she murmured comforting words. She didn’t need to say anything profound—just being there, holding her, was enough.

Vaggie’s sobs gradually quieted, her breathing slowing. She stayed nestled in Charlie’s arms, letting the warmth of her embrace soothe the raw ache inside. After a few deep breaths, Vaggie pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at Charlie, her face still wet with tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words could come, Charlie leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Vaggie exhaled, her eye fluttering closed as the tension seemed to melt away. She kissed Charlie back, a quiet, grateful sigh escaping her as she let herself sink into the moment and comfort of her partner’s love.

When they pulled back, Charlie kept one hand resting on Vaggie’s cheek, her thumb brushing away the last traces of tears. Her voice, tender and careful, broke the silence.

“Listen to me,” Charlie began softly, her gaze locked with Vaggie’s. “You… you have a good heart, Vaggie. You’ve always had one… and I’ve seen it in how you care for people and protect the people you love. How you took care of me and how you still do.”

Charlie’s left hand squeezed Vaggie’s a little tighter. “You’re… not a mess. You’re strong, and… you’ve been through hell, but you still care. You still fight for others.”

Vaggie’s gaze softened. She blinked, her breath hitching slightly as if she didn’t know how to respond, but Charlie wasn’t finished yet.

“And I want to take care of you, too,” Charlie continued, her voice lowering. “You don’t have to carry all this on your own. I’m here. I’ve always been here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Vaggie remained quiet, her breath coming in slow, deep waves as if absorbing the weight of Charlie’s words. She didn’t respond immediately; she just rested there, looking at Charlie with a pensive expression. Charlie waited patiently, her thumb absently stroking Vaggie’s cheek, allowing her to process everything. She could feel Vaggie’s hand tighten just slightly on hers, a subtle signal that she was grounding herself.

Then, with a quiet exhale, Vaggie shifted, her arms coming up to wrap around Charlie again. She nestled her head into Charlie’s chest, burying her face there.

“Thank you,” Vaggie murmured, her words muffled by the fabric of Charlie’s shirt.

Before Charlie could respond, a distant, high-pitched whistle echoed. Charlie instinctively tensed and turned slightly, still holding Vaggie in her arms. Then she saw Angel strutting ahead of the group.

As Charlie’s gaze traveled over the rest of the group, her eyes landed on Pentious, who was flushed and visibly uncomfortable. His eyes quickly darted away as he caught sight of the intimate moment between her and Vaggie. Without saying a word, he snatched the car keys from Angel’s hand and hurried toward the pickup truck.

Angel, of course, noticed the whole exchange and couldn’t resist. With a wide grin, he waved at Charlie and Vaggie. “Well, well, well, look at you two lovebirds. Should I give you some privacy? Or maybe a little mood music?”

Charlie just shot him a deadpan look, unamused. She didn’t even bother with a verbal response, her eyes narrowing slightly as if to say, Not now, Angel. But of course, Angel just chuckled.

Vaggie, still resting against Charlie’s chest, let out a tired but amused huff. Her hold on Charlie tightened as if silently acknowledging the situation's absurdity. Charlie gave her a soft squeeze, a silent reassurance.

Angel’s teasing didn’t stop as he sauntered closer to the pair, a smirk still plastered across his face. “You know,” he began, “it’s no wonder you two didn’t bother coming along to check out the loot. I mean, why bother when you’re clearly ‘occupied’ with more… important things?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, his grin widening.

Charlie didn’t flinch, though. Her deadpan expression remained firmly in place as she released a slow, exasperated sigh. “Angel,” she said, her tone flat, “did you even find anything useful, or was it just a wasted trip besides the car keys?”

Angel’s grin didn’t falter, though he shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, you know, just the usual. Lots of rotted dead bodies—real pleasant. A few guns that Alastor found tucked away in the main office. No clue how that creep knows where to look for this stuff, but hey, I’m not complaining. Got ourselves a decent haul, I guess.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Rotted bodies and guns. Fantastic.”

Angel chuckled. “Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t ask to play detective in a goddamn office full of corpses. But, on the bright side, we’ve got a working truck. Or at least, almost working.”

Pentious’s voice echoed through the spacious showroom as if his British accent carried across the room on cue. “The truck is nearly in perfect condition! Just a few more adjustments, and we’ll be ready to go.”

Charlie glanced at the truck where Pentious was fussing over the engine, a toolbox spread open next to him. She gave a slight nod, and her arm draped protectively around Vaggie, who had gone quiet but stayed close, listening intently to the exchange.

Angel, noticing Charlie’s gaze shift, gave a mock salute. “Looks like Pentious is taking this mechanic gig real seriously. Who knew the guy had it in him?”

Charlie hummed to herself. “As long as he gets it running…”

Angel laughed, leaning against a nearby wall. “Fair enough. So, you two lovebirds ready to rejoin the group, or do you need a few more minutes of ‘personal time’?”

Before Charlie could even think of a reply, Vaggie’s usual firm tone returned, though it was a bit weary. "We should probably rejoin them before Angel makes an even bigger deal out of it."

Charlie glanced down at her, surprised but relieved to hear her voice sounding more like herself again. Vaggie’s resolve had returned, even if not entirely. A small, appreciative smile touched Charlie’s lips as she quickly nodded.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Charlie murmured, grateful that Vaggie was okay for now or at least holding steady. She leaned in slightly, her voice softening in brief intimacy. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Vaggie offered a faint smile, her hand gently squeezing Charlie’s arm in silent thanks before pulling away, both standing up straight and ready to face the group again.

Charlie shifted her focus to Angel, still lounging against the wall with a mischievous smirk. She exhaled slowly, giving him a look that clearly said, Drop it, but knowing Angel, that was wishful thinking.

“Well,” Angel said, clearly not dropping it, “about time! Let’s get back to the show, huh?” He winked at Vaggie, though his tone was less teasing than before. He even ignored Charlie’s long, pointed look towards him.

With Charlie and Vaggie rejoining the rest of the group, they gathered around the pickup truck that Pentious had been inspecting. Everyone was in anticipation and seemed to focus on him, waiting for his evaluation of their newly acquired vehicle.

Pentious, still crouched by the open hood, wiped his hands on a rag as he stood up. He cleared his throat, glancing around at the expectant faces before speaking. “Right, everyone. I’ve got both good news and bad news.”

Angel, of course, was the first to chime in. “Oh, start with the damn good news. Always best to soften the blow, right?”

Pentious nodded, apparently taking Angel’s suggestion at face value. “Very well. The good news is that the truck’s engine is in decent condition—quite the surprise, actually, considering the state of everything else around here. I’ve inspected the basics and can perform some little maintenance right now. Shouldn’t take too long before it’s ready to run.”

A ripple of relief seemed to pass through the group, though Charlie’s expression remained cautious. “And the bad news?” she asked.

Pentious glanced at her, then back at the truck, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The bad news,” he began with a sigh, “is that the truck’s completely out of gas. Not a drop in the tank.” He hesitated before adding, “And the battery’s dead. It’ll need a proper charge before we can get it started.”

Charlie felt her stomach drop. Of course, she thought. Nothing could ever be that fucking easy. “Can we do that here? Charge the battery, I mean.”

Pentious nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s the one bit of good news. The country still has electricity, and I spotted a few working outlets by the office earlier. We can get the battery charged within an hour or so. But we’ll still need to find gas, which could be tricky.”

Angel clicked his tongue, leaning against the truck with a shrug. “Well, that’s not so bad. Just a little scavenging run for gas, right? We’ve done worse.”

Vaggie crossed her arms, glancing at Charlie. “We should figure out where to search for fuel while charging the battery. Then, we’ll split up and scout for gas stations.”

The group huddled around, and Charlie pulled out her phone. The screen was faintly glowing as she opened up the map app. The satellite images were spotty, but she managed to zoom in on the surrounding area. With a few swipes, she found what she was looking for: a gas station. It was about a 30-minute walk from the dealership, nestled on the outskirts of a small, desolate-looking neighborhood.

“There’s a gas station not too far from here,” Charlie announced, her finger hovering over the pin on the map. “It’s a bit of a hike, but if it’s still stocked, it could work.”

The group nodded in agreement, and just as Charlie was about to volunteer herself for the trip, Vaggie spoke up. “I’ll go,” she said, her tone steady, though subtle determination was behind it.

Charlie looked at her. “Vaggie—”

“I can handle it, sweetie,” Vaggie cut her off gently but firmly. “I know you’re worried, but we need this, and I’m fine. I can help Angel.” She shot a glance at him with a firm expression.

Charlie hesitated, the protective instinct in her flaring up. But Vaggie’s resolve was clear—she wasn’t asking for permission. She was volunteering because she knew she was capable. At that moment, Charlie knew she had to trust her.

With a small sigh, Charlie relented and handed her phone to Vaggie. “Alright,” she said, her voice softer now. “Take this, it’s for… navigation.”

Vaggie took the phone, her fingers brushing lightly against Charlie’s hand in a brief, silent exchange. “We’ll be back before you know it,” Vaggie reassured her.

Charlie watched them both momentarily, her worry lingering but pushed aside by necessity. “Be careful,” she called after them as they started toward the exit.

Vaggie turned her head slightly, giving Charlie a small but confident nod. “Always.”

Vaggie and Angel approached the gas station. Their walk had been surprisingly uneventful, the streets quiet save for the occasional distant moan of a stray zombie or the rustling of debris in the wind. They’d been lucky so far, only encountering a few stragglers easily avoided by ducking behind cars or cutting through narrow alleyways.

But now, standing at the edge of the gas station’s lot, things had taken a turn.

Vaggie’s eye caught sight of the danger first—a dozen zombies clustered near a black van that had crashed into the side of the gas station’s convenience store. Glass was shattered all over the pavement, and the vehicle’s front end was crumpled against the brick wall. It was clear that whatever had happened here had attracted many of the undead, and now they wandered, occasionally bumping into each other as they shuffled around the van and the gas pumps.

Vaggie quickly crouched, instinctively pulling Angel down with her. They pressed themselves against the side of an abandoned car haphazardly parked by the sidewalk, half-covered in dirt and grime, its windows shattered.

“Shit,” Angel muttered under his breath as he peered through the gaps in the wreckage. “That’s a whole party of ‘em.”

Vaggie took stock of the situation. Her eye flicked from the group of zombies to the gas station's pumps, assessing their surroundings quickly. “We need to stay low and find another way in,” she whispered. “If we can avoid them entirely, that’s our best bet.”

Angel nodded. “Got any brilliant ideas on how to do that? ‘Cause I’m all ears.”

Vaggie scanned the area. The gas station was surrounded by abandoned vehicles, some overturned and others merely rusting. A narrow alleyway beside the store led to a back entrance. It was risky, but it might offer a way to get closer without alerting the horde.

She pointed toward the alley. “There, we can sneak around the back and see if there’s a way in through the store. If we’re quiet, they might not notice us.”

Angel glanced over, his brow furrowing. “You sure about this?”

Vaggie gave him a firm nod. “We don’t have much of a choice. We need that damn gas.”

Angel frowned, still crouched beside Vaggie. His eyes scanned the horde milling around the crashed van. “I don’t know, Vags,” he whispered. “Even if we sneak around, how are we gonna loot this place with all those zombos looking so… pissed? That’s a lot to handle.”

Vaggie narrowed her eye, assessing the scene more carefully. Her gaze lingered on the van for a moment. The engine was still faintly smoking, and the zombies seemed more agitated than usual, bumping into the vehicle like they were drawn to it. She followed the clues in her mind, piecing together a theory.

“The van,” Vaggie muttered, pointing. “The engine’s still smoking, which means it hasn’t been there long. And look at how the horde’s acting—they’re more aggressive than usual, like something’s keeping them agitated. My guess? A survivor recently owned it.”

Angel’s eyes widened as he took in her assessment. “You think someone was driving that thing before it crashed?”

“Exactly,” Vaggie confirmed. “From what we’ve seen, muertos have shitty attention spans. If that van’s engine was running not too long ago, it means whoever was driving it might’ve left supplies inside—or something valuable.” She glanced at him. “If we can take out the horde, we can loot the van and the gas station. It’s worth a shot.”

Angel still looked uncertain. “Okay, but how do we even deal with that many without getting torn apart?”

Vaggie formulated her plan quickly. “We don’t take them all at once. We sneak around the back, split up, and slowly draw them away—one by one. We can lure a few into the alley and take them out quietly.”

Angel glanced between Vaggie and the horde. “So you want us to play whisperer, huh? Sounds like a risky date, but I’m in.”

Vaggie gave a firm nod, and they moved cautiously toward the narrow alley Vaggie had pointed out earlier. The shadows provided some cover from the wandering zombies, and they kept low, and their movements slow to avoid drawing attention. As they crept toward the back of the convenience store, Vaggie signaled for Angel to stop. She pressed her back against the rough brick wall. The moans of the undead echo, but they are farther off for now, giving them a small window to breathe.

She glanced up at Angel. “We split up here. You take the left side. I’ll circle around to the right. We’ll lure them away, one or two at a time.”

Angel’s grip tightened on his blade. "How many do you think we can handle before this turns into a mess?"

Vaggie hummed. "Let’s… keep it to five or less at a time. We’ll get their attention slowly, take them out in the alley where we’ve got room to maneuver."

Angel gave a confirmed nod and peeled off to the left while Vaggie took the right side of the building. She approached cautiously, eyeing the horde clustered around the van.

Taking a deep breath, Vaggie spotted her first target—a lone zombie stumbling slightly behind the rest. It was far enough from the leading group to be isolated but still close enough that any sudden noise could bring the entire horde down on them.

She waited for the perfect moment, crouched low and watching how the zombie moved. When it was turned away, she slipped out from behind her cover, closing the distance. She then buried her knife into the base of its skull, catching it before it could fall to the ground with too much noise.

One down, she thought, already scanning for the next.

Angel had taken out one on his side as well. She could hear the faint shuffle of another being dragged into the alley behind him. So far, their plan was working.

But the group near the van was still large, and they hadn’t noticed the missing zombies yet. Vaggie knew they’d have to continue this slow, methodical process if they wanted any chance of looting without drawing the horde's full attention.

She signaled to Angel from across the lot, pointing at two more zombies they could target next. Angel gave her a quick nod.

As Vaggie watched Angel take down another zombie, she slipped toward the back door of the convenience store.

Reaching the back door, she pressed her ear against it, listening for any signs of movement inside. Satisfied that it was quiet, she gently pushed the door open. It creaked slightly but not loud enough to catch the zombies' attention outside. She stepped in, immediately hit by the stale, musty air of the abandoned store.

Inside, the convenience store was a scene of chaos. Shelves had been overturned, their contents scattered haphazardly across the floor. Broken glass crunched under her boots, and the dim light filtering through the windows cast eerie shadows over the disarray. Empty snack bags, cans, and bottles littered the floor, and the faint scent of gasoline mixed with rot hung in the air. The power was long gone, leaving the place eerily silent except for the occasional groan from outside.

As Vaggie crept through the aisles, she reached the main area where the van had crashed into the front of the store. The vehicle had plowed through the brick wall, shattering glass and leaving a gaping hole. The front of the van was crumpled against the bricks, its headlights flickering dimly. Dust and debris covered everything.

Her eye shifted to the driver’s seat, where a man lay slumped against the steering wheel, his body limp and lifeless. His head had caved in from the impact, blood pooling around him. His hands still gripped the wheel, but it was clear he hadn’t survived the crash. The door was closed, but she could see the zombies outside, desperately clawing at the windows, their bloodied hands smearing the glass as they tried to reach the fresh corpse inside.

Vaggie’s gaze flicked to the passenger side of the van. The door was wide open, and something about it caught her attention. Someone else had been in the van. Whoever it was had escaped before the horde arrived, leaving the driver behind, which explained the zombies' frenzy—they hadn’t been drawn by the crash alone. Whoever had been sitting in that passenger seat had fled.

She crouched low, making her way closer to the front of the store. The zombies outside were still focused on the van, oblivious to her presence inside. From her vantage point, she could see Angel still moving through the lot and killing off more of the horde.

As Vaggie crept toward the front of the store, her eye locked on the nearest group of zombies. She tightened her grip on her knife, her muscles tense. She was about to make her move—silently open the door and start thinning the herd from behind.

But just as she reached for the handle, something slammed into her from the side with the force of a freight train.

Her back crashed against the counter, sending a sharp pain up her spine. The impact rattled her, and her knife flew out of her hand, sliding across the filthy floor and disappearing behind an overturned display shelf. She gasped, her vision momentarily blurring.

Vaggie instinctively reached for her sidearm, but before she could react, her attacker had her pinned against the counter. She strained against his weight. Her eye shot up, locking onto the face of the man who had tackled her.

She found herself face-to-face with a man—bloodied, wild-eyed, and panting heavily. His face was a mess. Blood dripped from his broken nose, and a deep gash cut across his forehead, still leaking blood down his face. His camouflage uniform was torn, streaked with dirt and gore. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wild with desperation, but as Vaggie stared at him, something flickered in her mind—something unsettlingly familiar.

She blinked, her breath hitching. For a moment, the present faded, replaced by flashes of the past. The man’s face—those features beneath the blood—dragged her back to the clamor of military drills, the dirt and sweat of long missions, a flash of tropical heat, and the sound of gunfire. She could see him standing beside her in formation—part of her unit. And this man… he’d been there, hadn’t he? A soldier she’d fought alongside. His name skittered on the edge of her mind, just out of reach.

Vaggie’s body tensed as the memories threatened to overwhelm her. His familiarity sent a wave of confusion crashing over her, but she forced herself to focus, to snap back to the present.

“Rodríguez,” the man rasped. His hand tightened around her wrist, pressing her harder against the counter, and his face twisted into a deranged grin. “I thought Adlon killed you off for good,” he snarled, his laughter low and menacing. “Guess she didn’t finish the job.”

The sound of that name—Adlon—was like a spark igniting old memories she had tried to bury. The image of this man, his face younger, laughing cruelly in the shadows of an alley. He was part of that group—part of the hazing that nearly cost her everything. They had left her there, bleeding and broken, thinking she’d never get up again.

But she did.

That familiar rage—the same fire that had fueled her survival all those years ago—roared back to life, burning away the shock. She was no longer frozen, confused.

Her muscles tensed, and she drove her knee upward into the man’s ribs, but his grip held firm. She needed to go lower. Her free leg shot down, slamming into the side of his knee with brutal force. There was a sickening crunch as his leg buckled, and he let out a pained grunt, collapsing just enough to loosen his hold.

Freed, Vaggie didn’t hesitate. She launched herself toward the knife that had fallen behind the overturned shelf. Every muscle burned as she sprinted, her mind racing—her pistol was useless now. One shot would bring the horde down on them, and she knew it.

Behind her, she could hear him scrambling to his feet, dragging himself after her despite the injury. He wasn’t giving up, his breath ragged and furious.

Just as her fingers closed around the handle of her knife, a weight crashed into her from behind again, sending her sprawling forward onto the broken glass-littered floor. She barely caught herself, the jagged pieces biting into her palms. She twisted, rolling onto her back just in time to see the man bearing down on her.

His bloodied face twisted with a sick mixture of rage and satisfaction as he lunged. Vaggie thrust the knife upward, but he knocked it aside, sending it skidding across the floor once more. His hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing hard enough to choke the air from her lungs. She clawed at his arm, but his grip was iron.

Desperate, Vaggie jabbed her thumb into the deep gash on his forehead. The man screamed, his grip slackening just enough for her to twist free. She slammed her elbow into his jaw, the impact jarring her entire arm. He staggered back, and Vaggie rolled to her feet.

Before he could fully recover, she moved in again, this time ducking under his wild swing and delivering a swift, brutal punch to his injured knee. He howled in pain, stumbling forward. Vaggie followed it up with a kick to his gut, sending him crashing into one of the shelves, the metal frame toppling over as he fell.

But still, he didn’t stop.

The man dragged himself back up, his body shaking with pain, but his eyes still burning with a feral rage. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he spat it out before charging at Vaggie again, his movements more desperate and erratic.

Vaggie braced herself as he closed the distance, his fists swinging wildly. She ducked under the first blow and felt the second graze her shoulder, the force behind it enough to sting. She twisted, using the momentum to drive her elbow into his ribs again, but he responded with a sharp punch to her side, knocking the wind out of her.

Gasping, Vaggie staggered back, trying to shake off the pain. The man lunged at her again, this time slamming his body into hers and driving her back against the counter once more. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her spine, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let him see her falter.

He grabbed her by the throat again, squeezing hard. Vaggie clawed at his wrist, trying to break free, but the pressure blurred her vision. Desperation clawed at her chest, but she forced herself to stay calm, her mind racing for a solution.

Her free hand fumbled at her belt until her fingers closed around something solid—her utility knife. Without hesitation, she flicked it open and drove it into his arm. The man let out a guttural scream, and his grip faltered, blood dripping from the fresh wound.

Vaggie used the opportunity to twist free, gasping for air as she shoved him back. He stumbled, his balance thrown off by the injury. He wiped the blood from his arm with a snarl and came at her again, though his movements were slower now, his body starting to wear down.

She sidestepped him, pivoting with precision, and brought her fist down on the back of his neck, sending him crashing to the floor. He groaned, but even then, he was trying to push himself up again.

Vaggie wasn’t about to give him the chance.

Before he could regain his footing, she brought her boot down hard on his injured knee. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage echoed. The man howled in agony, collapsing completely as his leg gave out beneath him. He clawed at the ground, his bloodied face twisted in pain and fury, but he couldn’t stand anymore.

Breathing heavily, Vaggie stood over him, and knife still clutched tightly in her hand. She could see the fight draining from him, the realization that he’d lost creeping into his eyes.

“Should’ve stayed dead,” he muttered, spitting blood on the floor.

Vaggie stood over the man, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. The utility knife in her hand felt heavier than ever, its small blade smeared with blood.

He was done—his body broken. She could see it in his eyes. This fight was over.

And yet, something dark simmered beneath her calm exterior, twisting her thoughts. The man lying before her wasn’t just a nameless attacker—he was a reminder. A ghost from her past. One of the people responsible for that night. The night they had left her for dead.

Her fingers flexed around the knife as her mind battled itself. Part of her wanted to show mercy. She could hear Charlie’s voice in her head, urging her to be better, to let go of her anger. Spare him. Be a better person. It was what Charlie would’ve done—leave him alive, broken but alive, to let him rot in the hellish world outside.

But then came the memories—the taste of blood in her mouth, the agony of being beaten senseless. And him. The man lying before her, holding a nailed plank, driving it into her back with brutal force, laughing as she crumpled to the ground. Her fingers twitched, her knuckles whitening around the blade and shards of glass digging into her palms.

She knelt beside him, gripping a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back, forcing him to look at her. He grunted in pain, his wild eyes flickering with both fear and defiance.

“Where’s the lieutenant?” Vaggie hissed, her voice low and icy. Her chest was tight with the weight of the question. She needed to know if she was still alive out there. She needed closure.

The man smirked, blood staining his teeth. “You think I’m giving you anything?” he sneered, his voice filled with bitter satisfaction. “Surprised you even made it this far, Rodríguez. Figured you’d be worm food by now like the little bitch you always were.”

Her grip tightened in his hair, the old rage boiling beneath the surface. She had survived, fought harder than anyone, and still… still, people like him spat in her face. The hate in his eyes, the twisted grin—it was like he was proud of what he’d done, of who he was.

She then noticed a weird gray armband he was wearing on his left arm. Huh.

Vaggie’s breath hitched. She could hear her heartbeat echoing in her ears, each thud louder, more insistent. Charlie’s voice grew fainter, the plea for mercy fading as something darker took over. Her mind screamed for revenge. The kind of revenge that no apology could undo, no words could heal.

Without another word, she stood up and dragged him by his collar across the filthy floor. He grunted, trying to fight back, but his strength was gone. Vaggie’s was not. She hauled him toward the counter, her mind blank except for the anger surging through her veins, drowning out everything else.

What the hell are you guys doing?!

She slammed him down on the other side of the counter, his head bouncing off the hard surface. He groaned, barely conscious now, but Vaggie didn’t stop. She gripped his hair again, forcing his face against the cold metal of the cash register.

I’m sorry, but… I’m going to report—wait, what the fuck—get your hands off of me!!

His breath came out in short, shallow gasps. Her grip tightened, her eye hardening as the sound of metal meeting flesh filled the air. The old register creaked under the weight, but Vaggie didn’t stop.

No! Stop!!

The first impact was followed by a dull thud, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, but she barely registered it. All she felt was the surge of anger that had festered for years. It roared up like a beast, untamed and insatiable, drowning out every other thought.

She slammed his face again. The sound was sharper this time, wetter. Her knuckles were white, trembling with the force she exerted, but she didn’t stop. His body went limp beneath her, but the satisfaction she thought she’d feel didn’t come. Instead, all she felt was the endless churn of rage, old wounds ripping open inside her as she kept going.

Each strike was harder than the last, each slam punctuated by the sound of flesh meeting metal. The old cash register creaked under the force, but it held firm. The man’s face, however, did not. Vaggie could hear bones cracking and blood splattering across the counter, but she didn’t care. Her vision blurred with tears—tears of frustration, of anger—and her breathing became ragged.

A guttural yell tore from her throat, louder with each strike. It was a primal scream of release, years of pain and trauma bubbling to the surface, all the rage she had kept buried, all the love she had tried to let heal her. None of it had worked. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much Charlie loved her, the anger never really went away. The world had never stopped being cruel.

Her hands shook as she slammed his face down one last time, the sound of bone and metal reverberating through the small, filthy store. Silence followed, but it was thick, suffocating except for the faint moans of the undead outside. She stepped back, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Her hands were slick with blood, her chest heaving with exhaustion.

She stared down at what was left of him—his face nothing but a bloody pulp, barely recognizable. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her mind was numb. There was no satisfaction, no relief—only an empty, hollow silence.

Vaggie stepped back, her voice barely a whisper as she muttered, "Should’ve finished the job."

The weight of what she’d done pressed down on her like a vice, but she pushed it aside, forcing herself to move. She holstered her utility knife, then bent down to retrieve her Bowie knife from the floor.

Her hand closed around the hilt, and she just stood there for a moment, gripping it tightly. But she couldn’t rest yet. The zombies outside were still a threat, and Angel was out there. She needed to finish this.

With a final glance at the lifeless body at her feet, Vaggie pushed through the store’s front door, her chest still heaving as the rush of cold air hit her face. The world outside was eerily quiet, save for the low groans of the few remaining zombies shuffling around the crashed van. Her hands were slick with blood, her clothes stained from the fight inside, but none of that registered anymore. She wasn’t thinking—just moving.

Her grip tightened around the Bowie knife as she approached the first zombie. Without hesitation, she swung, the blade slicing clean through the decayed neck, sending the head tumbling to the ground with a dull thud. The body collapsed soon after, but Vaggie didn’t pause.

She was on to the next one. And the next.

Each kill was methodical and swift, but the usual focus that came with clearing out the dead was gone. Her movements were wild, angry, and reckless. She wasn’t being careful anymore. Why would she? What did it matter?

Another zombie lurched toward her, its arms outstretched, and Vaggie lunged forward, driving the knife into its skull with a wet crunch. The creature slumped to the ground, lifeless. The rest came just as easily—Angel had done his job thinning them out, so there weren’t many left.

But Vaggie kept going, her arms moving on autopilot, her body fueled by the leftover adrenaline and rage. She barely registered the danger anymore. She didn’t care if they got too close or if she missed a step. Her mind was still in that store, with that man, with the blood on her hands.

The last zombie fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Vaggie stood over the body, her knife still lodged in its skull. Her breath came out in ragged gasps, and for the first time, she felt her body tremble—not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion that was now hitting her all at once. Her hand shook as she yanked the knife free, blood and gore dripping from the blade.

She staggered back a step, her vision blurring at the edges. The gas station was quiet now. She’d done it. But why did it still feel like nothing?

“Vags?”

Angel’s voice cut through the fog in her mind, startling her. She blinked, turning to see him stepping out from behind the van he’d used as cover. His eyes were wide, his expression somewhere between concern and confusion as he approached her cautiously.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, his voice softer now as he took in her disheveled appearance. His gaze dropped to her hands, still slick with blood—far too much blood for just the few zombies she’d killed.

Vaggie didn’t respond at first, her mind still catching up. She looked down at her hands, realizing for the first time just how bad they looked. The blood smeared across her skin in thick, dark streaks. It dripped from her fingers, pooling at her feet, and that’s when she saw them—the glass shards embedded deep into her palms. She hadn’t even noticed. Her mind tried to register the pain, but it was distant, numb like her body had shut down all feeling just to get through it.

She flexed her fingers slightly, watching as more blood oozed from the cuts, and it wasn’t all from the undead. The pain was supposed to ground her, to pull her back into reality, but it didn’t. Her thoughts were still stuck on what she’d done—on the man’s face, his taunts, the sickening sound of his skull caving in under her hands.

“Vaggie,” Angel said again, more urgently now. She felt his presence closer and saw his hand reach out toward her, but she stopped short and hesitated. “You… you okay?”

She blinked, finally meeting his gaze. The concern etched into his features, the confusion in his eyes, made her stomach twist. What could she say? That she’d lost it? That the rage had consumed her, hollowing her out until there was nothing left but this mess?

The words wouldn’t come. Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she thought she might break, might let the sobs out that had been clawing at her chest. But instead, there was just silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

Angel glanced down at her hands, taking in the blood and the glass. “Shit, man, you’re hurt,” he muttered, his voice softening. He reached out again, this time more carefully, as if afraid she’d shatter like the glass stuck in her palms.

But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her chest felt like it was in a vise, the weight of everything pressing down on her all at once. Angel stepped closer, his hand hovering just above hers, waiting for any sign of resistance. When none came, he gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist, guiding her toward the van. Vaggie moved mechanically, her body numb as if on autopilot. She didn’t fight him, didn’t say anything. Just a small nod, barely perceptible, was all she could manage.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Angel muttered, his voice softer now, a little more tender, as he led her to the side of the van. He opened the back door, rummaging through the supplies until he found an old, tattered first-aid kit. His hands worked quickly but carefully, pulling out gauze, disinfectant, and tweezers.

Vaggie sat on the dusty ground, leaning against the van, watching him. Her hands lay limp in her lap, blood slowly dripping onto the concrete below. The pain still hadn’t registered fully.

Angel knelt beside her, gently taking one of her hands into his. He turned it over, frowning at the glass shards embedded in her palm. She watched as he began working, pulling out the pieces of glass one by one, wincing every time the tweezers gripped another shard.

But she didn’t flinch. She just stared as if watching from somewhere far away.

Angel cleaned the cuts with disinfectant, dabbing away the blood with a grimace. “You’re a fucking mess,” he mumbled under his breath, though there was no judgment in his voice. Only concern.

Vaggie didn’t respond. She let him work in silence, feeling the sting of the alcohol but still not fully present.

When Angel finally finished wrapping her hands in gauze, he sat back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Vaggie glanced down at her bandaged hands, white and clean now.

Angel let out a long exhale, finally breaking the silence. “Place is cleared now. We can loot it without worrying about those bastards for a while,” he said, nodding toward the van.

Vaggie blinked as if waking from a long trance. Her bandaged hands still stung, but the pain was distant, like the rest of her thoughts. She hadn’t said a word since Angel started patching her up, but now, something stirred inside her, a flicker of focus returning.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “Let’s do it.”

Angel shot her a sideways glance, gauging her mood, but he didn’t press further. He stood up, offering her a hand. Vaggie hesitated momentarily before accepting it, pulling herself up from the ground. Her legs felt weak, but the movement helped her shake off some numbness.

Together, they started combing through the van. Inside, they found a decent number of supplies—mostly canned food, some medical kits, a few bottles of water, and a few gas cans. Angel opened a small compartment at the back, revealing a few weapons—mostly small arms, but nothing that stood out too much.

As Vaggie packed the supplies into a duffel bag, her gaze drifted to the side of the van. There, plastered in fading paint, was a symbol she didn’t recognize at first glance—something that resembled a cross but more intricate. It reminded her of something… though she couldn’t place it. Another one was painted on the rear bumper, which was smaller but still clear.

She frowned but shrugged it off. Symbols meant nothing out here. She wasn’t about to waste time worrying about it.

Angel, meanwhile, had set the two gas cans down by the pump. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a familiar plastic card—Vaggie’s credit card. He waved it at her with a smirk. “Hope you don’t mind. Lucky for us, the town still has some juice. Let’s fill ‘em up.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Do what you have to,” she said, watching Angel insert the card and fill the cans.

Meanwhile, Vaggie set the supplies they’d gathered into the back of the van, stacking everything neatly to grab later. Once done, she made her way around to the front, where the lifeless body of the previous driver still occupied the driver’s seat.

The windshield was cracked, and the man’s face was slack, his eyes half-open—his body twisted awkwardly in the seat.

Vaggie’s eye narrowed as she noticed something on his arm. A gray armband, barely visible under his torn sleeve, with the same symbol plastered on the side of the van. Next to it was a private military insignia.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen it—back at the convenience store, to the man whose blood still clung to her hands. She remembered now—he’d worn the same gray armband with the same intricate symbol and private insignia.

She stared at it for a long moment, the pieces coming together. The van, symbol, and insignia all made sense now.

Her gut tightened. It was a rank she knew all too well, back when things made more sense before the world had crumbled. Back when order still meant something. The rank was meaningless, just like the uniforms and symbols these people still clung to. It was the apocalypse—none of it mattered anymore. Still, the realization unsettled her. Whoever these people were, they’d kept some kind of military structure intact, at least enough to have privates like the ones she’d killed today.

A part of her wondered just how large this group was and what kind of resources they had. But in the end, it didn’t matter. These groups came and went. It was how things worked now. Nothing lasted for long.

Vaggie took a slow breath and stepped back from the van, walking away from the driver’s seat. She didn’t have time to dwell on this—not with everything else they had to worry about.

“You good?” Angel asked, glancing up at her.

“Yeah,” Vaggie muttered. “Just thinking.” She grabbed the duffel bag, slinging it over her shoulder. She then walked away from the back of the van. Her mind still buzzed with unease, but she pushed it down.

It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Vaggie let out a slow breath and turned away from the body, heading back to Angel, who was just finishing up with the gas cans.

“Ready to go?” he asked, glancing up at her.

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on her pants. “Let’s get out of here.”

Charlie jolted awake, her heart racing as the shrill sound of an alarm pierced through the silence of her apartment. The red emergency light from her bedside console flickered sporadically. No time to waste. She knew what that alarm meant—it was from the hospital. Something had gone very, very wrong.

Throwing off the covers, she scrambled to her feet, quickly dressing in the clothes she’d set out the night before. Her hands moved automatically—pulling on a pair of black slacks, slipping into a clean pink dress shirt, and lacing up her dress shoes with a speed that only came from years of muscle memory. The alarm continued to blare as she grabbed her coat.

Within minutes, she was out the door and into her car. The streets were quiet, the city still in the early morning hours, but that did nothing to ease the tension in her chest. She drove through the darkened roads, her fingers gripping the wheel tightly as the hospital came into view.

As she stepped into the hospital lobby, the alarm was still ringing, though it sounded distant here as she left it in the car. But what caught her attention wasn’t the scream, not the alarm. Faint and unfamiliar, it echoed from somewhere down the hall. The noise was brief, muffled behind a door, but it was enough to remind her that something had gone wrong tonight.

Charlie straightened up, hastily tugging on her white vest as she passed a row of abandoned wheelchairs and empty gurneys. Her name tag hung crookedly from the vest, and she adjusted it without slowing her pace. Cold and sterile hallways stretched out before her, the fluorescent lights flickering above her.

Her footsteps echoed loudly as she approached the nurses gathered by room 444. They were waiting for her, their faces tense, eyes darting nervously from one another.

One of the nurses, a woman in her forties with deep lines of exhaustion etched into her face, stepped forward as Charlie arrived. "Ms. Morningstar, it’s happening again."

Charlie’s breath hitched as the nurse’s words settled over her. It’s happening again. The weight of responsibility pressed hard on her chest, and she’d volunteered for it, thinking she could handle the patients—but this was different.

The nurses were no longer working. The dim hallway stretched behind her, reminding her that she was alone in this now.

She swallowed hard, her mouth dry, and forced herself to take a step forward. Then another. She could hear her breathing as she reached for the door handle, gripping it tightly before pushing it open.

The room was dark, save for the faint light from the flickering bulb above. It cast jagged shadows across the bed, where the patient lay tangled in the sheets. Vaggie’s face was slick with sweat, her body writhing violently as if she were fighting something. Her hands gripped the blanket, knuckles white, her breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

Charlie froze momentarily, watching Vaggie’s head jerked to the side, her lips parting in a silent scream. She thrashed, the bed creaking beneath her, her legs kicking out wildly as though trying to fend off something unseen. The sound of the sheets twisting, the labored breathing, the desperate movement was all too familiar.

Vaggie’s eye were squeezed shut, her brow furrowed in agony. Every few moments, she muttered something incoherent, her voice low and frantic, words spilling out like pieces of a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

Charlie’s heart clenched. She’d seen this before—people trapped in terror, where no one could reach them. Slowly, she stepped closer and closed the door behind her, her shoes making soft sounds against the floor, barely audible over Vaggie’s gasps.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself, knowing that waking her too suddenly might make it worse. But she had to do something. "Vaggie," she said softly, despite the nervous flutter in her chest. "It’s Charlie. You’re safe.”

Vaggie's body continued to jerk, the bed creaking with each thrash. Charlie could see the muscle tension in Vaggie's shoulders, the way her fists clenched and unclenched.

Charlie moved closer cautiously. She reached out, gently placing her hand on Vaggie’s shoulder, hoping the contact would draw her back.

“Vaggie,” she repeated, firmer this time, “focus on my voice. You’re not in that place anymore. You’re here with me.” She kept her tone warm and reassuring.

Vaggie’s movements faltered for a moment, her head turning slightly toward Charlie’s voice. A quiet whimper escaped her lips, but she still seemed trapped in her nightmare.

“Look at me, Vaggie,” Charlie urged softly, shifting closer to meet their eyes. “You’re safe. I’m right here. Remember? We talked about this.”

The mention of their past conversations seemed to resonate. Vaggie’s breathing began to steady slightly, though it was still rapid and shallow. Charlie watched, focused, as the frantic gaze shifted slightly.

“Take a deep breath with me,” Charlie instructed, demonstrating as she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and then exhaled slowly, letting the air out gradually. “In… and out. Just like that.”

Vaggie hesitated, her brow still furrowed, but slowly, she mirrored Charlie’s actions. With each inhale, she seemed to regain a fraction of control, and as she exhaled, some of the tension in her muscles began to ease.

“Good,” Charlie encouraged. “You’re doing great. Just keep breathing. You’re in the hospital room, and it’s just me. You’re safe.”

Charlie continued guiding her through the breathwork, watching Vaggie’s eye slowly flicker open, though the panic still lingered in her gaze.

“Charlie?” Vaggie’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes, it’s me,” Charlie replied, her heart swelling with relief. “You’re okay. You had a bad dream, but it’s over now.”

With one last deep breath, Vaggie finally seemed to return fully, her gaze settling on Charlie as reality washed over her. The frantic movements subsided, and she relaxed against the pillow, though her brow still glistened with sweat.

“Charlie,” Vaggie murmured again, her voice trembling. “I—I couldn’t wake up.”

“I know,” Charlie said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair away from Vaggie’s forehead. “But you’re safe now. I’m here.”

04:19 pm

Vaggie and Angel trudged back toward the dealership, the weight of the gas cans slowing their pace. They switched who carried them every few blocks, though Vaggie took on most of the burden. Angel grumbled about it, his usual sarcastic remarks punctuating the silence, but he didn’t complain too much, knowing better than to push Vaggie when she was in this kind of mood.

By the time they reached the dealership, the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky. The group that had stayed behind looked up as Vaggie and Angel approached, getting relieved.

"You're back," Husk called out from where he stood by the truck. "And you didn’t come empty-handed."

Angel dropped the gas can beside him with a grunt. “Oh, don’t worry, we got more than just fuel. Found some supplies, too.”

Vaggie set her gas can down, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension from carrying the heavy load. Everyone gathered around as they unpacked the duffel bags, inspecting the canned food, medical kits, and water bottles with grateful eyes. Husk took the gas cans and passed them to the others, who immediately started fueling the truck.

Pentious was already busy attaching the newly charged battery to the truck’s engine. Charlie and Vaggie made their way to the back of the truck, where they began loading the supplies they’d scavenged. The others, eager to get moving, are preparing for the journey ahead.

As they packed, Charlie glanced over at Vaggie, her brow furrowing. “Wait... what happened to your hands?”

Vaggie glanced down as if noticing the bandages for the first time. Dried blood had seeped through the gauze in several places, and the earlier deep cuts now crusted over with dirt from their trek back.

“It’s nothing,” Vaggie said, waving it off. “I’m fine.”

But Charlie wasn’t having it. “Nothing? Your hands are covered in blood, baby.” She stopped what she was doing and reached out, gently taking Vaggie’s wrists to inspect the bandages more closely. “Let me check them.”

Vaggie sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing. Charlie’s concern was evident, and there was no change once she’d made up her mind. “I told you, I’m fine. They’ll heal on their own.”

Charlie gave her a pointed look, her grip firm but not forceful. “Maybe. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by letting them get worse. Let me take care of it.”

There was a beat of silence before Vaggie relented, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a little. “Alright, fine. But don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Charlie offered a soft smile, pulling out a fresh roll of gauze and disinfectant from one of the bags they’d packed. “I won’t. But I’m not letting you go untreated either.”

As Vaggie sat on the back of the truck, Charlie knelt beside her, carefully unwrapping the dirty bandages. The cuts were deep, small shards of glass still visible in a few places that Angel couldn’t pull off earlier. Charlie winced as she saw the damage but said nothing, focusing entirely on helping Vaggie.

“You should’ve told me earlier,” Charlie muttered as she dabbed the wounds with disinfectant from the packed bag, cleaning away the grime. “You don’t have to hide this from me, you know.”

Vaggie laughed quietly, though there was little humor in it. “Old habits, I guess.”

Charlie didn’t respond immediately, but she glanced up, her eyes soft. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself anymore.”

For a moment, Vaggie just watched Charlie using the tweezer to pull out the rest of the shards and stitch up the wounds. Maybe there was some truth to that. She didn’t have to carry everything alone. And in that moment, as Charlie wrapped the fresh bandages around her hands, Vaggie realized how comforting this was.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

Charlie smiled, securing the last of the bandages. “You’re welcome.” She gave Vaggie’s hand a soft kiss before standing up and returning to packing the supplies. “Come on, let’s finish up.”

As Charlie stood up and went back to packing, Vaggie couldn’t help but smirk a little, watching how Charlie moved with excitement in her eyes. She had been like this for the past few hours, ever since they talked about reaching her old residence—hopeful, almost giddy, like a kid waiting for a long-promised trip.

“You know,” Vaggie said casually as she hefted another duffel bag into the truck bed, “you’re starting to look more excited about this truck ride than anything else. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Charlie paused, blinking as she turned toward Vaggie, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “What? I’m not—” She laughed nervously. “I mean… it’s not the truck. I’m just… I guess I’m excited to see my dad. It’s been months.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “Yeah? I figured as much.” She leaned against the side of the truck, crossing her arms as she watched Charlie try to maintain her composure. “You’ve been… pretty quiet about him lately. You miss him, huh?”

Charlie’s smile softened, and she nodded. “I do. A lot.” She glanced away, her voice quieter now. “I just… I want to know if he’s okay. I’ve been worried and with everything going on…” She trailed off, her hands lingering on one of the duffel bags.

Vaggie’s expression softened too. “I get it. Family’s important, especially now.” She gently brushed her newly bandaged hand against Charlie’s arm. “We’ll get there. And we’ll make sure he’s alright.”

Charlie looked back at her, gratefulness shining in her eyes. “Yeah. Thanks, hun.”

Vaggie gave a small nod, her gaze drifting down to her hands. The fresh bandages were wrapped neatly around the cuts, her fingers no longer stinging with each movement. Things were falling into place for the first time in what felt like forever. The truck was fueled up, the supplies were packed, and they had a clear destination—maybe, just maybe, they could finally catch a break.

As Vaggie flexed her fingers, testing the tightness of the bandages, she shot Charlie another look. “Let’s just hope your dad’s ready for your big, excited reunion,” she teased lightly, her smile returning.

Charlie chuckled. “Yeah… I hope so too.”

Pentious wiped his brow as he stepped away from the front of the truck, a satisfied grin on his face. “Alright, folks, she’s good to go. Everything’s been double-checked, and the fuel’s all filled up.”

Angel shot forward before anyone else could react, practically bouncing on his feet. “Dibs! I’m starting her up!” Without waiting for approval, he climbed into the driver’s seat, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

With a turn of the key, the engine roared to life, sputtering for a second before settling into a smooth purr. Angel leaned back in the seat with a smug smile, raising his arms triumphantly. “Hell yeah! Told you I’d get us a ride!”

The group breathed a sigh of relief, and a few scattered cheers broke out. Husk clapped Pentious on the back. “Good work, man. We’d still be hoofin’ it if it wasn’t for you.”

Pentious gave a modest shrug, but his grin widened. “Just doing my part.”

As the others started to pile into the truck, Alastor stepped forward, his usual grin plastered. “Now, now, let’s not get too carried away, Angel,” he said smoothly. “I believe Charlie should be the one to drive. After all, she’s the one with the directions to this supposed safehouse.”

Angel’s smile dropped instantly, his eyes narrowing. “Whoa, hold up. Charlie and I made a deal over a month ago. I get dibs on driving the first working car we find.” He shot a glance at Charlie. “You gonna back me up here, sweetheart?”

Charlie looked between them, biting her lip. She knew Angel had been looking forward to this moment, and she wasn’t about to break her word. “He’s right. We did make a deal,” she said, shrugging apologetically at Alastor. “Angel drives. I’ll be on the passenger side to navigate.”

Alastor’s grin didn’t falter, and he gave a mock bow, stepping back from the driver’s side. “Fair enough,” he said smoothly, already moving toward the backseat. “By all means, follow through on your little arrangement. I’ll be keeping an eye out from back here.”

Angel shot Alastor a victorious grin before giving Charlie a wink. “Thanks, babe. Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Charlie rolled her eyes but smiled, hopping into the passenger seat as Angel scooted over. She started scanning the map on her phone, mentally plotting their route. “Just make sure you don’t get us lost,” she teased.

“Pfft, with you guiding me? We’re golden,” Angel replied confidently, tapping the steering wheel.

Husk made his way toward the back of the truck, glancing at it. “I’ll sit back here. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on things outside.” Niffty followed behind him, offering to help as she climbed beside him.

Once everyone was settled and the truck was packed, Charlie momentarily slid out of the passenger seat. She jogged over to the dealership entrance, pulling the large metal door open with a creak, giving them a path to drive out. The fading sunlight streamed into the dimly lit space, casting long shadows across the ground.

Charlie hopped back into the passenger seat, shutting the door beside her. “Alright…” she said, giving him a quick nod. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

With a grin, Angel revved the engine again, shifting into gear as the truck slowly rolled forward, out of the dealership and into the open street. The truck rumbled smoothly down the road, the rhythmic hum of the engine steady as Angel maneuvered them onto the Sunrise Highway. For once, luck seemed to be on their side—the highway was clear, a welcome contrast to the congested, ruined streets they’d been used to navigating on foot. Angel smirked as he glanced out at the open road, enjoying the rare peace of it all.

Behind them, the rest of the group had settled in, exhaustion finally catching up after the long days and nights of work and stress. Pentious was the first to give in, his head slumping against the side window, soft snores escaping him. Alastor was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed but still, as if only pretending to rest. Husk had taken the back of the truck with Niffty, both lulled.

In the front, Charlie glanced at Angel, who tapped the steering wheel absentmindedly, clearly feeling at ease. She pulled out her phone from lying by the cup holder and connected it to the truck’s AUX. A familiar tune began to play, the soft melody filling the truck’s interior. It wasn’t long before the stirring guitar and slow setting the mood for the ride.

As the song played, Charlie’s gaze wandered to the rearview mirror, catching Vaggie’s eye from where she sat in the backseat. Their eyes met, and the world outside seemed to fade for a moment. It was just the two of them, wrapped in the music and the rare calm surrounding them.

Without thinking, Charlie reached out her hand, extending it toward the space between the front seats. Her arm barely twisted, her fingers feeling for something familiar. She didn’t have to wait long. Vaggie’s hand, bandaged but warm, wrapped around hers. The contact was steady and grounding.

Charlie’s heart swelled as she gave Vaggie’s hand a soft squeeze. Even through the bandages, the warmth of her touch was enough to soothe the constant knot of worry that had been sitting in her chest for days. She felt Vaggie squeeze back, and that simple gesture was all Charlie needed.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she leaned back against the seat, her head resting against the window as the song reached its chorus.

I wanna know what love is…

I want you to show me…

I wanna feel what love is…

I know you can show me…

Chapter Text

09:49 pm

"Hey, Dad…”

Her voice came out softer than she expected. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "It’s Charlie. I know it's been a while, but, uh, things have been... well, things have been crazy."

She paused, glancing out the window at the group outside, grunting and shuffling as they worked to clear the highway. Vaggie, Alastor, and Pentious (he looks like he doesn't do much, but he’s trying his best) pushed at a rusted, long-abandoned car blocking their way. "We’re… on the road. Found a truck that works, so that’s something… We’re heading toward our house, hoping that I’ll be able to meet you, and maybe that place would be more secure than back in Manhattan…”

Charlie trails off as she watches Vaggie press her shoulder against the car, giving it everything she has. “Well, I still did my best to stay optimistic, so I’m trying. Really trying."

Her voice wavered slightly, and she gripped the phone much harder than expected. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, pushing the lump in her throat back down. "I’ve been… thinking about you a lot lately. About what you’d say if you were here. I... I wonder if you’d be proud of me. Or if you'd be mad about all the things I’ve had to do just to survive in this fucked up place."

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. "I’m trying to take care of everyone, you know? Vaggie, Angel... even Alastor. God, I can’t wait for you to meet them later—but anyway… I still remember you and Mom encouraged me to help others, no matter what. To be kind, to stay hopeful. It’s… hard sometimes, though. So fucking hard these days. I wish you were here to tell me I’m doing the right thing."

"I… I miss you, Dad. I think I’ll always miss you," she whispered, blinking back tears that threatened to spill. "But I’m going to keep going. I’ll keep fighting. For you. For everyone."

The car outside finally gave way, the rusted metal groaning as the others successfully pushed it out of the road. Vaggie placed her hands on her hips as Alastor said something that provoked her with a frown while Pentious leaned on the car while heaving heavily.

Charlie momentarily ended the voicemail, staring at her phone before hitting ‘send.’ It was out of her hands now.

With a deep breath, she wiped at her eyes and pushed the door open, stepping out into the cool evening air. As she approached the group, Vaggie smiled, her cheeks flushed from the effort. Charlie returned it, her heart feeling a little lighter.

"All clear," Vaggie said, catching her breath. "We’re good to go."

"Yeah," Charlie said softly as she glanced at the open road ahead. She was still lost in thought when Husk's gruff voice pulled her back to reality.

"So, how far are we from this safe house?" Husk asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the side of the truck.

Charlie blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before quickly pulling out her phone. "Oh, right, let me check." She unlocked her phone and opened her map app, her finger tracing the route they had been following. A small red marker blinked, indicating their destination. "Looks like we’ve got about ten miles left," she said, squinting at the screen.

Angel, who was about to hop back into the driver’s seat, froze. "Ten miles? That’s nothing! I can get us there in no time." He flashed a cocky grin, one foot already inside the truck.

Before he could climb in, Husk stepped forward and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, slow down there. Look, I get it, you’re eager, but driving through the night ain’t smart. We’ve already had one close call," Husk said, gesturing to the recently cleared wreckage behind them. "Who knows what else we’ll run into if we keep pushing our luck."

Angel’s grin faded into a scowl. "You kidding me? We’re so close!"

Still holding her phone, Charlie glanced at Husk and then at Angel. She could see both sides, but Husk had a point. "He’s right, Angel," she said gently. "It’s risky. And… we don’t know what’s waiting for us up ahead in the dark like this."

Angel groaned but didn’t argue further. "Fine, fine. Guess we’ll play it safe."

Charlie gave Angel a small smile as she patted his arm. "Just drive a little farther and park us somewhere safe. We’ll pick it up tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Angel muttered as everyone hopped back in the truck. He slid back into the driver’s seat, revving the engine before slowly driving the truck down the road for a few more minutes. They eventually found a small clearing by the side of the highway, partially hidden by trees, where Angel pulled over and shut off the truck.

The engine went quiet, leaving only the soft rustle of the evening breeze. Everyone climbed out of the truck, stretching their sore muscles. Husk and Niffty wasted no time getting to work. They pulled out two small tents they had looted earlier on their trip and set them up at the back of the truck.

"Better than sleeping in that cramped cab," Husk muttered as he set up the tent. Angel joined him, peering into the small space before nodding in agreement.

"No way I’m squeezing back in there," Angel said, tossing his jacket into the tent. "I'll crash here."

Vaggie, meanwhile, had climbed into the driver’s seat, pulling her jacket over her like a makeshift blanket. She shot Charlie a look, and Charlie gave her a knowing nod. Vaggie preferred being upfront—mostly being close to Charlie, if ever.

Alastor and Pentious had already claimed the backseat, each finding their spot. Pentious stretched out as much as he could, clearly exhausted, while Alastor leaned back, his eyes closed but still wearing that grin.

Still seated in the passenger seat, Charlie sighed as she glanced around at her friends. Despite everything they had been through, a quiet calm settled over the group. She shifted in her seat and leaned against the window.

As the night deepened, she closed her eyes, letting the soft murmur of the wind from the slightly opened window lull her into sleep.

07:23 am

The soft glow of dawn filtered through the truck's windows as Charlie stirred in the passenger seat. She opened her eyes to find the world outside bathed in a gentle morning light, the air crisp and cool. The others, who had slept outside, were already up and about, quietly packing away the tents they had used.

Husk rolled up his tent while Niffty, always quick and cheerful, finished packing her belongings and stretched her arms.

Charlie sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as Vaggie, who had slept in the driver’s seat all night, climbed out of the truck to stretch. She looked well-rested, though a bit stiff from sleeping in the cab. "I’ll take the wheel today," Vaggie said, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck. “Angel, you can ride in the back this time."

Angel snorted but nodded, clearly not upset about giving up his spot. "Fine by me."

Vaggie then took her place behind the wheel. Angel hopped into the backseat, squeezing in beside Husk, who had already settled himself comfortably. Niffty, small as she was, found herself sandwiched between Alastor and Pentious, though she didn’t seem to mind. Alastor nodded politely as she climbed in. Pentious glanced around awkwardly, clearly still waking up.

With everyone settled, Vaggie started the engine, and the truck rumbled to life. The clear, open highway stretched ahead, with the occasional car scattered along the way. The road felt quieter in the morning; the only sounds were the engine's hum and the faint rustling of wind through the trees.

The journey went smoothly this time. Unlike the obstacles of the previous night, the abandoned cars they encountered were quickly cleared. Vaggie maneuvered the truck carefully, occasionally stopping so that Charlie or Angel could hop out and help move the smaller vehicles blocking their path. With teamwork and the fresh energy that came with morning, they cleared the way without too much trouble.

The sun continued to rise, casting long shadows across the asphalt as they made steady progress. Now and then, Husk or Angel would mumble something to each other from the back, but for the most part, the group rode in companionable silence, each focused on the road ahead.

Charlie leaned her head against the window, watching the scenery blur by. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural. She then glanced at her wristwatch, noting the time. Two hours had passed since they’d started moving again, and though traveling ten miles shouldn’t have taken that long, the frequent stops to clear obstacles explained the delay. It wasn’t ideal, but they were making progress nonetheless.

As they continued down the highway, Charlie noticed the landscape beginning to change. The houses they passed by were getting larger and more elaborate, and tall iron gates marked the entrances to sprawling estates. She knew this area well, even though it had been over a year since she'd last visited.

Here we are… she thought, Hamptons.

A pang of nostalgia hit her as she stared at the familiar scenery. The towering mansions seemed to mock the group’s current state of disarray. The contrast between this world of wealth and her current reality was almost jarring. She used to visit these homes with her family, where they would spend summers hosting extravagant gatherings. Now, those homes felt like ghosts she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.

Just as her thoughts drifted further down memory lane, she heard a loud knock coming from behind. Startled, she twisted around to see Angel knocking insistently on the back window of the truck’s cab. His expression was one of growing discomfort.

Pentious leaned over and slid the small rear window open, letting Angel speak to Charlie directly.

“Hey, Charlie!” Angel’s voice came through. “Where the hell are we? This place gives me serious rich-people vibes, and I’m not feeling it.”

Charlie blinked at his bluntness, though she understood where he came from. The lavish estates around them probably did seem out of place in the post-apocalyptic world they were now living in. "We’re in the Hamptons," she explained with a tone that is something more bittersweet. "This is… where I grew up."

Angel blinked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he glanced around at the opulent surroundings. "This? You grew up here?" He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "No offense, but this place is fancy as hell. No wonder I’m getting the ‘I don’t belong here’ vibes.”

Charlie chuckled softly. "Yeah, it’s a bit much, I know. But trust me, it’s not like it used to be. Most of these houses are probably empty now… just like everything else."

Angel huffed, still looking uneasy as he leaned back. “You’re right about that,” he muttered. “I was half expecting this place to be crawling with zombies, but it’s just… empty. Too empty.”

He peered out the back window, eyeing the massive homes that lined the road. “Guess all the rich folks got out of here easy, huh?”

Husk, quietly listening from his spot, let out a bitter chuckle. “Yeah, they probably had private helicopters or some fancy underground bunkers,” he said, nodding toward one of the gated mansions. “And look at this—luxury ass cars just sitting there, abandoned. It’s like they didn’t even need ‘em.”

Charlie glanced out at one of the driveways, where a sleek black sports car sat behind an ornate iron gate, its tires collecting dust. The sight stirred something complicated in her—resentment mixed with guilt. Hell, she used to be one of those people.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “They probably didn’t even look back.”

Husk grunted in agreement. “Figures.”

Angel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced around again. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about running into anyone here… except maybe some overgrown lawns.”

As the truck rumbled down the road, the houses grew even more elaborate, each sitting behind iron gates designed to keep trespassers out. Charlie’s heart began to beat a little faster as they neared a road she knew all too well.

Vaggie slowed the truck as they approached the turn. Charlie leaned forward, eyes fixed on the looming gate in the distance. Draped in ivy and flanked by stone pillars, it guarded the entrance to a massive estate with apple insignias. The red-bricked mansion behind it was barely visible from the overgrown front lawn. Grass and weeds had overtaken the once-pristine driveway, making it look wild and abandoned. Yet, despite the disrepair, the place still held an imposing presence.

Vaggie pulled the truck to a stop directly in front of the gate, her eyebrows furrowing as she glanced at Charlie. “This it?” she asked.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah. This is the place.”

Angel leaned forward, craning his neck to get a better look. His eyes widened as he took in the mansion and the sprawling grounds behind the gate. “Wait, this is the safehouse you’ve been talking about?” he asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

Charlie turned toward him and nodded again. “It is.”

Angel let out a low whistle. “Looks more like a fortress than a safe house. Fancy as hell, though.” He leaned back against the seat, eyes still fixed on the gate. “So, uh… how exactly are we getting in? That gate doesn’t look like it’s got hinges or anything. What are we supposed to do, scale it?”

Charlie shook her head and pushed the door open, stepping out of the truck. “There’s another way,” she said, walking toward the small shed near the gate where the guard used to sit. It was now covered in dust and overgrown with vines, the glass window cracked, and the door slightly ajar.

Charlie peered inside, half-expecting to see a corpse who once guarded the estate. But the shed was empty, long abandoned. She stepped closer to the wall and looked at the scanner built into the structure. To her surprise, the small screen still flickered with a faint glow, powered by some hidden generator, or the state’s power grid was still active.

She yelped as a crisp yet eerie automated voice chimed from the speaker. “Welcome to the Morningstar Residences,” it said. “Please scan your hand and eye for identification.”

Charlie hesitated momentarily as she glanced back at the group still waiting in the truck. Everyone except Vaggie and Husk was still in the dark about who she was—who she used to be. Using the scanner would change that.

She swallowed hard and sighed, the tension coiling in her chest. With a resigned shake of her head, she wiped the dusty surface of the scanner with the sleeve of her dress shirt. The fabric was smeared with dirt, but the panel beneath was clean enough to use.

Without giving herself time to hesitate further, Charlie pressed her palm to the scanner. The glass felt cool against her skin. She leaned down, bringing her eye level with the machine’s sensor. A thin red light swept across her iris, the scanner whirring faintly as it processed her data.

After a tense pause, the automated voice returned, warmer and more personal. “Welcome back, Charlotte Morningstar,” it said, the name ringing loud enough for everyone to hear. “It has been 551 days since your last visit.”

Charlie froze as the automated voice continued, "You have 1,032 unread emails. Would you like to open them now?"

Her eyes widened in panic. “No,” she muttered, pressing the scanner again to decline. But the voice persisted, “Are you sure you do not want to review your messages, Charlotte? Some may be urgent.”

“No!” she said louder this time, frantically jabbing the panel. “Decline! Close! Whatever!”

The scanner beeped, finally accepting her command, but not without one final prompt: “Would you like to schedule a reminder for later?”

“No, no, no!” Charlie groaned, slamming her palm down on the scanner. Finally, with a mechanical hum, the iron gates began to slide open, ivy rustling as they revealed the overgrown driveway beyond.

Charlie released a shaky breath and returned to the group, her face flushed from the exchange. She raised her arms in a gesture that was somewhere between awkward and apologetic, forcing a nervous smile.

“Well… welcome to my family home.”

Angel blinked, clearly amused by her discomfort. "Damn, Charlie. Over a thousand fucking emails? They sure didn't let go of you easily, huh?"

Husk just shook his head with a dry laugh. "Rich people's problems," he muttered under his breath.

Charlie sighed, stuffing her hands into her pockets as they passed through. "Yeah… home sweet home.”

She then climbed back into the passenger seat, her hands still stuffed into her pockets as she avoided eye contact with the others. Vaggie shot her a worried glance before starting the truck again, guiding it down the long, overgrown driveway. The red-bricked mansion loomed larger as they approached, and for a moment, there was a tense silence in the truck.

It didn’t last long.

“So,” Angel started, leaning forward from the back, “Charlotte Morningstar, huh?” His voice was laced with curiosity, but there was an edge to it that made Charlie wince. “So you’re like… a daughter of the big dick Morningstar himself?”

Charlie felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. She’d been dreading this. The questions. The assumptions. “Yeah,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the windshield. “I guess I am.”

Angel wasn’t letting it go that easily. “So, is that why we’re here?” He gestured toward the mansion ahead. “To see your family?”

Charlie swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She’d been thinking about this the whole ride back. "Yeah," she admitted after a moment. "I want to see if my dad’s okay."

There was a beat of silence, and then Husk, who had been unusually quiet, let out a low chuckle. “Knew it,” he muttered, leaning back against his seat.

Angel turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Wait, you knew? And you didn’t bother telling us?”

Husk shrugged, utterly nonchalant. “Figured it out a while back. Thought it didn’t matter, so why bother?”

Angel looked baffled. “You’re telling me you knew Charlie was a freaking rich bitch this whole time, and you just… kept that to yourself?”

Husk met his gaze with a lazy smirk. “Exactly. Not my business. Plus, look how much fun we’re having now.”

Angel groaned, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You’re unbelievable.”

Vaggie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as she glanced into the rearview mirror. “Drop it, Angel,” she said, her tone sharper than usual.

Angel blinked, his mouth half-open as if he was about to launch into another barrage of questions. “Wait a minute,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You knew, too? Since when?”

Vaggie sighed, her voice losing its edge as she glanced at Charlie. “Of fucking course, I knew. Charlie and I have been together for more than three years. You think that wouldn’t come up?”

Angel leaned back, throwing his hands up in disbelief. “Okay, so everyone knew except me? I mean, what else am I missing here?”

“None of this should fucking matter,” Vaggie cut in. “Not now. Everyone’s past, what we did before this bullshit, who we were—it doesn’t change anything anymore.”

Angel was silent, looking between Vaggie and Charlie, before muttering, “I guess you’ve got a point. But still… rich kid, fancy mansion, family with a shit ton of connections—that’s a hell of a secret.”

Charlie pressed her palms against her thighs, trying to calm herself. “I didn’t mean it to be a secret,” she said quietly. “I just… didn’t want it to define me here.”

Vaggie reached over, briefly resting her hand on Charlie’s knee before returning it to the wheel. “It doesn’t define you, Charlie. Not to us.” Her voice was firm, but Charlie could feel a softness in her gaze, even without looking at her.

Angel leaned forward again to speak through the back window. “So, what’s the deal with your old man? You think he’s still holed up there, living the high life?”

Charlie shrugged. “I… don’t know, honestly.” Her voice softened. “Look, me and him aren’t that close, and I have no idea what he’s been up to… I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

The truck rumbled up to the front of the mansion, and Vaggie stopped it.

Angel glanced at the mansion, then back at Charlie. “Sooooo, what now? You gonna knock on the door and say, ‘Hi, Dad, it’s been a while’?”

Charlie felt her stomach twitching, but she forced herself to nod. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Vaggie turned off the engine and gave Charlie a steady look. “We’re with you.”

“Thanks.” She took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered the overgrown driveway.

Charlie took a deep breath as she stepped out of the truck and looked up at the mansion looming ahead. Usually, by now, someone would have come to the door. The gate opened, and the truck rumbling up the driveway was loud enough that her dad or one of the housekeepers should’ve noticed. Her father’s security was always on high alert, but now, there was nothing—just silence.

She shook off the uneasy thoughts and approached the massive front door. Vaggie and the others trailed behind her, but Charlie could barely feel their presence. Her mind was focused solely on what she might find—or not find—inside.

Knocking on the door, she called out, her voice uncertain. “Dad? It’s me. Charlie.” She hesitated, then added, “I, uh, brought some guests. I promise they’re cool. We’ve been together for over a month, and, well, they’ve saved my ass more than a few times.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the group, then added more awkwardly, “Except, uh, Pentious. We’ve only known him for a week, but he’s cool too. And Vaggie’s been with me for quite some time. She’s my girlfriend. Sorry, I didn’t introduce her sooner.”

Her voice faded into the silence that pressed in from all sides. There was no response. There was no movement inside. Her heart thudded in her chest, a growing dread creeping in. She knocked again, more forcefully this time, then called out louder. “Dad! It’s me!”

Still nothing.

Charlie knelt, her hands shaking slightly as she lifted the welcome mat and felt underneath. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the spare key. She let out a breath. She didn’t realize she was holding it, so she pulled it out and fitted it into the lock.

The front door creaked open, revealing a dark, dusty interior. The air smelled stale, and there were no signs of recent activity. Ignoring the heavy feeling sinking into her stomach, Charlie stepped inside, and her voice echoed through the interior.

“Dad? I’m home. Are you here?” She quickly crossed the foyer, her eyes darting around, but everything was eerily still. She didn’t bother looking at the dust-covered furniture or the half-drawn curtains. Her focus was singular. “Dad, where are you?”

Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floors as she moved deeper into the house, her pace quickening. She threw open doors, her voice growing more frantic with each call. “Dad! Please, say something!”

Charlie moved quickly from room to room, her voice growing more desperate with each step. "Dad? Anyone?" Her words echoed back at her.

She checked the living room, the dining area, and the kitchen, hoping to find a sign of life—anything. But every room was empty, untouched for what felt like months. She even called out for the housekeepers, their names slipping from her lips in a last-ditch effort, but there was no response. There were no footsteps, no faint shuffling in the background, just emptiness.

Panic prickled at her skin, but she forced herself to keep moving. When she reached the foot of the grand staircase, she turned and looked back at the others. Vaggie stood by the door, worry etched across her face.

"Charlie, wait—" Vaggie called.

But Charlie barely heard her. Her pulse roared in her ears, and she bolted up the stairs, two at a time, without responding. Her hand skimmed the railing as she sprinted toward her father’s bedroom, ignoring the others trailing behind her. He’ll be there, she told herself. He has to be.

She burst into the bedroom, opening the door more forcefully than necessary. But it, too, was empty. The bed was made untouched, and the room was eerily pristine, as though no one had set foot in it.

“No… no, no, no…” she whispered, backing away before turning sharply toward the hallway. Her father’s office. That was always where he spent his time, buried in work, focused on something more important than her. It was where he’d always be, hunched over the desk, too preoccupied to notice her. He had to be there.

Charlie pushed forward, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she sprinted down the hallway. When she reached the large double doors of the office, she didn’t hesitate. She slammed them open, the sound echoing through the house.

Empty.

The room was as dusty and abandoned as the rest of the house, her father’s desk sitting untouched, papers scattered, but no sign of him.

Charlie’s heart sank, a cold weight settling in her stomach. The realization hit her like a punch—her dad wasn’t there. No one was. Only her and the group are in her family home.

The overwhelming emotions she’d been holding back surged all at once. Without thinking, she grabbed the wooden chair by the desk and, with a guttural scream, hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall with a sickening thud, splintering on impact. Charlie didn’t bother looking at the damage. It didn’t matter.

She stormed to the balcony, shoving the doors open with a force that rattled the glass in its frame. The cool air hit her face as she stepped outside, her chest heaving with each breath. She gripped the railing tightly, leaning forward until her head rested against her arms.

The world seemed to stand still for a moment, the silence around her more deafening than ever. She squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles white as she gripped the iron bars.

Meanwhile, the group stood in the doorway, watching Charlie in stunned silence. Her outburst had shocked all of them, but seeing her now—broken, vulnerable—hit even harder. Angel shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the others, unsure what to say. Husk remained quiet, arms crossed, observing the scene with an unreadable expression.

"She's been through a lot," Pentious murmured, his voice barely audible. "Losing her dad might just be too much for her."

Angel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, but what do we do? We can’t just stand here and watch her fall apart."

Vaggie narrowed her eye at the group, her mind racing. She hated seeing Charlie like this, but more than that, she hated feeling powerless. The silence stretched as they whispered amongst themselves, all eyes occasionally darting back to the blonde leaning over the balcony railing.

Vaggie’s jaw tightened. "I’ll talk to her," she said firmly, stepping forward before anyone could object. She knew Charlie better than anyone. If anyone could get through to her, it had to be her.

Slowly, cautiously, Vaggie approached the balcony. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, but Charlie didn’t react. Her shoulders were hunched, her face buried in her arms, and it was as if she could shut out the world that way. Vaggie could see the tension in every line of her body.

"Charlie," Vaggie called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She stopped just a few feet behind her, careful not to startle her. "Hey, it's me."

For a moment, Charlie didn’t respond. Her chest heaved as she took in shaky breaths, her grip on the railing tightening. Vaggie hesitated but moved closer, her hand hovering over Charlie’s shoulder before resting it gently on her back.

Vaggie felt the shudder of her uneven breaths beneath her fingers. She could sense how close to the edge Charlie was. But Vaggie knew there was more to Charlie than this moment of despair.

"Baby," she whispered gently, leaning closer. "Look, I know this feels like the end of the world right now. But maybe… maybe your dad’s out there somewhere. Maybe the staff went back to their homes. I mean, it’s empty here, yeah, but it’s not… it’s not like we found any bodies. That’s a good sign, right?"

Charlie didn’t answer, but Vaggie could see her grip on the railing loosen slightly.

Vaggie stepped up beside her, leaning against the railing as well, looking out at the sprawling overgrown garden below them. "Remember what you told Pentious back then?" she continued softly. "When he was worried about his family and wanted to give up hope? You told him to keep fighting. You said not to lose hope until you’ve seen them, either alive or…"

"Or their corpse," Charlie muttered, lifting her head just enough to look at Vaggie from the corner of her eye. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible, but there was something in it—something that told Vaggie she was getting through.

"Exactly," Vaggie nodded, offering her a reassuring smile. "You believed it then, and you were right. We can’t just assume the worst. Your dad’s not here now, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. He could be out there, surviving like the rest of us. We’ve all made it this far, haven’t we?"

Charlie’s breathing slowed, and she leaned her forehead against the cool iron bars again, closing her eyes. "I know, I just… it’s different when it’s your own family. I’ve been telling myself the same things I tell everyone else, but it’s harder to believe it when… when it’s like this."

Charlie let out a shaky breath, her voice catching as she spoke. “I barely coped when my mom passed away seven years ago… I was a wreck for fucking months. And now… I don’t even know if my dad’s alive. I don’t know where he is, or if he’s okay, and he’s—he’s an extreme introvert, Vaggie. He always kept to himself and barely left the house unless he had to. I don’t know how he could survive out there in this… this world.”

Her voice cracked, and she buried her face in her hands. “He’s not built for this. I know he’s not.”

Vaggie tilted her head, watching Charlie with empathy and thoughtfulness. She let the silence linger for a moment before speaking again, her tone soft but challenging. “Are you sure about that? That you don’t really know your dad?”

Charlie hesitated, lifting her head to meet Vaggie’s gaze, her eyes wide and uncertain. “I… what do you mean?”

Vaggie arched an eyebrow. “Charlie, come on. From all the stories you’ve told me about your dad—your childhood, growing up with him—I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit. He might’ve been an introvert, but that doesn’t mean he’s helpless.”

Charlie frowned, her mind racing through the memories she’d shared. Vaggie pressed on, her voice steady and reassuring.

“Remember how you used to tell me about his hobbies? How he was always in his office, painting or fixing stuff around the house. And what about that gun collection he kept? You’ve mentioned it a few times, how he always kept it in top shape. He was always prepared for something.”

Charlie blinked, her lips parting as if to say something, but the words didn’t come. Vaggie smiled gently, squeezing her hand.

“He might not be the outdoorsy, survivalist type, but you know he’s resourceful. I wouldn’t be so quick to assume he couldn’t adapt to this new world. Just because he kept to himself doesn’t mean he’s incapable of handling it.”

Charlie swallowed hard, her chest tight with emotions she couldn’t quite name. She wanted to argue, to say Vaggie didn’t understand how different her dad was from the others, but… deep down, she tried to believe Vaggie was right.

“Maybe…” Charlie murmured, her voice wavering.

Vaggie stepped closer, her arm wrapping around Charlie’s shoulders in a warm, reassuring embrace. “Listen, whatever happens, we’ve got each other’s backs. No matter what. We’ll find him; if we don’t, we’ll figure it out together. You’re not alone in this, Charlie.”

Charlie let out a slow breath, leaning into Vaggie’s embrace, her head resting against her shoulder. For the first time since they’d entered the mansion, the knot of fear in her chest began to loosen just a little.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Charlie whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You won’t have to find out,” Vaggie replied, her voice soft but persistent. “I’ve got you. We all do. We’ll get through this together.”

Charlie nodded against her shoulder, her grip on the railing easing as she leaned fully into Vaggie's comfort.

Charlie pulled away from Vaggie’s embrace, the warmth of the hug still lingering between them as they stood side by side. Vaggie, ever the pragmatic, turned her gaze outward, her expression thoughtful as she scanned the vast estate that stretched before them. The overgrown gardens swayed slightly in the breeze, and beyond them, the tall iron fence encircled the property like a protective wall.

Vaggie's eye narrowed as she took it all in, a plan already forming in her mind. “You know… your family’s estate… it’s like a fortress,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with admiration. “Look at it. High fences, plenty of room, sturdy structure. This place—it’s a damn safe house. We could hold out here. It’s perfect for a base.”

Charlie blinked, momentarily taken aback. She hadn’t considered it like that. Her mind had been so consumed by the emptiness, by her father's absence, that she hadn’t thought of what this place could offer them. She turned to look out over the property, taking in the layout from a new perspective.

Vaggie was right. With its grand walls and secluded location, the estate was built for security—perhaps unintentionally but undeniable. The idea started to settle in her mind, and as she thought about it more, a sense of relief began to wash over her.

“This… this is the safe house,” Charlie muttered, almost to herself. “It’s exactly what we need.”

She stepped forward, her gaze shifting from the fence to the sprawling mansion that had always felt too big, too empty. But now, it represents more—protection and survival. This wasn’t just her family’s home anymore. It could be a sanctuary for all of them.

“I’ve always known this place was secure,” Charlie continued. “It’s been… sitting here all this time, just waiting for us. We could make it work—really make it work.”

Vaggie nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Exactly. This place has everything we need to survive, and it’s familiar to you. You’d know every corner, every hiding spot.”

Charlie turned back toward the group, still standing patiently by the doorway—they were all waiting for her to make the next move. She could feel the weight of their expectations, but it didn’t feel so crushing this time. They needed her, and she needed them. Especially now, in this place that was all too familiar to her. The responsibility of leading them here felt like a puzzle piece finally sliding into place. Her eyes met Vaggie’s again, and she could see the confidence in her partner’s gaze.

“Okay…” Charlie exhales. “We’ll turn this place into a safe house as it is built to last. I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind…” She then turns to Vaggie, “How do you keep coming up with good ideas like this?"

Vaggie shrugged. "Honestly, it’s everyone’s idea. You’re the one who kept talking about coming to the safe house for everyone’s sake. I just pieced it together."

Charlie slowly nodded, relieved to know she’d been right to lead them here. As she and Vaggie turned back toward the group, she could feel the weight of their eyes on her with expectation. She didn’t want to let them down.

Chapter Text

Alastor was the first to speak as Charlie and Vaggie approached. "Ah, so it seems our one-eyed lady was able to put you back together?" he asked with a chuckle.

Charlie’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She hated that everyone had seen her vulnerable, but at the same time, there was something almost comforting in knowing that they’d waited patiently and been understanding. Still, Alastor’s laugh—whether genuine or mocking—made her shift uncomfortably.

Alastor then added with a raised brow. "What’s the next action plan then, fearless leader?"

Charlie hummed thoughtfully while ignoring his teasing tone. The mansion was big—too big for seven survivors to assume it was entirely safe. She and Vaggie had devised plenty of survival strategies in the past few months, ever since they’d escaped Manhattan. Those rules had kept them alive this long, and now wasn’t the time to abandon them.

Although… Charlie couldn't help but bite her lip as she thought about searching her father’s office for more clues regarding his whereabouts.

But unfortunately, knowing that others are looking up to her, she has to put that at the bottom of her priority list.

"We’ll need to… double-check the rooms in the house," Charlie finally spoke. "No matter how massive this place is, we must make sure it’s safe before settling in. We need to know what we’re dealing with, and surprises aren’t ideal either."

The group exchanged glances, nodding in agreement. Husk grunted, already shifting his weight as if ready to move and Angel flashed a quick thumbs up.

"Sounds good," Vaggie affirmed, standing beside Charlie.

"Alright then," Charlie said, looking at each of them in turn. "Let’s start with the ground floor and work our way up. We’ll split into pairs to cover more ground. Be thorough. And if anything seems off—anything at all—let us know immediately."

The group agreed and split up as Charlie instructed, each pairing off to cover different sections of the mansion. The air inside was heavy, the kind that hadn’t been disturbed for what felt like years. The dust had settled on the ornate furniture and grand fixtures.

Charlie moved cautiously with Vaggie by her side as they began to sweep the ground floor. As they moved through room after room, Charlie’s gaze occasionally flickered to familiar spots—corners of the mansion that held good and bad memories.

They went through the west wing, and Charlie’s eyes caught on a framed photo on an ornate side table. She paused, seeing a picture of her as a child, no older than eight or nine, beaming at the camera with wide, innocent eyes. She was sitting in her father’s lap, her mother standing behind them with one hand resting gently on her shoulder. The sight of their happy faces made her chest tighten.

Oh, mom…

Charlie spotted a framed photograph on one of the dusty mantels in the drawing room. She stepped closer, brushing the dust off with her sleeve, and revealed a younger version of herself. It was yet another simple snapshot—Charlie was grinning with a gap-toothed smile and her blonde hair falling messily over her face. Her father stood beside her, looking stiff but proud.

She swallowed hard when suddenly, Angel’s voice broke the silence from the doorway behind her. "Aww, would you look at that? Little Charlie, all smiles and innocent. Who would've guessed?"

Charlie’s face flushed as she turned to see Angel leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a smirk playing on his lips.

"Knock it off," she muttered, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks.

Angel grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Come on, you’re like… what? Teeny tiny in that picture? You can’t blame me for being curious. You’re so serious now. What happened?"

"Life happened," she shot back, quickly turning the picture frame down on the mantel. Angel just chuckled, but a softness in his eyes told her he didn’t mean any harm.

They moved on, continuing their sweep through the mansion. Now and then, Charlie would pause as they passed familiar objects or spaces from her childhood. But nothing could prepare her for the sight that awaited them at the grand central staircase, which she missed when she first frantically sprinted up the same stairs earlier.

There, hanging proudly on the wall above the sweeping stairs, was a massive oil painting—Charlie, around in her late 20s, dressed in her maroon suit, sitting stiffly in a chair, her expression neutral. Beside her stood her father in his white and red suit, one hand resting on the ornate cane with its apple-shaped handle. He had the same neutral expression as Charlie, the kind of look that exuded quiet power and control.

Angel whistled low under his breath. "Well, damn. You and your big daddy sure know how to make an impression."

Charlie couldn’t stop herself from cringing. Seeing herself depicted like that felt so out of place, especially now in this crumbling, apocalyptic world where power suits and formal portraits are nothing but damn relics.

She shook her head. "It’s ridiculous."

Angel walked beside her, studying the painting like a snob art critic. "I don’t know, I kinda dig it. Very ‘rich family dynasty’ vibe. Where’s the portrait of you riding a horse or something? Don’t tell me there’s a room for that too."

Charlie groaned, rolling her eyes. "There’s no horse."

He grinned, clearly enjoying her discomfort. But Husk’s voice echoed down the hall before he could press further. "Find anything?"

Charlie glanced at the painting, then turned and continued with Vaggie and Angel toward the main hall, where the others gathered. As they reached the entrance, her steps faltered once more.

Another oil painting loomed large in the hall's center, even more intricate and imposing than the last. It was a whole family portrait—her father and mother seated regally, her father’s cane in hand, and young adult Charlie sitting between them, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It was a formal, composed image, almost too perfect.

The sight of it made her groan internally. She remembered when the painting had been commissioned and how uncomfortable she’d felt being told to sit still for hours, wearing the white frilly dress, unlike in the other painting.

Her younger voice groans, “Dad, please take these paintings down. It’s weird seeing my face like a dozen times whenever I go around in this house.”

“Why? I always thought they’re pretty neat!” Lucifer chuckles nervously, “And I always thought having your face plastered around would say it is your house.”

"Alright," Charlie started, clearing her throat. She turned to the group, her eyes scanning each face. “Did… anyone find anything out of place?”

Alastor was the first to speak. "Nothing out of the ordinary except that your picture is practically plastered everywhere. I don’t think there’s a single room without you or your parents staring back at us. Quite charming, really."

Charlie groaned. She had completely forgotten about that. “Right… I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think about how many there were…”

“Yeah, it’s… a lot,” Husk added gruffly, though his tone had no malice.

Niffty giggled, bouncing on her feet. "Oh, I love it! It’s like we’re in a museum!"

"Well, I certainly didn’t find anything dangerous," Sir Pentious said, sounding relieved. "But I do have an important question." He paused, glancing around nervously before continuing, "Does this mansion happen to have a working heater? I, uh, tested the water earlier, and it’s still running. I was hoping we could, you know, have a hot shower?"

Charlie blinked in surprise, then mentally hit herself for not thinking about that sooner. It had been months since any of them had a proper shower, with the world shitting on them. Although Charlie occasionally cleans herself at a bare minimum using bottled water or filthy public bathroom sinks, she does not have as much basic hygiene as she’d been so focused on survival.

“Actually, yes. We do have a heater…”

“Hot showers?” Angel perked up. “Oh, hell yeah! Count me in. I’m tired of smelling like a fucking sewer rat.”

Niffty clapped her hands together excitedly. “A hot shower would be amazing! I can’t even remember the last time I felt clean.”

The rest of the group seemed equally enthused, and Charlie couldn’t blame them. Even she had to admit that the idea of a hot shower sounded like heaven after everything they’d been through.

Charlie rubbed her temple, acknowledging the sudden collective excitement. "Shit, okay, the showers are a priority, but before we all rush off, we need to start packing up our belongings and finding a guest room to settle into. The mansion has plenty of rooms to pick one for each. Just… avoid my old room and the master bedroom. Those are off-limits.”

The group murmured their agreement, with Sir Pentious looking particularly eager about finding a good room. Angel shrugged. “Oh, I’m gonna get the best guest room here.”

Charlie shook her head but smiled slightly. “Once you’re settled in and packed, we’ll meet back and deal with the heater situation. If it’s working, then… well, each guest room has its bathrooms, so…”

The group began heading toward the front door, where the pickup truck was still parked with their supplies. Each seemed eager to grab their belongings and find their designated guest rooms, especially with the promise of the hot shower.

Charlie turned to Vaggie, who had already grabbed her backpack. “Come with me?” Charlie asked quietly. “I figured we could share a room. My old room is big enough for both of us.”

Vaggie glanced at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Of course.”

Charlie nodded, relieved. She didn’t want to sleep alone in her old room anyway, so she followed Vaggie and the others outside to the truck. Everyone began unloading their belongings and supplies, gathering what little they had, and heading back inside to find their rooms.

Angel whistled as he grabbed his duffle bag. “Man, I’m gonna pick the nicest damn room in this place. You think there’s a room with a mini-bar?”

“If there was, I doubt the drinks are any good by now,” Husk muttered.

As the others disappeared down different hallways, Charlie and Vaggie went upstairs. It took a while to walk through the hallways, the sense of vastness pressing down on them as they passed old family portraits and antique furniture.

Finally, they reached the door to Charlie’s old bedroom. She hesitated momentarily before turning the handle and pushing it open.

The room was almost exactly as she remembered it—large and spacious, with high ceilings and tall windows that let in the rays of sunlight. The walls were painted a soft, muted green. Her bed was on the far side of the room, still neatly made with dark, embroidered sheets. A heavy oak desk sat against one wall, covered in books and papers left undisturbed for years. There was a tall bookshelf filled with novels, most of them classics her father had insisted she read growing up. The floor was covered in a thick, expensive rug, and there was even a small sitting area with two armchairs by the window.

It was a beautiful, elegant room, but to Charlie, it felt surreal stepping back into this damned place.

Vaggie glanced around as if taking in the space. “Wow… this room is—”

“—big,” Charlie finished for her, sighing. “Yeah, I know. It’s a lot.” She tossed her bag onto the dusty bed, her shoulders slumping as she looked around. “It feels weird being back here.”

Vaggie moved closer to Charlie, giving her a reassuring look. “We don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” Charlie replied, shaking her head. “I’m okay. It’s just… shit, how the fuck am I gonna explain this—” She forced a small smile. “Never mind that it’s probably the safest room in the house. It’s got a good view of the courtyard, and there’s plenty of space for both of us.”

Vaggie squinted her eye as if sensing something was wrong from what Charlie had said. But instead, she nodded, dropping her bag onto one of the armchairs. “Alright. We’ll make it work.”

Meanwhile, Charlie stepped further inside. Her gaze shifted toward the small shelf near her desk, where her old vinyl collection sat neatly arranged. On top of the shelf, there was a record player, still in perfect condition despite the years of disuse. The records, a mix of classic pop, jazz, and even some modern albums were exactly as she had left them a year ago.

Next to the shelf, hanging proudly on the wall, was Charlie’s college diploma, framed in dark wood. Below it, a set of smaller shelves displayed her medals and trophies—achievements from as far back as primary school. There were academic awards and debate competition trophies, all neatly polished and proudly displayed, which Charlie believed were still maintained even after she moved out many moons ago.

But one item stuck out more than the rest. On the middle shelf, sitting beside a few of her high school awards, was a bright pink sash with “Prom Queen” embroidered in silver thread, and a bouquet of plastic flowers was draped across it. Right next to the sash was a framed photograph of her as a teenager, dressed in a pale pink prom dress, smiling wide as she stood beside a much taller, dark-skinned young man in a sleek black and green suit. The two hugged in a classic prom pose, their smiles bright and carefree.

She couldn’t help but stare at the photo. It had been one of those moments in her teenage years when everything had felt simple and happy.

Vaggie, noticing Charlie’s gaze linger on the photograph, stepped beside her. “That was prom, huh?” she asked, her eye flicking over the sash and the photo.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah. That’s… Seviathan. My date. We had such a good time that night.” She chuckled softly, then her chuckle faded into a soft sigh, her expression shifting from melancholy to something heavier—sadness. Her eyes stayed fixed on the photo, the smiles of her younger self and Seviathan tugging at memories she’d kept buried. Seviathan had been more than just her prom date; he had been her childhood friend. Their fathers had been close, so it felt natural that she and Seviathan had grown up together, eventually becoming a couple in high school. It was almost expected that they would be together.

She thought about those years after high school, especially after college when everything was laid out in front of them—plans, dreams, and their whole future. It had all seemed so clear back then, but life had a way of complicating things.

Charlie trailed off, her thoughts pulling her deeper into memories she hadn’t revisited in a long time. Vaggie, noticing her silence, stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

Charlie blinked, pulled back into the present by the question. She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… Sev and I had a wonderful relationship. We were together for eight years, believe it or not.”

Vaggie’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Charlie hesitated, unsure how Vaggie would react to hearing about her past with a man. There was a brief moment of uncertainty—would Vaggie feel jealous? Would she be upset? But instead, Vaggie simply seemed… curious.

“What happened?” Vaggie asked gently. “Why did you break up?”

Charlie laughed nervously, rubbing her fingers along the sleeve of her dress shirt. “It wasn’t just one thing. It was a lot of things piling up over time.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes drifting away from the photo as she spoke. “The day after my mom passed away, I… I changed. I became bitter. Angry. I pushed people away, including Sev. He tried to keep up, tried to help me, but I was so wrapped up in my bullshit that I… I couldn’t see it. And then, our careers took us in different directions. We were both so busy with our lives that we drifted apart, I guess.”

She paused, her voice quieter now. “Eventually, we just… stopped talking. It wasn’t like we had a big fight or anything. It was more like… adulthood? We weren’t the same people anymore.”

Vaggie listened quietly, her expression thoughtful. She wasn’t angry or jealous—just empathetic. “That’s… that’s rough. I’m sorry, Charlie.”

Charlie smiled sadly. “Thanks. It was tough, but I’ve made peace with it. What surprised me was how shocked my dad was when he found out we broke up. He had always thought Sev and I would end up together, but even he understood. Life just… happens.”

Vaggie nodded, reaching out to squeeze Charlie’s hand. “I’m glad you told me.”

“Well…” Charlie squeezed her hand back, “I’m also glad you understand. I mean, it’s not something I talk about often, you know?”

Vaggie nodded, her thumb gently rubbing the back of Charlie’s hand. Then, for a moment, they let go of each others’ hands to occupy themselves in silence while unpacking.

“Do you… ever wonder what happened to him?” Vaggie asked after a moment.

Charlie shrugged. “... Sometimes, although we don’t keep in touch. He’s probably busy with his life, just like I’ve been with mine. It’s funny, though… we ended things on decent terms, and I’ve always wondered if we could’ve made it work.” She sighed long, “But in the end, I think we were just… meant to go our separate ways.”

“Yeah… sometimes, shit just doesn't work out.”

The blonde’s gaze shifted back to the brunette. “I’m lucky, though,” she said softly. “I have you now. And that’s more than I could’ve hoped for.”

Vaggie finished packing her bag and walked over to Charlie, leaning in to kiss her cheek softly. “We should probably head back to the living room,” she murmured with a playful smirk. “Before Angel starts making up some bullshit about why we’re taking so long.”

Charlie’s cheeks flushed at the thought, her mind racing with what Angel might say. She let out a nervous laugh, trying to suppress her blush. “Y-Yeah, you’re probably right,” she stammered, faking a cough to cover her embarrassment.

Vaggie raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Charlie’s reaction, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she gave Charlie’s hand a light squeeze before stepping back.

Charlie quickly patted the dust off her bed, straightening the covers as if trying to compose herself. Once satisfied, she stood up straighter and gave Vaggie a nod. “Okay, let’s get back.”

Moments later, Charlie and Vaggie met up with the rest of the group in the kitchen, where everyone had started to gather. Charlie approached the kitchen sink first, testing whether the water pumps were still functional. She turned on the faucet, and after a brief sputter, water began flowing steadily. She let it run for a few seconds, testing the temperature. The hot water switch, however, remained cold.

"Looks like the pumps are working," Charlie announced, returning to the group. "But the hot water’s not coming through. Pentious was right—something’s off with the heater."

Husk, leaning against the counter, crossed his arms. “So, where’s the heater? Shouldn’t it be down here?”

Charlie shook her head, an uncertain frown crossing her face. "To be honest, I’m not sure. This place is huge, and… fuck, it’s been years since I lived here.”

Pentious, rummaging through a nearby cabinet, chimed in, “Given the size of the estate, I’d wager it’s either in the basement or the garage. Somewhere accessible but out of the way.”

With that, the group followed Charlie toward the garage. As soon as she opened the door, Angel let out a low whistle. "Holy shit, this is like the size of a parking lot," he commented, staring at the vast space.

The garage stretched before them, large enough to fit at least ten cars. Despite its size, it was dimly lit, with only slivers of light coming from the windows high on the walls. The rest of the room was plunged into darkness.

"Lights are out," Husk muttered. "Guess that means the breaker’s down, too."

"Even with the backup generators, it looks like the breakers aren’t fully working," Charlie said, squinting into the shadows. “Let’s find the breaker box first.”

They ventured into the garage, their footsteps echoing against the concrete floor. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of searching in the dark, they came across a breaker box secured with a rusty padlock.

“Piece of cake,” Angel smirked as he stepped forward, pulling out his trusty screwdriver and bobby pin. After a few deft twists and clicks, the lock snapped open.

Charlie opened the breaker box and carefully flipped the necessary switches. Almost immediately, the garage lights flickered on, flooding the space with bright, artificial light.

"There we go," Charlie said, satisfied as the rest of the garage lit up. The massive room was now fully visible—rows of old vehicles, workbenches lined with tools, and storage shelves filled with equipment. But there was no sign of the heater.

Husk glanced around. “So… no heater here?”

“Fucking hell,” Charlie sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah, looks like it… Pentious, what exactly does the water heater look like? I’m guessing it’s in the basement, but I don’t know what to look for."

Pentious straightened up. “A standard water heater would be a large propane tank, shaped cylindrical! Probably about five or six feet tall. You’ll see pipes connected to it, most likely copper or steel. Some older models might have a dial or thermostat on the front to control the temperature. There could be digital controls if it’s a more modern unit, but don’t count on that here.”

Charlie exhales, mentally preparing for another search. “So, we’re looking for something that size in the basement.”

“Precisely,” Pentious said. “It’ll most likely be near other utility areas. Electrical wiring, maybe some old boiler systems. It should stand out once we get down there.”

Vaggie stretched and went ahead. “Guess our next stop is the basement, then.”

The group made their way toward the basement, descending a narrow staircase that led to an oddly industrial-looking door. As Charlie opened it, they were greeted by cold metal walls and floors, the entire basement constructed out of what seemed like steel, making it feel more like a factory than part of a mansion.

“This… doesn’t look right,” Husk muttered, eyeing the surroundings warily.

“No kidding,” Angel said, arms crossed as he stared down the long metal grates and pipes hallway. “Where the fuck are we? This doesn’t look like a normal basement. Feels like we just walked into a damn sewage plant.”

Charlie, just as confused, looked around with a frown. “I don’t remember it being like this. Then again, my dad mentioned upgrading the water filtering system a few years ago, but I had no idea it’d be this… extra.”

The group continued cautiously, their footsteps clanging against the metal as they ventured deeper into the basement. After a few minutes, they found themselves at a dead end—a steep drop down to a tunnel with a red metal ladder leading into murky, waist-high water.

“Uh, yeah… no thanks,” Angel said, disgustingly eyeing the flooded tunnel. “I didn’t sign up for a swim.”

Vaggie frowned, peering over the edge. “That looks dangerous as hell. And we have no idea how deep that water goes.”

Charlie stepped up to the edge, observing the tunnel. “There’s no way my dad would’ve built this without a purpose… but I’m pretty sure the basement didn’t used to look like this. The upgrades must’ve been part of some water purification system he had installed.”

Before heading down into the flooded tunnel and risking their lives, the group decided to split up and search the basement for clues about the heater's location. Charlie led the way, flashlight in hand, while Husk, Vaggie, Angel, and Pentious fanned out to explore the various rooms off the main hallway.

Each room they entered was more disappointing than the last—storage spaces filled with dusty old boxes, unused equipment, and forgotten junk. Angel kicked at one of the boxes in frustration, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Nothing but crap in here. How the hell are we supposed to find anything useful?”

Vaggie, rummaging through another pile of junk, coughs out the dust, “If this heater was installed down here, it’s fucking well hidden.”

After about twenty minutes of fruitless searching, the group reconvened at the entrance to the flooded tunnel. Just as they were about to call it quits, Niffty came running over, waving something in her hand like a rolled piece of paper. “Guys! Look what I found!”

Charlie unrolled the paper on the ground, spreading it out so everyone could see. The yellowed paper depicted a detailed basement floor plan, but this was no ordinary basement—it was a complex labyrinth of tunnels, pipes, and utility rooms. At the far end of the layout was the key to their problem: a room marked as the water purifier and, right next to it, the water heater.

Vaggie knelt, inspecting the notes scribbled along the margins. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to handwritten annotations. Pentious crouched beside her, squinting at the text.

Pentious leaned over, inspecting the notes scribbled in the margins. “It’s maintenance notes,” He explained. “Whoever the last engineer was, they wrote down instructions. It looks like this place was set up for yearly maintenance… probably to keep the filtration system and heater from getting damaged. Judging by the flooding, I’d say maintenance is long overdue.”

Charlie scanned the blueprint, noting the location of the water purifier and heater. “It’s all the way at the end of that tunnel,” she said, pointing to the farthest section marked on the map.

Angel sighed, shaking his head. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be at the end of a creepy, flooded tunnel? I’m not swimming through that.”

Charlie smiled grimly, handing the blueprint to Pentious, who gestured to hand it over. “Well, unless someone wants to risk swimming through that.”

Pentious studied the blueprint more closely, then clicked his tongue in frustration. "No sign of any pumps to drain the flooded tunnel," he muttered. "Looks like we're out of luck on that front. Someone’s gonna have to head down there and manually turn on the heater and the purifier, or this flooding won’t stop."

He pulled out a measuring tape that he found from searching the basement earlier and crouched down at the tunnel’s edge, lowering the tape into the murky water. After a moment, he clicked it back and sighed. "Three feet. That’s deeper than I thought."

Vaggie snorted. “That’s too deep for some of us. I’m not letting Niffty or Husk go down there. They’d barely keep their heads above water.”

Husk scoffed, leaning against the wall. “Yeah, no thanks. Not my kind of adventure.”

Vaggie crossed her arms. "Angel, you’re tall. You should go down there."

Angel’s eyes widened in protest. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hell no. I’m not wading through that shit." He pointed at Alastor, standing nearby. "What about him? He’s only a few inches shorter than me."

Alastor chuckled, but it was hollow and insincere. “Oh, darling, no. That is not going to happen.”

The group started bickering, everyone trying to avoid being the one to go down into the water. Pentious threw in his objections. "I’m not going down there either. Who knows what could be in that tunnel? The sewer system’s connected to this place—there could be anything down there, including roamers."

The tension rose as no one wanted to risk it. Finally, Charlie stepped forward, her expression resolute. "I’ll do it."

Vaggie’s eye immediately widened in alarm. "Charlie, no. That’s too dangerous."

Charlie shook her head. “We can’t stand here all day arguing about who will do it. This is just a flooded tunnel and a water heater. I can handle it.”

"But what if—" Vaggie began, but Charlie cut her off.

"I don’t want to risk anyone else’s life for something this simple. I’ll be fine."

Vaggie clenched her fists, visibly torn from her concern and their situation. Then, she sighed, shaking her head. "Fine… but we’re not sending you down without a plan."

Vaggie quickly retrieved some ropes they had found earlier in one of the storage rooms. “We’ll wrap this around you as a support. If anything happens, we can pull you back up. And don’t try to be a hero, okay? If it looks bad, get out of there."

Charlie nodded, appreciative of the precaution. “I got it. I’ll be quick.”

The group helped Vaggie secure the rope looping around Charlie’s torso like a backpack, making sure it was tight but not too restrictive.

Charlie handed her phone and wallet to Vaggie, who pocketed them with a tight-lipped expression. “Just in case,” Charlie said with a small smile.

Vaggie frowned, but before she could say anything, Charlie held her gaze and leaned in, pressing a reassuring kiss to her lips. “I’ll be back safe,” Charlie whispered, her breath warm against Vaggie’s cheek.

Vaggie sighed, still uneasy but nodding. “You better.”

Charlie pulled out the flashlight and gave it a test flick before placing it in between her teeth. With a deep breath, she made her way to the metal ladder, her dress shoes clanging against the rungs as she descended into the tunnel. She paused a bit before her feet hit the water to unholster her pistol.

Her shoes landed on the flooded ground, and as expected, the water came up below her waist due to her height. The coldness seeped through her clothes, but she pushed the discomfort aside. With the pistol in her left hand and the flashlight in the other, she pressed forward into the tunnel.

The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the passageway's metallic walls. Her heart pounded in her chest as each step sent ripples through the murky water. Every noise seemed amplified—the soft splashing of water, the creaking of pipes, and her breathing.

The further she ventured into the tunnel, the stronger the metallic tang of the air became, mixed with a faint, stale odor. It was hard to tell if the stench came from the stagnant water or something else.

A distant clanging sound echoed through the tunnel, causing Charlie to stop abruptly. Her heart raced as she swung the flashlight toward the noise, but the beam revealed nothing—just more water and rusted pipes. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to keep moving.

Each step felt like an eternity, the water resisting her every movement. Suddenly, a faint splashing sound behind her caught her attention. Charlie turned around, her flashlight scanning the tunnel for the noise source. Nothing. Just the ripples from her movement.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Shaking it off, she pressed forward, muttering, “It’s just your imagination, Charlie. You’re not fucking insane...”

Then, she finally reached the end of the tunnel, where a rusted door loomed in front of her. The label above it read “Filtration Room.” She exhaled in relief and quickly placed the flashlight between her teeth, using her right hand to pry the door open. It was a struggle as she only used one hand, but it screeched as it moved, the sound grating in the silence.

The room was dimly lit by emergency lights, revealing a massive tank connected to an intricate network of pipes. The heater was there, as Pentious described and the blueprint had shown. With a long exhale, Charlie allowed herself a brief moment of triumph before refocusing on the task at hand and holding the flashlight again.

She spotted the heater's control panel, its dial covered in grime. “Okay… let’s get this done.”

Just as she was about to approach, the door behind her creaked again—this time louder, as though it was being pushed. Charlie spun around. She raised her Glock, her flashlight trembling slightly in her hand.

The door swung wider, revealing the source of the noise. At first, there was nothing, just more darkness—until she noticed a shadow shifting in the corner, something moving just beyond the light.

“Shit,” Charlie whispered, bracing herself.

From the darkness, a low, guttural growl echoed through the tunnel.

Of course, a fucking zombie.

The faint outline of the zombie became clearer in the beam of her flashlight. She quickly returned to the heater, fumbling with the dials and switches. The sooner she got the damn thing running, the faster she could get out of this place.

The heater rumbled to life with a click, sending a low hum through the walls. But as the machine powered up, it was louder than she expected—metallic clanks and rattles echoed through the small room, reverberating through the tunnel like an epicenter for every zombie nearby.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, glancing nervously back at the door. The zombie was moving closer, sloshing through the waist-high water.

No time to lose.

Charlie rushed to the filtration system next, but her mind paused when she saw the control panel. Unlike the heater, this one was a mess of buttons, gauges, and dials labeled with technical jargon she didn’t understand. Emergency Override, Pressure Regulation, Backflow Prevention—what the fuck does any of these mean? Desperately, she looked around the walls, hoping there might be some kind of guide or instructions. She spotted a worn-out poster with faded text, but it was so smudged that it was barely legible.

"Great," Charlie muttered. "Come on, there’s gotta be something simple…"

Her thoughts were cut short as a wet, guttural moan echoed closer this time. She turned just in time to see the zombie lumber into the doorway, its face half-decayed, one arm hanging at a grotesque angle as it moved toward her. The worker's coveralls it wore were filthy, the name tag hanging half-off. It had been trapped down here long before, waiting for anyone unlucky enough to stumble in.

Charlie raised her pistol, but before she could aim, the zombie lurched forward, its waterlogged arms reaching for her. She stepped back, her legs dragging through the murky water, slowing her down. She fired once, but the shot went wide, splashing into the water.

"Dammit!"

The zombie closed in fast, its bloated body pushing through the water with surprising force. Charlie shoved it with both hands, trying to create distance, but it was like pushing against a wall. The water made every movement slow and sluggish, and the zombie’s weight was hard to manage in such tight quarters.

With a grunt of effort, she shoved the creature back again, her hand fumbling to bring her pistol back up. The zombie groaned, its jaw snapping hungrily as it approached her again. Charlie cursed under her breath, her arms straining against its strength, desperately trying to gain enough space to aim properly.

The water splashed violently as they struggled, and for a terrifying moment, Charlie thought she might lose her balance and fall backward. She planted her feet, gritted her teeth, and pushed with all her strength, getting just enough space to line up a shot.

She pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the tunnel, and the zombie collapsed into the water with a sickening splash, its body floating lifelessly in front of her.

Charlie stood there for a moment, panting heavily. She wiped the sweat from her brow and turned at the cluttered control panel in front of her, her mind racing. "If I were smart like Pentious, which of these buttons would I press? Come on, Charlie, think!" She scanned the options again, her frustration rising as the heater’s clanking grew louder, echoing in her ears. Time was running out, and the distant noises outside the door told her the zombies were closing in.

Her eyes landed on the Emergency Override button again. "It’s called ‘emergency’ for a reason, right?" she muttered, hoping it would be the solution. She slammed the button with her palm, expecting the system to kick into gear. But nothing happened. No hum of machinery, no change in the lights—just the oppressive silence mixed with the ominous sounds of the heater and distant growls.

“Damn it!” She banged her fist against the panel. "Come on, you useless piece of shit. Work with me!"

The noise outside the door grew louder, making her stomach twist. Charlie could almost hear the shuffle of footsteps and the low, inhuman groans beyond the walls. She couldn’t waste any more time. Turning back to the control panel, she desperately looked for another option, her mind racing through all the possibilities. Her hand hovered over the Pressure Regulation dial. "Does that… release pressure? Or build it?”

She glanced at the old, worn poster on the wall, squinting to read the faded text. No luck—it was too far gone to be useful. "Okay… fuck it. Guessing it is."

Charlie grabbed the Pressure Regulation dial and turned it, feeling the system whirr slightly to life beneath her fingers. Encouraged, she flipped the next switch labeled Backflow Prevention, praying it wouldn’t flood the place worse than it already was. The control panel hissed, the filtration system groaning as it sputtered back to life.

A deep rumble shook the room as the filtration system engaged, the sound of water being pulled through the pipes mixing with the roar of the heater.

“Okay… okay, that’s something,” Charlie muttered as she looked toward the exit, and holy hell, it was too fucking loud. The filtration system was drawing so much water the clanking and hissing echoed through the tunnel like a siren.

Charlie then slipped through the doorway. As soon as she was outside, she shoved it shut with all her strength. The thick metal now muffled the loud clanking of the filtration system, but the distant groans and splashes from the zombies were getting closer. She pressed her back against the door for a moment, sucking in deep breaths, then wiped her brow and shined the flashlight down the other passages.

Her heart sank. The tunnel branched into multiple directions, each leading deeper into the public sewers. “Great,” she muttered, fighting the rising panic. She could not find her way out if she wandered in there. She had to stick to the plan—get back to the mansion basement, back to Vaggie and the others.

But first, she had to make it back alive.

The growls were getting louder. Charlie whipped her flashlight down the tunnel she had just come from. The beam illuminated the murky water and the walls, but something else caught her attention—movement. The zombies were much faster than she expected, already splashing toward her, their bodies thrashing through the waist-deep water with surprising speed.

“Shit!” she cursed under her breath. These weren’t the slow, stumbling zombies she was used to dealing with. This horde—whatever it was—was moving too fast. Maybe they were freshly turned, or maybe she was just extremely unlucky. Either way, she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Turning on her heel, Charlie bolted toward the main tunnel to the mansion’s basement. Every step felt heavier and heavier as if her legs were pushing through the water like cement, the cold liquid slowing her down. Her flashlight bounced in her hand, sending frantic beams of light ahead of her, barely illuminating the path. The splashing behind her grew louder and closer. She could almost feel them breathing down her neck.

"Come on, come on," Charlie muttered, her breath in ragged gasps. The mansion basement was close—if she could make it a little further, she’d be safe. But with the zombies closing in, she wasn’t sure if she had enough time.

The moans grew more guttural, more frenzied, and she risked a glance over her shoulder. The horde was right behind her, their decaying faces snarling, waterlogged hands reaching out. They were too close. Too fast.

Panic shot through her as she pushed harder, forcing her legs to move through the water. She had to make it back. She had to get to the others.

Up ahead, the familiar light of the ladder came into view. There was no way she’d make it to the ladder in time unless she got help.

“Vaggie! The horde’s on me!” Charlie shouted, her voice echoing off the tunnel walls. Her feet splashed through the water, her breath ragged and desperate.

Almost immediately, she heard a commotion above, voices shouting and overlapping. Vaggie’s commanding voice echoed through. “Get ready! Pull her up, now!”

Suddenly, the rope wrapped around Charlie’s waist tightened, jerking her forward slightly as the group above began to pull. Charlie stumbled toward the ladder, holstering her pistol as she reached it. She grabbed the cold metal rungs and started to climb. As she pulled herself up, she felt something graze her ankle—a hand. One of the zombies had almost grabbed her.

Heart hammering, she scrambled up the ladder, water dripping from her soaked clothes as she ascended, but she pushed through while her muscles burning. Below, the splashing grew more frenzied. The horde below sloshed wildly as they were nearly on top of her, their hands clawing at the ladder's base.

The ladder groaned under her weight, and just as she was halfway up, one of the supports creaked and gave way with a sharp crack. The entire structure shuddered, causing Charlie to lose her balance slightly. Her hand slipped, and her flashlight dropped from her grip at that moment, falling straight into the mass of zombies below. It vanished into the horde with a splash.

“Shit!” Charlie yelled, feeling her body sway as the ladder lurched, on the verge of collapsing entirely. She clung desperately to the remaining rungs, her body jerking as the rope around her waist tightened, catching her from falling completely.

Above her, the group was pulling with everything they had, the rope taut as they heaved. Charlie looked up and saw Vaggie and Husk leaning over the edge, their hands reaching down for her.

“Come on, Charlie! Grab!” Vaggie shouted, her fingers outstretched.

Charlie swung one hand up, her grip slipping as the ladder shook beneath her, but she managed to grab Vaggie’s hand, her fingers locking around her partner’s. Vaggie gritted her teeth and pulled, with Husk reaching out to grab Charlie’s other hand.

With a final grunt of effort, Charlie heaved herself up, her legs scrambling off the ladder just as it gave a final groan and collapsed beneath her. The metal structure clattered into the water below with a deafening crash, the horde surging over it like a wave.

Charlie was pulled onto the platform, gasping for breath as she collapsed onto the cold concrete floor, gasping for breath next to Vaggie and Husk.

Charlie lay there for a moment, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. Every muscle in her body screamed in exhaustion, but she was alive. She had made it. The echo of the ladder crashing into the water below still rang in her ears, and the horde splashing and growling grew distant, drowned out by her racing pulse.

Vaggie knelt beside her, scanning Charlie for any injuries. “You okay?” she asked. She was trying to keep calm, but the way her hands hovered over Charlie’s arms and shoulders betrayed her worry.

Charlie gave a weak nod, trying to sit up. “Yeah... yeah, I think so,” she rasped, her voice shaky. “Just… fucking tired.”

While catching her breath, she noticed Angel, Alastor, Pentious, and Niffty all standing nearby, looking just as exhausted as she felt. The rope that had saved her was still wrapped tightly around her waist, and Angel was busy untying it, his face flushed from the effort of pulling her up.

“Fucking damn, doll face,” Angel said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I was gonna call you a pussy for being scared of killing zombies, but after seeing what you went through? That was hardcore.” His usual teasing tone was there, but it had a hint of genuine respect this time.

Charlie gave him a tired smile. “You can still call me a pussy later,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But I got the heater turned on. And... I think I managed to get the filtration system running, too. Not sure how much it’s gonna help, though.”

Pentious looked over at her, still heaving from the strain of pulling the rope. “The filtration system?” he repeated. “That’s... that’s more than just a small help. It’ll keep the basement from flooding, and the water quality in the mansion should improve drastically.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, still trying to catch his breath. “I... I should’ve explained it better. My apologies for leaving you to figure it out on your own.”

Charlie waved him off. “It’s fine, Pentious. I just... I guessed. Turned a bunch of stuff and hoped for the best.” She let out a weak chuckle. “Not exactly genius-level problem-solving, but hey, it worked.”

Niffty, who had been quietly fussing over some supplies nearby, turned around and chimed in with her usual cheery voice. “Well, I’m just glad you’re not zombie chow! We would’ve missed you!” She gave a quick wink before bustling off to check on something else.

Charlie relaxed a little as she looked around at the group, each showing their signs of exhaustion. Vaggie still had her hand resting protectively on Charlie’s shoulder, and her jaw clenched like she was processing the close call. Husk had his arms crossed, feigning indifference, though his eyes lingered on her a second longer than usual. Standing back a bit, Alastor seemed to find some grim amusement in the whole ordeal, while Angel, despite his teasing, still had a hand hovering near her, just in case. Even Pentious, always so meticulous, looked a little worse for wear, and Niffty’s usual energy seemed just a touch more subdued.

Charlie gave a weary smile, taking in the small but real relief she felt with each of them here, still standing—and all because they’d worked together. She cleared her throat, looking around at each of them. “So, uh,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Who’s ready for a hot shower?”

The group dispersed to their rooms, eagerly seizing the rare luxury of a hot shower. After months without one, the mansion’s long-abandoned stockpile of bath necessities suddenly felt like buried treasure. Soap, shampoo, and towels waited in the storage closets—a small damn miracle.

Back in Charlie’s bedroom, she and Vaggie stepped into the steamy warmth of her bathroom. The hot water cascaded over them, washing away layers of filth, grime, and exhaustion. Charlie grabbed a bar of soap, lathering her hands before gently running them over Vaggie’s shoulders and down her scarred back, her fingers tracing each tense muscle.

Vaggie leaned into Charlie’s touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “You know,” she murmured, her voice low and almost drowned out by the sound of the shower, “you gave us all a scare back there. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

Charlie’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling Vaggie close. “Hey, hey… I’m right here, baby,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against Vaggie’s shoulder. “Thanks to you and the others, I’m safe. You’ve… saved me.”

They stayed close, their hands exploring familiar paths as they lathered soap onto each other’s skin. Charlie’s fingers traced along Vaggie’s back, where the faded outline of angel wings spread across her shoulder blades, barely visible through the heavy scars. The ink was worn, softened over time, yet still beautiful in a way that seemed to hold Vaggie’s resilience.

Charlie took her time, her thumb brushing along the delicate edges of the tattoo. “I always loved these,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss between Vaggie’s shoulder blades.

Vaggie let out a soft chuckle as she reached up to cup Charlie’s face with wet hands. “You can also say you’re my wings now.”

Charlie smiled at Vaggie’s words, pulling away to reach for the shampoo, squeezing a decent amount into her hands. She began to work the lather through Vaggie’s long hair, her fingers gentle but thorough as they massaged her scalp. Vaggie’s eye closed, a soft, contented expression crossing her face as Charlie’s fingers traced over her temples, moving carefully through each strand. The water flowed in rivulets, rinsing the soap away and leaving her hair smooth and clean.

Vaggie turned to return the favor, running her hands through Charlie’s hair with the same tenderness (and insisting the blonde sit on the damn stool). Her fingers brushed through the tangled knots and the grime from months of travel with care.

Charlie felt a peacefulness settle over her as Vaggie’s hands moved over her shoulders, rubbing the soap into her skin in slow, soothing circles. Vaggie’s hands drifted down Charlie’s arms, tracing the dirt-streaked lines she was washing clean and covering each freckle that felt reverent. She guided the washcloth down Charlie’s arm, over her shoulder, and across her collarbone, where she could feel the thrum of Charlie’s heartbeat like she memorized every part of her.

They took turns lathering soap over each other’s legs, moving slowly, taking care to scrub away the filth that had settled deep into their skin. They shared soft, amused smiles at the ticklish moments, small laughs escaping between the calming sounds of the water.

When they finished, they lingered under the shower a little longer, letting it wash over them, feeling cleansed and renewed. Finally, Vaggie reached over to turn off the shower, and as the water slowed to a trickle, they stayed close with their fingers entwined.

After drying off, Charlie and Vaggie stepped out of the shower, wrapped in thick towels.

Charlie crossed to her walk-in wardrobe, which still held a few of her old clothes despite the dust and disarray. She pulled out a crisp white dress shirt and slipped it on, buttoning it slowly and rolling the sleeves to her elbows. Her fingers felt the smoothness of the fabric, the feeling of familiar stitches oddly comforting. She then tucked it into a pair of high-waisted black slacks. She chose a pair of (slightly dusty) designer dress shoes, different from her usual worn dress shoes—her old shoes, reliable as they’d been, had finally reached their limit.

Vaggie rummaged through her bag, finding a sturdy jacket and fresh jeans. She checked her pockets, ensuring she had the essentials, and then glanced over to where Charlie was straightening the collar of her shirt. The blonde then adjusted the belt to attach the holster to her slacks.

Side by side, they made their way out to the living room and saw the others gathering. One by one, the group appeared, looking cleaner, fresher, and more relaxed than in weeks. Still drying his hair with a towel, Angel was scanning the room for anything potentially valuable. Though freshly shaved and in new clothes, Husk still held onto his usual gruff expression. Niffty bounced in place, excitedly glancing around the room. Pentious didn't look that nervous for the first time in a while, and Alastor leaned against the wall with his usual unsettling grin.

Charlie cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Okay. There are places in this mansion that should have hidden supplies. Some might be locked, but I know where to find most of the keys—or where my dad hid them. It might take some searching, but food, medical supplies, and even weapons could be stored away. We’ll need to split up to cover more ground.”

The group broke apart, pairing up and heading to different parts of the mansion. Angel moved confidently through the halls with Pentious close behind. Husk and Alastor trailed behind them, ready to haul anything worth bringing back. Meanwhile, Niffty darted through tight nooks and crawl spaces.

Charlie and Vaggie took the hallway leading to her parent’s old bedroom. As they entered the dusty bedroom, Vaggie raised an eyebrow. "With your ground rules laid out… Why are we in your parents' room?"

Charlie brushed a layer of dust from the desk as she considered her answer. "My dad... he was a bit of a gun enthusiast," she explained with a faint grimace. "It always made me uncomfortable, you know? I’d tell him, but he'd just shrug and go on collecting them, treating it like some strange hobby." She paused, glancing over at Vaggie. "Sometimes, he’d even go to the backyard to test a few. I hated the noise."

Charlie moved to the desk and stopped at the globe perched on the corner. She turned it slowly, aligning it until the mark for “Germany” faced her, then tilted it at just the right angle. A quiet click sounded, followed by a soft hum as part of the wall beside the wardrobe shifted, revealing a hidden door.

The door creaked open, revealing the faint smell of gun oil and leather. Inside, an expansive armory stretched before them, lined with neatly organized firearms of every kind: handguns, rifles, shotguns, and even a few larger weapons that made Vaggie’s eye widen slightly. Her gaze moved from shelf to shelf, taking in the seemingly endless rows of weapons. "How... did your dad even manage to collect all of these?" she murmured, her voice tinged with awe and a touch of disbelief.

Charlie let out a humorless chuckle, crossing her arms as she surveyed the vast collection. "I asked him the same thing once. Told him he had enough firepower here to arm a small country." She sighed. "I tried suggesting he stick to something like vinyl records, but he just shrugged it off. Said guns were ‘cool.’"

Vaggie shook her head, looking a bit exasperated. "Huh…"

Charlie shrugged. "Apparently, he wasn’t always like this. The collecting, the hoarding—he got into it in phases. Guns were just one of the later ones. Before that, it was vinyl records, and then there were random antique radios. He even tried to get me into it and gave me a few records to start my collection. I didn’t get it at the time.”

Vaggie listened quietly, glancing over as she picked up a box of ammunition, but didn’t say anything. She watched Charlie’s face carefully, sensing the weight behind her words.

After a pause, Charlie reached for a rifle, her hands running over the polished wood. Something in her expression shifted, and she hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did… you ever find anything from him? Like… a letter or something?”

Vaggie furrowed her brow, setting down the box she’d been holding. “You mean, like a letter addressed to you?”

Charlie shook her head. “Anything. I just thought there might be something he left behind—a note, or… I don’t know, a journal maybe.”

Vaggie’s face softened as she took a step closer to her. “Charlie… I haven’t found anything like that. But maybe… maybe it’s somewhere else in the mansion, right?”

Charlie nodded slowly, though there was a shadow of worry in her eyes. Vaggie moved closer, reaching out to rest a reassuring hand on Charlie’s arm. "Hey, maybe one of the others will find something. They’re all over this place, checking every corner. And if your dad had something important to leave behind, I have a feeling he’d make sure we’d find it."

Charlie managed a small smile. "Maybe you’re right.” She slowly nodded as if trying to convince herself. "Well… at least his collection is ours now. If it helps us get through this, maybe his obsession wasn’t for nothing."

After a while, Charlie and Vaggie made their way back to the main hall, their arms loaded with firearms and a canvas bag filled with ammo boxes. As they approached the living room, they were surprised to see Niffty and Pentious already there, busily sorting through an impressive array of supplies that looked as if they could last for months, if not years.

Charlie let out a low whistle as she set down the bag and helped Vaggie carefully arrange the firearms on a sturdy table nearby. Vaggie dusted off her hands and gave Charlie a nod. “I’ll go back and grab the rest,” she said, already heading toward the hall.

Charlie nodded, watching her leave before turning back to the supplies. Niffty glanced up, catching her eye with a bright smile. “Oh! By the way, Angel’s looking for you,” she chirped.

“Angel?” Charlie tilted her head, curious. “Did he say why?”

Niffty shrugged, shaking her head. “Not really. He’s over by the kitchen, though.”

“Alright. Thanks, Niffty,” Charlie said, then glanced around. “Do you know where Alastor and Husk went?”

“Oh, they’re hauling something in from the left wing,” Niffty replied with a quick nod. “Looked pretty heavy, but I think they’ve got it covered.”

With a final look at the supplies, Charlie made her way toward the kitchen. As she entered, she noticed that most of the cabinets had been emptied, with a stockpile of preserved foods and other essentials now gathered neatly around the large kitchen island. Amidst it all, she spotted Angel, focused and intent as he fiddled with the lock on a tall wooden cabinet.

“You rang?” she called, stepping into the room.

Angel didn’t look up immediately, his concentration still fixed on the lock. “Give me a sec,” he muttered, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his tone as the lock clicked open with a soft snap. He straightened up and turned to Charlie, flashing a grin. “Had a hunch this cabinet might have something good. Thought I’d give it a try.”

Charlie smirked. “You and your hunches.”

Angel swung open the cabinet doors, and Charlie’s eyebrows shot up as she took in the sight before them: shelves packed with a meticulously curated collection of wines, spirits, and even a few rare bottles she hadn’t seen before. Expensive labels stared back at them, each bottle lined up neatly as if waiting for a grand occasion.

Angel let out a low whistle, his eyes wide with delight. "Jackpot! Looks like your dad knew his liquor."

Charlie chuckled, shaking her head. "Yeah, he had a taste for the ‘finer things.’ Though I’m not sure he ever intended for these to be, uh… end-of-the-world rations."

Angel laughed, grabbing a bottle and inspecting the label. "Apocalypse or not, I’d say we’re living pretty fine tonight. Imagine the look on kitty’s face when he sees this stash!" He then clicked his tongue, “Although he did mention about quitting back then…”

"We might as well make use of it.” Charlie also grabbed the bottle of unopened wine. “And after all the bullshit we’ve been through, I think we’ve earned a drink or two."

As they began pulling bottles from the cabinet, Angel glanced over at her. “Betcha there’s some history behind these, huh?”

Charlie nodded, smiling wistfully. "Probably. My parents… well, mostly Dad, used to go on these ‘adventures’ for rare bottles whenever they traveled. Said it was a way to ‘capture a piece of the world.’" She chuckled softly, then lowered her voice as if mimicking her dad. "Most of y’all kids got souvenirs or postcards; I got stories about bourbon and scotch."

Angel let out a laugh, shaking his head as he took down a dusty bottle of whiskey. "Gotta admit, your dad had style."

Charlie’s gaze softened as she traced a finger along the glass. "Yeah. He did."

Angel and Charlie carefully unloaded the bottles, setting each one on the counter. They handled the bottles with the precision of a heist, Angel occasionally muttering, “Don’t want to shatter any of these beauties.” Finally, as Angel set the last bottle—a rich bourbon encased in a dark green glass—down beside the others, he glanced over at Charlie with a gleam in his eye.

“So,” he began, his fingers tapping the top of the bottle. “What do you say we crack this open? Take the first shots of the night?”

Charlie hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the past weeks and the tension that had knotted in her shoulders for as long as she could remember. After all they’d endured, a small, well-deserved break felt almost foreign, yet more than tempting. “You know what?” She grabbed two shot glasses from one of the cupboards, rinsing the dust off with a quick splash of water. “Why not?”

Angel poured the amber liquid, its rich, smoky scent filling the air. He handed her a glass, and they lifted them in a silent toast. As they threw back the shots, Charlie felt the familiar burn trailing down her throat, spreading warmth through her chest.

She closed her eyes briefly, letting the feeling in. It’d been so long since she’d felt that heat—anything that wasn’t just survival or the cold, gnawing adrenaline that came with every day.

Later that evening, the dining room buzzed with laughter and chatter as everyone gathered around the table, each member looking more relaxed than they had in weeks. The dining table was lined with plates of hearty, makeshift meals that Charlie and Angel had whipped up from preserved foods they’d found in the mansion’s stores: cans of beans, preserved meats, even a few jars of olives, and pickled vegetables. He also had taken to arranging the bottles of wine, whiskey, and rum with a flair, like he was setting up a bar for a messy, high-end party.

Alastor had already poured himself a drink while Husk was drinking from a soda can, their glasses clinking as they toasted to some joke only the former radio host found funny. Niffty, seated between them, sipped from a glass almost as big as her hand. Vaggie was nursing a glass of wine, while Pentious told an exaggerated story that had Niffty nearly falling out of her chair with laughter.

Pentious raised his glass with a flourish, still caught in the thick of his story. "And so there I was," he declared, gesturing wildly, "presenting my grand design to this absolute buffoon of a client who couldn't tell a blueprint from a takeout menu! He had the audacity to suggest adding—wait for it—a moat. A moat! As if it were the 13th century and he was expecting knights on horseback to storm the place!" He shook his head, theatrically exasperated. “All I could think was, ‘Is he trying to keep out intruders or build a damn fish tank?’”

Angel nearly choked on his drink, laughing. "I feel you, man. Some clients just... lack perspective. Back in the day, I had this one client who insisted he wanted the ‘full boyfriend experience’ but couldn't commit to buying me a decent dinner." He smirked, glancing around the table. “Some people want castles but don’t wanna pay for the bricks, you know?”

Niffty giggled beside them, her cheeks flushed from downing glasses of wine. She raised her glass, wobbling slightly. “I think... I think the whole room’s spinning!” she said, swaying. Husk reached over with a long-suffering sigh, plucking the glass from her grasp before she could spill it.

“Alright, you’ve had enough,” he muttered, sliding the glass over to Angel. “We don’t want to be pulling you off the floor by the end of the night.”

Niffty got up and reached toward Angel, her tiny frame making a feisty attempt to snatch her drink back. "C’mon! Gimme, gimme! I wasn’t done!" she whined, stretching her arms as Angel held the glass just out of reach, a teasing grin on his face.

“Niffty, you look like you’re about to turn as red as that wine,” he said, chuckling as he held it a little higher. “Maybe I’ll give it back once you’ve cooled off a bit. Don’t need you toppling over just yet.”

Alastor, taking a slow sip from his glass, clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Now, now, let’s not let this evening devolve,” he chided, his tone slightly dejected. “A drink is fine, but we should all maintain our composure, hmm?”

Before the back-and-forth could continue, Vaggie tapped her spoon against her glass, drawing everyone’s attention. “Before anyone gets any more… tipsy,” she called, raising her glass and casting a warm look toward Charlie. “I think we all owe our thanks to our host tonight. For bringing us here, for keeping us safe… Charlie, this night wouldn’t be happening without you.”

Glasses lifted around the table, a murmur of gratitude echoing as everyone drank, though Husk and Niffty clinked their soda cans instead. The cheers settled, and the chatter picked up again, but Alastor glanced around the room with a curious expression.

“One wonders, though,” he began, “where the rest of the household staff might be. A place of this size—surely there must have been others?”

Vaggie raised a hand in gentle protest. “Tonight is for relaxing, Alastor.”

Alastor, however, seemed undeterred, swirling his drink thoughtfully. “And yet, it’s why we’re here, is it not? After all, Charlie’s journey wasn’t solely to bring us here—she’s still hoping to find out what happened to her family.”

The lighthearted atmosphere dimmed slightly, and Charlie glanced down, her fingers running along the rim of her glass. After a moment, she sighed. “Well… since there were no bodies in the house, it’s safe to assume my dad sent the staff home when things first started going to shit. He… he mentioned a phone call, a while back, asking if I’d ride with him to a chopper heading for the safe zone in D.C.” She hesitated. “But… I turned him down.”

Husk raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking. “Why didn’t you go with him? Seems safer than staying here.”

Charlie’s eyes grew distant. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was… suspicious. That the elite, people like me and my dad, were getting evacuated somewhere special the moment the virus made headlines.” She paused, her voice softening. “I just hope he’s okay in D.C., wherever he is. But… I don’t know.”

A somber quiet hung in the room. Angel broke it with a dramatic sigh, shooting Alastor an annoyed look. “And there he goes, ruining the mood. Thanks a lot, pal. Thought we were supposed to be having fun tonight.”

11:18 pm

The mansion had settled into an eerie silence, the faint creaks and groans of the old house filling the space where laughter and clinking glasses had once been. One by one, everyone had drifted off to their rooms, contentedly hazy from the night’s drinking.

In the soft glow of Charlie’s bedroom, she and Vaggie lingered a half-finished bottle of bourbon between them. Charlie took a sip from her glass, savoring the warmth rushing down her throat, while Vaggie set hers down on the desk, watching Charlie with a look.

Vaggie began, “I’ve been… thinking—”

But before she could finish, Charlie leaned forward, her hand reaching up to cradle the side of Vaggie’s face as she pressed a heated, somewhat sloppy kiss to her lips, tasting of warm bourbon. The kiss was raw, the kind that spoke more than any words. Charlie’s hand slid down to Vaggie’s shoulder, her fingers pressing gently as she drew her closer. The room felt warmer as if the glow from the bedside lamp had deepened, wrapping around them both.

Vaggie responded to the kiss with a soft sigh, her hands finding their way to Charlie’s waist. The intoxicating scent of bourbon mixed with the faint traces of Charlie’s scent drives her insane.

The warmth of their shared drink mingled with the heat between them, their touches growing bolder. Charlie slowly led Vaggie closer to the edge of the bed. They sank into the soft comforter and Charlie pulled back slightly, her lips just a breath away from Vaggie’s as she murmured, “Fuck, you’re beautiful…” She trailed gentle kisses along Vaggie’s jawline, her touch delicate, as though she were savoring every moment. “I’m so lucky to have you… to be here with you.”

Vaggie giggled softly, her cheeks warm from both the bourbon and the affection. “Querido, estás borracho.”

“I’m a dumb American, babe.”

“You’re drunk.”

Charlie smiled, unbothered, brushing a stray lock of Vaggie’s hair behind her ear. “Maybe I am… but I mean every word.” Her hands moved with care as she undid the first button of Vaggie’s blouse, her eyes never leaving hers. She took her time, fingers tracing gentle patterns along Vaggie’s collarbone as each layer came undone.

As the fabric pooled at Vaggie’s waist, Charlie’s hands glided over her bare skin, tracing gentle patterns along her toned arms and shoulders. She pressed a lingering kiss above Vaggie’s heart, feeling its rhythm beneath her lips, then another at the curve of her shoulder.

Charlie eased the pants down, letting it fall away as her hands drifted lower. She glanced up, her gaze meeting Vaggie’s, a small smile playing at her lips as she slipped the last layers aside. Now, with Vaggie sitting in her bra and underwear, Charlie took in every detail, her hand reaching up to cup Vaggie’s cheek, thumb grazing her skin.

“You didn’t have to do that toast earlier,” she murmured. “I mean… this house, the supplies, the alcohol—it's all just stuff. Nothing special.”

Vaggie tilted her head, giving Charlie a gentle, knowing look. “Baby, don’t discredit yourself. You’ve given us more than just a roof over our heads. You’ve given us hope, a safe place—even if it’s just for a while. That means something. It means everything.” Her hand lifted to cover Charlie’s, squeezing it reassuringly.

Charlie’s face softened, a small smile curving her lips as her fingers traced along Vaggie’s cheek. She leaned forward, capturing Vaggie’s lips in another tender kiss. The kiss deepened, her mouth trailing down along Vaggie’s jawline, then to her neck. Her lips brushed softly over the delicate skin before she found a spot just below Vaggie’s collarbone, her lips lingering there, pressing gently before suckling slightly, intent on leaving a faint mark.

Vaggie’s breath caught, her fingers threading into Charlie’s hair, pulling her just a bit closer. A soft sigh escaped her as Charlie worked slowly. A quiet moan escaped her lips, “Charlie…”

Charlie couldn’t help but smile against Vaggie’s skin, a soft chuckle vibrating from her as she continued to press kisses to the spot. She drew back slightly, her eyes meeting Vaggie’s. “Hmm… you like that?” she murmured, her voice teasing, almost daring.

Vaggie’s fingers tightened in Charlie’s hair as she leaned in closer, her voice coming out in a breathless plea. “Please… don’t stop.”

Charlie’s eyes softened, a flicker of warmth and intensity in her gaze. Her hand found its way to Vaggie’s waist, fingers pressing into her skin as she trailed a line of gentle kisses down Vaggie’s neck, lingering at each new spot. She took her time, tasting the warmth of her skin, savoring the way Vaggie’s breaths grew shorter with each soft bite.

Vaggie’s hands roamed along Charlie’s back, fingers pressing into her, pulling her closer until there was barely a breath between them. Her hand drifted down, settling between Charlie’s thighs, and pressed gently, earning a soft gasp from Charlie. The touch was enough to make Charlie pause, a breath caught between her lips as her body responded, leaning into Vaggie, her own need mirrored in Vaggie’s gaze.

She unfurled her arms and placed her hands on Vaggie’s shoulders. She was compelled by a powerful urge to speak, to tell Vaggie everything over and over again. Before she could marshal her thoughts together, Vaggie’s lips brushed hers. The whimper that escaped her throat was muffled as they came together; lips and tongue feeding a fire that shimmered through Vaggie’s body to her very core.

Charlie pressed her body against her own, and it was like she was filling in all of Vaggie’s gaps. It was intense and it was staggering; all of her body pinpricks of electricity; raw desire stretched her physical limits and ripped a high, keening whimper out of her lungs.

Vaggie suddenly found herself on her back; Charlie was straddled above her with fire in her eyes. The blonde flung away their clothes, and when Charlie kissed her, it was with her entire body. Skin and muscle and bone writhed against her, finding purchase on the sharp planes of her own body, the jut of her hips, and the sinewy cords of her thighs.

Charlie’s hands were grasping, twisting, and smoothing all over her skin. Heat built painfully in Vaggie’s core and scorched her flesh, and Charlie’s mouth blazed fire as she swept their tongues together. Charlie’s slender fingers sought the wet heat between her thighs, stretched into her, and began to hammer out a beat with her heart; her cries tore from her lungs with every pounding thrust.

Vaggie drew her knees up and dragged her nails down Charlie’s back, her body opening up even as she was terrified of being so exposed. She heard a sobbed wail escape her lips, and she brought her teeth down hard against Charlie’s shoulder. Her climax was fast and hard and unrelenting; her entire body arched back, shoulders indenting the mattress below her, while Charlie clung onto her and continued her unyielding pace.

It was as if she was being taken outside of herself – away from who she thought she was and pulled right back into her body. Charlie was forceful and she was intent, and it was that intention that comforted Vaggie even as she teetered on the edge of overwhelm, pleasure bordering on pain bursting behind her eyelids as she was pitched right into her second orgasm. Hitched sobs and whining moans tumbled out of her mouth as her body shuddered and shook around Charlie’s hand, in Charlie’s arms.

Her chest heaved and her body trembled. She couldn’t breathe, and panic flooded her senses. Then Charlie’s arm was cradling her head and there were soft, comforting words swirling around her. She took great shuddering breaths as tears ran down her cheeks and she was released. She wrapped her arms around Charlie; her hitched breathing turned into full-blown sobs that wracked her body anew. She buried her face into Charlie’s shoulder, her body shaking in her arms as she cried through all of her guilt, shame, and feelings of inadequacy. She cried out her grief, and she cried out her gratitude.

Charlie’s arms were solid around her, anchoring her as she gently rocked them back and forth, murmuring soft words into her ear. The smells of bourbon, sweat, sex, and something unique to Charlie wrapped around Vaggie like a blanket, holding them close amidst the tempest of her release. Her sobbing made way to soft whines, and all the while, Charlie held her with stability and care.

When Vaggie’s heaves finally stilled and her body unfurled, Charlie arranged herself around Vaggie’s bulky frame with her slender arm and leg draped firmly across the brunette. Her face pressed into Vaggie’s neck as she continued to murmur comforting words to her.

Vaggie felt so small in Charlie’s embrace, but it wasn’t frightening. It was like a weight had been lifted from her very spirit, and she had an odd sensation that she would just float away without Charlie’s body keeping her grounded. She trailed light fingers along her back, tracing delicate skin and hard bone; she felt as if she were drifting and yet completely anchored.

Their even breathing was the only thing to interrupt the silence cocooning them.

The room had settled into a comforting silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of Vaggie's breathing as she lay beside Charlie, her head resting on Charlie's chest. Vaggie had drifted off, her hand still loosely intertwined with Charlie’s, a faint, peaceful smile lingering on her lips. But as the warmth of the evening faded, Charlie was left awake, her head beginning to throb with the dull ache of a hangover just waiting to hit full force.

Charlie’s mind kept wandering back to a moment earlier—a flicker of sadness that had crossed Vaggie’s face. Midway through, Vaggie had choked up, her eye glossy with sudden, unexpected tears. Charlie had almost paused, worried it might have been a panic attack, but the softness of Vaggie's voice, her arms wrapped around Charlie tighter than before, suggested something else, like maybe it was as the alcohol kicked in.

Still, Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling that something was on Vaggie’s mind.

Letting out a soft sigh, Charlie pressed a gentle kiss to Vaggie’s forehead. She carefully eased her hand from Vaggie’s grasp, slipping out of bed as quietly as possible. She reached for her usual dress shirt hanging off the back of a chair and slipped it on, followed by a pair of loose pajama pants that she grabbed from the dresser. Her gaze drifted to the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the nightstand, and she decided she’d take it downstairs—maybe another drink or two would help ease her nerves enough to get some sleep.

With the bottle and two shot glasses in hand, she made her way quietly down the hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath her bare feet. Instead of feeling the dust, it seems that Niffty started to clean this place (in which Charlie expected it). She made her way to the kitchen, her fingers brushing the walls for balance as the buzz of the evening slowly faded.

As she entered the dim kitchen, she noticed someone sitting by the island, carefully inspecting and cleaning a pistol. The figure glanced up briefly, his brow furrowing as he took in her slightly disheveled state.

“Pentious,” she greeted softly, feeling an odd comfort in the familiar face.

He looked at her with mild surprise, then offered a nod, his expression unreadable as he continued to clean the weapon. "Couldn’t sleep, Morningstar?" he muttered, his eyes flickering over to the bourbon in her hands.

Charlie offered a slight smile, setting the bottle and glasses on the counter. "No, not really." She glanced at the pistol in his hands, noting how his focus never seemed to waver as he carefully polished the barrel. "Could say the same for you, I guess… and please, just call me Charlie."

Pentious gave a low chuckle, his gaze briefly meeting hers. “Habit, I suppose. The quiet hours… they’re good for reflecting,” he replied, his voice steady, almost meditative.

Charlie poured a shot, sliding it in his direction. "Then here’s to the quiet hours." She took her shot, feeling the familiar warmth settle in her chest yet again. “Do you… ever wonder how long we can keep this up?” she asked quietly, almost more to herself than to him.

Pentious took the shot she’d poured him, his gaze drifting off into a distant thoughtfulness as the burn of the bourbon settled. He let out a small sigh, almost as if the drink had coaxed something out of him. Turning the glass in his hand, he looked up at Charlie with a faint, wistful smile. "I think about it a lot, actually," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Whether I’ll ever find my family, or if they’re… you know."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet, flipping it open with a sort of reverent care. Inside was a small, faded photograph with Pentious standing beside a smiling woman, his arm draped protectively over her shoulders. Beside them was a boy in his teens, dark-haired and grinning. They looked familiar—eerily so.

"This here," Pentious pointed to the woman, his voice softening, "is my wife. We first met in college, believe it or not. She was tough as nails, and kept me grounded." A warmth touched his expression as he traced his thumb over her image. "And that," he added, pointing to the young boy, "is my son, Frank. Kid had a heart of gold. I promised myself I’d find them when all this mess began. Just… haven’t gotten that chance yet."

Frank.

Charlie’s heart stilled as she took in the photograph, realization settling heavily in her chest. She knew these faces. The woman and her boy had been among the first she’d encountered in the outbreak.

She remembered Frank’s determination to save her mom at any cost, a determination that hadn’t been enough. She’d watched as the virus claimed the mother and Frank… Frank had later died in a tragic accident.

With his lifeless eyes wide open…

But here, looking at Pentious, she found herself unable to say any of that. The hopeful way he spoke of his family, the way he held on to that thin thread of possibility… she couldn’t take that from him, not here, not now. For all this, Pentious was still clinging to something worth fighting for.

So instead, she forced a small smile, nodding as if she was learning of them for the first time. "They look like wonderful people, Pentious," she said softly. "I really hope… I really hope you find them."

A flicker of gratitude softened his expression. “Thank you, Charlie. Just knowing there’s a safe place like this helps a lot. If I ever do find them, I hope they can stay here as long as we can manage. A place where we could plan a future.”

Charlie forced herself to nod, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. "Yeah, absolutely. They’ll be welcome here."

Pentious sighed, his gaze drifting back to the photograph as he rubbed his thumb along its faded edge. “I was supposed to meet them at the Stock Exchange that day,” he murmured. “But I had this client meeting. Thought I could finish up and join them later. I’m not even a finance guy, you know? Just… wish I’d canceled. Could’ve been there with them, seen them safe before… before everything happened.”

Charlie swallowed, nodding as if she didn’t already know how that day had ended for his family.

Pentious took a moment, his gaze holding hers a little longer, as though he could sense a depth of unspoken understanding between them. Finally, he broke away, glancing down at his pistol. He started packing up the pieces, methodically putting each one back in place with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. “I’m glad we talked, Charlie. It’s good to know there’s someone… well, someone I can count on.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Get some rest. We’ll need it for tomorrow and it’s going to be a busy day ahead.”

She mustered a small, tight smile. "You too, Pentious."

When he was gone upstairs and no footsteps were being heard, Charlie leaned on the counter, her hands gripping the cool edge of the island. She felt a pressure building inside, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, the memory pressing down on her.

Her hand flew to her mouth, clamping down as a surge of grief broke through, twisting in her chest with a brutal ache. She could see Frank’s face in her mind, those wide, lifeless eyes staring up at her, and the mother’s succumbs to the virus with Frank’s desperate voice begging Charlie to keep going to the damn hospital.

She remembered her desperate attempt to help them—how she’d been too late, how her own choices had led to even more loss; Razzle, who’d helped her, was gone.

Charlie leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the cool marble of the kitchen island; her mind seemed to deepen as she replayed Frank’s last moments—those lifeless, unblinking eyes, the desperation that had colored his voice, his words echoing in the back of her mind: Mom, no! Please!

She clenched her hands into fists, a hollow ache twisting through her chest, like something fragile inside her was splintering with each breath. It felt like she was trapped in a silent whirlwind, a crushing weight of regret she couldn’t shake off. Frank had counted on her, had believed she could get them to safety, and she had failed him. And that failure hung on her shoulders, sharp and unrelenting.

The worst part was, she knew Pentious was still clinging to hope—hope she didn’t have the heart to shatter. The thought of telling him, of watching that hope die in his eyes, left her feeling hollow and sick. But could she keep hiding it? Could she look him in the eyes tomorrow, the next day, knowing that she was keeping the truth from him?

For a moment, the idea of searching through her father’s message or letter struck her. There might be something there, some thread that could lead to a better answer than the one that clawed at her now. And there was Manhattan too—the place Frank and his mother had spent their last moments. The fucking Stock Exchange. She’d have to find a way to retrieve anything Pentious’s family might’ve left behind, to honor their memory somehow. Maybe, just maybe, it would bring him some kind of closure.

Straightening up, Charlie pressed her hands to her temples, as if she could get rid of the gnawing ache that had taken root in her chest (and it doesn’t help a lot when she’s tipsy as hell). She’d have to tell Vaggie. Vaggie was the only other person who knew, who’d seen enough to understand what she’d lost that day. Charlie needed her for this—to figure out a plan, to get through the memories without unraveling completely.

She took a deep breath. The truth felt inevitable, but it would come on her terms, not as an unwelcome bombshell. For now, she’d hold the pieces of that truth close, taking her time to decide when—if—she could bring herself to share them with Pentious.

While that, she has other responsibilities to tackle first.

The three figures moved in silence, their military gear blending into the shadows of the convenience store as they advanced toward the gas station. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, and the broken glass crunched softly beneath their boots. Out in the lot, stragglers shuffled near a crashed black van, their heads low and shoulders hunched, lingering like vultures around a kill that had long since grown cold. The ground was slick with remnants of their old meal, blood-soaked and grim, marking where bodies had been torn apart.

The squad raised their M27s, silencers muting the gunfire to a sharp whisper. The sound wasn’t quite enough to go unnoticed, but it wouldn’t draw the horde. One by one, the stragglers fell, each bullet landing cleanly, efficiently. The echo of the last suppressed shot faded, and silence fell over the gas station once more.

“Spread out. Check the area,” the leader ordered as she signaled to the other two. They nodded, moving to flank the lot as they checked the perimeters and empty storefronts. She made her way to the black van, keeping her automatic rifle raised as she approached the driver’s side door.

The corpse slumped in the driver’s seat was barely recognizable, the face ravaged, chunks of flesh missing and scattered across the seat. A private. He wore their uniform with the gray armband, the remnants of it torn and bloodstained. She clenched her jaw, taking in the gory scene, and then her gaze drifted over to the passenger seat. Empty.

She cursed under her breath, her mind racing as she processed the implications. One of them had been taken out here, but the other… he was gone.

“Ma’am!” one of the squad members called from the back of the van. “The van’s empty. Someone else has already been through here.”

She clicked her tongue, irritation crossed her amber eyes. “Damn it,” she muttered, scanning the distance as if she might catch sight of whoever had scavenged before them. Long Island was supposed to be all but abandoned, yet it seemed someone was still holding on, surviving out here despite the odds.

Just as she thought, there are survivors still remaining in this damned State.

“Keep searching,” she ordered. “If someone’s out there, they can’t have gone far.”

As one of the squad members moved further into the lot, she remained by the van. Survivors. It was hard to believe, but if they were resourceful enough to clean out a van under the noses of the infected, then they might be more than just remnants. They might be worth finding, worth watching. And if they had access to supplies, well... maybe they’d have something to take.

Then, the other squad member called out, “Lieutenant! Over here!” His voice was tense, coming from inside the convenience store.

She looked up sharply, catching a glimpse of his silhouette through the shattered, grimy store window. He was standing over something near the counter. With a low sigh, she stepped through the glass-strewn doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dimness inside. The stench hit her first, that heavy scent of rot mixed with copper. But this was different from the usual decay—the smell was somehow sharper, fresher.

There, slumped against the cash register, was another private. His uniform and armband marked him as one of theirs, though his face was beyond recognition. Blood and fragments of skin were smeared across the cash register, the flesh on his face crushed rather than torn, his features mangled almost methodically. The sight was brutal, and there was a twisted sense of purpose to it. This wasn’t the work of the undead.

The squad member beside her spoke in a low, almost nauseated tone. “It’s sick, Lieutenant. Who the hell would do this? And why?”

Her jaw tightened as she took in the scene, trying to piece together the fractured details. No average survivor would have done this—not in the middle of an outbreak, not in a place where shooting or stabbing would have been easier. Whoever had done this had been close, deliberate. She took in the blood patterns, the angle of the blows. This had been personal.

She felt a shiver of something she rarely acknowledged: a dawning realization that this act of mutilation wasn’t random or mindless. It had intent behind it. But only one face came to mind when she thought of that sort of vindictive edge. Her gaze drifted back to her squad member.

“Who’d have a reason to do this?” he asked, his voice a mix of fear and revulsion.

Her face darkened, a slow, growing scowl etching its way into her features. She didn’t want to say it, not yet. But as her mind connected the pieces, the implications were impossible to ignore.

There was only one person she knew with that kind of vendetta. Someone who would go to this length to make a point, to leave a warning carved in flesh. She’d thought she was gone—buried along with the others.

But if this was her…

“Lieutenant?” the squad member pressed, catching onto her change in expression.

She let out a slow breath, forcing the name back down, and then turned to her squad member. “Take Gerard’s armband. Retrieve the dog tag if it’s still there. We’ll need identification for the report.”

The squad member nodded, grimacing as he knelt down to remove the bloodstained armband. “Understood, Lieutenant.” He carefully searched the private’s chest, eventually finding the metal chain that held the tag and yanking it free with a soft, hollow clink.

“Relay the order to the other outside,” she added coldly. “Tell him to recover Anderson’s tag and armband too.”

The squad member didn’t hesitate, lifting his hand radio to his mouth and issuing the command to his teammate. Once the radio crackled with a confirmation, she gave a sharp nod, stepping back outside.

The night pressed down heavily, shadows pooling between the broken streetlamps and the empty, hollowed-out buildings lining the road. Her mind, however, was locked on the thought of one person—that damned person she’d convinced herself was long gone.

After all these years, it seemed impossible that she could still be out there, much less that she’d made it this close. Yet the brutality of the private’s death was undeniable, and the twisted familiarity of it set her on edge.

Her grip tightened on her rifle as the implications swirled in her mind. If this was truly her handiwork, the consequences were vast, and their next moves would have to be calculated. She took in a slow, calming breath, forcing the worry to harden into resolve. No matter what, she would report this back to the General. If they were dealing with a damn ghost, then changes had to be made, steps taken to secure the territory before their operations expanded further.

She couldn’t afford to hesitate now.

Chapter Text

Charlie took a deep breath, steadying herself as she moved from one shadowed building to the next. The intersection ahead was littered with car wrecks that once seemed catastrophic but now felt like just part of the landscape—like moss on a fallen tree. Soho had turned into a green graveyard, plants crawling through every crack in the concrete.

She glanced back, catching Vaggie’s gaze as she followed with her new spear held steady. Pentious had outdone himself with that thing. He’d fashioned it from some displayed artifact in the mansion—made fresh with a little metalwork magic (that smart bastard). This one could collapse into a knife, a sleek upgrade compared to her last.

Bringing her attention back to the street, she noticed the stragglers—few and far between, just decaying bodies trying to remember what walking was like. One of them, its face barely holding together, was weakly crawling in her direction, one hand lifting toward her as though reaching out for help. She didn’t hesitate, pulling her knife from its sheath and drove it through its skull. Wiping the blood on its tattered shirt, she moved on as she neared the crash she’d been dreading.

The Idua A8 L, her old car, was barely recognizable, crumpled, and decayed like everything else. She swallowed and drew closer. Inside, she saw them—the skeletal remains, the clothing faded but familiar. Razzle’s suit still clung to the bones in the driver’s seat, a deep crack across his skull marking what had ended him. In the back, two more skeletons—a woman in business attire, a bullet hole piercing her skull, and beside her, a smaller, younger skeleton.

Frank. God, I’m so sorry.

Charlie’s breath hitched, her thoughts slipping into a spiral she couldn’t seem to catch. They unraveled, falling into an aching place where guilt hadn’t let herself touch in months. She looked at the skeletal remains in the backseat, the ones she was about to disturb, and something in her chest twisted. Pentious’s family. They’d been people, not just bones held together by scraps of cloth. She ran her fingers along the cool metal of the crowbar strapped to her pack, feeling its weight as if it might anchor her.

She glanced back at Vaggie, who was also eyeing the car.

“This is going to be loud,” Charlie said, keeping her voice low. “Be ready.”

Vaggie nodded, gripping her spear a little tighter. “I’ve got you covered.”

Turning back to the wreck, Charlie steadied herself, then swung the crowbar into the backseat window. The glass shattered, falling inward with a brittle crash. She reached inside, quickly finding the woman’s hand. Her fingers were oddly preserved, skin papery but still whole, as though death hadn’t dared to take all of her. A gold wedding ring glinted on her left hand, catching the stray light from above. Charlie slipped it off, the metal cool against her fingers, and tucked it away.

She moved around to the other side, taking in a shaky breath before smashing the glass again. The smaller skeleton lay curled, still and small, like he was sleeping. Frank. She bit down on the sadness clawing its way up and searched the pockets of his tattered clothes, her hands trembling just slightly. At last, she found a small pendant around his neck, a scratched little trinket shaped like a serpent. After a bit of hesitation, she took it.

Then she heard it—the shuffle of feet, the soft groans drawing near. Vaggie’s spear moved in a series of deadly arcs as if she were following the notes of a silent, familiar song. The tip sliced through the decaying flesh with a sickening ease and the zombies slumped lifelessly to the ground. Charlie kept watch from a step behind, clutching the items she’d collected and hoping she wasn’t putting Vaggie at unnecessary risk.

One of the undead—a particularly bloated figure whose shirt was nearly glued to his decaying body—lurched forward, his rotting hands reaching out. Vaggie jabbed the spear’s tip into his forehead, the weapon retracting back with a slick, grotesque noise. Another zombie came from the side slower. Vaggie pivoted and thrust her spear straight into its temple.

But for every one she brought down, two more seemed to stagger into view from the ruined buildings. The street was thickening with them, their aimless groans growing louder, the stench of death clinging to the humid air.

Charlie could see the sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm Vaggie. It was time.

“Babe!” she called. “We’re done here—let’s go.”

Vaggie didn’t hesitate. With one final strike, she drove her spear through the forehead of the last straggler in her path, giving the weapon an almost dismissive flick to shake off the bits of gore. She turned and sprinted to catch up to Charlie, the two of them ducking low as they made their way out of the intersection.

Only then did Charlie allow herself to breathe, casting one last glance over her shoulder before leaving the intersection behind.

The old Rich-Royce Ghast drove through the ruined streets. The engine hummed quietly under the hood, and Charlie leaned back against the worn leather seat, letting the small bit of comfort soothe her as they headed back to New Hamptons. She glanced over the supplies piled in the backseat—cans, a few water jugs, some scavenged meds. It wasn’t much. Lower Manhattan was drying up fast, the shelves turning as empty as the streets, but they’d managed to scrape together enough to make this trip worthwhile.

And then there was the other reason—the real reason. Lying in her bag were a gold wedding ring and a Frank’s pendant, and every time she thought about handing them over, her chest tightened.

Vaggie, hands steady on the wheel, kept her eye on the road, her jaw set in that focused way she had. Charlie watched her for a moment, wondering if Vaggie felt the same, then took a breath.

“You think… telling him is the right thing?” Charlie’s voice was soft, almost lost in the low hum of the car, but Vaggie’s right eye quickly flicked over to her.

Vaggie didn’t answer right away, and Charlie could sense she was picking them like she was choosing which weapon to use. Finally, she said, “Closure’s a double-edged sword, Charlie. He deserves to know, but knowing doesn’t always mean peace.”

Charlie’s gaze drifted out the window, the ruined cityscape blurring by. “But how much worse would it be if he found out on his own?” Her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the leather seat. “If we keep it from him… it feels like we’re just letting him live a damn lie.”

Vaggie’s expression hardened as she tightened her grip on the wheel. “Sometimes… lies are softer than the truth. But I don't know, Charlie. This isn’t a man who’s gonna look at a wedding ring and feel… ‘closure.’ He’ll see it and think he could’ve done something different. You see how much he talks about finding his family.”

Charlie turned, watching Vaggie’s profile as she spoke. “But maybe that’s what he needs. He deserves a choice, doesn’t he? To decide what to do with this—whatever’s left.”

“Maybe.” Vaggie sighed. “But once we open that door, there’s no shutting it again. The way I see it… you’re giving him grief on a silver platter and hoping it’ll turn into peace. It might not. It could turn into anger, revenge… or worse.”

“I don’t think he’s like that…” Charlie was quiet for a moment as if doubt creeping in, her fingers brushing over her bag where the ring and pendant sat. “You think he’ll take it out on us?”

“No. But the world—it might turn darker for him, and we’re the ones handing him the map.” Vaggie is idly tapping the wheel lightly with her thumb. “It’s just… I don’t want this to turn him into a fucking ghost. Not while he’s still got a fight left in him.”

Charlie bit her lip, letting the silence settle around them for a moment before speaking. “What if it helps him remember who he’s fighting for, instead of what he’s lost? What if it gives him something real to hold onto?”

Vaggie gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Guess that depends on Pentious. On whether he’s got a piece of himself that can handle this. We can’t decide for him. Just… be ready, Charlie. This isn’t something you come back from.”

Charlie leaned back in her seat, letting her head rest against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the expressway stretched out where the abandoned cars had been cleared to make a makeshift path. She wasn’t sure who had done it—or how long it had been like this—but she didn’t dwell on it. The quiet between her and Vaggie felt like a third passenger in the car, and it was the kind of quiet that pressed on Charlie’s nerves. She could feel Vaggie’s disapproval hanging.

After a few minutes, Charlie couldn’t stand it anymore. “You… don’t think I’m making the right choice, do you?”

Vaggie kept her eye on the road, her jaw tight. “It’s not that, Charlie. I just want you to know what this might mean. Sometimes we think we’re helping someone by giving them the truth, but all we’re doing is handing them a burden they’re not ready to carry.”

Charlie bit her lip, nodding slowly. “But hiding it… doesn’t that just keep him in the dark? Like he’s living a lie?”

Vaggie’s expression softened. “Living a lie, sure. But maybe it’s one he can live with, it’s about survival. You think that’ll help him move forward, and maybe it will, but there’s also a chance it drags him backward.”

Charlie looked down. “It just feels wrong to keep it from him. Like I’m deciding what he can and can’t handle. He deserves more than that.”

Vaggie opened her mouth as if she was trying to say something, but immediately closed it as if her expression turned resigned.

They fell into silence again, but this time, it felt different—more understanding than before.

The car ride stretched on, the miles blurring together in a mix of old roads, cracked pavement, and silence. After an hour and a half, the shape of the mansion’s gates came into view. As they drew closer to the roadway leading to the closed gate, Charlie could see a handful of straggler zombies pressed up against the fence, their arms outstretched as if reaching for something that would never reach back.

Without a word, Vaggie grabbed her retractable spear, unhooked her seatbelt, and slipped out of the car. Charlie watched as Vaggie extended the spear and approached the fence. As soon as Vaggie’s door closed, Charlie slid over to the driver’s seat, ready to guide them through once the gate opened.

Meanwhile, Vaggie killed off the zombies and cleared them away in moments. She then moved toward the gatehouse, positioned beside the fence, and pressed her palm to the scanner. A soft light swept over her hand before she leaned in, and with a brief pause, the scanner flicked to her iris.

Watching her, Charlie felt a sense of relief knowing her brain remembers that she could register the rest of the group as authorized guests, sparing herself the need to scan in every single time whenever they go off for supply runs. Hell, she’d even managed to mute the automated system, disabling those endless, annoying announcements that would draw more attention than they needed.

With a confirming beep, the gate’s mechanisms whirred to life, and the heavy iron bars slid open. Vaggie quickly returned to the car, hopping into the passenger seat as Charlie pulled forward, the gates closing automatically behind them. The quiet slammed down again, though the sounds of distant moans reminded them of what lay outside.

Charlie eased the Rich-Royce up the cracked driveway, taking in the sight of the courtyard that had grown out of necessity. Rows of vegetables filled the handmade planter boxes, each one crafted from whatever scraps and wood they could salvage. A few cars from the mansion were parked haphazardly to one side, some up on blocks, others with their hoods popped open as if they'd been left mid-repair.

On the opposite side of the driveway, stacks of storage boxes were neatly piled, though a few lids were ajar, suggesting someone had recently rummaged through them for supplies. Just beyond the boxes was a crude woodcutting area, complete with a makeshift crafting bench for woodworking.

Her gaze lifted to the mansion’s balcony, where a rope of tattered, knotted clothes hung over the railing—courtesy of her handiwork, tied for a quick descent in case they needed a fast exit. Up on the balcony, Husk was using the scope of his sniper rifle like a pair of binoculars, peering into the distance.

Charlie parked the Royce by the edge of the driveway and hopped out, with Vaggie following suit. They began unloading the supplies from the back, but Charlie couldn’t help noticing how strangely quiet the courtyard was. Usually, people bustled around at this time, tending to the garden or sorting through supplies, but now, it was empty.

Looking up at Husk, she raised her voice, “Hey, Husk! Where is everybody?”

Husk lowered the scope, looking down at her with a shrug. “Shooting range,” he called out, sounding casual enough. But as if on cue, a loud gunshot rang out from the back of the property, the sound echoing through the yard and answering her question with emphasis.

Charlie squinted up at Husk, who was now casually watching her from above. “So… everyone’s back there?” she asked, crossing her arms as if to add a playful suspicion.

Husk scratched his scruffy chin. “I’m sure Pentious and Niffty are there, probably blowing through rounds or something.” He paused, his brow furrowing a bit. “But Angel and Alastor? Couldn’t tell you… maybe on a spontaneous supply run?”

Charlie gave a small nod, mentally filing away the information. She didn’t want any surprises, especially not from Angel and Alastor. As she glanced over to Vaggie, she caught the slight tilt of her head and the familiar look that said Vaggie was already one step ahead.

“I’ll finish unloading and get this stuff put away,” Vaggie offered, motioning to the supplies in the back of the car. “You go check on them.”

Charlie felt a small smile tugging at her lips as she leaned over and gave Vaggie a quick peck, her hand lingering on Vaggie’s arm for a moment. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll try not to be too long.”

With that, she turned and started toward the courtyard’s edge, following the path that wound its way around the mansion to the backyard.

As Charlie made her way along the winding path, the sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the air. She recognized the rhythm immediately—single shots, carefully spaced, no rapid spray of bullets. Whoever was back there wasn’t playing around with automatics; it almost made her feel reassured… if only because it meant fewer resources burned through in the name of target practice.

She finally reached the shooting range and observed the structure looked like something out of an amateur construction book—bits of salvaged wood and metal pieces patched together to create a shaded awning for the shooters. Not exactly luxurious, but it got the job done. Underneath the shade, she spotted Pentious and Niffty. The former had his focus through the iron sight using the Mini-14 rest against his shoulder, his brow creased with concentration as he lined up his next shot.

To the side, a row of empty glass bottles lined up along a rickety wooden plank, each one catching the light in a way that made them look almost decorative. They were set up as targets, though, and one jagged remaining suggested that Pentious had been having some luck with his aim.

Niffty hovered nearby, practically bouncing on her toes as she watched Pentious squeeze off another shot. She clapped softly when he hit his mark, though it was unclear whether Pentious even noticed.

Charlie took a few steps closer, hands tucked into her pockets as she called out, “You’re having your daily practice again, Pentious?”

Pentious glanced over his shoulder then lowered the rifle. “Well, trying to get better,” he replied, voice a little quieter than usual. “It’s good to rely on each other, to trust everyone to do their part… but there’s only so much others can do. I don’t want to be the one who just stands by, hoping the people I care about can cover for me. I want to hold my own if things go south.” He paused, adding, “Don’t want to be… useless anymore.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “Pentious, you’re not useless. You’ve done more for this safehouse than anyone else. The courtyard garden? The barricades? Even this range?” She gestured around. “That’s all because of you.”

He nodded, but there was a glimpse of frustration in his eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Those things—they’re good, yes, but when it comes down to it, they’re not what’s keeping us alive out there.” He looked back toward the range, his fingers tightening on the rifle’s grip. “My combat skills… they’re just nowhere near where they should be. Not compared to some of you.”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the ground before he looked back up, meeting her gaze. “I mean, who else here has as little combat experience as I do?”

Charlie blinked, then slowly raised her hand, a self-deprecating grin pulling at her lips. “I think I’m way up on that list. Just ask anyone who’s seen me try to take down a newly-infected—one zombie, and I’m struggling like it’s a whole horde.”

Pentious huffed out a laugh. “Guess that makes two of us, then,” he said.

Niffty let out a bubbly giggle, her eyes darting between Charlie and Pentious. “Well, you two better keep at it! Wouldn’t want the zombies or people thinking they’ve got easy targets!” She gave a little wink, then hopped down from the stool she’d been perching on. “I’m going to see if Alastor’s back from his run. He promised he’d bring something exciting this time,” she added, and then she headed back toward the mansion.

As she disappeared around the corner, Charlie turned back to Pentious. “Alright, um… finish off that magazine. I’ve got something important to talk to you about once you’re done.”

Pentious raised a brow but nodded, returning his focus to the rifle. He took his time with each of the last ten shots, though his frustration grew with every missed bottle. Nine shots went wide, the glass standing as before. Finally, he lined up his last bullet, taking a slow breath before squeezing the trigger. This time, the bullet hit dead center, shattering one of the bottles.

Charlie gave a small, approving nod as Pentious set the rifle down. “See? You’re already getting better,” she said, offering him a smile before her expression turned a bit more serious. She motioned for him to join her on a nearby log where they could talk without distraction.

Once he settled next to her, she leaned forward, hands clasped tightly inside the pockets and her gaze dropping to the ground. “Look, Pentious, I… I wanted to talk to you about…” Her voice trailed off, the words catching in her throat. She could feel the wedding ring and necklace pressing against her palms, cool and solid, but they felt impossibly heavy.

Her fingers tightened around them in her pocket, and she pulled them out, fists clenched. She’d meant to give him these small mementos—things she’d managed to find when she’d gone back to what was left of the car wreck. She’d wanted to tell him… to tell him everything.

For fuck’s sake, Charlie… spit it out!

But the words just wouldn’t come.

After a moment, she exhaled and slipped the trinkets back into her pocket, her hands now empty but still clenched as she looked at him. “Actually, I… I was thinking about the barricades,” she said, forcing her voice into a steadier tone. “We might want to reinforce the eastern side, and add more support beams. Maybe even set up some additional lookout points. Just… to be sure.”

Pentious studied her, as though he sensed what she wasn’t saying. He nodded slowly. “You’re… probably right,” he answered. “I’ll start working on that as soon as we’re done here.”

She felt a swell of guilt that he hadn’t asked more, hadn’t pushed. “Thanks, Pentious…”

After a beat of silence, Pentious unloaded the rifle and stood up, brushing off his hands as he looked back at her. “Alright, I’ll get this rifle back to the armory and start gathering what we’ll need for the barricades. Reinforcements should keep us better prepared, anyway,” he said with a small, reassuring smile, though something in his eyes suggested he’d caught her hesitation.

Charlie managed a nod, forcing a faint smile of her own. “Good idea.”

He gave her a short nod in return, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned and headed back toward the mansion, rifle slung over his shoulder. She watched him disappear down the path, each step fading into the distance.

As soon as he was out of sight, she let out a shaky breath, hands coming up to cover her face. Why didn’t you just tell him, Charlie?! she berated herself in silence. He deserves to know… about the accident, about everything.

She dropped her hands, staring out over the range, frustration tightening her jaw. All that time was spent thinking about how to break the news, and she’d still frozen. He’d trusted her enough to talk about his fears, his desire to protect everyone—and all she’d managed was some deflection about the fucking barricades.

“Coward,” she muttered under her breath.

Charlie dropped her bag as soon as she stepped into the mansion’s front hall, letting it fall with a thud. She shoved her hands into her pockets and lazily snagged the trinkets in the bag into the seams, as if pushing hard enough might somehow sink them out of existence.

But that wasn’t going to happen, and she knew it. So she did the next best thing: find anything—everything—to keep her hands busy. She tracked down Pentious in the backyard, knee-deep in salvaged metal, and wordlessly joined him in carrying heaps of sheet metal back and forth, one armload at a time. Her muscles strained and complained, but it was the sort of feeling that kept her mind blissfully blank.

Next, she found her way to the ammo stash, loading round after round into the magazines with mechanical precision. Click, slide, press. Click, slide, press. Her focus narrowed to the bullets, the grooves where they slid into place.

Gardening with Niffty was next, her hands digging into the soil as they worked side by side. Something was grounding about the smell of damp earth and the feel of leaves beneath her fingertips. It was calmly repetitive.

And then, right as her mind was beginning to quiet down, Angel and Alastor came barreling through the courtyard with their supply haul—a sight that made Charlie do a double take. The stash they’d returned with was disappointingly light, considering they’d made the trek out to the Water Mill, and Angel’s face looked tight, more agitated than usual.

“What happened?” she asked as they unloaded what little they’d brought back.

“Not much worth bringing back,” Angel replied grimacingly. “But we did notice something fucking weird—symbols painted on storefronts, houses, almost like someone’s been marking territory or something.”

He pulled out a scrap of paper where Alastor had sketched the symbols: a crude circle with an X slicing through it, surrounded by what looked like a jumble of nonsensical numbers and shapes in between the spaces of the circle.

Charlie stared at the drawing, a frown creasing her forehead. “This… doesn’t make any sense. There hasn’t been any activity for months. Who would be marking things all of a sudden?”

Angel shrugged, though his jaw clenched in a way that gave him away. “I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he said. “Look, just… keep an eye out, yeah? These kinds of markings don’t usually mean anything good. If it’s an organized group, they could be trouble, and we’d never see it coming.”

Charlie nodded, half-agreeing, though her gaze softened. “I get it, Angel, but maybe they’re just people trying to survive like us. Not everyone out there is looking to make enemies. We don’t know anything yet.”

Angel huffed, his skepticism clear, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he just gave her one last look, as if to say, Just… be careful.

As the hours ticked by, Charlie kept herself busy, burying the uneasy feeling that had settled in her stomach. She could feel it, but she pushed it aside, focusing on tasks, on anything that kept her hands moving and her mind quiet.

When night finally crept over the mansion, casting the last rays of sunlight through the windows, Charlie slipped away from the others and made her way back to her room. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it as a strange mix of exhaustion and restlessness tugged at her.

Fucking Christ.

Crossing the room, she trailed her fingers along the edge of her dusty record collection, pausing when her thumb caught on a familiar sleeve.

Skeeter Davis. The End of the World.

She pulled out the vinyl, the single album cover faded from age, and slid it from its sleeve. As she blew the dust off and placed it on the turntable, the silence in the room seemed to lean in, waiting, ready to be filled.

The needle crackled as it touched the record, and then, softly, almost as if it were coming from somewhere deep in her mind, the first few notes drifted.

Why does the sun go on shining?

Charlie closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the song as it filled the room. She wasn’t sure why she’d chosen this one—it was old and wistful, the kind of song her mother used to hum in the mornings while making coffee.

Why does the sea rush to shore?

She sank onto the edge of her bed and suddenly lay down with her long legs hanging out, her gaze drifting out the window.

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

'Cause you don't love me anymore…

A soft knock sounded at the door, breaking through the song’s sad lullaby. Charlie shifted her eyes to the ceiling, calling out, “Come in.”

The door creaked open to reveal Vaggie, who took one step in before stopping, her gaze catching on the record player as the song drifted. She hesitated, glancing at Charlie on the bed, and quietly shut the door behind her.

Why do the birds go on singing?

Why do the stars glow above?

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Vaggie started, “I was gonna ask if you were coming down for dinner, but… Are you okay?” She moved toward the bed, her movements careful, and settled onto the edge beside Charlie, studying her in the way Vaggie always did.

Charlie sat up a little, drawing her knees to her chest, glancing at Vaggie as the record goes on with the melancholy tones.

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

“I’m alright,” Charlie said softly. “I just needed a minute.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Did you hear what Angel said? About his last supply run?”

Vaggie nodded. “Yeah, I did. It’s… worrying. Especially since we haven’t seen anyone out there in like… almost three months.” Her words were soft, but there was tension in them as if she was trying to hold back the same anxieties Charlie felt creeping in as she studied her partner carefully.

Charlie took a small, thoughtful breath, nodding to herself, almost as if taking mental notes. She listened to the faint strains of the song.

I wake up in the morning, and I wonder…

Why everything's the same as it was…

“There’s something else,” Charlie’s gaze shifted to her hands. “I… I haven’t been able to tell Pentious… about his family. I just—” She cut herself off, looking away, a mix of frustration and guilt flickering across her face.

Vaggie’s brows drew together in surprise, and she tilted her head, her voice softening further. “Wait… Why haven’t you told him?”

Charlie pressed her lips together, searching for the words. “Because, I just… I don’t know. I don’t know if he’s ready. Or maybe it’s just me who isn’t. The last thing I want is to hurt him more, and if I’m wrong about what happened…”

Her voice grew softer. “Fuck, I’m scared, Vaggie. He’s… he’s so gentle. Even with everything that’s happened, he holds onto his hope. He talks about his family with this… with this warmth, like they’re the one that’s kept him going. And the way he talks about them… he’s so excited to see them again, to… bring them here and keep them safe.”

Vaggie’s expression softened, and she let her hand rest on Charlie’s. “That’s… what makes it hard, huh? Knowing he’s holding onto something you can’t give him?”

Charlie nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah. I know it would crush him if he found out… It’s one thing to lose someone.”

I can't understand, no, I can't understand…

How life goes on the way it does…

Vaggie squeezed Charlie’s hand. “You know… I used to think it was better to keep the truth buried. I thought it’d just… spare him, save him from something he didn’t need to know. I mean, I practically told you as much before.” She paused, letting a soft sigh escape, as if reliving her earlier certainty. “But I was wrong.”

Charlie looked up, surprised. “What changed?”

Vaggie’s eye softened. “I guess I did some thinking while I was working today. It hit me—he’s stronger than I gave him credit for. Maybe even stronger than we realize. And I think a man like Pentious… he’d appreciate the truth. Closure, however it comes, might be better than this… this silence. Because, Charlie, the longer you hold onto it, the more it’s going to hurt both of you. The guilt—it’s only going to keep growing.”

Charlie exhaled, her shoulders slumping as she absorbed Vaggie’s words. Those three months, each day carrying the damn lie…

Then, she remembered her parents.

Her mind drifted back to memories she’d spent years trying to bury. It was the same room she remembered—the drawn curtains, the whispers behind closed doors… Her parents had kept it all hidden: her mother’s illness, the endless doctor’s visits, the test results that didn’t come back with any hope. They’d shielded her, thinking it would protect her, right up until her mother was gone.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she recalled the aftermath. The endless "what if" scenarios, the accusations she’d hurled at herself: What if I’d known? Could I have done something? Could I have spent more time with her? The anger that followed, was directed not only at herself but at her father, who’d kept the truth locked away out of some misguided attempt to spare her. She remembered him trying to explain after the funeral.

“You think I don’t regret that? Every day I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know. But your mother... she thought it would break you. She thought if you knew, you’d lose focus on your life and dreams.”

Break? Charlie thought bitterly. It had been anything but. That choice of his had left her feeling blindsided, betrayed, and so alone. And the resentment that followed… it had widened a rift between them that never really healed. To this day, her father struggled to connect, unable to open up, walled off by the same decision he’d made out of love.

Or was it fear?

She took a shaky breath. In a way, she understood him now more than ever. She was in his shoes, facing a decision with no clear answer. And that realization scared her.

Charlie glanced at Vaggie, her voice trembling. “I never thought I’d be like my dad in this way. After my mom passed… I hated him for it. I hated that he’d let her go without letting me know, without giving me a chance to… to say goodbye.” She looked away, her voice soft. “He thought it’d be easier, that he was sparing me. But it tore us apart.”

Vaggie listened, giving Charlie the space to work through the tangled mess of emotions.

“But with Pentious,” Charlie continued, “it’s different, isn’t it? We don’t live in that world anymore—one with time to heal, laws to protect, or people to lean on. It’s just us, surviving day by day. And… I don’t know how he’d react. Would he be grateful to know, to have closure? Or would he hate me for holding onto it, like I hated my dad?”

Vaggie’s gaze was gentle. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe he’ll be grateful and angry. It’s complicated, Charlie. There’s no way to know exactly how he’ll take it. But the truth? The truth’s always better than a lie that lingers, festers. And if he feels even half the way you did… it’ll only hurt more the longer it stays hidden.”

Charlie closed her eyes, the guilt gnawing at her. She knew Vaggie was right; the lie would only grow heavier, especially in a world that didn’t promise them a future. But that didn’t make it any easier.

After a moment, she opened her eyes, meeting Vaggie’s. “Maybe you’re right,” Charlie whispered, almost to herself. “But… fuck, I was the one who caused their deaths. What if it’s too much for him? What if it destroys him?”

Vaggie hesitated with a faint nod. “It might. There’s no way to know for sure, and it scares me, too. A man who’s lost everything… that kind of pain can turn dangerous. He might even hate you for it, at least at first.” Her voice grew softer. “But he deserves to decide for himself. And no matter what, you won’t be alone in this. I’ll be right there beside you.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the soft crackle of the record player as it moved through the end of the song. Charlie felt her heart beat in sync with it, steady but aching.

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

It ended when you said, "Goodbye”...

“It’s been over three months,” she murmured finally. “Three months of keeping this inside, convincing myself it was better this way. But you’re right… the lie is hurting him just as much as it’s hurting me. And if there’s even a chance it might bring him peace, then… I owe him that.”

Vaggie’s hand remained warm in hers, grounding her. “Then, when you’re ready, we’ll do it together.”

Charlie looked over at her, feeling the tension in her chest loosen just a bit. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but laced with gratitude.

Vaggie smiled, her thumb brushing over Charlie’s knuckles. “Always.”

Charlie leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to Vaggie’s cheek. It lingered, warm and gentle as a quiet thanks for everything Vaggie was offering—her support, her steadiness, the courage Charlie hadn’t quite found on her own.

“Come on,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet Vaggie’s gaze. “Let’s go down for dinner. And… after that, I’ll tell him. I’ll tell Pentious everything.”

Vaggie’s lips curved in a small, reassuring smile as she nodded. “Alright, missy.”

Charlie felt her heart ease, if only a little, as they stood (the blonde also turned off the record player) and made their way to the door. Vaggie stayed close as they walked side by side down the creaking stairs, heading toward the soft hum of voices and clinking dishes that awaited them in the kitchen.

When Charlie and Vaggie entered the hall in between the dining room and the kitchen, the remains of dinner sat on the table, dishes mostly empty. The faint clinking of dishes came from the sink where Niffty scrubbed away, humming softly to herself. Alastor was still seated at the dining table, calmly finishing his meal, his eyes flicking up as the two women entered.

Charlie and Vaggie took their seats, and as Charlie filled her plate, she glanced at Alastor. “Where’s Pentious?”

Alastor’s grin widened slightly. “Our dear friend is out on watch duty by the balcony.” He took a measured sip of his drink. “Though, before he headed off, he seemed to… notice something peculiar.”

Vaggie squints her eye, suspicious. “Notice what?”

Alastor tapped his fingers against the table. “That bag on the kitchen island. Pentious asked who owned it as if something inside caught his eye.”

Charlie glanced to the side and noticed her backpack still lay by the counter but noticed its main zipper was opened.

From the sink, Niffty piped up cheerfully, not even turning around. “I told him that it’s yours, Charlie! Must’ve forgotten you left it here before dinner.”

Alastor then continued. “It was rather interesting, per se…” he said, his voice soft. “It seems he took something from that bag. Headed straight upstairs after that, without another word. Quite out of character for him, wouldn’t you agree?”

Oh.

Charlie’s face drained of color. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she registered the implication—she’d left the trinkets in that fucking bag. How could she forget the important things to make it accessible to other people? Pentious must have seen them.

And if he recognized any of them…

Without another word, she shoved her chair back, the legs scraping sharply against the floor.

“I—excuse me,” she mumbled, already striding toward the stairs. Behind her, she heard Vaggie’s voice.

“Charlie, wait!” Vaggie called out, hurrying to follow. She turned briefly to excuse herself to Alastor and Niffty before catching up.

The sound of footsteps echoed as Charlie ascended, her fingers gripping the banister tightly. Her mind swirled with the dozens of scenarios that might unfold. She’d planned on telling Pentious, but not like this—not as a surprise he’d find on his own.

The door to her father’s office was open and Charlie stepped inside. The balcony door beyond it hung ajar, and she froze at the sight of Pentious standing out there, his back to her with the last remnants of sunset casting him in shades of gold and shadow. He looked down with his posture stiff, yet his shoulders slumped.

Behind her, she heard Vaggie’s footsteps catch up beside her, breathing softly. “Take a breath. We don’t know what he saw yet.” Vaggie said, but Charlie’s eyes stayed fixed on Pentious’s back, noting the subtle tension, the tilt of his head—the way his hands clenched something too familiar.

Charlie shook her head, her gaze fixed on the figure outside. “He definitely saw, Vaggie. Look at him.” She swallowed hard, hands trembling slightly as she told Vaggie, “I’ll tell him.”

Vaggie’s hand slid into hers, the quiet weight of it grounding, steadying. “I’m right here with you,” she said, a warmth in her words that made Charlie’s heart hurt a little less.

Together, they stepped into the office, closing the distance slowly. They stopped from the balcony, the cool air pressing into the room, the silence growing taut.

“Pentious?” Charlie’s voice was quiet, hesitant. “Are… are you okay?”

He didn’t turn around, his voice was soft but unmistakably clear. “It was thirteen years ago when I proposed to Diana. Made a ring myself, simple as it was. She was… surprised, and even laughed at it… then surprised me with one she’d had commissioned. She wanted to show me she cared, in her way.”

Charlie’s breath hitched as he continued, “And the serpent necklace—it’s a family heirloom, something I passed on to Frank. He… he loved animals, especially snakes. He cherished it. My son cherished it.” He held up something between his fingers—a delicate serpent necklace, its scales catching the light.

When he finally turned, his eyes met hers, grief-stricken. His fingers clutched the trinkets tightly, as if releasing them would risk losing it again. “How… how did you find these, Charlie? And… how long have you had them?”

Charlie swallowed her throat tight. “Today. During the supply run,” she managed, her voice barely steady.

Pentious took a deep breath, nodding slightly, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Then… tell me, Charlie. What happened to them?” His voice broke. “What happened to Diana… and Frank?”

Charlie’s hands tightened at her sides, the pressure pressing down so hard she felt like she couldn’t breathe. But there was no holding it back anymore.

No more excuses.

“We were just leaving the Stock Exchange as it got overrun,” she started. “Everything was already… falling apart. People shouting, alarms blaring. My driver and I, down in the basement parking. I just wanted to get back to the hotel, to figure out more about what was happening.”

Her gaze finding the floor, anywhere but Pentious’s eyes. “Then, out of nowhere, Frank was there. He ran up to us, desperate. He asked us to help get his mom to the hospital. I—I remember he looked so… scared.”

Charlie’s voice wavered, and she forced herself to look back at Pentious, his face unreadable yet heartbreakingly vulnerable. “She’d been bitten,” Charlie said finally, the words dropping like stones into the silence. “On the leg.”

Pentious closed his eyes, his shoulders seeming to sag even more. The sight twisted something deep in Charlie’s chest, but she pressed on.

“I tried, Pentious. I-I really tried to get them to a hospital. But… fuck, New York City was a mess. People, cars, everything—it was like the city had just… given up. We couldn’t get through.” She paused, knowing what she had to say next would either crush whatever respect he might still have for her or, maybe, just maybe, help him understand.

“Diana had passed out by then,” she continued. “She stopped responding altogether. I knew… I knew we couldn’t save her. So I told my driver to turn back, to head to my hotel.” She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I thought… maybe I could… end it for her there, put her out of her misery using my gun, and take care of Frank.”

She saw the way his hands gripped the trinkets, and every inch of her felt fragile as if one wrong word would shatter everything between them. Charlie’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to keep going.

“I made him drive faster,” she said. “I was so desperate to get us there, to just… end her pain, somehow, before Frank saw the worst of it.” She felt a tremor run through her. “But… she came back. Right there in the back seat.”

“Diana… she turned. And went straight for the driver. He didn’t have a chance—she just… lunged. We lost control, and the next thing I remember—”

Her voice faltered, the final moments of that drive flooding her senses. The screech of tires, the crushing impact as another car slammed into them at an intersection. And then, the plunge.

“We got hit by another car,” she whispered.

For a moment, silence swallowed them both. Pentious didn’t look at her, not fully, his eyes drifting somewhere beyond, as though searching for something he couldn’t quite find. Finally, his voice, low and hollow, cut through.

“What… happened to Frank?”

Charlie felt the question hit her harder than she’d expected, like he’d pulled the rug from under her, forcing her to stand bare on broken glass. But there was no point holding anything back now.

“He… he didn’t make it. The crash… it killed him. Killed the driver, too.” She pressed her lips together, trying to steady herself. “And Diana… after we crashed, she was… she was still moving. I… I had to…”

Her voice dropped, breaking off into silence. She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Pentious’s face was drawn, his expression masked but not entirely unreadable.

He knew.

He looked down at the trinkets in his hands and with a quiet, almost reverent gesture, he set them on the nearby chair. His gaze drifted to her again, and without a word, he moved toward her, each step slow and deliberate.

Charlie’s heart hammered in her chest, panic rising like a wave crashing against the shore. The words stumbled out of her, “Pentious, I’m… I’m so sorry. I—I tried to protect him, to save him. I swear, I did everything I could. If I could go back, I would—” Her voice cracked, her breath hitching as her chest tightened. “I’d give anything to change what happened. To give him back to you.”

She felt her hands tremble, her apology spilling over, frantic and desperate, words she knew couldn’t ever be enough. “Please… please believe me. I would’ve done anything—”

Then, without warning, Pentious moved forward, and before she could say another word, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Charlie froze, caught off guard, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His hold was firm, grounding her in place, and for a moment, her words fell away, replaced by the solid warmth of his embrace.

Pentious’s voice broke the silence, soft and filled with a weight Charlie hadn’t expected. “Thank you, Charlie. I needed… I needed to know. You have no idea how… how important it is to have some kind of closure. You didn’t have to go back to that wreck… but you did.”

His arms tightened slightly around her, and Charlie let out a small, choked sob as everything crashed over her all at once. She clung to him, her fingers gripping his shirt as if he were the only steady thing in a world.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, with her voice muffled against him.

He nodded gently, his hand soothing against her back. “Knowing Frank… he would’ve done anything to protect his mom, just like he did that day,” Pentious murmured. A bittersweet smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And maybe, in some way… maybe it’s a mercy they don’t have to see how… fucked this world has become.”

Charlie’s tears came harder then, each word from him pulling down another wall she’d tried to keep up. She clung to him even tighter, unable to hold back the sobs wracking her chest.

Charlie's relief washed over her like a tidal wave, so powerful it nearly stole her breath. She’d expected resentment that would lash out and break what little was left between them. It was what she and Vaggie had both feared, that telling Pentious would mean reopening wounds that could never truly heal. But here he was, holding her, sharing the sorrow that had settled into her bones over these months.

She let herself grieve with him, finally allowing herself to feel the guilt and pain she’d been carrying since that day when Frank’s bloody face had been etched into her memory. For so long, she’d held onto that, replayed it in her mind like a punishment, and yet she knew, in some way, she was grateful to be carrying it.

Because a kid like him deserved to be remembered.

Tears flowed freely, her sobs blending with his quiet breaths, and for once, she didn’t try to stop them. She clung to him, feeling the warmth of him, letting herself unravel in the safety of it. She didn’t have to bear it all alone. Not here. Not with him.

The grief wouldn’t ever truly leave. But this—this moment of shared pain and understanding—it was the closure she hadn’t realized she needed, too. Pentious had listened, had understood, and he hadn’t turned away. For the first time, she felt the burden of these memories shift, just slightly. Not any lighter, but at least not hers alone to carry.

It felt nice.

"Fucking get her, you useless fucks!"

The shout rang out, echoing down the crumbling road of Brooklyn. She darted between rows of abandoned cars, her boots hitting the cracked pavement with sharp, rapid slaps as she clutched a gray duffle bag close to her chest. Blood dripped down from her right eye, blacking out half of her vision, but she grits her teeth, swallowing the hiss of pain that clawed at her throat.

Behind her, the heavy clunk of boots and armor beat out a rhythm. She risked a glance back—a dozen men, faceless in gray, their bodies clad in thick armor that slowed their chase just enough to give her a fighting chance. She could make it. She’d spent half her life in these streets, and they were her best shot now.

She ducked around the corner, narrowly slipping past the rusted shell of an old taxi, its doors hanging open. Her pursuers lumbered behind, weighed down by gear and guns, while she wove through easily.

Her heart hammered as she sped down the cracked asphalt, her grip on the duffle bag tightening. Every step sent fresh, hot pain searing through her side, but she pushed it down, letting adrenaline drown out the agony. She darted between an overturned sedan and a burnt-out delivery truck, pressing herself against the wreck’s rusted frame for a heartbeat, listening.

The men’s footsteps thundered closer, and she was running out of options. They were closing in, their shadows stretching around the corner, and she forced herself forward.

Ahead, she spotted an alleyway just wide enough to slip through. She veered left, ducking under a broken “One Way” sign that dangled overhead, and wedged herself into the narrow gap. The duffle bag scraped against her side as she twisted, forcing herself through while ignoring the scrape of concrete against her arms. The armored men, slowed by their gear, didn’t follow—they’d have to take the long way around.

But she knew it was only a few seconds’ advantage.

Emerging on the other side, she stumbled into a half-collapsed storefront, her boots kicking up layers of dust. She pressed herself against the shattered window frame, watching the alley entrance, her breaths shallow, quick.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire shattered the tense silence, ripping through the walls like paper. She barely had time to duck as bullets tore into the crumbling plaster around her. One shot grazed her arm, sending a sharp sting of pain slicing through her skin. She clenched her teeth, swallowing down the yelp that bubbled up, knowing one sound could give her away.

She crouched low, then moved quietly toward the back of the store. The dust kicked up by the shots with the thin slants of light through the broken windows. She edged around the debris, her fingers grazing the wall as she moved, eye sharp for any sign of movement.

Finally, she slipped out through a side door, emerging onto the street again. Her breath hitched as she nearly collided with a zombie—a hollow-eyed husk, half its face caved in, skin hanging off in loose sheets. Its dead gaze locked onto her, hands reaching, but she shoved it back with a hard push, stumbling backward. Before it could stagger forward again, a stray bullet whizzed past her, striking it squarely in the skull. The zombie collapsed in a heap, and she exhaled, not wasting another second.

"Hold your damn fire!" one of the men yelled, then the barrage of gunshots gradually stopped. "They’re closing in!"

Zombies were sweeping in from all sides now, drawn by the gunshots, their moans echoing off the empty buildings. Her pursuers were starting to lose control of their perimeter, and she could see the panic flickering among them as they tried to decide where to direct their fire.

In a last-ditch effort to lose them, she dropped down behind a rusted-out sedan, hastily unzipping the duffle bag she just stolen. Her fingers fumbled through the contents—emergency supplies, maps, clothes—until they landed on something cold and metallic.

She pulled out the frag grenade, feeling its cold weight and her thumb grazing the pin.

A single idea popped up in her mind. She could use the explosion to draw every zombie in the area straight to where her pursuers were clustered, and in the confusion, she could slip away unseen. It was a risky move—but then, this whole chase had been nothing but one gamble after another.

With a quick breath, she yanked the pin free with a sharp metallic snap. She hurled the grenade back into the store she’d just escaped from, angling it through a broken window. For a brief second, she imagined the armored men fighting off the incoming zombies—right as the blast hit.

She didn’t wait to watch. She sprinted and put as much distance as possible between herself and the blast radius.

A split second later, a thunderous explosion echoed behind her, so loud it felt like it rattled her bones. The blast wave rolled out, shaking the ground as plumes of dust and debris billowed up, thick and black, filling the streets. She didn’t need to look back to know the zombies would be swarming toward the explosion, every shambling creature within miles drawn to the sound.

She pushed herself faster, ignoring the pain searing through her arm, the blood still trickling down her face. With each step, the sounds of gunfire and snarls faded behind her.

Charlie heaved the duffel bag into the trunk, feeling the dull weight of it settle against her muscles. She leaned back against the Royce, Vaggie at her side, both of them letting out an exhausted breath that fogged up in the chill.

Two days since she’d told Pentious the truth about what happened to Diana and Frank. Two days of Vaggie sticking by her, propping her up in ways she’d never asked but needed more than she’d known. But Pentious didn’t have that luxury. He bore the loss alone, steeling himself that only deepened her worry.

Pentious hadn’t spoken much to her since, and she understood why. He’d even told Charlie, as calmly as anyone could under that much pain, that there’d be no more talking about it. He’d asked her to leave it alone, and she had. But now every solo supply run he went on cut through her defenses a little deeper.

Charlie knew the group was uneasy, protesting every time he went out on his own, but she defended him all the same. She hoped that giving him the space he needed would somehow guide him back to them, whenever he was ready. Now, as she glanced down the empty road ahead, she knew Pentious was somewhere out there, scouting supplies in Southampton, just as they were.

“You notice how quiet it is?” Vaggie’s voice cut through Charlie’s thoughts, soft but enough to ground her again. “It’s weirdly peaceful. I mean, almost makes you wonder what the fuck’s going on.”

Charlie looked up, taking in the stillness that stretched out around them like an uncomfortable silence in a conversation. “Yeah… Not a single straggler out here.”

Vaggie nodded, a thoughtful look in her eye. “I figured maybe they’ve moved west, heading toward the cities. Probably more to feed on over there.”

Charlie tilted her head, considering it. “Makes sense…” she agreed. “... though maybe we should think about fortifying the safehouse a bit more. Just in case… It’s halfway through November now, and winter’s on its way.”

Vaggie crossed her arms, glancing around as if sizing up the invisible defenses in her mind. “We’re going to need to ration what we’ve got too, stretch everything as far as possible.” She looked back at Charlie, the hint of a wry smile breaking through her usual steady expression. “You know, just your typical prep-for-winter apocalypse edition.”

Charlie managed a small grin, though her eyes drifted across the street, settling on a broken jewelry store window. The sight tugged at a memory from last night—a quiet moment she and Vaggie had shared in the deep, drowsy hours when it was just them, curled up close.

Charlie’s voice had been soft, her words barely breaking through the haze of sleep. “You ever think about… getting married? I mean, if things were… different?”

Vaggie had laughed lightly, not the kind of laugh that came from amusement but something softer, gentler. “Oh, you’re pulling out the late-night talk, huh?” She brushed a strand of hair from Charlie’s face, studying her with a warmth that made everything else disappear, even if only for a moment.

Charlie had felt her smile grow. “I’m serious. Like, what if we could just have… normal things? A place to belong, people to come home to, you know?”

Vaggie’s eye softened as she murmured back, “If things were different, Charlie, yeah. I think I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Marriage.

Of all things… It does feel strange for Charlie to think about it now. But there it was, surfacing in the oddest moments. It was almost ironic, really, to be daydreaming about a future they might never get. In a world like this, every day was a gamble. People getting shot and killed, torn apart, sometimes right in front of you, and zombies didn’t care who you wanted to come home to.

She straightened up, pushing herself off the Royce. “I’ll be right back,” Charlie said, her tone light as she looked at Vaggie. “Gonna see if there’s anything left worth grabbing from the storefronts.”

Vaggie raised a brow. “Yeah? And what exactly do you think you’re gonna find that we haven’t already stripped bare?”

“Who knows?” Charlie managed a shrug, not meeting her eye fully. “Could be… something we missed?”

Vaggie sighed, her gaze lingering on Charlie for a moment longer like she was trying to decide if she’d push it or just let her go. “Fine. But don’t take too long,” she said, crossing her arms as she settled back against the car. “I’ll keep an eye on the car and our stuff.”

Charlie flashed a grateful smile and nodded, then turned and started toward the nearest storefront. She kept her steps quiet as she slipped toward the jewelry store, her shoes crunching softly over shards of broken glass scattered across the entrance.

Display cases filled with an untouched array of rings and necklaces, the whole place coated in a film of dust. Sunlight filtered through the cracked window, catching on bits of broken glass like fractured stars.

She took a breath, almost hesitant as she let her gaze fall over the rows of rings. It felt strange, surreal even, to be here, to be thinking about something as fragile as a promise. But maybe that’s why she was here. Because if she had the chance—no matter how slim—to make a life with Vaggie, she wanted something real, something she could hold onto.

Hell, they’ve been together for three years. Why not?

Her fingers brushed over a few of the rings, glinting dully beneath the dust. They weren’t perfect. Not even close. But maybe that was okay. She could almost hear her dad’s voice guiding her, telling her how to find just the right one. He’d been the kind of guy who’d notice every little thing about a person, who could tell you exactly what they’d love. And right now, she wished more than anything he was here, looking over her shoulder (arm, mostly on how damn short he is), pointing out something Vaggie would love.

She swallowed. Maybe she didn’t need him here to help her choose. Maybe she knew Vaggie well enough on her own.

After a few moments, Charlie’s hand hovered over a simple diamond ring nestled amid a row of more elaborate pieces. The band was plain, unassuming—nothing like the grand, old-world designs her dad might’ve picked out for his collection. But it felt right. It felt like Vaggie.

Charlie slipped it off the dusty velvet display, turning it over in her fingers. She wasn’t sure where she’d find a box to keep it safe; half the counters here were already smashed or empty, and there was no telling what might still be tucked away behind broken glass. For now, she slid the ring into her pocket, tucking it carefully into the deep corner of her slacks.

The sound of a voice—a loud, unfamiliar, feminine voice. Her pulse jumped as she edged closer to the broken window, careful to stay out of sight, and peered through the jagged glass.

Across the street, she saw Vaggie, her hands raised, a tense line to her posture. In front of her was a figure clad in heavy, gray armor that looked almost military-grade? Complete with a visor and bandana that hid her face. She was aiming an automatic rifle directly at Vaggie.

Charlie’s mind raced. She didn’t recognize the woman—no one they’d run into before had come this heavily armed, this intimidating. Charlie clenched her jaw, her fingers itching toward her pistol, but she held back. Vaggie hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked Charlie’s way, which meant she likely hadn’t seen her in the storefront.

Good. At least that gave Charlie a second to think, to figure out if there was any way to get the drop on this stranger without putting Vaggie in more danger.

I don’t want to do this, but if you ever fucking point your gun to my girlfriend…

Charlie sucked in a slow breath, fingers tight around her Glock as she slipped toward the jewelry store’s back door. She stuck close to the wall as she slipped out of sight, her footsteps muffled by the years-old layer of grime and dirt on the floor. She reached the edge of the storefront and hugged the rough exterior brick as she scanned the scene again.

The woman’s rifle was still fixed on Vaggie. Something about her gear—a gray armband with an insignia—caught Charlie’s attention. It was a symbol she didn’t recognize, though it was official enough to suggest an organized group.

Are those the same people who put those weird symbols that Angel and Alastor saw the other day?

Fucking hell.

Charlie crouched low and took a slow, deliberate step forward. Her Glock was drawn, held close as she crept across the street, inching closer to her target. She knew her aim was absolute shit, especially in tense moments like these. A clean shot would mean getting close enough to make it count.

Just a few more steps…

In the dim periphery of her vision, she caught Vaggie’s eyes, a fleeting millisecond of understanding flashing between them. Vaggie’s face was taut with defiance, readying herself.

Charlie straightened up, steadied her grip, and just as she brought her pistol up to aim—

A hard pressure struck the nape of her neck, sending a jolt of pain through her spine. The impact threw her off balance, and she staggered, her Glock slipping from her fingers as she was wrenched down onto the cracked pavement. A heavy weight pinned her down, hands gripping her arms with unyielding strength, a second figure in armor keeping her locked in place.

“Charlie!” Vaggie’s voice cut through. She twisted in the woman’s grip, her fingers reaching for the barrel of the rifle, clawing at the gun as she tried to wrestle it out of the woman’s hands.

Charlie struggled against the grip holding her, but the weight was crushing. She forced herself to look up, her vision clearing enough to see Vaggie’s fierce expression, eye blazing with fury as she fought back.

Vaggie twisted hard, her fingers digging into the barrel of the rifle, shoving it aside as she wrenched herself free from the woman’s grip. The woman staggered, and for a split second, Vaggie saw her opening. She lunged forward, ramming her shoulder into the woman’s chest, knocking her backward. They grappled, Vaggie’s hands clawing for any vulnerable part of the woman’s armor, her fingers finally hooking under the visor and bandana. With a fierce yank, she tore it off.

Wide hazel eyes glared back at her, framed by a pale face marked by dirt and shadows beneath the armor. But the woman’s lips twisted into a dark smile, a flicker of something almost like admiration in her gaze before she reached to her side.

The woman’s hand moved in a swoosh, and before Vaggie could react, she felt the cold press of metal against her side. A crackling burst of electricity surged through her, pain lancing through every nerve as the taser jolted her body. Her muscles locked, seizing uncontrollably, and she barely managed to bite back a scream. Her fingers slackened their hold on the woman’s armor, and her knees buckled.

“Vaggie!” Charlie’s shout tore through the haze of pain. She tried to fight it, to push through the electric grip of the stun gun, but her body betrayed her, collapsing until she sank to the ground.

Charlie’s pulse pounded in her ears, desperation crashing over her like a wave. She twisted under the weight of her captor, kicking out with everything she had. “Get off me!” she yelled, managing to shift her shoulder just enough to free one arm. She clawed at the ground, fingers grasping for her Glock lying inches away.

The woman turned around, hazel eyes narrowing as she noticed Charlie’s struggle. She muttered something to her partner, and in an instant, Charlie felt a fresh surge of weight pressing her down, a knee digging painfully into her spine to keep her pinned.

The woman then approached Vaggie, her footsteps slow and deliberate as she slung her rifle over her back. She leaned down, examining Vaggie with a twisted kind of satisfaction.

“Look at you,” she sneered, voice laced with a venomous amusement. “Four years out of the Marine Corps, and you can’t even handle a damn stun gun? What a fucking disgrace you are, Rodríguez.”

Vaggie’s jaw tightened, her breath labored, but she didn’t look away. The anger in her eye hadn’t dimmed, even as the woman raised her boot and kicked hard into Vaggie’s side. The impact sent a jolt of pain through her ribs, and she doubled over, gasping.

“Stop!” Charlie pleads. “Please, just—leave her alone!”

But the woman ignored her. She crouched down, gripping Vaggie by the collar of her jacket, lifting her just enough to get her in range. Vaggie tried to brace herself, to steady her breath and square her shoulders, but before she could gather her strength, the woman’s fist swung, knuckles connecting hard with Vaggie’s cheek.

Vaggie’s head snapped back, slamming into the side of the Royce parked behind her. A sharp, ringing pain echoed through her skull, and her vision blurred, stars flickering at the edges. She slumped back, sliding to the ground, her body sagging into a sitting position, her breaths shallow and unsteady.

Charlie’s voice cracked as she continued to plead. “Please, please, stop! You’ve done enough!”

The woman finally paused, turning her attention away from Vaggie and crouching down in front of Charlie, her face barely a foot away. Charlie tried to hold her gaze steady, fighting the urge to flinch under the cold, calculating stare. That close, she noticed a nametape stitched onto the woman’s armor near her right chest: ADLON.

Adlon’s gaze shifted between Charlie and Vaggie, and then, to Charlie’s horror, her lips twisted into an amused smirk. She let out a low, mocking laugh, almost as if she were genuinely entertained. “So, Rodríguez… is this little blonde your new plaything?”

Vaggie’s death glare cut into Adlon with pure venom. Her shoulders shook slightly, but her body was still taut, defiant, even as her strength wavered.

Adlon watched Vaggie, her voice turning sickly sweet. “Shh,” she taunted, pressing a finger to her lips in a mocking hush when Vaggie shifted, trying to raise herself. “Stay still now, Rodríguez. Wouldn’t want this to end too quickly, would we?” She reached to her side and smoothly drew a Beretta and pressed the muzzle squarely to Vaggie’s forehead.

Vaggie stilled her movements, her body tense. But she glared up at Adlon, eye flashing with pure contempt, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of breaking.

“Good,” Adlon murmured. She pressed the barrel of the Beretta just a fraction harder against Vaggie’s forehead before finally pulling it back. “We’re here for the Aussie woman who stole our supplies,” she said, her tone casual as if discussing a minor inconvenience. “But finding Sergeant Rodríguez and her new bitch? Now that’s a jackpot.”

Adlon straightened up, then turned her attention back to her partner. “Hoist her up,” she ordered, motioning toward Charlie.

Charlie felt her captor’s rough grip under her arms as he hauled her upright, forcing her onto her knees. Her muscles screamed in protest, aching from the struggle and the hard impact with the ground, but she grit her teeth, refusing to show the pain. She caught a glimpse of Vaggie behind Adlon, her head shaking ever so slightly—a warning, a plea to stay quiet. She wasn’t going to risk Charlie giving away anything, no matter what Adlon threatened.

Adlon tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at Charlie. “Where’s your base?” she asked deceptively softly. “Tell me, and maybe I’ll leave you and Rodríguez here, safe and sound.”

Charlie’s heart thudded, but she refused to let herself be baited by the obvious trap. Instead, she held her silence, meeting Adlon’s gaze. She wouldn’t give away their safe house, not for anything, especially not with Vaggie’s silent warning still fresh in her mind and even compromising the rest of the group.

Adlon’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing with frustration as she realized Charlie wouldn’t crack that easily. “Typical,” she muttered, annoyed but hardly surprised. She lifted her hand to her radio, “All units, pull back. I’ve got this under control.”

The static reply buzzed faintly in the background as Adlon lowered the radio. Her gaze shifted to the parked Royce, her fingers tapping idly against the grip of her pistol. She locked eyes with her subordinate and then looked back at Charlie.

“Tell you what,” she drawled, gesturing toward the car with her pistol, “we’re going to take a little drive. You’ll be behind the wheel.”

She then reached down, grabbing Vaggie’s arm, twisting it back in a harsh, unforgiving hold. A sharp cry slipped from Vaggie’s lips, her face contorted in pain as Adlon’s grip only tightened.

“Stop!” Charlie shouted. “I’m not taking you to our camp.”

Adlon’s gaze flickered to Charlie, and let out a short laugh. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she replied. “We’re not going to your camp.” Her grip tightened on Vaggie’s arm, eliciting another stifled gasp of pain. “We’ll go elsewhere. A little... scenic drive.”

Before Charlie could muster a protest, Vaggie’s shaky but firm voice cut through. “Just… do what she says, Charlie. Please…” Vaggie’s face twisted in pain, her eye briefly meeting Charlie’s with a pleading edge. There was something in her tone—that went beyond the immediate danger. Something unspoken simmered between her and Adlon, a buried history that Charlie couldn’t decipher.

Charlie’s chest tightened, her mind wrestling with conflicting instincts. She wanted to fight back, to do something—anything—to protect Vaggie. But there was a caution in Vaggie’s gaze, a silent plea to submit and play along. Seeing Adlon and her subordinate’s equipment, it seemed enough to make resistance too dangerous to risk.

Swallowing hard, Charlie cast one last glance at Vaggie, searching for any sign of reassurance. But all she saw Vaggie was telling her that this was all for survival.

She had no choice. Not with Vaggie at Adlon’s mercy.

“Fine,” Charlie muttered, dropping her shoulders in forced submission. She stood up slowly, stepping toward the Royce. She could feel Adlon’s gaze drilling into her, every step weighed down by the knowledge that Vaggie was suffering for any resistance she might show.

Charlie slipped into the driver’s seat, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the steering wheel. She inhaled, steadying herself, while Adlon roughly guided Vaggie into the backseat, shoving her in without care and Adlon’s partner settled into the passenger seat, casting a watchful eye on Charlie as he adjusted his rifle.

With a glance in the rearview mirror, Charlie met Vaggie’s eyes one last time before turning the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, and with a tight, heavy feeling in her chest, Charlie gripped the wheel, guiding the car onto the cracked road as Adlon’s pistol stayed trained on Vaggie from the backseat.

Chapter Text

“Oh no…”

Pentious pressed himself against the rusted frame of an abandoned car, his breaths coming out sharp and jagged. Across the street, watched the Royce disappear down the road, Charlie and Vaggie taken hostage by those self-styled "soldier boys" with identical armbands that gave them away.

Wannabe military, he thought, every one of them wore the same, eerily pristine armor, uniform and even equipment. He should’ve done something—could’ve, maybe. But there was no way his Mini-14 would stand a chance against that arsenal. These weren’t just any thugs; they moved in a disciplined rhythm that gave him flashbacks to the National Guard back at the beginning of the outbreak.

Guilt churned in his stomach as he debated his next move. He’d have to get back to the others and warn them, but the real trouble was… where had they taken Charlie and Vaggie? Were they heading to some base, some hidden stronghold? And if so, where? A dozen theories raced through his mind, each one a dead end, until—

A force slammed into him from behind, sending him sprawling before he even realized what had happened. He looked up to find a pale, wild-eyed woman with strawberry blonde hair and a fresh bandage wrapped around her right eye, smeared with dried blood. Instinct took over, and Pentious tried to defend himself, wrestling against her without any real intention of hurting her.

Pentious barely registered her weight before he felt cold steel press against his throat. He froze, his hands releasing their grip on her as he tried to make sense of the situation. She was stronger than she looked, her grip fierce as she kept him pinned. His breath came shallow, but as she quickly scanned his left arm, muttering something under her breath, she seemed to relax, just a fraction.

“You’re not one of the bastards,” she said, her accent unmistakably Australian, though her tone was about as warm as the knife at his neck. His eyes caught sight of her right arm, the jacket sleeve torn and soaked in fresh blood, hinting at a makeshift bandage beneath it.

“You’re… you’re hurt,” Pentious managed.

“Don’t give a damn about that,” she snapped, her eye narrowing as she leveled the blade just beneath his jaw. “You know those two women the Exorcists took?”

“Uh…” Pentious blinked, processing her words while his mind tried to catch up. “Exorcists?” He repeated, then nodded slightly, cautious of the blade. “You mean those wannabe soldiers?”

She pressed the knife a little harder, getting more irritated. “Yeah, genius, them. Now answer the fucking question.”

Pentious’s mind spun, torn between protecting the group and the faint hope that this woman might be an ally—or at least, not a threat beyond the knife currently pressed to his neck. Should he admit he was with Charlie and Vaggie? But hell, she could have her crew that would be just as dangerous.

But one look at her told him she wasn’t part of a coordinated force. Her bandages looked days old, unchanged, rough, and crusted over like she'd been making do on her own, lacking supplies or even the basic know-how to tend to her wounds. She looked like a mess—no, more like a tornado had torn through her and left whatever remained to fend for itself. It reminded him too much of the early days when he’d been with his last group.

Still, she had the kind of sharpness in her eye that said she'd fight anyone who got in her way, and if the Exorcists were after her, then maybe, just maybe, she was as desperate as he was to avoid them.

The woman’s jaw clenched as her patience thinned. “Don’t have all day, mate.”

His throat went dry. His brain screamed not to say a thing, to deny any affiliation with Charlie or Vaggie. But the knife against his throat…

He cleared his throat. “I—yes, I know them. The two women, they’re… they’re part of my group.”

She didn’t let up, her gaze narrowing with renewed interest. “So there’s a whole lot of you?”

He felt the edge of the blade move just enough that he didn’t feel like a breath away from getting his throat slit, but it stayed close enough to remind him not to get too comfortable. “Not exactly… There are only seven of us, just regular people. Not soldiers like those… Exorcists,” he added, hoping she’d pick up on the difference. “We’re just… surviving, helping each other out. Nothing more.”

The woman furrowed her brows, eye darkening with suspicion. “And your group,” she asked slowly, “are they… dangerous?”

Pentious hesitated, searching for the right balance of truth that wouldn’t cost him the thin strand of trust he hoped she’d grant him. Okay, pretend to be Charlie with her diplomatic self… “We… can be,” he admitted. “When we’re protecting ourselves, sure. But we’re not looking to harm anyone who’s just trying to survive.” He held her gaze. “We’re not… hostile. Not unless someone else gives us a reason to be.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “And how do I know that?” she asked, tilting her head slightly as she lifted the knife just a bit, enough to make her point.

Pentious managed a thin, humorless smile, though his heart was still hammering against his ribcage. “Well, you’ve got a knife against my throat, and I’m answering your questions, aren’t I?” he replied quietly. He stayed still, careful not to give any impression he might resist. “You don’t need to take my word for it, but… it’s all I’ve got to give.”

The woman paused, her hard expression softening just a touch as if considering his words. For a moment, Pentious thought she might ignore everything he’d said and simply finish him off, but then she frowned.

With a sigh, she let go of his throat, and he gasped, only then realizing just how starved for air he was. He coughed, rubbing his neck as he tried to steady his breathing.

“Alright,” she said, lifting both her hands in a signal of caution. “I won’t fuck you up—as long as you don’t touch any of your weapons.” Her tone held a warning as she observed the slinged rifle behind him.

Pentious nodded, eyes wide. “Trust me,” he nervously laughs, “I’m not much good at threatening people anyway.”

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. She holstered her knife. “Good. We understand each other, then.” She took a step back, crossing her arms as she looked him over, appraising. “Since you seem like you’re not with them, I’ll be honest—I’m the one the Exorcists are looking for.”

Pentious raised an eyebrow, unable to hold back his curiosity. “What for?”

She let out a dry chuckle. “I, uh… ‘borrowed’ some of their supplies. Only I underestimated how bloody persistent they’d be about getting it back. They’ve been hunting me down, all across Long Island, if you can believe it.”

Pentious blinked, trying to process that. “From… New York City to Long Island? Just for some supplies?”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Apparently, they don’t take kindly to being robbed.” She adjusted the bandage on her arm, wincing slightly. “Guess I’ve pissed off the wrong kind of people.”

Pentious eyed her cautiously, sensing he might have a slim chance to turn this encounter into something mutually beneficial. "Sounds like you know these Exorcists pretty well—like maybe you know where their base is."

She gave him a suspicious look but didn’t deny it.

Taking a gamble, he offered, “Look, I’ll… um, I’ll make you a trade. You help us find where they’re keeping our people, and in return… I’ll bring you back to our place. We can clean that wound up for you, and give you a few supplies to get you back on the road. After that, we part ways. No strings attached.”

She considered his offer carefully. “Do you have someone who knows what they’re doing with… this?” She gestured at her bloodied arm and then her bandaged eye.

Pentious hesitated. “Not exactly. One person has enough medical know-how to keep you from, uh… bleeding out, but we don’t exactly have a licensed doctor. The other with decent skills is one of the women taken by the Exorcists.”

She gave a thoughtful nod, still looking doubtful. “Fine. But if this is all a load of bullshit, I’ll kill you and the rest of your group without a second thought.”

He swallowed, nodding earnestly. “You have my word.”

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, as if testing the truce between them.

Pentious managed a small smile. “So… what should I call you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Let’s start with your name first.”

“Pentious.”

She rolled her eye at that. “Fucking fancy pants,” she muttered dryly. “Well then, Pentious, you can call me… Cherri.”

The drive back to the safehouse was quiet in a way that felt like silence had found a way to be loud. Pentious kept glancing over at Cherri, thinking about how, if he were a different person, he might've made a little small talk—something light, something that wouldn't land with a thud in this forced silence between them. But he wasn’t a different person, and the silence in the car was thick enough that he knew any words he threw at it would just bounce back, unwelcome and uncomfortable. So he let it lie, his focus bouncing between the empty road ahead and Cherri’s steely gaze fixed out the window.

But the curiosity gnawed at him. Here she was, this stranger who held a knife to his throat just minutes ago, now sitting in his passenger seat, trusting him—or at least willing to pretend to. He took a breath, tried to sound casual. “So… are you, uh… with a group right now?”

Cherri didn’t even look at him as she answered, her voice sounded so flat that he couldn’t quite read. “Not these days, no. The last place I holed up at… it got overrun.” She paused, glancing down at the crude bandage on her arm. “Had to run for it before I became part of the buffet.”

Pentious nodded, feeling a pang of empathy for her. He knew what it was like to be on the run, to lose people and places you’d relied on. But he stayed quiet, sensing she’d probably had enough sympathy to last a lifetime. Instead, he just focused on the road.

Minutes later as the car finally pulled up to the gated entrance, Pentious parked and slipped out, placing his hand to the screen and letting the light hover by his iris to trigger the scan by the gate. The familiar click of gears echoed and the gate slid open. He quickly hopped back into the driver’s seat, nudging the car forward and following the winding path up to the safehouse.

Once they reached the driveway, Pentious put the car in park and glanced at Cherri. “Stay here,” he muttered before getting out and darting toward the front of the house. He craned his neck up toward the balcony, where he spotted Niffty on watch duty and scanning the grounds below.

Pentious cupped his hands around his mouth, calling up toward the balcony. “Niffty!”

Niffty’s head snapped down, eyes squinting to catch his expression. “Yes?”

“Gather everyone in the living room. It’s an emergency!” he yelled.

She gave him a quick nod, her eyes widening as she disappeared through the balcony door. Pentious didn’t wait to see her go; he spun on his heel, making his way back to the car.

He opened the passenger door and nodded to Cherri. “Come on, follow me. I’ll take you inside.”

Cherri glanced around warily as if she couldn’t believe this man brought her to a damn mansion, but slid out of the seat. Her hand rested instinctively near her hip, where her knife was tucked. She eyed him, skeptical yet resigned. "This better be worth it."

“Trust me,” he said, though the words felt thin even to his own ears. “You’ll want to meet them.”

Pentious led Cherri to the front door, casting the occasional glance back at her, hoping she wouldn’t bolt—or worse, regret coming in the first place.

Inside, he guided her down the main hall until they reached the living room. Everyone was already gathered, faces painted with concern and confusion as they murmured amongst themselves, waiting for an explanation. But before Pentious could even open his mouth to speak, there was a sudden, explosive reaction from the couch.

“Holy shit, Cherri?!”

The voice rang out, loud and incredulous, and Pentious stopped dead in his tracks. He turned, eyes widening as he saw Angel standing up from the couch, staring at Cherri in disbelief.

Cherri’s head snapped toward the sound, her eye going wide as recognition dawned. “Angel? Was that you?!”

Angel and Cherri stood by, gazing at each other with their faces a swirl of shock and relief that crackled like static. The others exchanged wary glances, caught between the unexpected reunion.

But before either could say anything, Alastor’s voice cut through. “And who exactly is this?” His gaze flicked from Pentious to Cherri with suspicion.

Pentious shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat. “This is… Cherri. Look, before I explain everything, she needs to be patched up.” He glanced toward Husk, nodding to Cherri’s crude bandage. “Husk, could you—”

Husk crossed his arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “So this is the big ‘emergency’ you dragged us all in here for?” he asked in annoyance.

Pentious hesitated at first, but he took a breath, forcing himself to meet everyone’s eyes. “No… that’s not the reason.” He swallowed. “Charlie and Vaggie—they’ve been taken. Kidnapped by a group out there. And Cherri”—he nodded to her—“she has information about where they are.”

Of course, no one takes the news lightly.

The room changed. Concern hardened into anger, coiling up in everyone like springs pulled too tight. Angel’s fists clenched, and whatever emotion had flickered across his face when he first saw Cherri was gone now, buried under what Pentious had just said.

Husk, sensing the shift, finally uncrossed his arms with a reluctant sigh. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping toward Cherri. He gestured for her to sit down, then grabbed the trauma bag from a nearby shelf. “Let’s get that eye looked at.”

Cherri perched on the edge of a chair, her usual steeliness softened by exhaustion. She winced as Husk examined the crude bandage on her arm, peeling it back to check the extent of her injuries. When he reached her eye, his hand was gentler than his gruff tone suggested, tilting her chin up to get a better look.

Meanwhile, Pentious drew in a deep breath, letting the details unspool from his mind, like he could lay them out in front of the others to make sense of everything.

After the retelling, Husk shot him a dark look. “So you just stood there and watched?”

Pentious flinched but didn’t look away. “I knew I couldn’t take them on alone. They were armed to the teeth! But I knew I could make it back here and tell you all. That had to be worth something.” His gaze shifted to Cherri, now patched up and sitting quietly.

Cherri looked up from where she sat, meeting the skeptical, wary eyes aimed her way. She didn’t flinch, though; instead, she squared her shoulders, gathering whatever scraps of pride were left after everything she’d been through.

“This wasn’t his fault,” she said. Everyone turned to look at her, even Angel, his fists unclenching ever so slightly. “If you’re gonna be mad at anyone, be mad at me. I’m the one who dragged those bastards all the way over here.”

Husk raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced. “And you expect us to believe you just… happened to lead them into our backyard?”

She gave a dry laugh, leaning back in her seat. “Look, old man, I didn’t know there was anyone left out here. You think I would’ve come running straight into another group’s hideout if I did?” She paused, her eye darting around the room. “I’m desperate, just like everyone else. The cities are stripped dry, scavenged to the bone. Those guys—Exorcists, they call themselves—have taken everything worth having and hoarded it. It’s like they’re prepping for the end of the world while pretending to save it.”

The room fell silent, and Husk hesitated, his skepticism shifting into something closer to pity as he wrapped a clean bandage over her injured arm. “If they’re hoarding supplies, that means they’re not sharing it or running a damn charity.”

“Exactly,” Cherri replied. “And don’t ask me why, ’cause I don’t know. But they’re not some refugee center, that’s for sure. They have like… like too few people and too much power. You can’t fight them alone. Trust me, I tried.” Her voice softened, a hint of frustration seeping in. “I didn’t mean to bring them here. But now that they’re in your way by taking your people, you’re gonna need every advantage you can get.”

Angel crossed his arms. “So, why Charlie and Vaggie? Doesn’t sound like they’re out looking for recruits.”

Cherri gave a half-hearted shrug, though there was a flicker of something like doubt in her expression. “Honestly? I don’t know why they went after them specifically. But…” She paused, chewing on her lip, then glanced around as if gathering the courage to piece it together. “The lieutenant in charge—she had this way about her. Like she was holding onto something personal.”

Alastor tilting his head. “Do you mind explaining further?”

Cherri sighed, thinking back. “Look, I don’t know what kind of history they have, if any, but the way she beat the hell out of that woman with the eyepatch? There was something more there. Like she was getting back at her for something, not just following orders.”

Angel leaned in, his gaze darkening. “And Charlie?”

Cherri ran a hand through her tangled hair, her voice low. “She was just there. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess. The blonde got dragged in.”

Angel let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “So they’re definitely bad news. God knows what the fuck they’re gonna do with Charlie and Vaggie now.”

Cherri’s gaze dropped to the floor, her expression grim. “They don’t usually leave survivors alive, at least not from what I’ve seen. If they didn’t kill them on the spot, they’re probably planning to… you know, get whatever information they can out of them.”

Pentious, his voice low and cautious, looked at her. “Information? What could they possibly need to know about our place?”

Cherri took a deep breath, seeming to brace herself. “They want supplies, and they’ll take it by any means. The reason they have so much isn’t because they’re lucky or resourceful—they hoard because they rob and kill any survivors they come across. It doesn’t matter if you’re willing to join them or beg for mercy. They don’t hesitate to pull the fucking trigger.” She looked around the room. “That’s what happened to my last group… We were holed up in a bar in Brooklyn, thought we were safe enough. But when they found us, they didn’t even try to negotiate. Just gunned us all down. I barely made it out alive. Those fucking bastards.”

Angel’s jaw clenched, and he hesitated before asking softly, “That… include our mutuals too?”

Cherri’s face softened, a faint sadness clouding her expression. “Yeah, Angel. I lost them all. You’re the last friend I’ve got left who’s still breathing. And as much as I wish things were different, I’m thankful you’re still here.”

Angel swallowed, the reality of her words twisting something in his chest. He then straightened. “We have to get Charlie and Vaggie back. Whatever it takes, we’re not leaving them with those fucking psychos.”

Husk looked at him, worry etched into his face. “And how exactly are we supposed to do that? If what Pentious and Cherri say is true, we’d be walking right into a death trap. We don’t stand a chance against these chumps.”

Alastor finally spoke up. “Well, then don’t go in guns blazing, my dear Husk. People like them… they expect confrontation. But if we slip in and out—quietly, carefully—we may just get away with our little rescue mission without so much as a scratch.” He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “All we need is a little subtlety.”

The room fell silent as the idea took root, and the group exchanged looks of tentative agreement. It was risky, but it was their best shot.

Pentious cleared his throat, nodding toward Cherri. “That’s actually why I brought her here. She knows a thing or two about their base. Thought she might be able to give us a bit of an edge.”

All eyes turned to Cherri, and she sighed, reaching for the gray duffel bag she’d brought with her. “Yeah, since we’re talking plans…” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper, laying it open on the table. “Take a look.”

The room leaned closer as she smoothed out the paper, revealing a rough hand-drawn floor plan of Fort Hamilton. She tapped her finger on the map, tracing a few paths. “It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to get you around. They’re based here. They’ve fortified the place, set up guards along the main entrances and exits, but… there are weak spots.”

Angel’s eyes widened while he examined the map. “How the hell did you get this?”

Cherri gave a small, humorless smile. “It just happened to be included in this duffel bag. I actually thought about throwing that shit away, but figuring it might be useful someday.”

Pentious studied the floor plan closely, his brow furrowing as he considered the layout. "Alright… but if they’ve taken Charlie and Vaggie, where would they be keeping them? We don’t exactly have the luxury of wasting time searching every room."

Alastor leaned forward, a finger tapping idly on the sketched outline. He then pointed to the basement area marked on the map. "If they’re really after information, they’ll need somewhere to get… messy. And nothing says 'messy' quite like a basement, wouldn’t you agree?”

Husk shifted uncomfortably, a grimace crossing his face. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. You’re not exactly breaking news here, Alastor,” he muttered. “Torture dungeons don’t tend to be set up in the guest lounge.”

Alastor chuckled, clearly amused. “Ah, Husker, your sense of humor truly brings a smile to my face.”

Angel exchanged a look with Cherri, both of them reaching the same grim conclusion. Angel cleared his throat. “If they’re holding them for interrogation, then yeah… the basement makes sense. And if they’re keeping them down there, they’re not planning a pleasant stay. We’ll have to go in quietly and quickly.”

Cherri nodded, her gaze focused on the map. “Then that’s where we start. We’ll search the basement first, get in, grab them, and get the fuck out. If we’re lucky, they’ll never even know we were there.”

The group fell silent, each member weighing the stakes. Finally, Cherri’s gaze sweeps the room. “Alright, so… who’s coming with me?” She turned to Angel, raising an eyebrow. “You down for this?”

Angel smirked, crossing his arms. “Hell yeah, I’m in. Like I’d let you go off without me.”

Alastor’s grin only widened as he watched the exchange. “Count me in as well. I’ve learned a trick or two about staying unseen.” He looked to Angel and Cherri, who exchanged an uncomfortable glance, but neither argued.

Pentious straightened, his eyes shifting to the map again. “I’ll go too. Charlie’s done more for me than I can ever repay. Least I can do is try and return the favor.”

They all looked over at Husk and Niffty, who both immediately raised their hands in protest. Husk shook his head. “Don’t even look at me. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on this place while you’re out playing heroes.”

Niffty nodded quickly, clutching her hands together. “Yeah! We’ll make sure everything’s running smoothly on this end. You guys handle the bad boys.”

Cherri gave them both a nod, appreciating their honesty. Then, looking around at the men, she took a deep breath. “Alright, then.”

Chapter Text

Inhale. Exhale.

Vaggie blinked, struggling to anchor herself to something familiar as the car jostled and rattled through streets she didn’t recognize. From what she could make out before the sack was yanked over her head, they were deep in Brooklyn—a maze of decaying storefronts, cracked roads, and empty sidewalks that seemed to close in the further they went. All she could do now was listen. The hum of the engine. The faint rattle of loose metal somewhere under her seat.

And somewhere to her left, she could hear Charlie, her voice muffled yet unmistakable, escalating from grumbles to sharp, protesting shouts.

"Hold her down," came Lauren’s voice—sharp and cold. Vaggie heard a scuffle, a shuffle hands grabbing onto fabric. Charlie’s voice was cut short by a grunt and the sound of fists hitting something solid.

Vaggie’s mind sparks with worry, then anger, and then the hollow, unshakeable certainty that they weren’t leaving this car unscathed.

As they drove, the vehicle’s sharp turns and sudden stops, each one followed by a shove that pushed her head against the car’s hard interior. She focused on her breathing—steady inhales, careful exhales—keeping herself grounded as they dragged them deeper and deeper.

It felt like hours, maybe more. She couldn’t tell. All she knew was the push and pull, the violent yank on her arm when she was forced to stand up, staggered by shoves that jabbed her forward into a labyrinth of unknown spaces. Footsteps and orders blurred together. She strained to make sense of voices, fragments that fell just short of meaning.

Another scuffle, and this time, she caught a whisper of something that twisted her curiosity: “Lute.”

Is that how they refer Lauren?

When they finally stopped, someone yanked her out. The ground beneath her was uneven, cracked. She heard shouts, footsteps scuffing the pavement as hands forced her forward. She was pushed along, each step heavier than the last as the stale air closed around her, thick with the sour stench of old dust and mold. She clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to dig her heels in, to push back. She couldn’t risk it—not here.

The unmistakable chill of underground air hit her skin, settling over her shoulders like a damp weight. This was it. A basement, probably.

“Sit,” a voice commanded, and a hand pressed down on her shoulder, hard. Vaggie dropped onto something rough, her shoulders tensed as another set of hands forced her wrists together. The scratch of duct tape reached her ears, layers wrapping tight, too tight, pinning her arms against her torso as if they thought that any bit of slack would give her the strength to break free. The tape bit into her muscles, each wrap feeling deeper, tighter than the last. Her fingers tingled, already going numb.

She flexed her fingers, or tried to. The tape cut so tightly into her wrists that it felt like her skin was fusing with it. Vaggie bit down on a grimace, forcing herself to keep her breaths steady, trying to ignore the pins and needles beginning to creep up her hands.

The sack over her head made everything feel muffled and too close, like she was trapped inside her own skin. She could still hear faint sounds around her—shuffling footsteps, low voices exchanging orders or maybe just muttering. No one addressed her directly, not since they’d shoved her down and secured her arms as if she were some beast waiting to thrash out at them.

“Where the fuck is Charlie?”

It took her a second to realize the voice was her own, sharper and more demanding than she meant it to be. But her question went unanswered, absorbed by the hollow silence of the basement. She waited, but the silence stretched out, heavy and unmoving.

She heard a soft chuckle nearby, a familiar man’s voice, amused and almost lazy. “The blondie? Oh, she’s here, don’t worry about that.”

She ground her teeth, the anger inside her simmering under the surface, held back only by the restraints digging into her skin. She had to know Charlie was okay. She tried to listen for any hint, any sound, but there was nothing—just that voice echoing around her, smug and mocking.

“Hope you’re comfortable,” the man’s voice continued, and he sounded like he had a grin even though she couldn’t see it. “You’re gonna be staying awhile.”

Her jaw clenched. Inhale. Exhale. She would save her strength, bide her time. She and Charlie would make it out of here—she had to believe that.

A shuffle of footsteps echoed through the room, growing louder. Then a door creaked open, its hinges squealing before slamming shut. The sound bounced off the walls, followed by approaching steps that seemed to drag on, each one drawing nearer.

She braced herself as a rough hand suddenly grabbed the top of the sack over her head. In one swift, violent tug, it was pulled away, flooding her senses with a harsh, blinding light that forced her to squint. Her lone eye fluttered, blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the glare, the sting of it making her vision swim.

As her sight settled, Vaggie took in her surroundings. The room was dim, barren except for a single bare bulb dangling above her, casting its clinical light over her. Everything felt sharp and exposed in its glow, from the splintered wood of the floor to the cracked walls.

Directly in front of her, a worn, scratched-up wooden table sat like some centerpiece. Her gaze shifted down, and she saw her arms—strapped tight with duct tape to the wooden arms of the chair. Her fingers tingled, prickling with the numbness that had started to creep up her forearms.

She flexed her wrists, testing the restraints, but they held fast, biting into her skin. Her legs, however, were left free, as if they wanted her to think she had some small chance of movement. Or maybe they thought she wouldn’t try.

With a steadying breath, Vaggie shifted in the chair, her eye scanning the room for anything she could use to her advantage. The table was empty, save for a small stack of papers and a pen off to the side. She cataloged every inch of her surroundings, forcing herself to ignore the pounding of her pulse.

Another shuffle sounded to her right, drawing her gaze. A figure stepped forward into the light, her face finally coming into view.

The last time she’d seen this woman years ago, she’d had a head of messy brown hair. Now that her visor is missing, her hair was bleached to a ghostly platinum white, the sharp cut still the same length. The absence of her usual rifle was the only other notable change; in its place, she wore a simple holster with a knife and a Beretta.

Vaggie clenched her teeth, her mind spitting out the woman’s name with disdain. Lauren. But she couldn’t ignore what she’d overheard earlier, the other goon calling the name Lute—would it be an alias, a title, a nickname?

Lute—Lauren—strolled over and perched herself on the edge of the table, casually crossing one leg over the other. She tossed the crumpled sack across the table, letting it land with a heavy, empty thud.

“You know,” Lute drawled, “it’s no surprise you’re still alive. I mean, I can’t count how many times my own people told me to just finish you off already. Or, better yet, to let you bleed out—nice and slow.” She tilted her head, studying Vaggie’s face like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “Make it easy for you. Quick, simple.”

Vaggie met her gaze, biting down the urge to spit at her. “Then why didn’t you?”

Lute shrugged, letting out a short, hollow laugh. “Well, let’s just say, I figured I’d give you the chance to do the job yourself. I mean, look at you.” Her eyes ran over Vaggie, unbothered and unblinking. “After all the hell you've been through—getting your brain scrambled, racking up a nice, fat medical debt just to stay alive—it’d only be a matter of time before you took care of it for me. Seemed… predictable, really.”

Vaggie’s hands flexed against the restraints, her fingers itching with the urge to fight back, to get even a little piece of this monster in front of her. But Lute just smirked, like she could see exactly what Vaggie was thinking and found it pathetic.

At the end, Vaggie felt her jaw clench, forcing herself to keep her breathing steady.

“Thing is…” Lute’s voice softened, her expression darkening as she leaned forward, her gaze now as cold as the steel in her holster. “You’re still here. Still breathing, despite everything.”

Vaggie narrowed her eye, holding Lute’s gaze, refusing to flinch.

Lute’s hand slipped into her pocket, and when it reemerged, it held something small and metallic. She dangled it in front of Vaggie’s face, letting it swing slightly. A military dog tag, stained with old, dried blood.

“You remember Gerard?” Lute asked, her voice low, almost taunting. “That wide-eyed little rookie? The one who looked up to you like some kind of war hero? I swear, that kid thought you hung the stars, just like the rest of your unit… Guess you didn’t do him much good in the end, though, did you?”

Vaggie kept her face carefully blank, her jaw tight. She wouldn’t give Lute the satisfaction of a reaction, wouldn’t let her see any flicker of recognition or emotion. Lute noticed, though, the tiny stiffening in her posture, the way her fingers curled tighter against the armrests, and her smirk deepened.

“Oh, don’t get all sentimental on me now,” Lute sneered. “Gerard was nothing special. Just another naïve kid, putting all his faith in someone who couldn’t even save herself. Hell, he practically worshipped you, you know. You were his sergeant, his guiding light,” she sneered. “And now? Now he’s just a mangled corpse with his face smashed in by a cash register.”

Lute paused. “Apparently, you proved his skull didn’t hold up too well.”

Vaggie bit down on her reaction, forcing herself to stay steady, to keep her breathing even. Every muscle in her body screamed to lash out, to do something to stop that smug look on Lute’s face, but she kept herself locked down.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Lute’s smirk faltered, just a fraction, but she covered it quickly, leaning back, twirling the bloodstained dog tag between her fingers like a toy.

“Guess you don’t have much to say about that, huh?” Lute taunted lightly, trying to needle at Vaggie’s silence. “Or maybe you just don’t care. Left him to die, and now you’re pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

Vaggie’s restraint cracked. Her jaw unclenched just enough for her voice to slip out.

“Why the fuck would I care about him?” Her voice shook with barely contained rage, and she was glaring, her eye narrowed. “He was a part of it. Just like the rest of them. He was there that night! Contributing to the hazing like it was just another game. Laughing while I—”

She stopped.

That night—when you left me there, when you made sure every single one of them saw it—I came because I thought I was meeting you for something real. I thought you wanted me there. Fuck, I wasn’t expecting a pack of grinning soldiers ready to watch me suffer. That’s what I remember about my unit. And you were at the center of it, with that same shitty grin on your face!

Lute’s expression flickered, surprise breaking through her cold mask for a split second before she regained her composure. For the first time, she seemed to actually consider Vaggie’s words, letting them settle uncomfortably between them. Lute’s fingers tightened around the dog tag, but she quickly pocketed it, her face hardening again.

“Still pretending you don’t care, huh?” Lute scoffed. “You care, Valeria. You care too damn much, especially about people who don’t deserve it.” She study Vaggie as if peeling back her defenses layer by layer. “Your own unit, all those soldiers who turned on you… and yet here you are, seething like I just insulted family.”

She continued, “Guess it makes a difference, doesn’t it? I’m talking about the night you swore you’d report me—the night you, the one person I ever thought…” She trailed off, her expression faltering. “The one person who could’ve actually ruined everything for me.”

Vaggie let out a humorless laugh. “That ‘career’ you’re so proud of? All those dirty deals, all the ways you used your rank to line your pockets?” She shook her head, disgust twisting her features. “You really think I was going to let you keep getting away with it?”

Lute’s smirk returned. “You really have no idea, do you?” She leaned in. “People will do just about anything if there’s money involved. You wave a little cash under their noses, and suddenly, they’re bending over backward to please you.” Her fingers tap against the table in a rhythm. “I managed to get them to turn on you. Your whole unit, Valeria. They fell right in line with me, helped make that hazing happen. All I had to do was convince them you were the threat—the one who’d ruin everything for us all.”

Vaggie’s mouth twisted in anger and disbelief. “You’re sick, Lauren. You made them all think I was the enemy, just to save your own skin?”

Lute shrugged, unbothered, her tone almost casual. “I wasn’t about to let some goody two-shoes bring me down. Not for a second.” She tilted her head, her gaze softening, though the coldness never left her eyes. “And definitely not you. Not the woman who I thought…” She let the words linger, but her face betrayed just a flicker of hurt, of something long buried and bitter. “The one person I thought actually cared. But you didn’t, did you? You were ready to throw it all away for what? A moral stand?”

Lute's face faltered, and for a moment, the hardened exterior cracked. Her gaze dropped, and the sharpness in her voice softened, taking on a tone almost vulnerable. “You know, Valeria… we were supposed to have a future together. I actually thought we’d get out of this mess someday, maybe retire early, live our lives somewhere away from all this.” She swallowed, her eyes distant as if lost in a vision only she could see. “I wanted that with you, even if it meant shortcuts, even if it meant making compromises. That’s how reality works, you know. It’s messy, it’s dirty—but…”

But then her words trailed off, the softness replaced by something darker, angrier. Her jaw clenched, and the distant look in her eyes twisted into pure resentment. Her hand moved automatically to her belt, and before Vaggie could react, Lute had unholstered her knife, her grip on it tight and unsteady.

“No more weakness!” Lute screamed. She lunged forward, pressing the cold blade against Vaggie’s neck, her hand trembling as she pressed harder and harder, her breaths coming in ragged bursts. “I let myself care about you. I let myself believe in… in us. And look where that got me!” Her voice cracked, her eyes blazing with a wild, unhinged rage as she pressed the edge of the knife harder against Vaggie’s skin.

“You ruined everything. I was weak because of you. But not anymore. No more softness, no more pretending. I’m done with it!”

Vaggie’s breaths came slow and measured. She swallowed as she tried to hold Lute's gaze. "Lauren… we don’t have to do this," she whispered, almost pleading. "Let me and Charlie go. We walk out of here, you never have to see me again. We can just… end this. For good."

Lute's expression shifted, her grip on the knife loosening as if considering Vaggie’s offer. But the moment passed, her face hardening, twisted by a hatred that went deeper than anything Vaggie had ever seen in her. Without a word, Lute pulled the knife away—only to drive her fist into Vaggie’s jaw with brutal force. The impact made Vaggie’s head snap to the side, but Lute wasn’t finished. She grabbed a fistful of Vaggie’s hair, slamming her face down onto the table’s wooden surface.

Vaggie gasped, blood trickling down from her nose as Lute pulled her up just to slam her down again. A sharp, throbbing pain exploded across Vaggie's face as the table smeared with her blood. Her vision blurred, spots of black flashing across her sight, but she could still hear Lute’s labored breaths, the ragged edge of her rage as she pulled back, cracking her bruised knuckles.

“Next time we talk, you better cooperate, Valeria. Because if you don’t…” Lute tilted her head. “This little reunion will look like child’s play.”

With that, she straightened, dusting herself off like she hadn’t just attacked someone she once claimed to care about. She turned her back, pausing only to glance over her shoulder, one last warning hanging before she disappeared from the room, leaving Vaggie bloodied, disoriented, and alone.

Vaggie spat blood onto the floor, feeling the sting of each cut and bruise as she straightened herself against the restraints. Her eye throbbed painfully as she closed it, focusing on the bitter taste of iron on her tongue rather than the sharp ache radiating through her face. Her mind drifted, grasping onto a thought she couldn’t shake—Charlie. Was she safe? She clung to the hope that, somewhere in this hellhole, Charlie was untouched, unharmed.

But hope felt like a fragile thing here. Especially in a place ruled by people like Lute, people who had long since discarded any shred of decency, any regard for right or wrong. They lived by twisted loyalties, broken morals…

With a deep, trembling breath, Vaggie pushed down the panic gnawing at her insides. She couldn’t let herself fall apart here. If she wanted to get Charlie—and herself—out of this, she’d need every ounce of resolve left in her.

Dios, por favor, perdónalos.

He didn’t look up as he spoke, busy lighting the cigarette that dangles at the corner of his mouth. “Were you able to get anything out of Rodríguez, Lute?”

“No sir. She kept her mouth shut the whole time,” Lute replied smoothly as if it was the truth. Not a single question about the base had actually left her lips earlier, but he didn’t need to know that. For now, she could play the game her way.

He frowned, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Fucking hell… I guess that leaves me to start questioning the blonde,” he muttered then puffs out the smoke. “She doesn’t seem nearly as… resilient as the one-eyed bitch.”

Lute nodded, her face an unreadable mask. “Understood, sir. I’ll keep questioning Rodríguez too.”

He finally looked up, taking a drag of his cigarette as his gaze fell on Lute’s bruised knuckles. His eyes lingered there, studying the way her hand flexed and then tightened at her side.

“Is that from going rough on Rodríguez?” he probed. The cigarette smoke curled between them, thick and heavy, as Lute’s expression flickered with something between frustration and weariness.

“It’s nothing, Adam,” she replied. “No need to check up on me.”

But he didn’t drop it, his tone softening just slightly. “Maybe not, but humor me.” He stood up, closing the distance between them in a few quick steps. She let out a barely audible sigh, but she held out her hand, a silent surrender. Adam took another slow drag, then held out his cigarette, gesturing for her to take it.

Lute hesitated, then took the cigarette, bringing it to her lips and letting the smoke calm whatever was still simmering beneath her skin. The shared silence felt strangely grounding.

When she handed it back, Adam’s gaze stayed steady. “Take a break from interrogating Rodríguez. Won’t be worth your time or your energy for now.”

Lute’s jaw tightened. “I can handle it,” she insisted. “Hurting someone, even a little, is part of the job, you know that as well as I do.”

“Fuck, I know. But you’ve been pushing yourself for a while now.” Adam placed the cigarette between his teeth, freeing his hands to rest on Lute's shoulders. He pressed his thumbs into the tense muscles, working at a knot he felt near her neck. "Look, just take a damn break. I’ll handle the rest. I'll even assign some of the boys to take care of the Sergeant.”

Lute tensed up under his touch but didn’t pull away. She knew she'd been pushing herself hard lately. It felt like every day was another fire to put out—claiming territories, dealing with survivor camps nearby, and chasing the bitch who had stolen from them. Her life had become a string of desperate moves, pushing further every day. Even thinking about the last few weeks made her feel like she’d been holding her breath.

But here was the General himself, telling her to step back. Somehow, that sank deeper than any internal command she could give herself.

She let out a long breath, her body finally easing under his hands. “Alright,” she said quietly, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself. “I’ll take a break.”

Adam’s lips curled into a faint smile as he puffed out a smoke, clearly relieved. “Fucking good. You deserve it.”

As he turned to leave, he added with a playful glint in his eye, “And danger tits, you’re free to use my bedroom whenever you please.” With that, he walked out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving Lute in the quiet solitude of Adam’s office.

The air felt heavier now, but she didn’t mind. Lute sat down at Adam’s desk, staring at the empty space he’d just vacated. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Gerard’s dog tag, the metal cool against her fingers. With a flick of her wrist, she lazily tossed it onto the desk, the dull clink of it landing barely registering in her mind. She leaned back into the leather chair with a tired sigh, her gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"Fucking shit," she muttered under her breath. The outbreak, the constant responsibilities, the stress—it all pressed down, and now it was just her, the silence, and the dull thrum of her own thoughts.

Chapter Text

Click. Snap. Spin.

The sound was sharp and metallic, a harsh little click as the man across the table spun the revolver’s chamber and then snapped it shut. And then he’d flick his thumb, spinning it open again, watching the chamber whirl, like he had nothing better to do. Click. Snap. Spin. Repeat.

The man was hard to ignore—large, olive-skinned, with a messy scruff and a goatee that looked intentionally grown in but not exactly cared for. His brown hair stuck out in all directions, and the whole look was somehow made worse by the fact that he didn’t even try to contain it.

Unlike most of the people Charlie had encountered recently, this man had his version of a uniform: black tactical pants and a gray button-up shirt left open, probably for fashion. Or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered. Beneath it was a white tank top that did nothing to hide his beer belly.

And through it all, he kept spinning that fully-loaded chamber, like it was a toy he was bored of already.

The man caught Charlie’s gaze, a glint of amusement in his eye as he gave the revolver one last spin and finally stilled it in his hand.

“Like my toy, blondie?” He tilted his head, rolling the Colt Python around as if showing off a prized possession. “This beauty here—got a six-inch barrel, stainless steel, handles recoil like a dream. Can’t beat the classics, y’know?” He held it up to the light, turning it with a bit too much pride, as though she might be impressed.

Charlie didn’t respond. She stayed as she was, barely blinking. The man waited, his grin slipping just a fraction when her silence stretched a little too long.

“Don’t you want to know the stopping power on this thing?” he continued as if her indifference was part of some game they were playing.

Christ, if he wanted me to bite, he’d have to try a lot harder.

The man narrowed his eyes, squinting at her like he’d just figured something out. Slowly, he set the revolver down on the table. Then he let out a low chuckle, raising both hands in a pretend gesture of surrender.

“Fucking hell, I’m being rude, aren’t I? No introductions and all that shit.” He extended a hand across the table. “Name’s Adam. What about you?”

Charlie didn’t move. She kept her eyes locked on him, refusing to acknowledge the outstretched hand. Adam’s mouth twitched, a smirk taking shape as he withdrew his hand.

“Oh, right,” he snorted. “I almost forgot—you’re all tied up, aren’t you? Can’t exactly shake hands and shit.”

Charlie’s gaze dropped, following his amused look down to her wrists. They were bound tightly with duct tape to the point where it dug into her skin. She flexed her hands experimentally, feeling the constriction, while her legs, oddly enough, were left unbound beneath the table.

She glanced back up, catching him as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slid one out for himself. Adam looked at her with a lazy grin as he lit up. Smoke curled lazily between them, and he took a drag.

Charlie wrinkled her nose at the cigarette smoke drifting across the table. The sharp, acrid scent filled her nostrils, and she forced herself not to cough. Cigarette smoke had always turned her stomach—a visceral reaction she couldn’t suppress, even if she tried. So she sat there, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes fixed somewhere past Adam’s shoulder.

But she must have given herself away because Adam suddenly chuckled, his eyes lighting up with a smug sort of glee.

“Of course,” he sneered, taking another drag. “Bitches like you would hate this kind of thing, huh?” His grin widened as he watched her, clearly pleased with the flash of disgust she hadn’t managed to hide.

Charlie’s face burned, and she shifted, refusing to look directly at him, but Adam just kept talking. “You know, when my boys brought you and your girl Rodríguez in…” he paused, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, “…they couldn’t help but notice how clean you both looked. I mean, surviving out there in the damn apocalypse and all, and here you are—fresh as a daisy.”

He tilted his head, studying her with a look that was half-curiosity, half-contempt. “Makes me wonder if you’ve been hiding somewhere nice and cozy, getting treated well.”

Charlie abruptly asked, “Where’s Vaggie?”

Adam exhaled, blowing out a puff of smoke as he rolled his eyes like he’d heard this question a dozen times already. “For the last time, your precious Sergeant is fine and well,” he drawled with mock sympathy. “Hell, we’re treating her like she’s at a five-star hotel. Room service and everything.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Adam’s lazy grin faltered, a glint of irritation flashing across his face. He pushed himself up from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for the revolver and holstered it on his belt. With a casual, almost leisurely stride, he started making his way around the table toward her, all the while keeping that smug gaze fixed on her.

“See, that’s what I’m curious about,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “For two people who claim to have been roughing it in the apocalypse, you and your girlie look suspiciously… untouched.” His eyes narrowed with a strange mix of amusement and suspicion. “Makes me think your little base must be a real fucking paradise, huh? Wonder what it takes to keep a place like that so nice and cozy when the rest of us are out here crawling through hell.”

As he reached her, he leaned down, close enough that she could smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath. “So, blondie, where’s this base of yours?” His tone was deceptively soft, but there was a dangerous edge beneath it.

Charlie’s eyes didn’t waver as she met his gaze. In one movement, she spat directly in his face.

Adam’s expression froze, and for a moment, his smug grin vanished, replaced by a deep scowl. He let out a hollow chuckle, wiping the spit off his cheek with the back of his hand. When he straightened up, his gaze was colder, the humor gone from his eyes.

“You just made this real fun, fucking bitch,” he muttered. He reached down to his belt and grabbed his walkie-talkie. Holding it close to his mouth, he switched it on, his thumb hovering over the button as he kept his eyes locked on Charlie, savoring every second of her reaction.

“Do it. Over.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever, but then, from beyond the wall behind her, came the sharp crack of something striking flesh, followed instantly by a yell—a raw, unmistakable cry of pain.

Charlie’s blood ran cold. That voice—it was Vaggie’s.

Another crack echoed through the room, louder and somehow worse than the first. Vaggie’s cry rang out, jagged and filled with agony. Charlie’s heart clenched as the sounds of her lover’s pain reverberated through her, like a jagged knife digging into her.

“Stop!” Charlie’s voice cracked, panic tightening around her words as she looked back at Adam, all her composure shattered. “Stop it, you fucking bastard!”

Adam watched her, a thin smile spreading across his face as he let her desperation settle in. For a long, agonizing moment, he seemed content to watch her squirm, savoring the power he held. Then, with a lazy flick of his thumb, he clicked the button again.

“That’s enough. Stand down. Over.”

The walkie-talkie crackled, and the noises from the other side of the wall faded into silence. Charlie’s pulse hammered, her ears straining for any sign that Vaggie was still okay, still conscious. But the quiet that filled the room was heavy, suffocating, and all she could do was cling to the hope that the silence meant a good thing.

Adam leaned back, looking pleased with himself as he slid the walkie-talkie back into his belt. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he stated as if they’d just finished a routine negotiation. Adam folded his arms. “Now, here’s the thing, blondie… every time you get it in your head to defy me, every time you think it’s cute to spit or act like fucking King Arthur—” he paused—“I can just have one of my boys or girls hurt Rodríguez. You know, keep things… interesting.”

Charlie’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t say a word.

“And I’ll give her credit—your gal’s one tough woman.” He nodded, almost admiringly. “Very high pain tolerance. So, breaking a few fingers here, making her bleed there—it might take a little extra work to get a scream out of her. But don’t worry, my crew’s resourceful. And patient.”

Charlie’s mind raced through the possibilities—the cracked knuckles, the bruises, maybe worse. Vaggie held a strong front, but if they pushed far enough, even she wouldn’t be invincible to it. And they’d do it, too—not because it would break Vaggie, but because it would break her.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Adam continued. “I don’t have to touch you to make you feel it. All I have to do is let them loose on her, over and over again, until you get your priorities straight.”

The horrid image filled her mind. She’d seen what they could do; now they were laying it out in vivid detail—all for Charlie to hear and to suffer without them needing to lift a finger against her.

“So,” Adam said, leaning forward until he was inches from her face. “You ready to start cooperating? Or should we pay Sergeant Rodríguez another visit?”

Pentious pulled the car to a quiet stop by the edge of the park, right where Cherri had marked on the map. The headlights cut out, leaving them in near-total darkness, save for the occasional glow of streetlamps in the distance.

Cherri leaned forward from the back seat, glancing over the paper in her hands. “This is as close as we’ll get without getting spotted. Patrols get stricter around the entrance this time of night,” she murmured, pointing to the back entrance sketched out on the floor plan. “We sneak in through here.”

Angel nodded, leaning over to make sure everyone could see him. “Alright ladies, we stick to the plan. We’re here to find the dolls and get out. That’s it. No killing anyone unless we have to.”

Pentious already pulled out his pistol, probably half-expecting to start unloading the second they stepped foot inside. Angel turned, his voice tight. “Quietly, snake-face. Guns are loud as hell and draw attention from… well, fucking everything. People. Zombos. You name it.”

Pentious sighed, reluctantly slipping the pistol back into its holster. “Fine. But how are we supposed to kill if we have to? Close-range isn’t exactly my specialty unless it’s the roamers.” He looked over at Cherri, who shifted uncomfortably. “And I’m not saying I’m a pacifist,” she mumbled, “I’ve never exactly gone in planning to kill someone.”

From the far side of the car, Alastor’s voice broke the awkward pause. “Killing with a blade is… straightforward. It’s like an undead, but with a little more strategy.” He gave them a thin smile. “In any case, I’ll handle it. If anyone needs to be dealt with, just give me the signal.”

Angel, Cherri, and Pentious shared a quick, uneasy glance. Angel’s jaw clenched, but he knew, out of the four of them, Alastor was the one most capable of doing what none of the others wanted to.

The perks of being a damn serial killer, that is.

“Okay then,” Cherri slipped the paper back into her jacket. “Now, follow my damn lead,” she muttered, pushing open the car door and stepping out. The others followed, easing themselves out and closing the doors with gentle clicks as if even the tiniest noise could tip off every Exorcist in a mile radius.

The park stretched around them, vast and silent. They moved cautiously along the edge of the trees, sticking to the shadows. The atmosphere was thick with eerie stillness that always seemed to settle after sunset, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves. But there were no zombies. Not even a stray groan in the distance. It was as if something—perhaps the Exorcists’ doing—had killed off the undead within their territory.

The four continued, weaving through brush and ducking behind patches of overgrown shrubs, until they finally reached the backside of a hospital. The building was in better shape than most, with walls still mostly intact, though streaked with dirt and dark stains. Broken windows gaped, and what glass remained was thick with grime. Rusted medical gurneys and old IV stands lay discarded near the rear entrance.

Cherri led the way up a small incline toward the hospital’s back wall, gesturing for the others to follow. “We climb over here,” she whispered, pointing to a place where the fence was bent down, almost as if others had snuck through before. One by one, they scaled the fence, careful not to make a sound. They dropped down quietly on the other side, ducking low as they moved forward.

And there it was: Fort Hamilton.

Once a military stronghold with its massive, concrete walls stretched high and jagged, with barricades of twisted metal and broken stone heaped up around the perimeter. Patches of rust crept across the structure’s surface, and vines climbed the walls, twisting through cracks. Floodlights perched on tall poles flickered dimly, casting a glow over the outer edges of the building, while sandbags and barbed wire lay haphazardly along the base.

In the distance, they could make out the faint figures of patrolling guards, casting long shadows as they moved.

Angel leaned closer to Cherri, his voice a low whisper. “So, where’s this access to the back entrance with the whole wall situation you mentioned?”

Cherri shot him a sideways glance. “Oh, you’re just gonna have to trust me and stop with the bitching, alright?” she muttered back half-jokingly.

Angel rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the tiny grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah, lead the way, princess.”

They crouched low as they continued while creeping along the edge of the wall. They were shielded by the remains of an old overgrown hedge and the hollowed-out shells of old vehicles littered around the perimeter. Occasionally, one of them would freeze, holding their breath as the beams of floodlights swung close. But each time, they evaded detection.

Except one time when Pentious tripped on his steps, but Angel managed to haul his ass out from the exposed area before being detected by the floodlight.

Cherri led them around to the far side of the base, stopping at a section of the wall where age and neglect had left deep cracks and patches of crumbling concrete. She ran her hand over a barely visible metal grate set low in the wall, almost hidden by a thick cover of ivy.

“This is it,” she whispered. “A drain, maybe. It should open into an old maintenance tunnel that runs close to the inner walls. It’ll get us close to the back entrance.” She grabbed the edge of the grate, fingers slipping a little before Pentious leaned in to help. Together, they eased it off, setting it aside with barely a sound.

One by one, they crawled through, Angel casting a wary glance behind them before slipping into the narrow, damp space. Inside, the tunnel was pitch-dark and smelled of stale air and mildew, every sound magnified by the narrow concrete walls. They moved in a single line, close enough that Angel could feel Pentious’s breath just behind him, everyone trying not to scrape or stumble in the tight passage.

The tunnel wound for a good hundred feet before finally opening up near the rear wall of the base. When they emerged, Cherri gave a quick signal, directing them to huddle close to the building. Above them, the rough outer wall loomed, with vines and cracked brick offering a decent cover as they edged toward their entry point.

Cherri pointed toward a small service door nestled between two large storage units. Angel pulled a set of thin, well-used lockpicks from his jacket pocket, crouching by the door.

The lock clicked, and Cherri slowly eased the door open, peeking inside before motioning them forward. Angel slipped in first, his knife ready as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The room was filled with old equipment, dusty shelves, and medical supplies. Emergency lights are still faintly glowing in the halls. The smell was stale, almost metallic like it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

He turned to Cherri. “Alright, so where the hell are we?”

Cherri rolled her eye, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the floor plan. She spread it out on a nearby counter, her finger tracing over the lines. “Okay, so if I’m reading this right, we’re in… the medical supply storage.” Her finger landed on a tiny square toward the north wing. “Which is great and all, but the cells are on the opposite side of the basement.”

Angel huffed, glancing over her shoulder at the floor plan. “Great. So we’re still on the wrong side of the damn building.”

“Relax, drama queen,” she shot back, a smirk creeping onto her face as she folded the paper. “It’s just a bit further. Besides, we needed a way in that wouldn’t get us caught before we even got close, remember?”

Angel gritted his teeth but nodded. She was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. The detour meant they were safer from the guards—and their supplies.

“Lead on.”

Vaggie couldn't tell how long she’d been in this room, on this hard, splintering wooden chair that seemed designed specifically to make you feel like every second stretched into a year. Maybe it had been hours. Maybe days. All she knew was that time here wasn’t measured by the clock on the wall (if there even was one) but by the cycle of faces that appeared in front of her, all familiar, all unwanted. Each one took their turn, asking the same questions, spinning them like new angles in some fucking guessing game, hoping they’d trick her into revealing something about the base.

But Vaggie never answered. Not the first time. Not the tenth. Not the twentieth. The silence was her one small power, as meaningless as it probably seemed to them. So she held onto it, even as their patience thinned.

At some point, the hand radios crackled with a new order, vague but clear to start “getting physical” with her. And that’s when her world turned to fists, sharp, breath-stealing blows to her stomach, her jaw, her ribs. The table in front of her grew slick with her blood, its wood grain swallowing up streaks of red like a sponge. Her face went numb from the hits, her vision splintering and swimming with each one. Her right hand—the one they’d paid special attention to—was twisted and broken, each finger mangled and taped tight to a thick roll of duct tape around her wrist, binding her arms and pressing her nerves into a dead, tingling silence.

And still, she didn’t talk. She couldn’t afford to.

Vaggie forced herself to focus on each breath. One after the other to keep her mind from slipping into the haze of pain that threatened to swallow her whole. She was still here, still grounded, still holding on by some fraying thread.

Then, the door creaked open.

She didn’t look up right away. But when she did, she saw them: Lute walked in first, and behind her, a subordinate stepped in, each of them holding a leash pole. On the ends of those poles were the ragged, lumbering forms of zombies dressed in mismatched tattered combat fatigues, mouths snapping and hands clawing the air like wild animals scenting blood.

Lute stepped forward, her eyes sweeping over Vaggie with frustration. “You’ve managed to drag this out longer than anyone else has,” she began, “I’ll give you that. But for fuck’s sake Valeria, this is getting…well, tiresome.” With each step, she brought the two snapping, growling zombies closer.

The subordinate kept silent, moving in sync with Lute as they inched the zombies toward her, their jaws clicking, and arms outstretched as if they could already taste the blood that covered Vaggie’s tank top.

Lute paused a breath away, her hazel eyes never leaving Vaggie’s. “You’re strong. I’ll give you that, too,” She took a step back, gesturing to the subordinate, who did the same.

“Let’s see if you’re still feeling fucking stubborn.”

She and the subordinate released the latch on each leash pole. The metal clasps clicked open, and the poles dropped from their hands as they turned and slipped back toward the door, closing it behind them.

The door clicked shut, leaving Vaggie alone with the two zombies, and the only sounds in the room were their low, animalistic growls and the scrape of their boots against the cold, concrete floor as they shuffled toward her.

The first zombie lunged, fingers clawing at her face, and she threw her head back, feeling its nails graze her cheek as she twisted in the chair. Her legs (thankfully still free) shot out in reflex, driving her heel into the creature’s knee with every ounce of strength she had. The joint buckled with a sickening crunch, and the zombie stumbled sideways, giving her just a moment’s reprieve.

The second one was already advancing, though, its empty eyes fixed on her as its jaw hung open, snapping in fits. Vaggie’s fingers screamed with pain, each one twisted and useless, but she dug her heels into the floor and kicked hard, launching herself backward in the chair. The old wood groaned under the sudden force, tipping her just out of the zombie's reach as it lunged forward, fingers clawing air.

But the move didn’t buy her much time. The first zombie was already scrambling back, dragging its broken leg as it steadied itself, mouth stretching into a guttural snarl. Vaggie’s mind raced, her gaze darting around the small room for anything—anything—that could help defend herself. She gazed at a table in front of her, and in one blurred, desperate thought, she wondered if she could use it somehow.

The second zombie lunged again, and she ducked low, feeling the sharp bite of duct tape cutting into her skin as she struggled against her restraints. In one last ditch effort, she braced her legs and slammed her shoulder into the side of the table, tipping it over just as the zombie swiped at her. The table’s edge caught it mid-air, driving it back with a thud, and in that heartbeat of space, Vaggie twisted her foot under her chair leg, trying to wedge herself free.

The first zombie was almost on her again, and she wrenched her knee upward, ramming it into the chair leg with enough force to loosen one of the nails. She could feel the give, the small splintering of wood, but time was running out. Her legs strained with every kick, finally cracking a piece of the chair arm free just as the first zombie reached her again, its breath hot and foul on her face.

With one hand finally freed, her skin shredded from the wood splinters, she reached back and grabbed at the cracked piece of wood, twisting it free. The second zombie had righted itself.

She didn’t have time to think and even hesitate.

She plunged the jagged wood forward, driving it into the first zombie’s eye with a wild shove. It jerked back, its skull still attached to the wood, and fell sideways.

Vaggie barely had time to register the first zombie’s collapse before the second one was on her, lunging forward with its mouth open wide. She tried to pull her hand back, but her reflexes were dulled by pain and exhaustion, and she barely managed to raise her right forearm, still bound with duct tape and splintered wood. The zombie’s jaws clamped down on it, and for a split second, terror tore through her—she could feel its teeth pressing through the thick tape, scraping close to her skin.

Holy fuck.

The zombie’s teeth were uselessly grinding against the layers of tape and wood, unable to puncture through, but its desperate chewing left her arm pinned, trapping her in place as she struggled to wrench it away. The creature’s decayed fingers clawed at her, snapping closer with each violent jerk, inches from her face.

With her free left hand, still raw from splinters and numb with pain, she reached down to the shattered edge of the chair, fingers fumbling over the sharp wood. She twisted her wrist, wrangling a jagged piece free as she braced herself against the searing pain. In one swift movement, she swung her hand up, driving the sharp wood directly into the zombie’s throat.

The creature convulsed, its jaw tightening momentarily before the shock of the blow caused its head to jerk back, freeing her arm from its mouth. She managed to scramble sideways, her leg shot out to shove the zombie back with a kick. It staggered, mouth still gnashing, but the wooden stake lodged deep in its throat made each movement slower, each growl gurgling with black blood as it struggled to regain its balance.

Vaggie saw her opening, forcing herself to her feet. Her mind was a blur of pain and adrenaline, taking advantage of every inch of space she could create between herself and the thrashing creature.

The zombie took one lurching step toward her, but it was too late—Vaggie brought her knee up, slamming it into the creature’s chest, throwing it off balance. The force of her shove sent it stumbling back, tripping over the fallen table as it crashed to the floor, struggling to right itself.

Breathing hard, Vaggie staggered and, with one last burst of strength, stomped down on the zombie’s head, crushing it into silence.

Vaggie took a stumbling step back, her breaths sharp and raw, each one tearing through her chest as she looked down at the mangled corpse beneath her. The blood on her skin felt cold now, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving only the bone-deep ache in its place. She wiped her face, smearing a line of blood across her cheek, and finally let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

She was still here.

She’d survived.

Then, she straightened, glaring at the door through a half-lidded, bloodshot eye.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Her shout echoed off the walls, ringing in the dead silence of the room. "You hear me? You think this is enough to kill me?”

The defiance surged through her, hot and consuming, burning away every shred of exhaustion, every ounce of pain. “Well, guess what, cabrones,” she hissed, her voice low and seething. “I’m still here. You can try a hundred times, bring me more of them! Bring every fucking muertos you can dig up—We can be here all fucking day!”

Cherri peeked out the door, squinting hard at the hallway that stretched ahead. Everything past a few feet looked like a single smudged line. She tried to focus on any hint of movement or shadows, but with only her one good eye, it was like trying to gauge depth by staring into the fog. She blinked, willing her vision to sharpen, but the hallway refused to cooperate, and the whole world was reduced to this strange, flat perspective.

She sighed and closed the door softly, slipping back into the dim bathroom where the others waited. Angel was leaning against the sink, his arms crossed, watching her with that look of patient concern that made her feel weirdly safer than she’d admit.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Cherri exhaled as she unfolded the floor plan. “Nothing… well, sort of nothing.” Her fingers ran over the paper as she bit her lip. “It’s just… I can’t tell distance right anymore. Ever since, you know…” She gestured vaguely to her injured eye. “It’s like my depth perception’s been fucked through a meat grinder. Hallways all look the same to me now, flat and weird.”

Angel nodded, glancing down at the floor plan before looking back up at her. “No one’s out there, though?”

“Not that I could tell,” she said, shrugging. “But with this…” She tapped the edge of her bandaged eye, smirking a little to cover up how helpless it made her feel. “I mean, you could park a bus halfway down that hall, and I’d still think it was just part of the wall.”

Angel watched her, then smiled—just a little. “Let me take the lead, then. You keep hold of the plan.”

She hesitated, but something about the way he stood there, calm and almost amused in a way that said he’d been here a hundred times before, relaxed her. Out of everyone, he was the one she trusted to pull this off, the one who seemed to understand when to push and when to just be there.

Finally, she nodded. “Yeah, all right.” Her grip on the floor plan relaxed, her hand dropping it into his with a little more ease than she’d felt in days.

Angel took a glance at Pentious and Alastor, eyebrows raised. They both gave him a steady nod, with that look of readiness that said they'd been waiting on him. Angel squared his shoulders, pushed open the door, and took a cautious step out.

But as Angel pushed the door open, he froze—the glint of a visor caught his eye just in time. An Exorcist patrol, close enough that he could hear her steady breathing behind the glass.

She barely had time to reach for her radio before Alastor was on her. He swooped in with a startling swiftness, driving his blade up straight into her chest, slipping between her ribs and piercing her heart, while his free hand clamped firmly over her mouth to muffle the sound.

“Angel, darling, close the door,” Alastor ordered calmly over his shoulder. Angel obeyed, pulling the door shut and watching as Alastor dragged the Exorcist’s body fully inside, her breaths coming in fast, panicked gasps that caught on the edges of the pain.

Alastor yanked the visor off her face, revealing wide, terrified eyes and a mouth frozen in a grimace of shock. She was still fighting, still clinging to some sliver of life, her gaze darting around the room, taking in each of them with frantic, shallow breaths.

Alastor tilted his head, studying her as if she were some sort of fascinating specimen. His voice dropped to a chillingly calm tone. “Can you hear me, darling?” he asked, his lips curving into a polite, almost gentle smile.

The Exorcist glared up at him, and despite her shaking, her voice came out strong. “Fuck you.”

Alastor’s smile widened, almost pleased by her defiance. Without missing a beat, Alastor twisted the blade still embedded in her chest, sending a jolt of pain through her that made her eyes squeeze shut and her whole body lurch. Her muffled scream escaped against his palm, her resistance briefly faltering as the pain pulsed through her.

Alastor leaned in, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. “Now, now, such language.” He shifted his hand from her mouth just enough to let her gasp for breath. "Here’s the deal: if you cooperate, I’ll leave the blade right where it is. You might even make it, if your friends happen to be a skilled surgeon to fish it out. But refuse…” He gave the hilt a slight tug, enough to remind her of what little time she had. “I’ll pull it out. You’ll bleed out here, and it’ll be quick. Efficient. My favorite kind of solution.”

The Exorcist looked up at him, but there was hesitation now, mingling with the agony and the panic. Her breath came in uneven shudders, her gaze locked onto Alastor’s, weighing her options.

Finally, through gritted teeth, she whispered, “What… do you want to know?”

Alastor’s smile widened, and he gave a small, satisfied nod. "That's the spirit.” He shifted his grip. “Angel, would you be so kind as to show our guest the floor plan?”

Angel quickly unfolded the floor plan and held it out just behind Alastor, tilting it toward the Exorcist so she could see. Alastor didn’t even glance at the map; his focus stayed entirely on her, his free hand moving to guide hers.

“Now,” he said, his voice warm with false reassurance, “I need you to point out where you’re keeping the captives. Nice and simple.” His fingers closed around her gloved hand, pulling it slowly toward her chest until her fingers brushed against the blood soaking through her uniform. “A bit of a marker, if you don’t mind.”

Her eyes widened as he pressed her hand further into the wound, the blood seeping into the fabric of her glove. Her breaths were shallow, every rise and fall of her chest catching on the blade still embedded there. She looked down at her stained fingers and then back at the floor plan, clearly weighing her options.

With a shaky hand, she lifted her bloody finger toward the map Angel was holding and hovered over a section on the map, finally pressing it down by the basement on the west side. A small smear of blood marked the spot, like a crude map pin.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading as he studied her face. "The basement… west section, you say?” He leaned in close, twisting the blade just enough to send another wave of agony through her body. Her face twisted, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

“Is that truly where they are?”

“Yes! Yes, please!” She gasped, the desperation raw in her voice, her fingers digging into the cold tiled floor as if she could somehow escape the pain. “They’re there, Sergeant Rodríguez and her blonde bitch, I swear! Please—just stop!”

Alastor watched her a moment longer, weighing her words as her breaths came fast and ragged. Then, with an almost delicate flick of his wrist, he loosened his grip, letting her feel a brief, dizzying relief as the pressure eased.

Alastor’s smile deepened. “Was that so difficult?” He glanced over his shoulder at Angel, the satisfaction in his eyes unmistakable. “See, cooperation always makes things easier.”

He looked back at the Exorcist, his fingers resting on the hilt of the blade, as if ready to make good on his earlier threat should she decide to double-cross them. “Any more surprises we should know about, dear?” he asked as if discussing the weather.

The Exorcist’s gaze darted from Alastor to Angel and back again. After a pause, she gritted her teeth and muttered, “No… that’s it.”

Alastor nodded, as though he’d expected nothing less, and finally released his grip on her hand. For the first time, his smile slipped just a little, his voice adopting a softer edge, one that almost—almost—sounded like gratitude. “Good. You’ve been very helpful.”

As Alastor gave a final satisfied nod, Pentious let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away. "Was that really necessary, Alastor?"

Alastor’s laugh was low, almost amused, as he pulled himself upright. “Necessary?” he echoed, arching a brow. “Oh, my dear Pentious, these are our enemies. They’ve made that quite clear.” He didn't wait for a response, and before anyone else could react, he yanked the blade from the Exorcist's chest. She let out a choked, wet gasp, her body convulsing once as more blood pooled beneath her, dark and spreading fast. Her eyes stared, empty now, as she slumped to the floor.

Angel released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, feeling the tension drain out of him. He took a steadying inhale, resisting the urge to react, then returned his focus to the floor plan, tracing his fingers across the paper. If she’d told the truth, they had a long way to go—the far west of the building, likely through areas crawling with Exorcist patrols.

“Right,” Angel said finally, his voice a little steadier. He glanced over at the others, forcing his unsettled thoughts aside. “We need to head out, but let’s see if she has anything useful on her first.” He crouched by the Exorcist’s body, patting her down with efficient movements, searching for supplies or anything that might give them an advantage.

Pentious nodded, joining in to help search the body, while Alastor stood back, wiping his blade clean with a handkerchief, looking distinctly unbothered by the whole scene. Cherri found a few spare rounds, a small flashlight, and a keycard, pocketing them quickly.

“Let’s move,” Angel said, his voice firm as he straightened up. He gave the others a look that reminded them they couldn’t afford to waste time here.

Charlie took a long, slow breath, counting to four as she inhaled, holding it, then releasing it. Another inhale, a little shakier this time, as she tried to ignore the tight, uncomfortable pinch of duct tape digging into her forearms. The restraints held her so firmly against the worn wood of the chair that she could almost feel the grain through her skin.

She blinked up at the ceiling, squinting against the harsh, yellow light spilling down from a single dangling bulb. The glow gave everything in the small room a grim, washed-out look, like the last scene in some old, abandoned theater. She scanned the corners again as if hoping maybe someone else would appear there, but it was just her—her, the buzzing light, and the four walls that seemed to shrink in around her with every breath.

Being alone should’ve been better than being stuck with Adam for more grueling hours listening to his shitty voice and inhaling more of his shitty cigarettes… but in this silence, the emptiness felt almost louder. She forced another slow inhale, then glanced down at her wrists, flexing her hands just to feel some movement, any movement. The duct tape bit back.

The damp fabric of Charlie's shirt clung to her skin, making her itch and shiver at once. She shifted, trying to ease the slick, uncomfortable feeling of her sweat-drenched clothes against the chair. The weight of her legs pressed down awkwardly, her knees cramping. She adjusted, trying to find some relief, and felt something hard press against her thigh, wedged in her pocket.

Her heart gave a tiny, surprised jolt. The ring.

The small, ring-shaped object suddenly felt heavy, like it carried the weight of every decision she’d made in the past twenty-four hours. The ring she'd picked up for Vaggie. The one she’d been so desperate to get, so focused on planning a damn proposal, that she’d taken a detour earlier today to a jewelry store. She glanced at her watch, thankful it was still in place and visible as she pieced the day together.

A wave of guilt hit her. Leaving Vaggie out there on the street alone, all because she wanted to do this one thing. To surprise her. But now? Now she was here, tied to a chair in some windowless room, with no way of knowing where Vaggie was or if she was safe. Her chest tightened as her mind twisted around the what-ifs, circling back to that choice: Would things be different if they’d just left then? Would they have been anywhere near these Exorcists?

And yet, the bigger question gnawed at her, the one she couldn’t shake: How did they know so much about Vaggie? They’d called her by her rank—referred to her like she still belonged with them. Vaggie had been discharged, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t just… she wouldn’t still be involved with people like them, not the ones who hunted them now. She wouldn’t keep something like that from her.

Right?

Charlie’s heart pounded harder like her brain was clinging to that impossible question just to distract her from the reality she was in, from the endless, nagging worry of where Vaggie was right now. No, she told herself. There’s no way Vaggie would ever be part of something like this.

A sudden, jarring clang rattled through the room, shaking Charlie from her spiraling thoughts. Her head snapped up, breath catching as the heavy metal door swung open. Adam’s bulky figure filled the doorway, his silhouette looming before he stepped inside.

“Wake up, princess,” he drawled. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Charlie clenched her teeth, willing herself to keep her gaze steady, to mask any flicker of fear or anger that might give him satisfaction. But then, she saw another figure being shoved roughly into the room behind Adam. The shape was small, frail-looking—her heart dropped.

Vaggie.

Lute came in, dragging Vaggie by the arm. Vaggie stumbled forward, barely able to keep her footing, and was forced into the chair across from Charlie.

Charlie’s heart plummeted. Vaggie’s face was a mess of blood and bruises, her lip split and her nose swollen, with thin trails of blood trickling down from both. Her eye, darkened by smudged, painful-looking bruises, blinked dully at Charlie as if she barely registered her surroundings. She was dressed in just her tank top, exposing mottled bruises that mapped across her arms and shoulders, evidence of blows that had already begun to purple and swell. When she lowered her arms onto the table between them, Charlie’s stomach lurched at the sight of her hands. Her right hand—every finger bent at odd angles, twisted and broken.

Vaggie’s gaze met Charlie’s, a fleeting look of apology flickering in her bruised, swollen eye, as if she were sorry for being here like this, for having been dragged down to this.

No. No! There's nothing you’ll apologize for…

Adam laughed, glancing back and forth between them. “Look at you two—held out this long without spilling a fucking word. Impressive, really,” he sneered, and he even slow-clapped. “I thought one of you would’ve cracked by now.”

Adam smirked as he settled himself onto the table between Charlie and Vaggie, looking between them. His movements were slow, and deliberate, as if he wanted every second to drag.

“You know, blondie,” he began, his voice dripping with amusement, “after all these hours of our little chat, I just realized I haven’t even mentioned the most interesting thing about how we know Sergeant Rodríguez here.” He glanced at Vaggie, his smile widening as he caught the slight shift in Charlie’s expression—a flash of surprise, maybe a hint of confusion.

Vaggie kept her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the table, but her shoulders seemed to sink even lower as if she were bracing herself.

Adam leaned back, stretching his arms as if preparing to tell a long story. “See, before the Exorcists even existed, Sergeant Rodríguez wasn’t just some ordinary soldier. Oh, no.” He gestured at Vaggie mockingly. “Back in our Marine Corps days, she was an exceptional soldier—the type who didn’t just follow orders but knew how to lead. Hell, she practically ran her platoon herself after the fucking conflict in Haiti.”

Charlie felt a prickle of unease. "What are you even talking about?" she asked, her voice harsher than she'd intended. Adam just laughed, a dry, humorless sound that filled the small, stale room.

“Oh, don’t tell me she didn’t share her whole war-hero background with you, princess,” he sneered, turning to Vaggie. “Does your bimbo girlfriend not know?” He leaned toward Charlie, his voice low and taunting. “I mean, I’m honestly baffled. You didn’t even know who she really was.”

Charlie’s heart twisted. She looked at Vaggie, hoping for some kind of reassurance, some denial, anything—but Vaggie only lowered her head further, her jaw tightening, a look of shame flitting across her battered face.

“That’s why I’m telling you this, blondie,” Adam continued. “Because you clearly have no idea who you’re dealing with.” He tilted his head, regarding her with feigned sympathy. “You told me earlier that she’d never killed anyone in her service, and I just—” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I almost felt bad for you. So naive.”

He waved his hand, and Lute stepped forward, pulling something from her pocket—a pristine photograph. She slapped it down on the table between them, right in front of Charlie.

Charlie looked down, her eyes locking onto the image. It was a younger Vaggie, dressed in full combat gear, standing alongside her unit in some barren, war-torn landscape. The hard lines on her face, the steel in her eyes, and the worn look of her comrades told a story she’d never heard before.

“Go ahead, take a good look at your real girl. The one who’d put a bullet in a man without question” Adam leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he grinned, savoring the moment. “You ever wonder why she made sergeant so damn fast after Haiti?”

Charlie’s stomach churned, her gaze flickering between the photograph and Vaggie. Her voice felt like sandpaper, “What are you trying to say?”

Adam’s smirk widened. “I’m saying, princess, that your darling girl here isn’t as spotless as you think. Hell, no one in her line of work comes out clean. When the Marines hit the field, they do whatever it takes to win. And I mean whatever. You think orders like ‘kill the enemy’ stop there? Think they skip the part where there are witnesses?” He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming. “I hate to break it to you, but sometimes, civilians end up on the wrong side of a barrel.”

Charlie’s pulse roared in her ears. She turned to Vaggie, her breath hitching. “That’s not true,” she said, the words spilling out before she could think. “Tell me that’s not true.”

Vaggie didn’t move. Her head stayed bowed, her lips pressed tightly together, blood still dripping sluggishly from her swollen nose.

Adam chuckled. “She won’t deny it because she can’t. Rodriguez here knows damn well what she’s done. They sent her and her unit into Haiti to ‘stabilize’ the conflict in that region, right? You’ve remembered the news back then—the shootouts, the starvation, the riots. And when her CO gave the order to shoot anything that moved, you think she hesitated? No. None of them did.”

Vaggie flinched, her fingers curling into fists on the table, but she still didn’t speak.

Adam slapped the table, making Charlie jump. “And when it wasn’t just rioters or looters? When it was families? Kids? Witnesses who saw something they shouldn’t?” He shrugged, his tone almost bored. “They pulled the trigger. She pulled the trigger.”

“Shut up,” Charlie hissed, her voice trembling.

But Adam wasn’t done. “You ever wonder why she’s so damn good at surviving? Why she can handle herself like she’s been doing this her whole life? Because she has. She was trained to kill anything, anyone, without a second thought. And she didn’t just do it—she excelled at it. That’s why she’s a sergeant, blondie. Honest work, sure, but no one—no one—keeps their hands clean.”

“Stop!” Charlie’s voice cracked as she stared at Vaggie, her chest heaving. “Tell me he’s lying. Tell me you didn’t—”

Vaggie slowly raised her head, her one unbruised eye locking onto Charlie’s. Her voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, cut through the tension like a knife. “I… I followed orders, Charlie.”

Charlie’s heart felt like it had been ripped out of her chest. She wanted to scream, to deny everything, but the haunted look in Vaggie’s eye told her it was true. Every word.

“I didn’t want to,” Vaggie whispered, her voice trembling. “I swear I didn’t, but… but when you’re out there, and they tell you to pull the trigger…” Her breath hitched, and her gaze dropped again, shame weighing her down.

Adam let out a low whistle, leaning back. “See? I told you. She’s not the hero you think she is. None of us are.”

Charlie’s vision blurred, tears stinging her eyes as she tried to reconcile the woman she loved with the stranger sitting across from her. “But… civilians?” she managed. “You… you shot innocent people?”

Vaggie’s jaw tightened, her lips trembling. “Orders.”

Adam snorted. “That’s the excuse they all use. ‘Just following orders.’ Convenient, huh?” He glanced between them, his grin returning. “So, what now, princess? Still think you can trust her?”

Charlie felt a thousand emotions wrestling inside her—shock, disbelief, anger. But beneath it all was a sharper, more biting feeling. Betrayal.

But then she caught herself. Her gaze shifted from the photo back to Vaggie, still hunched over, staring at the table like the world was against her. Bruised, battered, looking more broken than Charlie had ever seen her. And in that instant, a sense of clarity settled over Charlie, something beyond Adam’s explanation or the photograph.

Because this was still Vaggie. No photograph or story or whatever bullshit from Adam would change that. The woman who’d fought alongside her, who’d saved her life more times than she could count, who loved her so fiercely it left her breathless—that was Vaggie. Whatever she’d done before, whatever secrets she’d kept from me…

Beneath it all, a small voice whispered that it wasn’t Vaggie she hated. It was them. The ones who turned her into this. The ones who stole her soul piece by piece and left her drowning in guilt.

She remembered back at Queens College, and their conversation back at the dealership…

“I didn't mean to.”

“I don’t care what you say,” Charlie said firmly. “She’s not like you. She’s better than you. And no matter what she’s done, she’s still better than you’ll ever be. Whatever game you’re playing here, it doesn’t matter. So either let us go or…” Her voice trailed off, though her eyes held steady. She didn’t have a follow-up. Not one she could act on, anyway.

Adam’s laugh was sharper this time. “Jesus fucking Christ! You’re as naïve as you look, blondie. You think I don’t know that bond between you? But it’s not going to save her.” He gestured at Vaggie.

He turned to Vaggie, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. “You gonna keep hiding the truth, Sergeant Rodríguez? Or are you ready to show her who you really are?”

Silence, and not even Vaggie return the eye contact to Adam. His smirk twitched, the lack of reaction from Vaggie starting to chip away at his patience. "You think staying quiet makes you stronger? Makes you tougher?" He tilted his head, mockingly inspecting her battered face. "It just makes you stubborn. And I fucking hate stubborn people."

Charlie’s jaw clenched, her fists tightening on her lap, but she stayed silent. Adam caught her glare and chuckled darkly. "Oh, don’t look at me like that, blondie. It won’t matter anyway. None of this does." He straightened and gestured to Lute with a flick of his wrist.

Without hesitation, Lute stepped forward, grabbing a handful of Vaggie’s hair and yanking her head up. Vaggie grunted in pain, her teeth gritted as her bruised face was forced into the light. Charlie flinched at the sight, her heart lurching.

Adam pulled his revolver from its holster, spinning it once before pointing it directly at Vaggie. The cold barrel gleamed as Adam stood against the table.

"Let’s skip the small talk, shall we?" Adam started. "I’ll make this fucking simple. Where is your base?"

Charlie opened her mouth, her heart pounding in her chest, but before she could form a single word, Vaggie’s voice cut through, "Don’t tell them anything!" Her voice cracked but didn’t waver, her gaze locking on Charlie despite the pain wracking her body. "No matter what they do, Charlie. Don’t—"

“Shut her up,” Adam barked, and Lute responded immediately, yanking Vaggie’s hair so hard that she cried out, her voice choking off into a pained gasp.

Adam clucked his tongue, shaking his head as he aimed the revolver down and pulled the trigger. The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed through the room as the bullet struck the floor just inches from Vaggie’s chair leg.

Charlie let out a strangled cry, her nails digging into her thighs as her body jolted from the sound. Vaggie flinched but kept her composure, though her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. Her good eye flicked to Charlie, pleading silently, Don’t do it.

Adam’s expression twisted into something more menacing as he brought the gun back up, aiming it squarely at Vaggie’s head. "I’m not fucking around, sweetheart. If you think I’m bluffing, you’re dumber than I thought. I’ll paint these walls with her brains if you don’t start talking. Now." He jabbed the gun in Vaggie’s direction for emphasis. "Where. Is. Your. Base?"

Charlie’s chest heaved as her mind raced. The room felt suffocating, every second stretching unbearably long. She glanced at Vaggie, whose swollen, bloodied face was set in a fierce determination even as she struggled against the hold on her hair. Charlie’s breath caught—she couldn’t lose her.

Adam sighed, his grip on the revolver tightening as he adjusted his aim. "You’re testing my patience, blondie," he muttered. Without warning, he squeezed the trigger again.

The crack of the shot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet hit the ground just to the right of Vaggie’s chair, the splinters grazing her leg.

Adam let out a low laugh as he stalked to Vaggie’s side. "Still nothing? Fine. Let’s see how brave you are when the barrel’s a little closer."

He crouched beside her, roughly jamming the cold barrel of the revolver against her temple. The pressure made Vaggie wince, but she still refused to look at him. Instead, her one unbruised eye locked onto Charlie’s, pleading silently. Begging her.

Charlie froze. Her entire world narrowed to the scene before her—the bruises on Vaggie’s face, the gun pressed to her head, and Adam’s twisted grin.

"Last chance," Adam said, his voice dangerously soft. "Where’s the base? You don’t answer, and she dies. Simple as that."

Vaggie shook her head weakly, her voice hoarse as she whispered, "Don’t tell them, Charlie. Please." Her eye were desperate, not for her own life but for Charlie to keep their home safe.

Adam leaned closer to Vaggie, his lips curling into a snarl. "You’re making this harder than it needs to be," he hissed. He turned to Charlie, gesturing with the gun still pressed to Vaggie’s temple. "Tick-tock, blondie. Choose. Her life? Or your precious little safe haven? Clock’s ticking."

Charlie’s chest heaved, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over and streaking her face. She could feel Vaggie’s silent plea bearing down on her, but Adam’s presence and his fucking revolver aiming at her lover’s head crushed her ability to think clearly.

Her old mansion. Her friends. Their home. The place they’d built so hard to protect.

But then there was Vaggie. The love of her life. The one who’d stood by her, fought for her, and bled for her.

Charlie’s chest heaved, and for a single, unbearable second, everything fell silent except for the pounding of her heart. Her gaze locked on Vaggie’s, who looked back with a mixture of desperation and unrelenting loyalty, silently begging her to not give in.

Charlie’s lips trembled as she choked on a sob.

She couldn’t lose her.

"East Hamptons!" She shouted, the words tumbled out before she could stop them, and the decision tore her apart even as it left her lips.

Adam raised an eyebrow, his grin returning.

"Our base... by Water Mill," Charlie continued, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face. "Rose Road. The red mansion…" Her voice faltered. The room fell silent except for Charlie’s ragged sobs as the truth hung like a noose tightening around her. Vaggie’s head jerked, her good eye wide with disbelief, then a flicker of devastation.

Adam let out a low whistle, finally pulling the revolver away from Vaggie’s temple. "Now that’s what I wanted to hear," he said, straightening up and holstering his gun.

Lute released Vaggie’s hair, letting her slump forward. But her gaze stayed fixed on Charlie, and in her shattered expression was a pain far deeper than the bruises on her body.

Adam’s grin widened as he looked over his shoulder at Lute. “Well, well, look at that. We finally got ourselves a destination,” he said, clapping his hands once mockingly. “Lute, get the patrols ready. I want boots heading for Water Mill within the hour. Just in case our little songbird here isn’t full of shit.”

Lute straightened, her expression cold and calculating as she adjusted her rifle strap. “On it, sir,” she said curtly, stepping away from Vaggie and heading toward the door. “I’ll make sure the patrols are prepped and ready.”

Adam gave her a quick nod before turning his attention back to Charlie and Vaggie. His smirk remained plastered on his face, smug and unrelenting. He crouched again, leaning in so close to Charlie that she could feel his breath. “See? Wasn’t that easy? A little cooperation goes a long way. You two are gonna start treating us a hell of a lot nicer now. You know why?”

Neither Charlie nor Vaggie responded. Vaggie’s head hung low, her breaths shallow but steady, while Charlie’s tear-streaked face remained fixed on the table, her lips pressed tightly together.

Adam chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “Because you,” he gestured at Charlie, “just bought yourselves a little mercy by cooperating. And you,” he leaned down, his lips near Vaggie’s ear, “are still alive because of her. So maybe start saying thank you, huh?”

Vaggie flinched but didn’t respond, her jaw clenched as tightly as her fists tightened on the table. Charlie glared at him through tear-filled eyes, her body trembling as a mix of anger, despair, and guilt overwhelmed her. She didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, her throat tight as if the weight of her betrayal had physically lodged there.

Adam chuckled, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. You made the right call. And because I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to start treating you both a little better now that we’re on the same page.” Adam snorted, straightening and stepping away.

He pivoted toward Vaggie, who was slumped in her chair but still glaring up at him despite the pain etched across her face. “Don’t worry, tough shit. You’ve got your girlfriend to thank for keeping your pretty little head intact. For now.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, though,” he added, turning to Charlie. “If we find out you’ve been lying? You won’t just lose your base. You’ll lose her. And this time, I’ll make sure you watch.”

Charlie remained quiet, while Vaggie’s one good eye turned toward her again, glassy and pained, and in that gaze was a mix of anguish and forgiveness that broke Charlie’s heart all over again.

Adam clapped his hands. “Now, sit tight, ladies. We’ll be paying your little red mansion a visit soon enough.”

With that, Adam turned on his heel and walked toward the door, motioning for a guard to follow him out. Lute gave one last, lingering glance at Charlie and Vaggie before she disappeared after Adam, her boots echoing ominously down the corridor.

The door slammed shut, leaving the two women in suffocating silence. Charlie’s shoulders shook with quiet sobs as she buried her face in her hands, her entire body trembling. Vaggie turned her head, wincing at the movement but keeping her gaze locked on Charlie.

Vaggie closed her eye, leaning her head back against the chair as her breathing steadied. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension and despair in the room so heavy it was almost unbearable.

“Wait!”

The group froze mid-step, their collective breaths catching as Angel raised a hand after he whispered, his usually sarcastic tone replaced by something serious. Ahead of them, the sound of a door creaking open echoed faintly through the hallway. Two figures in their gray uniforms emerged from the room across the corridor.

Damn it!

Angel’s eyes flicked toward the others, then to the tiny nook on their left—the one with a rusted fire exit sign above. “There!” he hissed, jerking his head toward the narrow space. “Go! Go!”

No one questioned him. They hurried into the nook, pressing themselves against the cold wall. The space was tight, barely wide enough to fit all of them, and the air grew stifling in their cramped formation. Angel held up a finger to his lips, signaling silence, as the Exorcists’ voices carried down the hall.

“Man, my back’s killing me,” one of them grumbled. “I swear, if I have to organize one more crate of bullshit prisoner belongings, I’m gonna lose it.”

The second Exorcist snorted, a lazy, mocking laugh. “You’re whining over that? God, it’s not like they’re asking you to scrub toilets. Just stick some shit in a box and call it a day.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. You don’t have the lieutenant breathing down your neck whenever you leave a speck of dust behind. Lieutenant Adlon’s got a freakin’ microscope for mistakes,” the first Exorcist shot back defensively.

“Please,” the second one replied. “You should be thankful. General’s not as bad as those psychos running things back in South Carolina. Remember Commander Barton? That guy made us count grains of rice during inventory checks. At least here, it’s just boxes of junk.”

Angel’s ears perked up at that. Prisoner belongings? He glanced at the others, their faces tense and pale. He didn’t need to say it; they all thought the same thing. Charlie and Vaggie.

“Yeah, well, the lieutenant’s still a pain in the ass,” the first Exorcist grumbled, though his tone was less biting now. “Even after the dead freaks took over, commanding officers are still commanding officers. Nothing changes.”

“Tell me about it,” the second Exorcist said, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

The walkie-talkies suddenly crackled to life, filling the air with a burst of static followed by garbled voices issuing rapid commands. Angel strained to decipher the messages, but the words were unintelligible amid the noise. Judging by the confused expressions on the others' faces, they struggled to understand it as well.

Then the Exorcists exchanged a glance and laughed.

“Well, that’s a relief,” the first one said after a moment. “Looks like the general and the lieutenant are handling the prisoners tonight. I guess I can finally catch a break.”

“Lucky you,” the second one muttered, though his voice had a note of disappointment. “I was hoping to see Sergeant Rodríguez.”

The first Exorcist let out a low chuckle. “What’s your deal with Rodríguez? Why’re you so excited to see her?”

Their voices began to fade, the sound of their footsteps growing distant. Angel exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he realized they were moving away from the group.

As the exorcists' footsteps disappeared down the hallway, Angel finally let out a low, shaky breath. “Well, that was a fun little heart attack,” he muttered

Cherri was the first to exhale audibly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was way too fucking close. We gotta move before they decide to double back.”

“Yeah,” Angel said, peeking around the corner. But Pentious cut in. “We need to check that room,” Pentious said, nodding toward the door the exorcists had come from.

“What?” Angel snapped, keeping his voice quiet. “You heard them—they’re using it as a storage room for prisoner belongings. You think Charlie and Vaggie’s stuff are just sitting in there with a bow on top?”

“Precisely,” Pentious’s voice tightened. “If there’s a chance their belongings are in there, we’d be foolish to leave without checking or even retrieving them out of courtesy.”

Angel clenched his fists, frustration flashing across his face. “And what if we get caught? You think those military fancy pants are just gonna let us off with a slap on the wrist?”

“We won’t get caught if we move carefully,” Pentious said firmly. “We can’t leave empty-handed. Not when Charlie and Vaggie might need whatever’s in that room.”

Alastor tapped his blade against the wall, his smile thin and sharp. “Our engineer makes a fair point. Risky, yes, but potentially rewarding.”

Angel gritted his teeth, glancing back at the others. “Fucking fine,” he muttered. “But we move quick, and we don’t split up. Got it?”

The group nodded in unison, though unease hung in the air like a thick fog.

Angel took the lead, slipping out of the nook and creeping toward the storage room door. The others followed close behind, their movements silent except for the faint creak of the old floorboards.

Angel reached the storage room door and paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He jiggled it gently, and a quiet clink confirmed his suspicion—it was locked.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, shooting a glance over his shoulder at the others. “Figures they wouldn’t make it easy.”

“Can you open it?” Pentious whispered.

Angel scowled, already digging into his jacket pocket. “I’m not a fucking magician, but yeah, I can probably open it.” He pulled out a paperclip shaped into a tension wrench and a pin.

“Hurry,” Cherri urged, her eye darting toward the end of the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, no pressure,” Angel grumbled, crouching to get a better angle on the lock. He inserted the tension wrench first, applying just enough torque to keep the pins in place. His fingers worked quickly, deftly feeling for the telltale clicks that signaled success.

Behind him, the others stood like coiled springs, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. The hallway stretched eerily silent now, but the tension was suffocating.

“Any day now,” Alastor muttered.

“Do you wanna try, bro?” Angel snapped quietly, not looking up. “You guys are always so damn impatient whenever I fucking lockpick.” His focus was entirely on the lock, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Keep your voices down,” Cherri hissed.

Angel’s frustration flared, but he bit his tongue. With a final, satisfying click, the lock gave way. He grinned triumphantly, standing and pushing the door open just enough to peek inside.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single fluorescent bulb, flickering weakly above rows of shelves and crates. Cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, some labeled with numbers and others with faded handwriting. Some rows of shelves lined the walls are also cluttered with boxes, bags, and scattered belongings. A faint musty smell hung in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of rust.

“There,” Pentious said, pointing toward a cluster of crates near the back, where a handwritten sign read 'Prisoner Intake'.

Angel rolled his eyes. “Subtle,” he muttered, stepping into the room and letting the door click softly shut behind them. “Alright, grab what you can. And be quick about it.”

Alastor moved to the nearest shelf, scanning the boxes for anything of value. Cherri and Pentious headed straight for the marked crates, with the former prying one open with a crowbar.

Angel stood by the door, keeping watch and tapping his foot impatiently. “I swear if we don’t find anything useful—”

Pentious cut him off, holding up the straps of the duffle bag that Vaggie used for the supply run earlier, her backpack, and Charlie’s leather satchel. “Found it,” he whispered triumphantly.

Angel blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. Let’s hope it’s got something we can use.”

The group worked quickly, grabbing what they could carry. Angel kept one ear trained on the hallway, his tension building with each passing second.

“Alright,” Cherri said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. “We good?”

“Let’s move,” Angel said, already cracking the door open to check the hall. The coast was clear—for now.

Angel led the way, his steps fast and deliberate as the group crouched low, moving swiftly and silently out of the storage room. The hallway seemed impossibly long, the faint flicker of overhead lights casting shadows that danced with every step they took. Alastor and Cherri were close behind, while Pentious brought up the rear, his eyes darting to every corner as if expecting an ambush.

They made their way westward, sticking close to the walls and slipping between alcoves whenever the hallway widened. The air was damp, thick with the scent of mildew, and every creak of the floorboards beneath their feet made Angel wince.

Then, a thunderous crack echoed through the basement, stopping them all in their tracks. It was distant but unmistakable—the sharp bark of a gunshot.

Angel’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. The others exchanged tense glances, their collective unease thickening the air.

“What the fuck was that?” Cherri whispered sharply, her hand instinctively moving to her sidearm.

“Gunshot,” Pentious answered grimly.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Angel muttered. He crouched lower, scanning the dim hallway ahead. “It came from the west. Same direction as Charlie and Vaggie.”

Before anyone could respond, a second gunshot rang out, just as loud and ominous as the first. This time, it was followed by a faint, muffled shout—indistinct but unmistakably human.

“Someone’s having a hell of a party,” Alastor said softly, his grin sharp and unsettling.

Cherri snapped, “This isn’t the time for fucking jokes, meathead.”

“We have to keep moving,” Pentious’s voice was tight. “If they’re in trouble—”

“We know!” Angel snapped, his frustration bubbling over. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. “But rushing in like idiots is gonna get us all killed. We need a plan.”

“Then what plan?” Pentious hissed. “We don’t even know what we’re walking into!”

“That’s exactly why we need to get our heads out of your asses, smart-ass,” Angel shot back. He glanced down the corridor, his eyes narrowing. “We stick to the shadows and get as close as we can without being seen. If shit goes south... we improvise. Got it?”

Pentious nodded grimly, his jaw set, while Cherri let out a reluctant grunt of agreement. Alastor, who had been uncharacteristically silent, gave a slow, deliberate smile. “A delightful strategy. Let’s see how fate treats us this time.”

Angel didn’t waste another second. He motioned for the group to follow and led them down the hallway, their steps quieter now, every muscle in their bodies coiled and ready to spring.

The distant sounds of muffled voices and the occasional metallic clatter grew louder with every step.

The silence between them was so thick it felt like a third person in the room—a heavy, uninvited guest Charlie didn’t quite know how to handle.

The room still smelled like sweat and fear—Vaggie’s fear, specifically, which she’d never admit to, but Charlie could see it in the way she flinched when the door creaked or how she kept flexing her good hand like she could punch her way out if she needed to.

Charlie didn’t blame her. She’d been stuck in this same room for hours, thinking about Adam and his stupid fucking hairy face and the way he pronounced irrelevant like it was a personal insult. Thank God that was over.

She sat cross-legged on the cold floor, the roll of bandages (Charlie had convinced the Exorcists to give her something. Firmly.) precariously balanced on her knee, carefully winding it around Vaggie’s splinted fingers. The makeshift wooden pieces dug awkwardly into her palm as she worked, but Vaggie didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Charlie had to stop herself from apologizing for the splints being uneven. It wasn’t like they had a professional first-aid kit here. And besides, Vaggie wouldn’t have responded anyway. Not with that stare—the kind that didn’t focus on anything in the room but somehow managed to see too much at the same time.

She swallowed and kept wrapping, feeling the weight of Vaggie’s silence pressing down on her chest like a stone. It wasn’t like Charlie expected a thank you—Vaggie wasn’t big on pleasantries even in the best of times—but the quiet? The quiet was a little too loud.

“Does it hurt?” she asked finally, her voice cutting through the stillness. It came out more tentative than she intended.

Vaggie didn’t look at her, just kept staring at the same spot on the wall, her expression unreadable.

Right. Dumb question. Of course it hurt.

Charlie glanced down at Vaggie’s fingers, adjusting one of the splints before securing it in place with another loop of bandage. Her hands weren’t trembling, but they felt like they should be. The tension between them wasn’t just a shadow—it was the room. It filled every corner, soaked into the cracked plaster walls, and made every breath feel like a test Charlie wasn’t sure she could pass.

She wanted to say something—anything—but what could she possibly say? Sorry I let them hurt you? Sorry I couldn’t stop this? Sorry we’re here at all? Each sentence felt heavier than the last, and none of them seemed enough.

The memory of Vaggie earlier—how they’d dragged her into this room, limp but still conscious, blood dripping from her fingers—flashed uninvited into Charlie’s mind. The raw anger she’d felt then bubbled up now, settling hot and acidic in her stomach. But anger wasn’t going to help either of them right now.

She secured the last of the bandages and sat back on her heels, finally letting herself exhale. “Okay, that should hold for now,” she said softly.

Vaggie blinked then, just once, her eye finally breaking away from that fixed point on the wall. She looked at her hand, at the splints and bandages, and then up at Charlie. Her gaze was glassy, distant, but there was something else there too—something fragile, teetering on the edge.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice so quiet Charlie almost didn’t hear it.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make the weight in Charlie’s chest shift, just slightly. “Of course,” Charlie said, her voice just as soft. She hesitated, then reached out and rested her hand lightly on Vaggie’s knee.

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t the suffocating kind—Charlie kept her hand on Vaggie’s knee, her thumb absently tracing a small, circular pattern. Vaggie’s gaze had drifted back to her hand, now wrapped in bandages and splints that looked more like a desperate art project than proper medical care.

And then, so quietly it almost didn’t register, Vaggie said, “I’m sorry.”

Charlie’s head snapped up. “You don’t have to—”

“I have to,” Vaggie cut her off, her voice still soft but firm in a way that made Charlie’s chest tighten. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, more to herself than to Charlie. “I didn’t mean to hide it. About Haiti. About… what I did when I was deployed there.”

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. The room seemed to shrink around them, the walls closing in as the air grew heavier. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but no words came out.

The silence stretched for a beat before Charlie finally found her voice even though it felt clumsy. “What Adam said… was it true?”

Vaggie didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her shoulders hunching inward like she was trying to make herself smaller. “Not all of it,” she said finally. Her voice was so low that Charlie had to strain to hear her. “But… the part where I followed orders without question? That’s true.”

Charlie swallowed hard, her throat dry. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know—but she also couldn’t look away.

“It’s protocol,” Vaggie continued. “As a Marine, you follow orders. Even when…” She stopped, her jaw tightening as her gaze flicked back to her bandaged hand.

Even when what? Charlie wanted to ask, but she already knew. The way Vaggie’s voice cracked, the way her shoulders tensed…

“When we were in Haiti,” Vaggie said, her voice flat now, almost mechanical, “we were ordered to… eliminate any civilians who were associated with the enemy.” She paused, her hands curling into fists despite the splints. “We lined them up. On their backs. And we gunned them down.”

Her voice cracked further, “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I know how much you hate these kinds of conflicts. These unnecessary, horrific wars… I know how much of a pacifist you are, Charlie. And I couldn’t—” She clenched her jaw, swallowing hard before continuing. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you knowing. Of you looking at me like… like this.”

Vaggie’s voice broke on the last word, and the room felt colder for it. Her gaze didn’t leave her hand, but the tremor in her shoulders was unmistakable now, her carefully constructed mask starting to crack. She squeezed her eye shut and whispered, “I didn’t mean to.”

Charlie’s breath caught. The phrase struck her like a slap, echoing in her mind, dragging her back to Queens College—the silent, still halls littered with corpses. The blood pooled around crumpled bodies, their faces frozen in shock and terror. Students. Kids. Gunned down by soldiers who were supposed to protect them.

And then there was Vaggie. She’d stopped dead when they turned the corner, her body going rigid. Charlie had said her name—once, then again—but Vaggie hadn’t moved. She’d just stood there, staring at the bodies with a look Charlie hadn’t understood at the time but did now.

And the dealership. God, the dealership.

Something rooted in guilt.

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

“Vaggie,” Charlie said softly, her hand still resting on her knee. She waited until Vaggie met her gaze, her eye glassy and full of pain. “I understand.”

Vaggie flinched, shaking her head. “No, you don’t—”

“I do,” Charlie firmly cut her off. “I understand why you feel this way. Why you… why you did what you had to do.” Her voice softened. “You didn’t want to. I know that. You were following orders, trying to do your job. Trying to provide for your family. You thought you were doing what you had to.”

Vaggie’s face crumpled, and Charlie could see the tears she was fighting to hold back. “But it doesn’t make it right,” she whispered. “It doesn’t undo what I did.”

“No,” Charlie agreed gently, leaning closer. “It doesn’t. But it doesn’t make you a monster either.”

Vaggie blinked, stunned into silence, and Charlie took the chance to lace their fingers together, careful not to hurt her injured hand. Vaggie shook her head again, but it was weaker this time, less certain. “You… hate violence, hate everything I’ve done—”

“I hate what it cost you,” Charlie interrupted, her voice breaking. “I hate that it’s taken so much from you. But I don’t hate you, Vaggie. I could never hate you.”

Tears spilled over, and Charlie didn’t hesitate to gently embrace her. Vaggie stiffened at first like she wasn’t sure she deserved it, but eventually, her good arm came up to clutch at Charlie’s back, holding on like she was afraid to let go.

Vaggie’s voice was muffled against Charlie’s shoulder, but the words were enough to send a chill down Charlie’s spine.

“I lied to you.”

Charlie froze, her hand still resting on the back of Vaggie’s head. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself before pulling back just enough to meet Vaggie’s gaze. “I know,” she said softly.

Vaggie’s good hand clenched tighter in the fabric of Charlie’s shirt, her knuckles going white. “I lied to you,” she said again, more insistent this time, her eye wide and searching Charlie’s face as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I—”

“I know,” Charlie repeated, her chest felt like it might collapse under Vaggie’s pain. She reached up to gently cup Vaggie’s face, her thumb brushing away a tear. “And I forgive you.”

Vaggie blinked, her lips parting as though to argue, but no sound came out.

“I forgive you,” Charlie said again, her tone firmer this time. “I forgive you for lying, for hiding it. For thinking you had to carry all of this alone.” Her thumb traced over Vaggie’s cheek, grounding her. “And I forgive you because I love you, Vaggie. And I know the person you are—the person who fights so hard for the people she loves, even when it costs her everything.”

Vaggie’s breath hitched, and she shook her head weakly, her voice trembling. “You don’t understand, Charlie. I didn’t just lie to protect myself. I lied because I was afraid. Afraid you’d see me the way I see myself.”

Charlie’s chest tightened at the admission, but she didn’t look away. “And how do you see yourself?”

“A coward,” Vaggie whispered. “A fraud. Someone who talks about doing what’s right but didn’t have the courage to—” Her voice cracked, and she looked down, ashamed. “Fight back when my own unit… when they…”

Her voice broke completely, but Charlie didn’t need her to finish the sentence. A cold dread began creeping up her spine.

Charlie froze. Her mind raced, connecting fragments of memories and details she hadn’t wanted to confront before—the overwhelming scars crisscrossing Vaggie’s back, the damaged socket where her left eye used to be. The surgical scars she’d caught glimpses of on Vaggie’s torso.

And then there were the medical records. Four years ago.

At the time, she couldn’t comprehend who would do such violence against Vaggie? But now… now it all made sense.

The scars. The injuries. The lingering trauma.

The pieces began falling into place, faster and faster until the picture became horrifyingly clear. Lieutenant Adlon. The exorcists. Adam’s cruel words. And now Vaggie’s confession.

Charlie’s chest tightened as her breathing grew shallow, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Without thinking, the question tore from her lips, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.

“Was it Adlon?” she demanded. “Was it that Lieutenant? Is she the one who did this to you? The one who… who left you like that in the alleyway?”

Vaggie’s eye widened at Charlie’s reaction, and she immediately reached out, grabbing Charlie’s hands with both of hers—even the one in the splint. Her grip was firm despite her injuries, grounding Charlie in place.

“Charlie,” Vaggie said quickly. “Please. Please control your temper. I know what you’re feeling right now. I know you want to go straight to Lauren and—”

“You’re damn right I do,” Charlie snapped, her voice rising before she could stop it. “If she—if they—” She cut herself off, her breathing uneven as her vision blurred with unshed tears.

“Charlie,” Vaggie repeated, squeezing her hands tightly. “Listen to me.” Her voice softened. “As much as you want to confront her about it, you can’t. I have to handle this. Not you.”

Charlie’s jaw clenched, her entire body taut with tension. “Vaggie—”

“No,” Vaggie said firmly, cutting her off. “This… this is my burden. And I need you to let me deal with it in my way. Please.”

Charlie’s mouth opened as if to argue, but then she caught the look on Vaggie’s face. Soft but determined, an expression that said she wouldn’t back down, no matter how much Charlie protested. The tension in Charlie’s chest warred with the urge to honor Vaggie’s wishes, and for a moment, silence filled the space between them.

Charlie exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “What could you have done?” She stared at Vaggie, her brow furrowed. “You’ve always been so loyal, so… obedient. What could you have possibly done to deserve that?”

Vaggie’s shoulders tensed at the question, her gaze dropping briefly to their joined hands. She breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling as if bracing herself for what she was about to reveal.

“I…” Her voice faltered before she found her footing again. “I suspected something.”

“Something?” Charlie prompted.

“Shady things. Corrupt things, whatever bullshit,” Vaggie admitted, her voice quieter now. “Lauren… and General Adam. There were… deals happening. Off-the-books operations. Things that didn’t add up, that didn’t feel right. I started noticing patterns, inconsistencies in reports, supplies disappearing.”

“I was supposed to investigate discreetly. Gather evidence, and file a report through proper channels. That’s what I was supposed to do.”

“What happened?” Charlie asked softly.

“I let my anger get the better of me. Lauren and I were… living together at the time.” She paused. “I confronted her instead of waiting. I told her I knew what she was doing and that I wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen. I… I broke things off, and told her I’d report everything I’d found.”

Charlie’s stomach turned. “You gave her a warning.”

“I gave her a chance,” Vaggie said bitterly, shaking her head. “The benefit of the doubt. I thought… I thought she cared about me. That maybe, if I threatened to go public, she’d come clean and make it right.”

“But instead… she set me up. The day after I confronted her, she told me there was an important meeting happening. Said I needed to be there to hear what was going on.”

Vaggie’s gaze grew distant, her expression tightening as she relived the memory. “But when I got there, there was no meeting. No agenda. Just… them. Her, Adam, and my unit. They said it was punishment for insubordination. For disloyalty. And Lauren…” She swallowed hard, her grip on Charlie’s hands tightening. “Lauren was the one who ordered it.”

Charlie felt her blood run cold, her entire body stiff with rage and disbelief to the point that made her clench her fists. “You did the right thing, and she—”

Vaggie interrupted her with an embrace, her movements a little flimsy from her injuries but no less earnest. Her arms wrapped around Charlie, grounding her before she could fully spiral.

Vaggie pressed her cheek against Charlie’s shoulder. “You can’t let your anger control you. Please. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

Charlie’s breath hitched as she stood frozen in Vaggie’s hold.

“I’m telling you all this because you deserve to know. You deserve honesty from me. No more secrets. Ever again… And I know,” Vaggie pulled back just enough to meet Charlie’s gaze, “I know Adam would’ve told you eventually. He would’ve used it against me. My mistakes in Haiti, my failures, everything I’ve tried to forget.”

Charlie’s chest tightened further. “Vaggie—”

Vaggie shook her head, cutting her off again. “I can’t lose you, Charlie. I need you. You’re the only one who keeps me going right now. Please, don’t let this place take that from us.”

Charlie felt the fight drain from her, the fire in her chest dimming to embers. She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping.

Vaggie seemed to sense the shift, her grip on Charlie’s arms softening. “For now, we need to focus on getting out of here alive,” she said gently. “And you… you need to keep being the leader our group deserves. The leader I need.”

Charlie let out a shaky laugh, the sound strained but genuine. “You’re right. You’re always right. I just…” She trailed off, exhaling deeply. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to let go. Especially knowing how much you’ve already suffered.”

Vaggie’s smile was faint. She reached up with her good hand and brushed a strand of hair from Charlie’s face. However, her faint smile didn’t last and her expression turned serious, her brow furrowing as if bracing herself for something she didn’t want to say but had to. She dropped her hand from Charlie’s face and looked her directly in the eye. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Charlie said cautiously.

“If I had a chance to kill any of the Exorcists,” Vaggie began, “would you let me do it?”

The question hit Charlie like a gut punch. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She bit her lip, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to reconcile the impossible. “I—” Charlie stopped herself, closing her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, she met Vaggie’s unwavering gaze.

“Killing is wrong,” Charlie said finally. “I’ve believed that for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t matter who it is, what they’ve done—taking a life should never be the answer.”

Vaggie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak, letting Charlie continue.

“But,” Charlie looked down at their hands, still loosely joined, and exhaled a slow, shaky breath, “we’re not in a world where peace is always an option anymore. The people out there—those Exorcists—they’re not just hurting you. They’re hurting everyone they can get their hands on. And if it comes down to a choice between protecting you, protecting our group, and sticking to my ideals…” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it. “Then, yes. I’d let you do it.”

Vaggie’s expression didn’t shift, but her grip on Charlie’s arms tightened slightly.

Charlie took a shaky breath, forcing herself to be fully transparent. “It doesn’t mean I think it’s right. It doesn’t mean I won’t hate myself for letting it happen. But we’re people, Vaggie. And people are… messy. Flawed, and we’re bound to be more screwed up than we’d ever want to admit. If peace isn’t an option, then killing them is… the second one. The last resort.”

Vaggie nodded slowly, her face unreadable. “You’d hate yourself for letting it happen, but not for doing it yourself.”

Charlie flinched at the quiet observation, feeling as though Vaggie had peeled back the layers of her. “I don’t know if I could live with myself if I killed someone. Not even them. I think it would break something in me that I couldn’t put back together. But if it were you, or Angel, or anyone else in the group who had to do it…” She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I could live with that. Because it would mean you’re still here.”

The room felt unbearably still, the weight of their conversation pressing down like a physical force.

Finally, Vaggie let out a long, slow breath. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “For being honest with me.”

Charlie looked at her, searching for any trace of judgment, but found only understanding in Vaggie’s eye.

“I’m not saying I’d do it lightly,” Vaggie continued, her voice tinged with sorrow. “But I needed to know where you stand. Because if it ever comes to that—if we’re forced to make that choice—I need to know we’re on the same page.”

Charlie nodded, her throat tight. “We are. Even if that page is a little torn up.”

Vaggie smiled faintly at that, a flicker of humor breaking through the heaviness. “Torn, bloodstained, and barely holding together. Sounds about right.”

Before Charlie could respond, a sudden noise from outside the room shattered the tense silence. The muffled sound of voices—low, urgent, and unintelligible—filtered through the walls. Both Charlie and Vaggie froze, their bodies instinctively tensing.

Then came a loud thud against the wall, so violent it made the floor beneath them tremble.

“What the hell—” Vaggie whispered, barely audible.

Another sound followed—wet and visceral—accompanied by a sharp, choked gasp. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a visceral, unmistakable expression of pain.

Charlie and Vaggie locked eyes. Both of them remained still, straining to hear what would happen next.

Then there was silence. A long, oppressive silence that stretched on, each second more unbearable than the last.

Charlie’s heart pounded in her chest as she glanced at the door before them. Her hand instinctively reached for Vaggie’s, squeezing it tightly.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, the sound too loud in the eerie quiet. Charlie braced herself for the worst, her mind racing through every possible scenario.

But instead of an enemy or some unknown terror, Angel Dust stepped into the room.

He stood in the doorway, his usual bravado dimmed, his clothes disheveled and streaked with dark smears that might have been blood. His eyes darted between Charlie and Vaggie, and then he smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well,” he lets out his usual chuckle, “looks like we made it just in time. You two miss me?”

Charlie never thought she’d find herself in this situation—not the part where she was trapped in some godforsaken basement, not the part where Vaggie could barely stand without wincing, and not the part where Angel, Pentious, and Alastor showed up to rescue her. She hadn’t expected them to come. Not really. But the fact that they did? That was the kind of thing she’d never forget, no matter how this ended.

She was eternally grateful, though she’d never say it aloud right now, not when every second counted.

“We need to help Vaggie,” Charlie said firmly as they regrouped. “Her ribs are bad, and she’s struggling to keep up.”

Angel glanced at Vaggie, his eyes narrowing with concern. “What the hell happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” Charlie replied quickly, shutting down the conversation before it could start. “Right now, we just need to move.”

Pentious stepped forward to assist, his arm already around Vaggie’s waist to steady her. On Vaggie’s other side was someone Charlie didn’t recognize—a pale woman with a bloodied bandage wrapped over her right eye. The stranger didn’t say a word as she slipped her arm under Vaggie’s other shoulder.

Charlie didn’t know who she was or where she’d come from, but something about her told Charlie she was on their side. Maybe it was the way she moved, calculated and purposeful, or the way she avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, as though she knew she wasn’t ready to be part of the conversation. This wasn’t the time for introductions, Charlie thought. There would be time later—if they got out of here alive.

Angel is already moving toward the door and Charlie steps behind him. Her eyes caught on the two bodies just outside the door—Exorcists, judging by the armor they wore. They were slumped in unnatural angles, their blood staining the hardwood floor.

She looked away quickly, a wave of nausea rising in her throat. She wouldn’t ask what happened. Maybe it’s for the best.

Instead, she focused on Vaggie’s staggering movements, on the way the stranger and Pentious half-carried their injured companion. She focused on the fact that they were moving, that they still had a chance.

The stranger broke the quiet first. “Are we heading back the way you came in?”

Charlie’s ears perked at the distinct lilt in her voice—Australian. She turned her head slightly, glancing at the woman, her curiosity sparking despite herself.

Angel threw a glance over his shoulder, his brows pinching together. “Yeah,” he said, dragging out the word suspiciously. “Why?”

The woman adjusted her grip on Vaggie, her gaze sweeping ahead as though calculating something. “Because if we are, we might want to pick up the fucking pace. The Exorcists won’t be happy about their friends back there.”

Angel scoffed, though Charlie caught the faint twitch in his jaw. “You’re assuming they’re smart enough to realize we’re leaving the way we came in.”

“They are,” she replied without missing a beat. “Trust me.”

That caught Angel off guard, and he raised a skeptical brow. “Now you got some kinda inside scoop on how these guys work, Cherri? Or are you just guessing?”

Before the woman—Cherri—could reply, Vaggie responded instead. “She’s right. The Exorcists don’t leave things to chance. The second they realize a few of their comrades are missing or aren’t responding to their pagers, they’ll start working on the clock. And when they do, they won’t stop until they find us.”

The group fell into a heavy silence, every word sinking in like a stone in still water.

Angel’s skeptical expression faded, replaced by a narrow-eyed curiosity. His gaze flicked to Vaggie, his lips pressing into a thin line. “How do you know that?” he asked, his voice measured but laced with suspicion.

Charlie could feel it, the subtle shift in the air, as if everyone had simultaneously started asking the same question. Charlie felt her stomach twist as realization dawned on her—no one in the group knew a whole lot about Vaggie’s past. And now it was clear that Vaggie’s knowledge of the Exorcists wasn’t just any educated guesswork.

But this wasn’t the time for that conversation.

“If Vaggie and Cherri say we need to hurry, then we hurry,” Charlie interjected sharply, her voice cutting through the brewing tension. She shot a glance at Angel, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We can ask questions later—when we’re not being hunted.”

Angel held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then sighed and threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when we get cornered by some other Exorcist assholes. I’m gonna be real pissed.”

Cherri smirked faintly but said nothing as she and Pentious adjusted their grip on Vaggie, who gave Charlie a small, grateful nod.

The group picked up the pace, their hurried footsteps echoing down the dimly lit corridor. Every creak of the old wooden floorboards seemed to echo through the narrow hallways. Charlie’s heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline flooding her veins, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Angel was at the front, his eyes scanning ahead, but even he couldn’t hide the unease that flickered across his face. Behind him, Pentious and Cherri moved in a tight formation, supporting Vaggie as she stumbled with every step. Vaggie’s breath was shallow, the pain visible on her face, but she didn’t make a sound, didn’t ask for help. She just kept moving, grim determination on her face.

Alastor brought up the rear, his eyes darting from side to side, ever watchful. Charlie didn’t need to look back at him to know he was scanning for threats. Alastor always thought he wasn’t worried at all, but Charlie knew better.

The moment they rounded the corner, Charlie’s eyes caught movement—fast, too fast. An Exorcist, his armor clanking as he shifted position in the dim light. His eyes through the visors locked onto them.

“Shit!” Angel hissed, his instincts kicking in before anyone else could react. He surged forward, slamming into the Exorcist’s chest with enough force to knock him off balance. The sound of their bodies crashing into the wall echoed through the narrow hallway.

But before the Exorcist could recover, Alastor was on him. The Exorcist barely had time to raise his rifle before Alastor thrust the knife up, aiming for the small opening at the side of the helmet where the visor didn’t quite meet the plating. The blade sunk deep, and the Exorcist let out a strangled gasp, his hands twitching before his body went limp.

Charlie stood frozen for a fraction of a second, unable to comprehend what had just happened. The Exorcist crumpled to the floor, his body slack as blood pooled beneath him, the metallic scent filling the air.

Angel was already on his feet, his eyes wild. “Let’s go!” he yelled, grabbing Charlie and urging her forward. “No time for this, we need to fucking move!”

Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. She was already backing up, her heart hammering in her chest. As the group shuffled, they heard distant footsteps, and shouts echoing through the hallways. They didn’t have much time.

The shouts grew louder as if the Exorcists realized what had happened.

They rounded another corner, and the metallic door of the medical storage room loomed ahead. Angel slapped his hand against the door’s handle and forced it open.

Pentious and Cherri were already guiding Vaggie in, while Charlie followed closely behind. Angel and Alastor were last before the door slammed shut behind them. A few seconds of frantic breathing passed as they gathered themselves. The medical storage room was sparse but useful—metal shelves lined with first aid supplies, crates of antibiotics, and bandages stacked haphazardly against one wall.

Charlie didn’t waste a second. The moment the door slammed shut, she was already rifling through the first-aid boxes. Tossing bandages, antiseptics, and gauze into her bag (courtesy of Pentious for giving it back).

Behind her, Angel crouched by the maintenance tunnel door, his lockpick kit in hand. The faint click-click-click of his tools working against the lock was almost drowned out by the muffled shouts from down the hallway.

“Hurry,” Charlie muttered under her breath, throwing another roll of medical tape into the bag. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed a pack of antibiotics, stuffing it in alongside the rest.

“I am hurrying,” Angel shot back without looking up. “This isn’t exactly a dollar-store padlock, princess.”

Cherri gave a low chuckle from where she stood by the door, her hands resting lightly on the hilt of a crowbar. “Funny, I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

Angel shot her a glare. “You wanna try?”

“Nope,” Cherri said simply, leaning against the wall and keeping one ear toward the hallway. “You’re doing great, champ.”

“Guys,” Pentious hissed, his voice tight. He had lowered Vaggie onto a crate, keeping her upright as she fought to stay conscious. “Maybe less banter?”

Charlie zipped up her bag and turned to Vaggie, quickly kneeling by her side. “Hold on,” she murmured, pulling out a bottle of painkillers and a roll of gauze. “We’ll get you patched up as soon as we’re out of here.”

Vaggie gave her a faint, strained smile. “I’m fine. Just...get us out of here.”

“Working on it,” Angel muttered, and then there was a soft click. He grinned triumphantly, standing up and pushing the door open to reveal a dark, narrow tunnel.

“Finally,” Cherri said, moving to help Pentious lift Vaggie.

Charlie grabbed the bag and slung it over her shoulder, stepping into the tunnel. The air was damp and stale, the faint smell of mildew hitting her nose.

Angel took the lead, flashlight in hand, the beam cutting through the darkness. The group filed in behind him, their footsteps echoing faintly against the concrete walls.

“Where… does this even go?” Charlie asked softly.

“Maintenance tunnels lead to the back of the fort,” Pentious explained. “If we’re lucky, we’ll avoid the Exorcists’ main patrols.”

Charlie lets out an exhale, “I hope that’s the case.”

Angel glanced back over his shoulder with his smirk. “If not, then I hope you’re good at running.”

“Wonderful.”

The tunnel stretched on, curving slightly before splitting into two directions. Angel paused, shining his flashlight down each path. The left tunnel was collapsed, rubble blocking the way entirely. The right tunnel seemed to slope upward slightly, a faint draft of fresh air wafting through.

“This way,” Angel said, motioning for the group to follow.

Then a faint sliver of light appeared ahead, the glow of the outside world filtering through a metal grate. Angel quickened his pace, dropping to one knee as he inspected the grate.

Charlie glanced back down the tunnel. The faint sound of footsteps echoed in the distance—too distant to pinpoint, but close enough to make her mind not shit bricks.

The hinges gave way with a soft click, and Angel pushed the grate open, revealing the overgrown remains of what used to be the fort’s rear entrance. Tall grass and weeds obscured the view, but the fresh air was a relief after the stifling tunnel.

Pentious and Cherri helped Vaggie through first, Charlie following close behind. She turned to help Alastor out, then Angel.

Charlie froze as the faint sound of voices drifted through the cool night air. She ducked lower into the tall grass, signaling for the others to stop. Angel, crouched beside her, turned his head slightly—Exorcists, no doubt, searching the area.

"Spread out. They're close," one of them barked.

"Orders are shoot on sight," another said, his voice gravelly with authority, “Including the escaped prisoners.”

Shoot on sight. No warnings, no chances.

She glanced back at the others. Pentious and Cherri were crouched with Vaggie between them, her head resting heavily against Pentious’s shoulder. Alastor hovered near the rear of the group, his knife gripped tightly in one hand.

“They’re looking for us,” Charlie whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the floodlights.

“No shit,” Angel snapped. He peeked above the grass, squinting toward the glow of the floodlights ahead. “They’ve got the whole damn place lit up like a football game not like before.”

“We’re not getting out of this without them spotting us,” Pentious muttered under his breath.

“Yeah, no kidding, genius,” Angel then glanced to others. “Any brilliant ideas, or do we just keep waiting for them to roll out the welcome mat?”

Before Pentious could snap back, Alastor chuckled softly. “I might have an idea.”

“Is it an idea that won’t get us killed?” Cherri questions sharply.

“Now, now, my dear,” Alastor replied, his grin audible even if Charlie didn’t look at him directly. “I assure you, this is nothing short of brilliant. Our dear Angel happens to have a stash of smoke grenades, doesn’t he?”

Angel blinked, caught off guard. “How the hell do you know about that?”

Alastor’s grin widened. “A gentleman observes. Now, if you’d be so kind as to hand them over, I believe we can provide our dear pursuers with a bit of a distraction.”

Angel hesitated, then sighed, pulling two smoke grenades from his bag. “Fine, but if this blows up in our faces—literally—I’m blaming you.”

“Duly noted,” Alastor said with a mock bow. He turned to the group. “Here’s the plan. I’ll deploy these grenades along the western edge, drawing their attention away from the crumbled wall we’re aiming for. Once their focus is elsewhere, you all slip through and make your way to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”

“No way,” Charlie said immediately, shaking her head. “We’re not splitting up.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Alastor replied smoothly, his grin softening into something almost reassuring. “If we all try to sneak out at once, we’ll be spotted. Someone has to keep their eyes away from you or your love. And frankly, who better than me?”

Charlie’s gut churned with unease, but the logic was sound. She looked to Angel, then Pentious and Cherri, searching for someone to object, but their silence spoke volumes. Even Vaggie, leaning heavily against Pentious, managed a faint nod of agreement.

“Fine,” Charlie said at last. “But if you don’t make it back—”

“Oh, I’ll make it back,” Alastor interrupted with a sly wink. “You have my word.”

He plucked the grenades from Angel’s hand and disappeared into the shadows before Charlie could argue further.

Moments later, a plume of thick gray smoke erupted in the distance, spreading rapidly across the western side of the fort. Shouts from the Exorcists followed, their orders growing frantic as they directed squads toward the disturbance.

“That’s our cue,” Pentious whispered, adjusting his grip on Vaggie.

The group moved quickly, keeping low as they navigated through the courtyard. Charlie noticed the floodlights swept dangerously close (causing her to shit more bricks), but each time, they managed to stay just out of view. The smoke provided just enough cover to mask their movements, though the acrid scent stung Charlie’s nose as they passed through the edge of it.

Finally, the crumbled wall of Fort Hamilton came into view, a jagged gap barely wide enough for a person to slip through. Beyond it lay the overgrown fields leading toward the similar structure of a hospital—safety, or at least as close to it as they could hope for.

Angel gestured for the group to stop as he inspected the wall. “Looks clear,” he murmured. “One at a time, and keep quiet.”

Pentious and Cherri maneuvered Vaggie through first, carefully easing her past the sharp edges of the rubble. Charlie followed, her breath hitching as she felt the cold night air on the other side. Angel slipped through last, casting a glance back toward the fort.

“They’re still distracted,” he said, a faint note of surprise in his voice. “Alastor actually pulled it off.”

Angel’s voice had barely finished carrying the faint note of surprise when the sharp crack of gunfire pierced the night. Several shots in rapid succession, followed by the unmistakable sound of shouting—urgent, frantic commands. Charlie and Angel locked eyes, both freezing in place as they thought the same thing.

Alastor!

Pentious and Cherri, a few paces ahead, halted abruptly, their heads whipping back toward the sound.

Angel’s hand shot up, signaling them to keep moving. “Go. Get to the hospital,” he whispered harshly. “We’ll catch up.”

Cherri hesitated, glancing at Pentious, who shifted Vaggie’s weight against his shoulder. “Let’s go,” Pentious muttered, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.

Vaggie struggled faintly, her feet dragging as if her body refused to obey. Her gaze locked onto Charlie, pleading silently.

Charlie took a deep breath, steadying herself as she crouched near the crumbled wall. She could feel Vaggie’s eyes on her, weak but filled with concern. She hates to be helpless, Charlie reminded herself. But if you falter now, it’ll shatter her completely.

She turned to Angel, who was already about to make his way in the direction of the noises, his expression unreadable. “I’ll meet where Alastor’s supposed to be,” she whispered.

Angel arched a brow. “I hope you convince your girl enough,” he muttered, sliding away into the shadows before she could respond. Charlie then made her way quickly to Pentious, Cherri, and Vaggie. The three were huddled close, Vaggie leaning heavily on Pentious as they prepared to move.

“What’s wrong?” Pentious asked suspiciously.

Charlie hesitated for only a moment before responding. “Alastor might be in trouble. Angel and I are going back to help him.”

Cherri frowned, her gaze flicking toward the distant glow of the fort. “That’s suicide.”

“Where’s the rendezvous point?” Charlie asked instead, ignoring her comment.

“The car,” Pentious answered reluctantly and even resigned. “It’s parked by the park, not the hospital.”

Charlie nodded briskly. “Okay. Pentious and… Cherri, right? Please bring Vaggie back to the car. We’ll meet you there.”

“Wait!” Vaggie’s voice, though weak, carried a sharp edge of desperation. She struggled against Pentious’s hold, her splinted fingers twitching toward Charlie. “Charlie, no. It’s too dangerous! They’ll kill you. They don’t take chances, not with—”

Charlie cut her off, standing in front of her and gently cupping her cheeks. Vaggie’s skin felt cold under her touch, her expression pleading.

“I’ll be back,” Charlie said firmly while feeling the storm raging in her chest. “Angel, Alastor, and I will all come back. I promise you, okay? You need to get to safety.”

“It’s not worth it,” Vaggie murmured, her breath hitching as tears welled in her eyes. “Please, Charlie. You can’t—”

“I have to,” Charlie interrupted softly, brushing her thumb over Vaggie’s patched cheek. “I have to keep us together. I have to lead us through this. And that means I can’t leave anyone behind.” She forced a small, reassuring smile. “Trust me, I’ll be careful. I’ll keep my promise.”

After a beat, Vaggie closed her eye, her body trembling against Pentious as though the act of nodding in defeat took every ounce of strength she had left. “Be careful,” she whispered.

Charlie felt the ache in her chest deepen, but she pushed it aside, leaning in to press a brief, tender kiss to Vaggie’s lips. It was grounding, fleeting, and filled with every ounce of reassurance she could muster.

“I will,” Charlie promised softly as she pulled back, meeting Vaggie’s gaze one last time. Her hand lingered on Vaggie’s cheek for a moment before she forced herself to let go, her fingertips brushing away an invisible tear that slipped down. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode back toward the crumbling wall, her movements quick and deliberate. The cool night air seemed sharper now, filled with tension and the faint echoes of the Exorcists’ commands in the distance.

She glanced over her shoulder just once to see Pentious and Cherri helping Vaggie toward the park, their figures already blending into the shadows. Vaggie glanced back too, her face pale and stricken, but she didn’t call out again.

She digs her hand into the pocket where the ring hides, rubbing her thumb across its surface to reassure herself that they’ll make it out alive from this fucking mess.

For her. For them.

With a final glance in the direction Vaggie had gone, Charlie steeled herself and ducked low as she slipped through the crumbled wall, where the distant shouts grew louder.

Chapter Text

Charlie sighed to herself as she crouched her way back, her shoes crunching softly against the gravel. Angel was just ahead, hunched near a rusted barrel that looked like it had once been part of a poorly planned bonfire. Beyond him, the floodlights carved bright toward a distant cluster of shouting figures.

She slid in behind him, careful not to make a sound, but Angel still managed to sense her. Without looking, he muttered, “Took you long enough. Thought you might’ve decided to retire or something.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, keeping her voice low. “Retire? From this glamorous lifestyle?” She gestured vaguely to the crumbling concrete around them. “Never.”

Angel turned his head slightly, enough for her to catch the flicker of his grin. “Glad you’re still breathing. I mean, you and your girl. Though she looks like shit.”

“She’s alive,” Charlie shot back, more sharply than she intended. “That’s all that matters.”

Angel leaned against the barrel, raising a brow at her. “Whoa, easy there, Sunshine. Just saying she looks like she went through a fucking blender. Didn’t say I wasn’t rooting for her.”

Charlie huffed and crouched lower, peering past the barrel toward the floodlights. “Okay. Where’s Alastor?”

Angel shrugged. “Somewhere past the light show. Hopefully not full of bullet holes.”

“Helpful.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who told him to play distraction for the Exorcists.” Angel flicked a glance toward her, his grin softening. “But seriously, Charlie… before you start thinking I’m some genius tracker or something, you should know it wasn’t just me. Cherri— the strawberry blonde, with bandaged eye? She’s the reason we found you and Vaggie.”

Charlie frowned, glancing at him. “Cherri?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She’s familiar with the Exorcists already. If it weren’t for her, or even Pentious telling us shit about it, we’d probably still be wandering around like idiots. You owe her, dollface. Big time.”

Charlie bit her lip, her mind replaying the blur of events that had brought them here. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured. “If we make it back to the rendezvous, she and Pentious’s getting the biggest ‘thank you’ speech of their lives. Maybe even a hug. If Cherri is also into that.”

Angel snorted. “If she allows you in the first place.”

Before she could retort, a faint noise carried through the air—shuffling footsteps and low voices beyond the floodlights. Both of them stiffened, eyes darting toward the sound. Charlie slowly peeked over the barrel, Angel mirroring her motion.

The glare of the floodlights revealed over a dozen Exorcists stood in formation around a flagpole at the center of what appeared to be a front courtyard. Their gray armor is exposed under the lights, rifles slung across their backs or held loosely in their hands.

Near the base of the flagpole, a figure emerged from the shadows, dragging someone across the gravel. Charlie’s breath caught as the floodlights illuminated the familiar, lanky frame of Alastor, his face bruised but still unmistakably defiant.

“Shit,” Angel hissed under his breath.

The figure dragging Alastor—Lute, Charlie also couldn't help but feel the burning hatred for this woman—hauled him forward. When they reached the flagpole, Lute forced Alastor to his knees and roughly zip-tied his wrists behind him, securing him to the pole.

Charlie’s mind raced. This wasn’t just a capture; it was a display. The Exorcists stood like an audience, their postures tense, their attention fixed on the flagpole.

“What the hell are they doing?” she whispered.

Angel’s jaw tightened, his hand instinctively brushing against the pistol at his side. “Something tells me we’re not gonna like the answer.”

Lute raised her hand in a sharp gesture, and the Exorcists responded immediately. Rifles were drawn and aimed toward Alastor, their collective movements eerily synchronized. The barrels were all trained on the man kneeling at the base of the flagpole.

Instead of flinching or showing fear, Alastor smiled. It wasn’t a comforting smile; it was almost like predatory. He leaned back as much as the restraints allowed as if daring them to fire.

Lute stepped closer, her boots crunching over the gravel. “Well, well,” she began. “You’ve been quite the thorn in our side, haven’t you?”

Alastor tilted his head, his smile widening. “A thorn? Oh, darling, I was aiming for a chainsaw. I’m a little disappointed, honestly.”

Lute ignored his quip, crouching slightly to meet his eyes. “You freed the prisoners from the Fort. Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

“Freed some unfortunate souls from your lovely hospitality?” Alastor drawled. “Yes, I’d say I have a pretty good understanding of that.”

Lute’s expression didn’t waver. “How many of you are there? Where are they hiding?”

Alastor feigned a thoughtful hum, glancing up at the flagpole as if he hadn’t heard her. “What a fascinating choice of décor. A flagpole. So classic, so… authoritarian.”

Lute’s patience visibly thinned. She straightened, her hand twitching slightly at her side. “Stall all you want. It won’t change how this ends.”

From behind the barrel, Charlie and Angel exchanged panicked whispers.

“What do we do?” Charlie hissed, her eyes darting between the Exorcists and Alastor.

“I’m thinking,” Angel muttered. His fingers hovered near his pistol, though he made no move to draw it. “We can’t just run out there guns blazing. They’ll mow us down.”

“Then what? We can’t let them kill him. He’s—”

Angel cut her off, his tone sharp but quiet. “I know. Just… give me a second.”

“We don’t have a second,” Charlie snapped, her gaze returning to Alastor. Despite his defiance, she could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his fingers flexed behind his back.

“Maybe a distraction,” Angel said, almost to himself. “Something big enough to pull their attention off him.”

Charlie frowned. “And what? Hope they all run off so we can untie him?”

Angel shot her a quick glare. “You got a better idea?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but movement from the courtyard silenced her. Lute had raised her hand again, and one of the Exorcists stepped forward, his rifle raised and his aim steady.

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “Ah, escalation. Always the hallmark of those who fear losing control.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. Her hands darted to her bag without thinking, fumbling through the mess of supplies she already stored. Her fingers closed around her holster belt, the familiar weight of her Bowie knife and Glock still attached. She exhaled a quick, shaky breath of relief, then looped the holster around her waist and buckled it back on.

Thank God, she thought. If they were about to pull off something reckless, she couldn’t afford to be unarmed. For protection.

Next to her, Angel was rummaging through his bag. The sound of clinking metal caught her attention, and she glanced over just as he pulled out a small cylindrical canister.

“Is that—”

“Tear gas,” Angel confirmed with a smirk, holding it up like it was a prize. “Picked it up from your Dad’s armory. Thought it might come in handy.”

“You’re just…” Charlie arched a brow. “Carrying tear gas around like it’s a protein bar?”

“Hey, who knows how many problems this little guy can solve.” Angel glanced toward the courtyard, his smirk fading as he caught sight of the Exorcist taking another step closer to Alastor. “Speaking of which… you ready to do something incredibly stupid?”

Charlie tightened the strap of her holster, her Glock now resting snugly against her hip. “Define ‘stupid.’”

Angel’s grin returned, though it was weaker this time. “We toss this baby in, stir up some shit, and hope we can grab our creepy old man before they all start shooting.”

Charlie scowled. “That’s not a plan; that’s a fucking suicide note.”

“Got any better ideas?”

“I’m thinking,” she muttered, her mind racing. Her eyes darted back to Alastor, who was now taunting the armed Exorcist. He was stalling, she realized, buying them time.

“Well, think faster,” Angel shot back, his fingers twitching around the tear gas canister.

Before Charlie could retort, a familiar raspy voice echoed from the courtyard.

“Oh, what a fucking surprise,” the man called out, his words dripping with exaggerated charm. Charlie peeked over the barrel to spot him: Adam, striding toward the flagpole. Unlike his usual lazy assembled uniform, he looked more like a General in his gray formal uniform.

Adam stopped just shy of Alastor, his dark eyes gazing down at him. “You’re quite the showman, aren’t you? Always with the quips, the fucking smug grins... God, do you ever take anything seriously, or is life just one long, dull comedy to you?”

Alastor grinned wider, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Life is comedy, dear boy. Tragedy is just a matter of perspective.”

Adam’s smile thinned, his patience waning. “Perspective, huh? Let’s test that theory.” He turned sharply toward the Exorcist with the rifle. “Take the shot. Let’s see how amusing he finds a fucking bullet.”

The Exorcist hesitated for a fraction of a second before following orders, his rifle cracking like thunder in the courtyard. Charlie flinched at the sound, her heart leaping into her throat.

Alastor grunted as the bullet slammed into his shoulder, his body jerking back against the flagpole. Blood seeped through his shirt, but his grin remained.

“Oh… darling,” he wheezed. “I’ve had mosquito bites that hurt worse.”

Adam’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’re smug for an asshole who’s about to bleed out.”

He closed the distance between them in a single step, his hand darting out to seize Alastor by the hair. With a sharp yank, he forced Alastor’s head back, exposing his neck.

“What do you think fuckers, hm?” Adam mused, loud enough for the Exorcists to hear. “Should I carve a confession out of him, or do you think he’ll start talking after a bit of… encouragement?”

Charlie’s nails dug into the gravel, her entire body taut as a wire. Angel nudged her shoulder gently, pulling her attention back to him.

“We don’t have much time. Here’s the deal. We toss this,” he held up the tear gas canister, “and this,” his other hand revealed a second canister, smoke this time, “at the same time. Maximum bullshit, minimum chance they’ll aim straight.”

Charlie stared at him, her mind racing through the possibilities—and the dangers. “This is the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard.”

Angel smirked. “Good. Then let’s make it work.”

The sound of Adam striking Alastor snapped her focus back to the courtyard. Adam’s fist collided with Alastor’s jaw, a sickening thud that made Charlie’s stomach churn.

Angel tapped her arm, snapping her out of her paralysis. “On my count,” he said.

Charlie nodded, her grip tightening around her Glock. “Ready.”

Angel held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.

Chaos descended instantly.

The canisters went flying, arcing through the air toward the cluster of Exorcists. Time seemed to freeze as they hit the ground, smoke and gas billowed up and engulfed the courtyard in a suffocating haze. The air turned thick and heavy, the kind of thick where each breath felt like inhaling a thousand tiny, invisible daggers.

Even crouched behind the barrel, Charlie wasn’t spared from its wrath. Her eyes burned instantly, like someone had thrown a handful of sand directly into them, and her lungs revolted as she sucked in the foul air. The first breath was a mistake—her throat seized, sending her into a violent coughing fit that felt like it might tear her apart from the inside.

This was the stupidest plan. Absolutely, unequivocally, the dumbest thing Angel had ever done.

And now she was going to throw herself into the middle of it.

Shadows flailed in the floodlit haze as the Exorcists shouted in confusion. Weapons clattered. Commands were barked—sharp, panicked orders that were almost impossible to follow through the choking fog. Somewhere amidst the chaos, Alastor’s raspy laughter rang out, alongside coughing fits.

Charlie blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, but the tear gas only made it worse. Her eyes watered uncontrollably, tears streaking down her cheeks as though her body was trying to purge the toxins. Her nose streamed, her sinuses burning like she’d inhaled molten lava, and every cough felt like shards of glass grinding against her lungs.

“Goddamn it,” she wheezed, fumbling for the edge of her dress shirt to cover her mouth and nose. The fabric muffled the worst of the gas, but it was useless and way too late.

Beside her, Angel wasn’t faring much better. He was swearing between coughs, his hands pressed over his mouth as if he was trying to keep his lungs from escaping. “Fucking—cough—genius idea, huh?”

“You’re the—cough—one who brought the fucking gas!” Charlie hissed, barely able to speak through the burning in her throat.

“And you—cough—agreed to this shit!”

“I DON’T AGREE ANY—cough cough—FUCKING SHIT!”

Their bickering dissolved into more coughing. Through the stinging haze, Charlie’s thoughts scrambled to make sense of their next move. The smoke and gas were supposed to be their distraction, but now it was a living hell times ten.

Her brain screamed at her to stay down, stay hidden, wait it out. But her heart—stupid, reckless, maddeningly determined—told her to move.

“Let’s go,” she croaked, her voice barely audible over the chaos.

Angel turned to her, his red-rimmed eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” she snapped, though the words lost their edge in another fit of coughing.

She didn’t wait for his response. Unholstered and clutching her Glock tightly, Charlie rose to her feet and plunged into the scene.

It was a nightmare. The courtyard was a swirling, suffocating maelstrom of shouting voices, choking gas, and disoriented shadows. Every step was a gamble—one wrong move, and she could stumble straight into the line of fire. Her vision was a watery blur, her eyes stinging so badly she could barely see more than a few feet ahead.

The tear gas worked fast on everyone, Charlie included. For an average person like her, the effects were overwhelming. Her chest felt like it was caving in, her breaths shallow and labored as if she were trying to inhale through a straw. Every inhale brought fresh pain, the acrid burn invading her sinuses and settling deep in her lungs. Her skin itched where the gas clung to her, and she fought the urge to claw at her face, knowing it would only make it worse.

The nausea (dear fucking God!!!!!!) added to another pile of misery, her head spinning as she wiped at her face, her fingers shaking. Just keep moving. Keep going. Her body screamed against the command, but she forced herself to take another step forward.

“Alastor!” she managed to choke out, her voice lost amidst the cacophony.

Through the fog, she caught glimpses of Exorcists stumbling and coughing, their rifles forgotten in favor of wiping at their burning eyes. Some were retreating, others blindly firing into the air, their discipline shattered by the gas.

“Charlie, wait!” Angel’s voice came from behind her, hoarse and panicked.

But she couldn’t wait. Couldn’t stop. Somewhere in this hell, Alastor was still tied to that damn flagpole, and if she didn’t reach him soon, the Exorcists would recover—and then it’d be over.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she pressed forward, her body moving on sheer adrenaline. The floodlights loomed like ghostly halos in the mist, their harsh beams cutting through the gas just enough to give her a sense of direction.

“Hang on,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “Just hang on…”

Her foot caught on something—a piece of debris or maybe an abandoned weapon—and she stumbled, barely catching herself before she hit the ground. The jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through her chest, and she doubled over, coughing so hard she thought she might vomit.

A hand grabbed her arm, steadying her. Angel. His face was a mess of sweat, tears, and irritation, but his grip was firm.

“Don’t you fucking dare die on me,” he rasped, pulling her upright.

Charlie nodded weakly, her head swam as she leaned on Angel’s support, forcing one foot in front of the other. Her body begged her to stop, to collapse right there and give up, but she shoved the thought down.

Not here. Not now.

Through the choking haze, a blurry shape began to solidify ahead of them—a tall silhouette. The flagpole.

“There!” she croaked, clutching at Angel’s sleeve to steady herself.

“I see it!”

They pushed forward together. The floodlights overhead flickered ominously, their harsh glow slicing through the smoke in broken shafts. The sight of the pole became clearer with each agonizing step. And there, slumped against the base like a discarded marionette, was Alastor.

“Jesus Christ,” Angel muttered.

Alastor was a mess—his usually pristine vest was torn and filthy, his head lolled forward, and his wrists were twisted awkwardly behind the pole, bound tight with thick zip ties. His shoulders looked wrong, like they’d been yanked too far back for too long, and even through the fog, Charlie could see the raw, red marks cutting into his skin.

“Alastor!” Charlie rasped, dropping to her knees beside him. Her Glock clattered to the ground as she reached for his face, tipping his chin up. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and glassy, and a weak, rasping chuckle escaped his lips.

“Took you long enough,” he managed, though his voice was barely a whisper.

“Shut up,” Charlie said, her voice trembling as she fumbled at the zip ties binding his wrists. They were thick and tight, biting into his skin, and her fingers were too slick with sweat to get a good grip.

“Knife,” Angel coughed. “Use the fucking knife.”

Right. Of course. Her mind was a mess as if the tear gas was already melting her brain. She reached for her Bowie knife and unsheathed it.

“Hold still,” she said, her voice breaking as she positioned the blade against the zip tie.

Alastor wheezed, “No promises.”

The blade bit into the plastic, and Charlie sawed frantically, her hands shaking with effort and adrenaline. The zip tie was stubborn, refusing to give, and her heart pounded louder with every second that ticked by. She could hear the Exorcists shouting in the distance, their voices growing sharper, more coordinated. They were regrouping. Time was running out.

“Hurry it up,” Angel hissed, his back to them as he scanned the courtyard.

“I’m trying!” she snapped, her frustration boiling over.

Finally, with a loud snap, the zip tie gave way, and Alastor’s arms fell free. He groaned in pain, his hands fumbling weakly to support himself as he slumped forward. Charlie caught him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as she tried to pull him upright.

“Can you stand?” she asked.

Alastor coughed, a harsh, rattling sound that made her wince. “Do I… look like I can stand?”

Angel grabbed Alastor’s other arm, throwing it over his shoulder. “Guess you don’t have a fucking choice.”

Together, they hauled him to his feet. Alastor swayed dangerously, his knees buckling, but between the two of them, they managed to keep him upright.

“Now what?” Angel asked, his voice strained as he glanced around.

Charlie’s mind raced, the thick, acrid air making it impossible to think clearly. She tightened her grip on Alastor and steeled herself.

“Now we run,” she said.

The world outside the hospital was mercifully quieter, save for the rasp of their labored breathing and the occasional shuffle of debris beneath their feet. The three of them had put as much distance as they could between themselves and the mess of the Exorcist’s base, but the sting of tear gas still clung to their skin, their eyes, their lungs—still lingering.

The plan was to head straight to the park to put this whole nightmare behind them and regroup with Pentious, Cherri, and Vaggie as initially planned. But plans had a way of falling apart when your lungs felt like they were lined with sandpaper and your vision was a watery blur. Charlie had been the first to cave, slumping against the side of the hospital with her water bottle in hand, her resolve crumbling like wet cardboard.

“We can’t—” she wheezed, tearing the cap off and splashing water onto her face with shaking hands. “We can’t do this. Not—” Her voice broke into another coughing fit, sharp and raw.

Angel leaned against the wall beside her, his water bottle dangling uselessly at his side. He looked as wrecked as she felt, his face streaked with tears and grime. “Well, somebody had to say it,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and flat. “Guess we’re doing the world’s saddest car wash now.”

Alastor, for his part, stood a few feet away, swaying slightly like a drunk man trying to convince himself he could walk straight. His normally immaculate appearance was in shambles—his vest torn, his hair disheveled, and his expression unreadable beneath the soot and sweat.

“I seem to have misplaced my holster,” he spoke with that maddeningly casual tone. He glanced down at his empty hip as if just noticing the loss.

“Seriously?” Angel barked a humorless laugh. “Now you notice?”

Charlie barely spared them a glance, pouring the last of her water into her hands and scrubbing at her face with a desperation that bordered on frantic. It wasn’t enough—nothing was enough—but it was all they had.

“There’s… there’s an extra holster at the safe house,” she rasped, the words tumbling out between gasps. “And—cough—we have blades there too. Just… hang on till then.”

Alastor gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, though his attention seemed elsewhere, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point in the middle distance.

Angel dropped down to a crouch beside Charlie, shaking his head as he took a swig from his bottle and spat it onto the ground. “This is so fucked,” he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair.

“You think?” Charlie snapped, her frustration flaring as she wiped at her face again, more futile than productive. “I thought we were being subtle—sneak in, get him, sneak out. Instead, I—” She gestured vaguely toward her tear-streaked, gas-burned face. “I look like a goddamn mess.”

“You are a goddamn mess,” Angel’s lips twitched into something resembling a smirk.

“Shut up,” Charlie muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.

Above them, the clear sky twinkles with countless stars. It was a cruel thing, Charlie thought, for the world to look so peaceful while her insides still felt like they were on fire. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the chill of the water on her skin anchor her.

The water helped, but only just. The sting in their eyes and lungs clung stubbornly. Charlie screwed the cap back onto her empty bottle, glancing at the others with red-rimmed eyes. “Alright,” she croaked, pushing herself upright. “Let’s go before zombies or whoever the fuck finds us.”

Angel rose more slowly, his legs wobbling like a newborn fawn’s. “I like how ‘whoever the fuck’ is a separate category,” he muttered, brushing at his face one last time before turning to Alastor.

“Can you walk?” Angel asked, eyeing Alastor’s unsteady frame.

Alastor managed a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve had worse nights.” He took a tentative step forward, nearly stumbling as his balance faltered.

“Yeah, no. You’re not convincing anyone.” Angel stepped closer, slinging Alastor’s arm over his shoulders and steadying him with a grunt. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend.”

Charlie fell into step beside them. The park wasn’t far, but every step felt heavier than the last. The three of them moved in silence, save for the occasional cough or muttered curse as they navigated the uneven terrain.

When they finally reached the edge of the park, the sight of the car waiting there was almost enough to make Charlie cry again—though she wasn’t sure her body had any tears left to give. Cherri was leaning against the passenger door, her eye scanning the tree line. The glow of her cigarette painted her face in faint orange tones as she straightened at the sight of them.

“Took you long enough,” she called out impatiently. “Thought you were dead for a second there.”

Pentious was in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him together. Vaggie was perched in the back seat, her forearms wrapped in fresh bandages—Pentious’s handiwork, judging by the folds. She leaned out the window as they approached, her brow furrowing. “What… the hell happened to you three?”

“Tear gas,” Charlie rasped, collapsing against the side of the car as Angel and Alastor followed suit. “We’ll… we’ll explain later.”

“Later?” Cherri flicked her cigarette away, her boots crunching over gravel as she approached. “You and Angie look like you got hit by a fucking train. We’re not driving off till I know you’re not about to keel over.”

“Noted,” Charlie muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. She was too tired to argue, too tired to do anything but sink into the relative safety of their group.

Angel eased Alastor into the back seat, muttering something about “old man priorities” before climbing in after him. Cherri offered Charlie a hand, and for once, she didn’t have the energy to refuse.

As the car doors closed around them and the engine rumbled to life, Charlie allowed herself a moment to breathe—shallow and painful as it was.

At least she and Vaggie got to hold hands again.

Chapter Text

The mansion looked like hell. Not the good kind, either—the kind where you could still imagine there was something salvageable, something worth fighting for. No, this was the kind of hell where you stepped back and thought, Maybe we just let the place burn and start over.

But to Charlie, it was home. A shitty, patched-together fortress of barricades, half-rotted boards, and amateur renovations that made it look more like a squatter’s paradise than the luxury estate it once was. And when she saw it from the driveway, glowing dimly in the pale morning light, she wanted to cry. Not that she would.

Who knew seeing the sight of the mansion would make Charlie unbelievably happy?

The joy, however fleeting, was immediately cut short as her face reminded her that oh yeah, you’re still dying from the fucking gas.

The moment the car stopped, car doors popped open in staggered bursts. Charlie barely waited for Angel to help drag Alastor out of the back seat before she bolted toward the house, swaying as her legs threatened to buckle.

“Jesus Christ,” Angel grumbled, one arm braced under Alastor’s shoulders. “At least pretend you care about teamwork, Charlie!”

Charlie ignored him, nearly tripping when she flung open the front door, waving off Niffty’s cheerful greeting as she careened toward the nearest bathroom. She fumbles with the faucet. Cold water spilled over her trembling hands as she splashed it onto her face, scrubbing with a violent desperation.

God, this is as bad as being stuck in a room with Adam and his stupid shitty cigarettes.

After what felt like hours—but could only have been minutes—Charlie finally dropped her hands, letting the water drip off her face into the sink. Her reflection stared back at her from the cracked mirror: red-rimmed eyes, streaks of soot and dirt she hadn’t managed to wipe away, and the hollow exhaustion of someone who’d had to make far too many compromises in far too little time. She looked like hell, and that felt fitting.

By the time she stumbled into the living room, everyone had already begun to gather. Vaggie sat stiffly in one of the armchairs, her fingers now encased in proper splints courtesy of Husk, who lingered in the corner with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Pentious lounged on the arm of a couch right beside Niffty. Cherri leaned against the wall, tapping her foot impatiently. Angel was sprawled on the floor, still rubbing at his irritated eyes with a damp towel, while Alastor settled into a chair with his shoulder wrapped with a blood-soaked bandage.

“Good of you to join us,” Husk muttered from the corner. “Figured you’d be in there scrubbing your face until your skin came off.”

Charlie didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she moved to stand next to Vaggie, her gaze flickering over her splints before settling on her face.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Vaggie nodded, but her jaw was tight. “I’m fine. We need to talk.”

That was the understatement of the century.

Charlie turned to the others, taking in the exhausted, expectant faces around the room. Her stomach churned, but she pushed the feeling down. They deserved the truth—even if it wasn’t going to go over well.

She then started to tell them how they were first ambushed by the Exorcists as they're about to head home after the supply run, although they were originally searching for the “Aussie woman” as Lute says it. Cherri apologized for that, even explaining herself about how she got involved with the Exorcists themselves… but both Charlie and Vaggie forgive her as she contributed with the rescue to owe them.

Then continued with Charlie saying that she and Vaggie were getting forced to use their car to drive to their base (well, the good ol’ Royce is unretrievable at this point), and went straight into the interrogation.

It was also during the time where both Charlie and Vaggie are well aware how the Exorcists themselves operate. Mainly their leader, Adam, is the one calling the shots while his subordinate, Lute, also acts as a leader? That's what Charlie observes anyway.

For transparency's sake, Charlie let Vaggie continue on the rest about her past connection with the members of the Exorcists themselves (you can imagine how relieved everyone was when Vaggie clarified she wasn't part of the Exorcists back then).

But the part when Charlie admitted that she told the safehouse’s location? That’s when everyone got the equally disappointed glare between the two.

“So,” Husk finally said, his voice flat. “We’ve been compromised.”

And so, the room tipped the glass.

Cherri, the outsider, was the first to protest. “So you’re telling me… you told them where you guys lived? To the group of psychopaths who are known to kill anybody to reap the shit only for themselves? Are you kidding me?”

“Cherri…” Pentious warned.

“No, don’t Cherri me! Do you know what you just did, Charlie?” Cherri’s hands flailed. “I’ve seen what these bastards have done! They’ll polish their fucking rifles and started to gun all of you down—”

“Enough!” Vaggie snapped, but the damage was done.

Angel sat up, towel dangling from his hand. “I mean, she’s not wrong,” he muttered. “Now we’re just sitting ducks. How long do you think we’ve got before the Exorcists roll up here, huh? A week? A day? They’ll find us in our sleep and—”

“You think I wanted to do it?” Charlie’s voice cracked as she stepped forward, her fists trembling at her sides. “I didn’t have a choice! He was going to kill her!” She pointed toward Vaggie, who stiffened in her seat but said nothing.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Husk drawled from his corner. “Great trade. One life for all of ours. Real solid leadership.”

Charlie flinched like she’d been slapped, but Husk didn’t stop.

“You’re supposed to protect us,” he continued, voice rising. “Not sell us out because you can’t handle a little pressure. What happens when they get here? What’s your plan then, huh? Gonna beg them to spare us?”

“Shut up!” Charlie shouted, her voice raw and louder than she intended. It caught everyone off guard, the room falling silent save for the echo of her outburst.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, her chest heaving as she looked around the room. “Do you think I wanted this? That I don’t know how badly I screwed up?” Her voice cracked again, softer this time, but still heavy with emotion. “I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t just… let them kill her.”

“You should’ve thought about the rest of us,” Angel said, his tone colder now.

“I was thinking about all of you!” Charlie shot back. “Do you know what they’re capable of? What they would’ve done if I said nothing?”

“Yeah,” Husk muttered, grinding his cigarette into an ashtray on the table. “We’re about to find out.”

“Hey,” Vaggie interjected, rising from her chair despite the splints on her fingers. “That’s enough.”

She moved to stand beside Charlie, her gaze sweeping over the group. “You don’t have to like it. I don’t even like it. But Charlie did what she thought was right, and that’s more than I can say for most of you.”

The room shifted. No one spoke for a moment, the silence thick and uncomfortable.

Pentious broke it, leaning forward from his perch on the couch arm. “Arguing about it… it isn’t going to help,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “What’s done is done. What we should be doing is preparing.”

“And how exactly do you propose to do that?” Cherri snapped. “Roll out the red carpet and hope they don’t blow you all to pieces?”

“I say we fortify the defenses. Set traps. Train each other on how to fight back. I don’t know—do something instead of standing here shouting at each other like idiots.”

For once, no one had a snarky reply.

Charlie swallowed hard, “He’s right. We… we don’t have time to waste.” She glanced at the group, meeting each of their gazes in turn, though her resolve faltered under the weight of their disappointment.

“I know I messed up,” she continued. “And I’m going to fix it. I’ll go back out there if I have to. Talk to them, fight them—whatever it takes to keep all of you safe.”

“Talk to them?” Angel repeated incredulously. “Are you hearing yourself? These aren’t people you reason with, Charlie!”

Charlie took a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders though her voice was quieter now. “I know you think I’m naïve, but you know what happens when we stop trying to talk. When it’s all just fighting and killing and… surviving without living.” She glanced at Angel, then at Husk. “You’ve all lost people. So have I. I’ve been doing everything I can to keep us together because I don’t want to lose anyone else. Not like that.”

Angel scoffed, his arms crossed, but there was less venom in his expression now. He looked away, muttering something under his breath, and Charlie pressed on.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she admitted with her voice trembling. “I didn’t ask for a mansion turned into a bunker, or a group of people who didn’t sign up for this mess to follow me. And if any of you want to leave—if you want to find somewhere safer, quieter—I won’t stop you.”

She closes her eyes, feeling the honesty weigh her throat further and further. “I’ll… I’ll even help you pack.”

Vaggie stepped closer. “Charlie, why would you even say that? After everything we’ve been through, after everything you’ve done for us? This place, this group, it’s not just about your dad anymore.”

Charlie’s throat tightened, and she looked down. “Isn’t it, though? I thought if I could find him, if I could hold onto this place, maybe everything would make sense again. But I’m not sure I ever stopped to think about what all of you needed. I wanted to protect you because I thought that’s what he would’ve done, but maybe I was just using you to chase something that doesn’t even exist anymore.”

The group exchanged glances, but it wasn’t the accusatory glare Charlie had braced herself for. It was softer, almost pitiful, as if they were seeing her for the first time as someone just as lost and desperate as they were.

Vaggie’s hand brushed against Charlie’s, grounding her. “Charlie,” she said firmly, “none of that is true. You didn’t drag us into this. We chose to stay.”

Angel cleared his throat, breaking the moment. His tone was unusually subdued. “Look, for what it’s worth, the reason I stuck around after fucking up the cartel was… well, I didn’t have anywhere else to go. No home, no group, just me and my damn tommy gun.” He let out a humorless laugh. “And even during the rescue, I got it. How much pressure it is to keep three people alive, let alone… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “I couldn’t imagine doing what you do. Not without snapping.”

Charlie blinked, taken aback. “Angel—”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he interrupted, waving her off. “I’m just saying. It’s a lot. And you’re not doing as bad as you think, okay?”

Charlie blinked, glancing at Angel with a mix of surprise and gratitude. Slowly, murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

“He’s right,” Husk muttered, leaning back in his chair, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “This place might be a mess, but it’s better than being out there with nothing. You’re doing what you can, kid. Hell, probably better than most of us would.”

Pentious nodded thoughtfully, his fingers steepled under his chin. “I suppose even the best-laid plans crumble under this… chaos. But holding it together at all? That’s commendable.”

“I mean, yeah,” Cherri added reluctantly, her tone softer than usual. “You’re not perfect, mate, but who the hell is? You’ve kept them alive this long, and that’s more than I can say for most people.”

Charlie’s eyes darted across the group, their tentative support easing the weight in her chest.

Vaggie broke the silence, looking at Cherri with an arched brow. “Wait a minute. I thought you said you were leaving? Didn’t you tell us you were done with this place?”

Cherri shifted uncomfortably, her arms crossing as she looked down. “I was,” she muttered. “I mean, I am… or I was going to be.” She glanced at Pentious. “You did promise me a stash to take with me, remember? For helping out with the rescue.”

Pentious nodded, rising from his perch on the couch arm. “Of course. I nearly forgot.” He adjusted his jacket and moved toward the door. “I’ll gather the supplies. You’ve earned them.”

Before he could leave, Cherri raised a hand. “Wait.”

Pentious froze mid-step, turning back to her with a quizzical look.

Cherri sighed, her gaze flickering briefly to Angel. “Maybe I’ll stick around a bit longer. Seeing him actually willing to protect this place… I don’t know, maybe it’s not as hopeless as I thought.”

Angel raised a brow, clearly caught off guard. “Me? What the hell did I do?”

“You didn’t run,” Cherri shot back. “Even when things were looking bad. That’s something.”

Charlie looked between them all, her throat tight as she struggled to find the right words.

“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “All of you. I know I’ve made mistakes, and I’m probably going to make more, but… I’ll keep trying. For all of us.”

Vaggie squeezed her hand gently, offering a small, reassuring smile. “We’re in this together, Charlie. No matter what.”

Pentious sat back down. “So, what’s the plan then? If we’re doing this, we need to be prepared.”

“Well? What’s the report?”

Lute stopped studying the map, one hand rubbing the back of her neck as she exhaled sharply. “The blonde wasn’t bullshitting, sir.” she said finally. “Big mansion, already fortified by their group. High metal fence around the perimeter. Only way in is through a sliding gate.”

Adam raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“And the area,” Lute added, gesturing vaguely to the map. “It’s not like Brooklyn. This is one of those towns for rich people. Massive houses all over. Hardly any freaks straggling around. Place is practically deserted.”

That caught Adam’s attention. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “No stragglers? Not even near the mansion?”

“Not many, sir.” Lute admitted. “A few here and there, but nothing like the mess we’ve got here. If we're looking for an ideal base, this is it.”

Adam didn’t reply immediately. He just stared at the map, his fingers tapping lightly against the wood of the table. Ideal. That was a dangerous word, especially now. Nothing was ever ideal.

But he couldn’t deny it. The description sounded… promising. A gated mansion in a quiet town with few undead? It was leagues better than their current setup on the old military base of Fort Hamilton on the edge of Brooklyn, constantly under threat from both the dead and the living. And yet, the risks were obvious. Moving from one base to another wasn’t as simple as packing a bag and hitting the road.

“We’d have to transport fucking everything,” Adam said slowly, half to himself. “Supplies, ammo, gear. That’s not a quick bullshit trip. We’d be vulnerable as hell out there.”

“We’ve got the extra car, sir.” Lute pointed out, crossing her arms. “The one we took from Sergeant. It’s not like a humvee, but it can hold more.”

“Sure,” Adam shrugged. “What about the roads? Cleared out, or are we looking at another goddamn pile-up situation?”

Lute shook her head. “Surprisingly clear, sir. I checked it out myself. Almost eerie how open it is. It’s like the place was a ghost town before the outbreak even hit. Either that, or the rich fucks packed up and left early while everyone else was losing their heads.”

Adam leaned back in his chair, the smirk lingering. He didn’t trust a lot of people, but Lute wasn’t one to bullshit him, and her reports had yet to steer him wrong. “Well, that’s something, I guess,” he muttered, tapping a rhythm on the table’s edge. “Fine. I’ll trust your word on it.”

Lute tilted her head slightly, studying him. “What’s the game plan, then? How are we taking this place?”

Adam’s smirk widened into something colder. “The usual,” he said casually. “We roll in, shoot the survivors, dump the bodies, and start settling in. It’s clean, efficient, no room for loose ends.”

Lute nodded, her expression professional as ever, though she didn’t miss the glint of amusement in Adam’s eyes when he continued.

“But,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “I might take the lead on this one. You know, just in case they try to negotiate or some shit. Not that I’d entertain it—hell no—but I wouldn’t mind poking at whatever delusions they’ve got about diplomacy like the previous groups we’ve dealt with. Could be fun, seeing how desperate they are to hold onto their little slice of paradise.”

Lute’s brow furrowed slightly. “Understood, sir. I’ll start preparing.”

Adam held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks. “Hold onto that for now. We’re not moving just yet. Use this time to get everyone refreshed. Training, drills, the works. If the prisoners really did escape, the survivors are going to put up a fight. I want our people ready for it.”

Lute’s nod was immediate, but her expression darkened slightly as she thought aloud. “Understood, sir. Though… that means the survivors were going to be trained by Rodríguez herself.”

Adam chuckled dryly. “Yeah, well, it’s her own damn fault for being so good at what she does. Besides, if anyone can whip those braindead cunts into shape, it’s her.”

Lute nodded again, her grim expression softening into something almost amused. “I’ll see to it.”

“Good,” Adam said, standing up and stretching. “Because when we roll into that mansion, I want it to feel like a goddamn holiday for the Exorcists. Fancy digs, maybe even some good shit left behind by the rich assholes who bailed. Consider it an upgrade from this shithole.”

Lute allowed herself a small smirk. “Yes, sir.”

It had been four days since the bullshit with the Exorcists, and Charlie could feel the unease settling over everyone like a second skin. Conversations were shorter, laughter quieter, and every creak of the floorboards sent hands reaching for weapons. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but the kind of tension that built when you realized the stakes were higher than you’d ever planned for.

In that time, Vaggie had taken charge, leading everyone in basic training with a ferocity that reminded Charlie why her girlfriend used to be a drill instructor as a Sergeant. Injuries be damned, Vaggie was relentless, barking orders and pacing the makeshift training grounds like a hawk. She pushed the group hard, but not too hard, always knowing when to pull back. This wasn’t boot camp, and they weren’t here to become damn Marines.

Still, Charlie had learned more in those four days than she thought possible.

She also learned something else: she was terrible at this.

It wasn’t the marksmanship. That, she was slowly getting better at (thanks to Vaggie’s guidance)—her aim had gone from laughable to passable, and sometimes, on good days, even impressive. But the physical training? The sparring? The pushups that left her arms trembling? The sit-ups barely counted unless someone held her feet down? That was another story entirely.

By the second day, Charlie was painfully aware of just how weak she was. And, of course, so was Vaggie.

“Breathe, mi amor,” Vaggie had said one afternoon as Charlie collapsed onto the grass after running laps. Her tone was gentler than it was with the others, but the underlying critique was there all the same. “You’re not going to outrun the Exorcists or muertos if you stop every five seconds.”

And Charlie had tried. She’d thrown herself into the drills, determined to catch up with the others. Which was how, on the fourth day, Vaggie called everyone into a loose circle around the laid out training mat. There was a subtle limp in her step, and her splinted hand twitched occasionally, but her voice carried the same commanding weight it always did.

“All right,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’ve been through the drills. You’ve worked on your endurance. Now it’s time to see how good your hand-to-hand combat skills really are.”

Angel groaned audibly, muttering something about “another excuse to get us killed,” but a single glare from Vaggie was enough to shut him up.

“Hand-to-hand combat is essential. When you’re dealing with humans—real, living, breathing people—they’re smarter, faster, and stronger than the muertos. They’ll do whatever it takes to put you down and take what’s yours. And if you’re not ready? You’ll lose and possibly get killed.”

“And the Exorcists? They’re a whole different story. These aren’t desperate scavengers or untrained thugs. These are Marines. Professionals. They don’t take bullshit, and they don’t make mistakes. If you go up against them, you better know what you’re doing—or you won’t get a second chance.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances.

“To prepare for that,” Vaggie did a single clap, “you’re going to spar with each other. Pair up. I want to see what you’ve got, and I’ll give you tips based on your style.”

There was a moment of hesitation before everyone started pairing off. Husk reluctantly teamed up with Angel, who grinned and immediately started making inappropriate jokes about close contact. Pentious ended up with Niffty, whose speed and unpredictability were already making him nervous. Charlie, meanwhile, lingered awkwardly at the edge of the group, unsure who to approach.

“Charlie,” Vaggie called. “You’re with me.”

To say the group was surprised would’ve been an understatement.

“Wait, hold up,” Angel lowered the knife he’d been practicing with. “You’re sparring her? Like, with your broken fingers and fucked up face?”

“You can’t be serious,” Husk muttered, shaking his head.

Even Pentious looked concerned, glancing between Vaggie and Charlie as if he were trying to figure out if this was some kind of test.

But Vaggie ignored them, standing across from Charlie with her splinted hand on her hip. Her presence alone was intimidating, injuries or not. Amongst the group, there was a silent consensus: Vaggie was not someone you wanted to face in hand-to-hand combat. Ever.

Charlie, on the other hand, was less concerned about herself and more about her girlfriend. “Are you sure?” she asked cautiously, her eyes flicking to the bandages on Vaggie’s hand. “Your injuries—”

“I’m fine,” Vaggie interrupted. “And don’t look at me like I’m about to collapse. I wouldn’t suggest this if I wasn’t confident.”

“But your hand—”

“Broken fingers don’t stop me from kicking your ass,” Vaggie smirked. “Besides, you’re supposed to have the advantage here. I’ve only got one good hand and one eye. If you can’t beat me in this condition, then we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Charlie’s cheeks flushed, both at the confidence in Vaggie’s words and the fact that everyone was watching now. “That’s… not exactly comforting”

Vaggie stepped closer, her voice dropping so only Charlie could hear. “I’m not trying to offend you, hun. But you need this. If you can’t hold your own, it puts you and all of us at risk. Understand?”

Charlie swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Yeah,” she said softly, though she didn’t feel any more confident.

“Good.” Vaggie took a step back, raising her hands in a defensive stance. “Don’t hold back on me.”

Charlie squared her shoulders and mirrored Vaggie’s stance—or at least, she tried to. Her movements were stiff and hesitant, more like someone playing at fighting than someone who knew what they were doing. She shuffled forward, throwing a wild punch that missed by a mile as Vaggie sidestepped effortlessly.

The group watched in silence, and it is tense.

Charlie gritted her teeth, trying again. This time she swung faster, aiming for Vaggie’s shoulder, but Vaggie ducked, her good eye tracking Charlie’s every move.

“Keep your balance,” Vaggie stepped back as Charlie stumbled slightly from the momentum. “You’re telegraphing too much. I can see every punch coming before you even throw it.”

Charlie huffed, her cheeks burning. She lunged again, this time trying a clumsy combination of a feint and a jab. But Vaggie was faster, twisting to the side so smoothly it was like she hadn’t even moved at all.

“Good try,” Vaggie commented in a maddeningly casual manner. “But you’re overcommitting. You leave yourself wide open every time.”

Charlie’s frustration mounted. She rushed forward again, throwing a desperate swing that Vaggie dodged easily. Another, and Vaggie stepped back. Another, and Charlie was sure she’d connect—but Vaggie ducked low, so quick it made Charlie’s breath hitch.

And that was when Vaggie saw her opening.

Before Charlie could recover from her last missed strike, Vaggie closed the gap between them in a single movement. She grabbed Charlie’s wrist with her good hand, twisting it just enough to disrupt her balance, and then hooked her foot behind Charlie’s ankle. A heartbeat later, Charlie felt the world tilt, and before she could react, she was on her back, pinned to the mat.

Her body hit the ground with a thud, the air rushing out of her lungs in a surprised yelp.

“Gotcha,” Vaggie leaned over Charlie, one knee pressing into her shoulder and her splinted hand carefully bracing Charlie’s wrist. It wasn’t painful, but it was immobilizing, and Vaggie was holding back—because she could’ve made it hurt if she wanted to.

Charlie blinked up at Vaggie, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. “What the hell was—”

“You don’t just lay there, Charlie.” Vaggie interrupted. “This is the last position you want to be in during a fight. This is where you’re most vulnerable.”

Charlie squirmed under Vaggie’s weight, trying to free her wrist, but Vaggie tightened her grip just enough to keep her pinned without hurting her.

“You fight back,” Vaggie’s good hand pressed down on Charlie’s shoulder to keep her grounded. “Every second you stay here is another second your enemy can take advantage of you. They’re not going to wait around for you to figure it out.”

“I’m trying,” Charlie huffed in frustration as she twisted her hips, attempting to buck Vaggie off.

“Not hard enough.” Vaggie’s splinted hand came up, and she lightly patted both of Charlie’s cheeks in quick succession, the featherlight taps felt humiliating. “This? This is what they’ll do while you’re figuring out your next move—only worse. They won’t just slap you, Charlie. They’ll knock your teeth out.”

Charlie flushed, partly from embarrassment and partly from the realization that everyone was still watching. She grit her teeth, bucking her hips again, harder this time, but Vaggie’s balance didn’t falter.

“And another thing,” Vaggie continued, her tone not softening in the slightest. “You don’t talk to the enemy unless they talk to you first. This isn’t a friendly sparring match, mi amor. It’s survival. Your words won’t stop them, and you sure as hell won’t charm them out of kicking your ass.”

“But—” Charlie started, only for Vaggie to interrupt with another light slap to her cheek.

“No buts,” Her eye narrowed. “Focus. You’ve got options here, but you’re wasting time complaining. Think, Charlie. What can you do? How do you get out of this?”

Charlie blinked up at her. “I don’t know! You’ve got me pinned!”

“Wrong answer.” Vaggie’s voice dropped an octave. “Figure it out. You’re smart. Use that brain of yours before it gets you killed.”

Charlie’s breath hitched, and something clicked in her mind. She stopped struggling for a moment, her gaze darting to Vaggie’s splinted hand. Then, without warning, she twisted her wrist sharply, using the angle of Vaggie’s weakened grip to slip free.

Vaggie grunted in surprise as Charlie bucked her hips again, this time managing to throw her off balance enough to roll out from under her. Charlie scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding as she spun around to face Vaggie, her fists raised defensively.

“Better,” Vaggie said, rising to her feet with a small, approving nod. “Still slow, though. If I’d been serious, you’d already be dead. Now, let’s try again.”

Charlie groaned but squared her stance. This time, she wasn’t going to let Vaggie take her down so easily.

Vaggie settled back into her stance. She raised her guard, her weight shifting slightly onto the balls of her feet. She gave a sharp nod as a go signal.

Charlie inhaled sharply and moved in, but her stance was still too rigid. This time, she tried to keep her distance, circling cautiously as she replayed scenes from old movies in her mind, hoping muscle memory would somehow kick in.

She threw a quick jab, testing the waters, but Vaggie barely flinched, her good eye tracking the punch. The moment Charlie overreached, Vaggie stepped in close, delivering a swift knee strike against Charlie’s thigh with just enough force to disrupt her balance.

Charlie staggered back, catching herself just in time to avoid falling. She clenched her fists tighter, launching into a flurry of wild strikes, her movements fast but undisciplined.

Vaggie blocked the punches with her forearms snapping up to deflect or absorb each blow with ease. She didn’t retreat this time; instead, she pressed forward, slipping inside Charlie’s reach. Her elbow came up in a smooth arc, stopping just shy of Charlie’s jaw—a warning shot.

“Keep your guard up,” Vaggie instructed as she stepped back again.

Charlie growled under her breath, resetting her stance. This time, she feinted with a right hook before pivoting and attempting a clumsy kick aimed at Vaggie’s side.

It was an opening too obvious to ignore. Vaggie caught Charlie’s leg mid-kick, her grip iron-tight, and swept Charlie’s standing foot out from under her in a single move. Charlie hit the mat again with a grunt, her body jolting from the impact.

“Creative,” Vaggie commented, releasing Charlie’s leg as she stepped back. “But your balance is still off. If you’re going to kick, you better be damn sure you’ve got a follow-up plan, or someone like me will send you straight to the ground every time.”

Charlie pushed herself up with a groan, sweat beading on her forehead. Her limbs ached, and her pride stung worse. She couldn’t give up now.

She stood, her breath uneven, and this time, she didn’t rush in. She circled Vaggie again, her movements still clunky but slightly more measured. Charlie darted in with a low punch aimed at Vaggie’s ribs, only to be met with another deflection.

But this time, she didn’t retreat. Instead, she grabbed at Vaggie’s arm, trying to imitate a grapple she’d seen in an old action flick. It was messy, her grip too loose and her stance too open, but it forced Vaggie to shift her footing.

Vaggie twisted her arm free, spinning behind Charlie. In the blink of an eye, she hooked an arm under Charlie’s, locking her in place, and swept her leg out from under her again.

Charlie yelped as she hit the mat, but this time she reacted faster, twisting her body and swinging her legs to knock Vaggie’s feet out from under her.

Vaggie stumbled but caught herself before hitting the ground. She straightened, a flicker of surprise in her eye, followed by a small, rare smile. “Not bad. You’re learning.”

Charlie’s chest heaved as she pushed herself up once more, her arms trembling. “You make it look so damn easy,” she muttered, brushing hair out of her face.

“It is easy,” Vaggie said bluntly, though there was no malice in her voice. “Once you stop overthinking and start trusting your instincts, it’ll come naturally.”

Charlie wiped sweat from her brow, nodding. “One more round.”

Vaggie tilted her head, clearly debating whether to push Charlie further. Then she nodded, resetting her stance. “One more round. Show me what you’ve got.”

Charlie took a deep breath, her fists raised. She circled Vaggie with more focus this time, her steps lighter, her stance looser. Her muscles ached, but her mind buzzed with determination. She had to land something—anything—just to prove to herself she could.

Vaggie remained calm, her weight shifting fluidly with Charlie’s movements. She didn’t attack; she didn’t need to. Her patience only added to the pressure weighing on Charlie.

Finally, Charlie darted forward. This time, she kept her punches tight and aimed for the center, hoping to close the gap before Vaggie could react. But Vaggie didn’t react the way Charlie expected.

Instead of stepping back, Vaggie surged forward, cutting off Charlie’s momentum. She caught Charlie’s wrist mid-swing and pivoted sharply, pulling Charlie off-balance and slamming her down onto the mat with a force that made the group wince.

For a moment, all Charlie could do was lie there, staring up at the ceiling, her breath knocked out of her.

“You’re rushing again,” Vaggie said, her tone sharper now. She knelt beside Charlie, leaning close. “You need to think. You’re strong, but strength means nothing if you don’t use your brain.”

Charlie groaned, rolling onto her side. “Yeah, well, thinking isn’t exactly working out for me either.”

Vaggie’s eye narrowed. “You’re frustrated. I get it. But frustration won’t save you. Strategy will.” She stood, offering Charlie a hand. “Get up. This time, you’re not going to rush me.”

Charlie hesitated before taking Vaggie’s hand, letting herself be pulled to her feet. Her entire body felt heavy, but she nodded, squaring her stance again.

This time, Charlie didn’t charge in. She moved more deliberately, watching Vaggie’s posture, trying to read her movements like Vaggie had done to her so many times.

“Better,” Vaggie murmured as Charlie shifted her weight, feinting with her shoulder to see how Vaggie would react.

Charlie threw a quick jab—not to land a hit—and pulled back before Vaggie could counter. She followed it with a cautious step to the side, circling again, forcing Vaggie to move with her.

“Good,” Vaggie said, her voice low. “Keep watching me. Keep your guard up.”

Charlie lunged, this time aiming low. When Vaggie stepped back to dodge, Charlie shifted her weight mid-movement, swinging her leg around in an awkward attempt to sweep Vaggie off her feet.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Vaggie stumbled—not much, but enough for Charlie to press the advantage. She threw her weight forward, tackling Vaggie in a messy heap that sent both of them to the mat.

The group let out a collective murmur of surprise.

Charlie scrambled to pin Vaggie, her heart racing as she pressed her forearm to Vaggie’s shoulder. She wasn’t strong enough to keep her there for long, but for the first time, she felt like she had the upper hand.

Vaggie grinned—a rare, genuine grin that caught the group off guard. “Not bad,” she said, her voice almost... proud.

Then, Vaggie shifted her hips and rolled them both over, pinning Charlie beneath her once again. “But not good enough,” she added playfully.

Charlie groaned, but she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. She was exhausted, bruised, and still very much a beginner, but for the first time, she felt like she was getting somewhere.

“Alright,” Vaggie said, standing and offering Charlie a hand again. “That’s enough for today.”

Charlie took her hand, letting Vaggie pull her up once more. “Next time, I’m taking you down,” she said, breathless but determined.

Vaggie smirked. “I’ll believe it when I see it, sweetie. Now, please hydrate before you collapse on me.”

Charlie nodded, limping toward the kitchen, her muscles screaming but her spirits a little higher. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she might be able to hold her own. Someday.

It’s been a week since the capture.

Charlie sat slouched in the old wicker chair on the balcony of her dad’s office, the cool night air prickling her skin. The chair creaked faintly with every shift of her weight, just like most things in her life and herself, it wasn’t built to withstand this kind of pressure.

She should’ve been keeping watch, scanning beyond the metal gate for any potential threats. Instead, her gaze was fixed somewhere in her mind, as it churned through the past week like it was stuck on an endless, miserable reel.

Fucking hell.

She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, rubbing her face with both hands. The stress seeped into every part of her, making her head throb. The mansion had turned into a fortress almost overnight, with everyone reinforcing walls, enclosing the hallways using overturned unused furniture, and building barricades like the shittiest DIY project. And then there was the training—hours of Vaggie drilling everyone on survival, teaching them how to fight back. Not to escape. Not to negotiate. To fight.

Charlie didn’t agree with the plan. She didn’t agree with any of it.

Violence wasn’t the answer. It never had been. But that was easy to believe when the problem wasn’t a group of relentless, armed pseudo-military men who didn’t spare anyone to get what they wanted. Cherri and Vaggie made sure everyone knew that much.

And now, here they were, exhausted, paranoid, and itching to pull the trigger at the first sign of trouble. Every tense conversation, every loaded glance, every creak of the mansion’s floorboards felt like it might be the spark to blow it all apart.

And what was Charlie doing? Sitting on the sidelines, clinging to the frayed edges of her principles while everyone else prepared to fight for their lives. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of it. But her desire to protect her old home, the place that still smelled faintly of her childhood, of her mother’s cologne, was pulling her into a war she didn’t believe in.

She let out a low, frustrated groan, leaning back in the chair and staring up at the sky. It was too cloudy to see the stars, just an expanse of darkness pressing down. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rustling of the trees.

The question left unanswered in the air, as she sank deeper into her thoughts, letting the night watch become just another excuse to sulk in her own indecision.

“Hey.”

The voice cut through her thoughts. Charlie turned around, startled but relieved, and saw Vaggie standing in the doorway, carrying a chair in her left hand and a plate of food balanced precariously on her splinted right hand.

Despite the strain of the past week, there was something grounding about Vaggie’s presence, something that Charlie clung to more than she cared to admit. She felt her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile—small, tired, but real.

“I brought dinner,” Vaggie said, a soft lilt in her voice. “Mind if I join?”

Charlie shook her head. “Not at all.” She rose halfway, taking the plate from Vaggie before she could tip it and setting it on the small table by the chair. “You should’ve just asked me to come inside.”

“And let you brood out here all night?” Vaggie teased, settling the chair beside Charlie’s with a light thud. “Nah. Someone’s gotta make sure you eat.”

Charlie chuckled, a rare sound lately, and sat back down. She picked up the plate, her stomach grudgingly reminding her that it had been hours since she’d eaten. The food wasn’t much—leftover canned beans, crackers and some kind of jerky—but it was enough.

Vaggie dropped into her own chair with a sigh, stretching out her legs. For a moment, they both sat in comfortable silence, the sounds of the night filling the space between them: the rustle of leaves, the distant groan of a zombie somewhere near the tall fence, the occasional creak of the balcony floorboards.

As Charlie slowly picked at her food, Vaggie broke the silence. “See anything?”

Charlie shook her head, chewing a bite of jerky before answering. “Nope. Just the usual. Empty streets, straggling zombies clawing at the gate like they’re trying to figure out how to climb.”

Vaggie nodded, her expression thoughtful but unsurprised. “Figures. Quiet’s good, though. Gives us time.”

“Time for what?” Charlie asked curiously.

Vaggie gestured vaguely with her splinted hand. “To keep everyone ready. To not die horribly. You know, the usual.”

Charlie snorted, finally feeling a bit of the tension in her shoulders loosen. If anyone could make this bleak situation bearable, it was Vaggie.

Charlie scooped some beans onto a cracker, pressing it together like a messy sandwich before taking a bite. The salty, slightly stale flavor mixed with the earthy taste of the beans wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t awful either. She chewed slowly, giving herself a moment to form the question nagging at her.

“How are the others?” she asked casually.

“They’ve been busy,” Vaggie replied, shifting in her seat to face Charlie more directly. “The final fortifications are done down the main hall. We blocked off the side rooms and cleared out extra cover. If they come, we’ll force them to navigate through the central staircase.”

Charlie raised a brow, swallowing her bite. “And that’s supposed to help?”

Vaggie gave her a knowing look. “It gives us the high ground. Everyone will be positioned upstairs. If the Exorcists attack, we’ll have the advantage to shoot down at them. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

Charlie hummed in response, a low, neutral sound that didn’t betray much. She pushed the remaining beans around on her plate, her appetite already waning.

Vaggie tilted her head, studying her. “This is about the plan, isn’t it? The violent option as you worded it?”

Charlie didn’t answer right away. She set her plate down on the table and leaned back, letting the cool night air settle over her again. “I just don’t know if this is the right call,” she finally said. “I get why you’re doing it. Why everyone is. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re losing something in the process.”

“Losing what?”

“Everything that makes us better than them,” Charlie’s gaze is distant. “I know we need to survive. I know what you guys said about the exorcists and how they don’t spare anyone. But turning this place into a kill zone? Training everyone to shoot to kill? It feels like we’re giving up on something important.”

Vaggie was silent for a moment. Then she reached out, her hand resting lightly on Charlie’s. “I know you hate this, and I hate it too. I hate what I’ve been doing, barking orders and making people drill like soldiers. It’s like stepping back into a part of myself I tried to leave behind.”

Charlie looked up at her, surprised.

Vaggie’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze shifting to the darkened yard beyond the balcony. “Back when I was in the military, that part of me had a purpose. But now? It just feels like I’m becoming someone I don’t want to be. Someone cold, ruthless. And yet…” She cleared her throat, forcing the words out. “It feels like a necessary evil. Fighting back, preparing for them—it’s the only way I see us surviving.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed as she processed Vaggie’s words.

“And you,” Vaggie continued, her eyes flicking back to Charlie’s. “You’re the reason I keep pushing. I hate having to teach you to fight back, Charlie. I hate it more than you probably know. You’re not like me. You shouldn’t have to be. But the truth is—” Vaggie hesitated, gripping the edge of her chair as if steadying herself. “The truth is, I won’t always be here to protect you.”

“I don’t say that to scare you, but it’s something I think about every day. The way you are, the way you see the world—it’s beautiful, Charlie. But it also makes you a target. There are people out there—horrible people—who will see your kindness as weakness, who will take advantage of you without a second thought. I can’t let that happen.”

Charlie finally found her voice, though it was quiet and unsure. “I… I don’t want to lose who I am, Vaggie. I don’t want to become someone who only sees violence as the answer.”

“You won’t,” Vaggie squeezed Charlie’s hand. “That’s not who you are, and it never will be. But knowing how to fight doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Vaggie sighed, the sound heavy and weighed down by exhaustion and a thousand unsaid things. Her hand dropped from Charlie’s, and she leaned back in her chair, staring out into the darkened yard. “Do you remember what I asked you? Back at their base?”

Charlie tensed, her grip tightening on the edge of her plate. She knew exactly what Vaggie was referring to, the memory as clear as if it had happened minutes ago.

“If I had a chance to kill one of them,” Vaggie continued, “would you let me do it?”

Charlie swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I’m not saying I’d let you. I’m saying I’d understand why you might feel like you have to. But, Vaggie…” Her tone shifted, the words almost pleading. “I don’t want that for you. For either of us.”

Vaggie turned to look at her, her eyes searching, scrutinizing. “Why not? What makes them worth saving after everything they’ve done? After everything they’ve taken from me?”

Charlie’s chest tightened, the weight of Vaggie’s words pressing down on her. She set the plate aside, leaning forward to meet Vaggie’s gaze head-on. “It’s not about them,” Charlie said, her voice steadying. “It’s about us. Who we are. Who we want to be after this nightmare is over.”

She reached up, hesitating for a moment before resting her hand gently on Vaggie’s cheek. Her thumb brushed against her skin, and she held the contact, forcing Vaggie to look at her. “I don’t want you to lose any more of yourself to this world. You’ve already had so much taken from you. If you kill them, I’m afraid it’ll take even more.”

Vaggie’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, her eye locked on Charlie’s. Then, she exhaled slowly, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.

“And if they come for us again? If they put you in their sights, Charlie? You’re telling me I should just stand there and let it happen?”

Charlie’s expression softened. “I’m not asking you to stand there and let it happen—”

“Then what are you asking me to do, Charlie?” Vaggie interrupted, her voice sharp and strained. “Because it sure as hell sounds like you want me to just stand there and watch them take you. Or worse.”

Charlie flinched but held her ground. “No, Vaggie, that’s not—”

“Then what?” Vaggie stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. “You think your ideals are enough to keep us safe? That kindness will make them change their minds? We’re not dealing with people who can be reasoned with, Charlie. These aren’t just desperate survivors—they’re monsters.”

Charlie’s eyes glistened, but her voice stayed firm. “I know that. I know how dangerous they are. But if we become like them, if we let that darkness in, then what’s the point? What are we even fighting for?”

Vaggie’s fists clenched, her breathing heavy. She paced a few steps, the strain in her body visible with every movement. “You talk about not becoming like them, but you don’t understand what it takes to survive out there. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. And I’m still here because I didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing myself.”

Charlie stood up, meeting Vaggie’s intensity. “I’m not asking you to second-guess yourself. I’m asking you to believe that there’s still something worth saving in us. That we can be better.”

“Better?” Vaggie’s voice cracked, her eye blazing with a mix of anger and pain. “Better doesn’t mean anything if we’re fucking dead.”

“You talk about surviving, Vaggie, but all you ever want is the easy way out!” The words erupted before Charlie could stop them. No! Please shut up! “Killing each other, killing anyone who gets in our way—it’s just another escape. Like how easy it is for you to pull the damn trigger on civilians who’ve done nothing wrong!”

The moment the words left her mouth, she froze, her breath catching as she realized what she’d just said. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Vaggie’s expression shifted, her eye widening with something deeper than shock—it was hurt, raw and unfiltered, as if Charlie had just reopened a wound that had barely begun to heal.

Vaggie’s lips parted, but no words came. She looked at Charlie as though she were seeing a stranger. She stopped, pressing her lips into a tight line, her eye dark and unreadable.

“Vaggie, I…” Charlie’s voice cracked, the apology forming too late. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Vaggie cut her off. The sharp edges of anger were gone, replaced by something far colder. She shook her head, not in disbelief, but as if she were forcing herself to stay composed. “You don’t need to say anything else.”

Slowly, she picked up Charlie’s plate, then her own chair, the movements mechanical, almost detached. Her gaze lingered on Charlie, the intensity in her eye replaced by a cold familiarity—the same guarded, hostile look she’d had when they first met at the hospital four years ago.

“Espero que tengas razón.”

Without another word, Vaggie turned and walked out from the balcony until the office door slammed shut behind her, leaving Charlie alone in the silence of the balcony.

Charlie stood there, rooted in place, the echo of the door slam reverberating through the hollow spaces in her chest. The night air felt way colder now, the silence deafening. She sank back into the chair, her hands shaking as she ran them through her hair. Stupid. Fucking stupid! The words repeated in her mind, a relentless loop of regret.

It really is fucking hell at this point.

Adam’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a rhythm born of anticipation rather than nerves. The humvee’s engine growled beneath him, harmonizing with the distant roar of the military truck behind them, its massive tires crunching over cracked asphalt and long-abandoned debris. Fort Hamilton was already a shithole they’d willingly left behind in Brooklyn, trading its rusted gates for the open road to Long Island. The Hamptons awaited, and with it, the promise of conquest—or carnage. Honestly, Adam preferred the latter.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, the Exorcists following in disciplined formation. Faces hardened by too many nights under siege, too many days soaked in blood. Soldiers, zealots, or something in between. It didn’t matter what you called them. They were his.

The humvee’s headlights cut through the morning fog as they approached the tall metal gate, its iron bars flanked by fences that stretched around. The apple insignias, stamped into the metal, glinted dully. The red mansion loomed in the distance, its windows boarded up.

But it was the courtyard that caught Adam’s attention. Clear. Too fucking clear. No scattered debris or whatever scraps, nothing that Lute’s reports had led him to expect. It was pristine, like someone had swept the slate clean. The parked cars were gone, the usual mess of a hurried evacuation suspiciously absent.

He frowned, suspicion settling like a stone in his gut. “They didn’t just leave it like this,” he muttered, more to himself than to Lute next to him.

The Exorcists behind him waited, their collective breath held in the tense quiet. Adam’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the wheel tightening. There was only one way to know for sure what lay beyond that gate.

“Let’s find out,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Adam reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his vest. He pressed the button. “Corporal, you see that gate?”

“Affirmative,” came the response.

“Good. Ram the fucking thing. I want that gate on the ground.”

“Copy that.”

Adam shifted the humvee to the side, its tires grinding over loose gravel as he made way for the military truck. The massive vehicle roared forward, its engine bellowing like a beast unleashed.

The truck hit the gate with a deafening crash, metal screeching and buckling under the force. The gate groaned, the iron resisting for a heartbeat before giving way, splintering and crumpling as the truck forced its way through. The fence rattled. It wasn’t clean—the truck struggled, tires spinning and engine straining, but the gate finally gave in, folding like paper.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, the Exorcists erupted in cheers, a cacophony of hollers and laughter filling the air. Adam leaned out the window, his grin feral as he raised a fist.

“This is it!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. “This place is ours! No more hiding, no more running. We take this sweet ass mansion, and we own this fucking world!”

The cheers grew louder with their fists pumping and weapons raised.

Adam ducked back into the humvee, eyes blazing. “Let’s move!” he barked, slamming the gas pedal. The humvee shot forward, leading the charge through the shattered gate, the truck lumbering behind like a loyal beast.

The vehicles rolled to a stop in the courtyard, engines cutting out one by one, leaving only the faint groans of the gate settling back into silence. Adam swung the humvee door open and stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stretched, his spine cracking, and took a deep breath, as if tasting the air of victory already.

Lute hopped out on the passenger side. Without a word, she strode towards the Exorcists, who had already begun to disembark from the truck, falling into formation with practiced ease. Rifles up, eyes sharp—battle-hardened machines ready to unleash hell.

Adam smirked. They were good—his good.

“Stay sharp,” Lute called out. She weaved through the formation, inspecting the line. No one slacked under her watch.

Adam took the lead, walking towards the mansion’s front porch. The Exorcists followed, a silent, lethal procession. The red mansion loomed larger with each step.

He climbed the porch steps, casual as ever, rolling his shoulders before unholstering his revolver. The wooden double doors, flanked by tarnished brass fixtures, stood closed. He reached out, twisting the knob—it didn’t budge.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Of course it’s fucking locked.”

Lute raised an eyebrow, her rifle slung across her back. “Permission to kick it down?”

Adam shrugged. “Sure. Knock yourself out. I don’t give a shit.”

Lute drew back her leg, planted her stance, and drove her boot against the door with precision and force. The wood groaned under the impact, splintering at the lock before flying inward, slamming against the wall with a hollow thud. She moved quickly, rifle unslung, eyes darting through the dimly lit interior as she crossed the threshold.

The main area unfolded before her, vast and eerily quiet. To the left, the remnants of a living room—furniture outlines on the floor where couches once stood, their absence screaming louder than their presence might have. To the right, an open kitchen, stripped bare, its cabinets yawning emptily. Dead center, a grand central staircase split into two wings, its polished banisters leading to shadowed hallways above.

The scent of mildew hung heavy in the air, mingled with something sharper, more metallic.

“Empty,” Lute muttered and she lowered her rifle slightly.

Adam followed Lute inside, revolver in hand, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the space. Cabinets with doors ajar, shelves stripped of anything valuable. Even the rugs had been pulled up, leaving bare floorboards. He’d expected something—someone—but the mansion was as lifeless as a tomb. No valuables, no scavenged trinkets, not even a misplaced chair. Just... emptiness.

“Where the fuck is everything?” Adam started to get frustrated. His eyes flicked to the barricades blocked off the extended rooms and at the far end of the ground floor. Furniture—desks, chairs, shelves—had been shoved against them in a haphazard wall of wood and fabric, blocking off the unknown.

Adam approached one of the barricades, brushing a hand over the back of a toppled chair that had been used to fortify it. He frowned, his fingers curling into a fist. “They closed these off,” he said, more to himself. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders growing. “Of course, they knew we were coming.”

He turned back to the Exorcists. “Alright, fan out!” he barked. “Search every corner of this place. Every room, every closet, every fucking corner. I want to know what happened here.”

The Exorcists moved without hesitation, rifles raised as they spread out into the house, their boots thudding against the floorboards. Some headed towards the side rooms that weren’t bothered to block off.

This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. And Adam hated surprises.

Lute lingered for a moment, watching Adam. “Something’s off,” she whispered.

Adam’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the barricaded rooms. “Yeah,” he said. “And we’re gonna find out what.”

The Exorcists swept through the open rooms, their boots echoing through the hollow mansion. Adam and Lute moved together, their steps synchronized as they approached the grand staircase. Adam’s revolver stayed loose in his hand, his eyes scanning every corner with a predator’s instinct.

As they neared the base of the steps, a sudden shout shattered the quiet:

“ADAM!”

The entire group froze.

The Exorcists snapped their rifles up in unison to aim at the top of the staircase. Lute’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes scanning the shadowed landing above them.

Adam, however, his smirk never faltered as he instinctively waved a hand to stop the soldiers.

“Hold your fire,” he commanded.

Lute’s eyes narrowed, her rifle still aimed, but her expression softened with something like recognition—or at least suspicion. She didn’t lower her weapon but gave a slight nod to Adam, as if silently asking him whether this was a threat or not.

At the top of the stairs stood a familiar figure. Tall, poised, with blonde hair tied into a neat high ponytail. Her hands were raised in surrender, but in her left hand, she held a small, black device—something like a remote.

Her blue eyes locked onto Adam’s.

The silence stretched between them. Adam took a step forward, not flinching in the face of whatever this woman had planned.

“Well, blondie,” Adam called up to her, his voice mocking, "it's been over a week. Did you miss me?”

The nagging voice in the back of Charlie’s head sounded a lot like Vaggie. This is a bad idea, Charlie. Especially with over thirty rifles aimed in her direction—enough firepower to turn her into confetti. And yet, here she stood, fingers wrapped around a remote that felt both too small and too heavy, like it might shatter if she squeezed too hard.

The weight of the moment pressed on her chest, each breath like inhaling concrete dust. Hold your ground, Charlie told herself. If this plan falls apart, everything we’ve built turns to ash.

She took a deep breath, steadying her voice as she called out, “Took you long enough. Thought you got lost on the way.”

Adam shrugged, as casually as if they were old friends meeting for coffee instead of potential enemies staring down the barrel of a standoff. “Had to pack and shit. You know how it is.” His eyes flicked to the remote in Charlie’s hand, curiosity sparking. “So, what’s that? A goodbye gift, or are you just happy to see me?”

She ignored the bait, her voice steady. “I’m here to negotiate.”

The Exorcists shifted, their eyes flicking between Adam and Charlie, fingers twitching over triggers. She pressed on. “If you stand down—if your people agree to work with us instead of against us—I’ll give you whatever supplies you need. Food, medicine, ammo.”

She lifted the remote slightly, the implication hanging heavy in the air. “But if you attack, if you threaten my friends or my home—this place becomes a crater. There’s enough C-4 or whatever explosives under the floorboards to take out everyone standing on the ground floor.”

Silence. Tension coiled like a spring, ready to snap.

“Nobody fucking move,” she warned with her voice sharper now. “One wrong step, and we all go up in flames.”

For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then Adam leaned against the banister, his laugh cutting through the tension like a blade. Low, mocking, dangerous.

“Nice bluff, Blondie.” His eyes sparkled with something too wild to be just amusement. “But I don’t think you’ve got it in you.”

He thinks I’m bluffing. The nagging voice in Charlie’s head screamed louder. Maybe he was right. Maybe this whole thing would implode in the next breath. But her grip on the remote didn’t falter.

She couldn’t let it.

Charlie’s fingers trembled slightly, a ripple of nervous energy she fought to keep from spreading. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Steady, steady. Every instinct screamed to run, to get out of the line of fire, but that wasn’t an option. Not now. Not ever. She had to be the leader Vaggie believed she was—the one who could pull them through this chaos with nothing but stubborn resolve and a remote that might be their salvation or their doom.

Vaggie. The name echoed in her mind, a bitter mix of guilt and longing. Charlie couldn’t even believe that the last real conversation they’d had was on the balcony that night. They hadn’t spoken beyond cold, clipped acknowledgments since. Vaggie had even stopped sleeping in their room, opting for the couch or the armory instead.

Charlie’s chest tightened. Focus. The time to unpack that was later—if there was a later.

Adam’s laughter echoed, but it was losing its edge. He was watching her more closely now, searching for a crack in her armor. She met his gaze, steady and unyielding, though her heart hammered like a drum in her chest. The room felt like a pressure cooker, every second stretching into an eternity.

Then, with a deliberate calmness she didn’t feel, she pressed one of the smaller buttons on the remote. Please let this be the right one.

A muffled explosion rocked the building, shaking dust loose from the ceiling. The blast came from one of the smaller rooms they’d already sealed off—a calculated loss, just in case. The shockwave rolled through the air, sharp and sudden, and the Exorcists flinched. Rifles wavered, fingers twitching on triggers.

Charlie didn’t flinch (she would have jumped too). She couldn’t afford to. She let the silence stretch, the scent of smoke and scorched wood filling the room, thick and acrid.

Adam’s smile faltered, a thin crack spiderwebbing through his confidence. He straightened, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m fucking serious.” One wrong word, one wrong move, and everything would come crashing down. “This is your only warning. Walk away. You don’t want to find out what happens if I hit the big red button.”

The mention of the button—Pentious’s last-resort safeguard—She didn’t even know exactly what it did, only that it was their last resort.

Adam’s eyes flicked to the remote again. For the first time, she saw uncertainty there. He didn’t believe her. Not entirely. But now, he wasn’t sure he could risk calling her bluff.

One of the Exorcists shifted, the movement slight but enough to draw Charlie’s attention. She snapped her gaze to him, voice like a whip. “I said nobody move.” The man froze.

Adam’s smile returned, but it was thinner now, stretched tight. “You think you’ve won, blondie? You’re playing with fire. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Neither do you.”

Charlie felt the weight of every eye on her, every rifle trained and ready. But the remote in her hand might as well have been a lifeline, fragile as it was. She couldn’t falter now—not when so much was at stake.

“Listen to me!” She shouted. “Look around you. We’ve all lost people. We’ve all seen the world turn to hell. The zombies outside don’t care who we are, where we came from, or what flags we used to fly. They only care about tearing us apart. And if we let ourselves do their job for them, then we’ve already lost.”

“We have a choice,” Charlie pressed on. “We can keep fighting each other until there’s nothing left but ashes. Or we can stand together. Build something better. I know people have the potential to grow—if we give them a chance. We’re stronger together.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, like the room itself was holding its breath. Adam’s eyes bored into her, a mix of amusement and calculation. He leaned forward, his smile fading into something harder, more serious. The room felt like it might shatter under the weight of what he’d say next.

Then, he chuckled. It was low, bitter. “That’s a nice speech, Blondie. Really. Almost convincing. But here’s the deal.” His voice dropped, each word a threat. “You hand over everything—your supplies, this mansion—and you and your little band of loser cunts walk away. Maybe you make it out there. Maybe you don’t. Either way, this place is ours.”

Charlie’s grip on the remote tightened. “That’s not an option.”

Adam’s laughter grew louder. “You think you’re in a position to negotiate?” He spread his arms, gesturing to the Exorcists. “You’ve got one button. I’ve got an army. Either you hand it over, or we take it.”

“Then you walk away empty-handed,” Charlie shot back, her voice firm. “Work with us, or leave. Those are your choices.”

Adam’s laughter died, replaced by a cold, unsettling silence. He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers, like he could see straight through her. “You want the truth, blondie? You think lowlifes like you can work with us? You think Rodríguez wouldn’t slit my throat—or Lute’s—the second we turned our backs? Hell, she’d probably enjoy it.”

Charlie’s heart twisted at the mention of Vaggie, but she didn’t let it show. She couldn’t.

Adam’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “You wouldn’t question it, would you? Because you’re still clinging to your old-world values. Hoping for some happy ending that doesn’t exist anymore.” He lifted his revolver, leveling it at her. “But this is the real world now. It’s kill or be killed. Take what you want, or rot with the weak and the pathetic.”

The room held its breath. Charlie didn’t move, didn’t blink. Her mind raced, but her voice was steady. “If you really believed that,” she said quietly, “you wouldn’t be standing here trying to make a deal. You’d have shot me already.”

Adam shrugged lazily, like they were arguing over a bad poker hand. “You know what I love, blondie? Messing around with bullshit negotiations like these.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “But don’t get it twisted. The endgame? Always the same. Gunning down every single one of you sorry fucks.”

Charlie opened her mouth to retort, to keep the tenuous balance of power tilted just enough in her favor, when she heard it: the unmistakable metallic ping of a grenade pin being pulled, followed by the soft click of a safety being unlocked.

The sound froze the room.

For a split second, no one moved. Then, from somewhere on the ground floor, a shout shattered the silence. “Grenade!”

The world seemed to slow down. Panic exploded faster than the grenade itself. Charlie’s mind raced, but her body couldn’t keep up. She barely had time to register the chaos—rifles clattering, bodies diving for cover—before the blast hit.

The explosion ripped through the air, a deafening roar that seemed to collapse the world around her. Heat and shrapnel tore past, and the shockwave staggered her, forcing her back a step. She gasped, trying to stay upright, but the force of it sent her stumbling. Her thumb slipped against the remote—

The big red button clicked.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the second explosion erupted, more powerful than the first. The floor shuddered, and the air turned into a wall of force throwing her like a ragdoll. Charlie’s back slammed into the wall with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

Pain exploded through her back, and her vision blurred. The edges darkened as the world tilted and swirled around her. She tried to push herself up, to hold onto consciousness, but her body refused to obey.

The last thing she registered was the scent of smoke, the distant flicker of flames—and Vaggie’s voice, somewhere in her mind, calling her name.

Then, silence.

Chapter Text

Charlie had always imagined this moment would feel like the crescendo of a symphony—like the last notes would swell, the crowd would erupt, and her heart would finally feel lighter, not heavier.

Instead, she was counting steps. One, two, three. Don’t trip. Four, five. Smile like you mean it.

The gown felt too heavy, the fabric stifling in the May heat. Rows of graduates in purple caps and gowns stretched like an endless sea, the stage looming closer with every carefully measured step. It wasn’t loud, exactly, but the murmur of the crowd—the families packed into Yankee Stadium, the proud smiles, the occasional burst of applause—felt like static in the back of her mind.

When it was her turn, the voice over the microphone called out: “Charlotte M. Morningstar.”

She wondered, for a split second, if she’d even heard it right.

She walked up the ramp, feeling every eye on her, though none of them saw her. The university’s insignia glinted on the podium, and the dean, a blur of academic robes and polite smiles, extended the diploma.

“Congratulations,” he said like he’d said a thousand times already that day.

Charlie smiled back, a reflex more than anything. “Thank you.”

The diploma felt too light in her hands. For something that was supposed to symbolize years of work, sleepless nights, and the quiet, nagging voice that had gotten her through every moment of doubt, it felt almost...insubstantial. Like if she held it too tightly, it might crumble.

She descended the other side of the stage, rejoining the endless procession of graduates, each one clutching the same piece of paper, each one already half-lost in the noise of the next name being called.

Charlie’s eyes scanned the stadium, searching through the blur of faces until she found them—her parents, unmistakable even at a distance. Lucifer’s platinum blonde hair caught the sunlight, and next to him, Lilith’s hat tilted at just the right angle to shield her from the midday sun. But it was Seviathan who drew her gaze the longest. He stood out effortlessly in his emerald green suit, clapping with the kind of enthusiasm that belonged to someone who believed in her more than she believed in herself.

She couldn’t help it—a wide, unguarded wave broke through the polished calm she’d practiced all morning. Lilith raised her hand in return, a small, proud motion, while Lucifer’s wave was more exuberant as if trying to send love across the distance. Seviathan added a playful salute to his wave, and for a moment, the weight on her shoulders lifted.

She returned to her seat, the ceremony continuing like a well-rehearsed play. Names flowed from the speakers, applause rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the occasional cheer. The speeches resumed—something about perseverance, about being the architects of the future. The words blurred together in a numbing haze.

Charlie glanced around, catching glimpses of the other graduates. Some were whispering to each other, caps tipped back. Others sat stiff and still, hands clutching their diplomas as if they might evaporate. A girl a few rows ahead wiped tears from her eyes, while a guy in the row beside her had already dozed off, head tilted at an awkward angle.

She looked back toward the stands. Her parents and Seviathan were still watching, Lilith’s hand clasped over her heart, Lucifer leaning slightly forward as if afraid to miss a moment. Seviathan caught her eye again and winked, mouthing something she couldn’t quite catch. It didn’t matter. She knew what it was. Probably something about how proud he was, how he knew she could do it, how they’d celebrate tonight.

The dean's final words snapped her attention back to the stage, a cue for the end that everyone had been waiting for. The sea of purple moved as one, tassels shifted from right to left. Cheers erupted, a thousand futures unfurling at once.

The graduates spilled out into the aisles, some crying, some laughing, most just trying to find their way to the people who had been waiting for them. Charlie’s steps were lighter now. She weaved through the crowd, past clumsy hugs, photo flashes, professors shaking hands, and friends clinking imaginary glasses.

When she finally reached them, Seviathan pulled her into a hug that was all warmth and familiar cologne. “Told you you’d make it,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against her ear.

Charlie lay her head onto Seviathan’s broad shoulder. “I swear, I’m never going through college again,” she half-laughed, half-sighed as if the last four years of hell were catching up to her.

Seviathan pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Agreed. Though, honestly, last week’s graduation was a breeze compared to watching you pace the room, rehearsing your speech for the fiftieth time.”

She rolled her eyes, nudging him playfully. “I wanted it to be perfect. Not everyone can coast through it like you.”

“I didn’t coast,” he shot back, feigning offense. “I just didn’t lose sleep over it.”

“Must be nice,” she teased, but before he could reply, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind.

“There's my baby girl!” Lucifer exclaimed, his voice brimming with pride. He tried, poorly, to lift her off the ground, but the difference in their heights made it more comical than triumphant.

“Dad!” Charlie laughed, effortlessly scooping him up instead. She spun him around while both of them were laughing. When she finally set him down, he looked up at her.

“Fully grown,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I still remember your first day of school.”

Lilith appeared beside them, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, careful not to smudge her expensive makeup. Her lips trembled into a smile. “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Charlie pulled both of them into a hug, and the three of them held together in a moment that felt too big for words. Seviathan stood nearby, watching with a fond smile, his hands tucked in his pockets like he knew this wasn’t his moment.

Charlie slowly pulled back from the hug and then gently handed her diploma to them. Lucifer took it with a kind of reverence, his hands careful as he flipped open the cover.

“Let’s see what this piece of paper looks like,” he joked.

Lilith leaned in, reading the embossed words aloud. “Charlotte M. Morningstar, Bachelor of Fine Arts in Theatre, with honors!”

Lucifer nodded. “I always knew you were smart, but seeing it in print makes it official.” He glanced at Charlie with a teasing grin. “We should frame this and hang it right next to your kindergarten finger-painting masterpiece. Remember that?”

Charlie rolled her eyes, laughing. “Dad, you promised you wouldn’t bring that up today.”

Lilith chuckled, gently nudging him. “Let her have her moment, dear.” Then, turning back to the diploma, she traced the gold lettering with her fingertip. “It’s beautiful. Just like you, sweetheart.”

Charlie’s heart swelled. “I… I couldn’t have done it without you guys. Seriously.”

Lucifer’s eyes softened, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “We always knew you could. From the very start.”

Seviathan, standing just behind them, chimed in with a grin. “You should’ve seen her in the library at 3 a.m., though. Determined doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Lilith’s eyes widened. “Three in the morning?”

“Sev!” Charlie laughed. “Why’d you have to tell them that?”

Lucifer leaned in conspiratorially. “Because he’s right. You’ve always been a force to be reckoned with, Charlie.”

Lilith smiled, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “You know, you can be stubborn too,” she teased. Then, with a playful swat to her husband’s arm, she added, “Just like her father.”

Lucifer raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged!” his eyes crinkling at the corners.

The laughter swelled, wrapping them that felt like sunlight. But as it continued, the edges of Charlie’s world began to blur. The faces in the crowd, once clear and vivid, melted into indistinct shapes. The distant hum of conversations and bursts of joy warped, fading into something harsher, more fractured.

Shouts.

Gunshots.

Charlie’s breath caught in her throat. The air thickened, heavy with a scent that wasn’t there before—smoke, blood, gunpowder. Her chest tightened, each breath shallow and desperate. The laughter, once ringing like music, now sounded distant, muffled, as if she were submerged underwater.

She staggered back, her surroundings warping into a distorted haze. The stadium, her family, the diploma in her hands—they all fragmented, slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowned everything else.

Then—

Charlie’s eyes snapped open.

The hardwood floor beneath her was cold, pressing against her spine. Her chest heaved, breaths coming in short, frantic bursts. The sound of the explosion still echoed in her ears, a low, distant roar that vibrated through the building’s bones.

Dust hung thick in the air, settling in her hair, her eyes, the back of her throat. She coughed, each spasm against her ribs. Her mind struggled to catch up—to piece together the fragments of the present, shattered by the blast.

The main area was barely recognizable. Furniture that blocked across the doorways had been tossed, the once-pristine walls now fractured, gaping wounds exposing brick and splintered beams. Light streamed through a jagged hole where the window used to be, the sky outside a furious haze of smoke and ash.

Move, Charlie. Move!

She forced herself upright while limbs trembling and muscles protesting. Splinters of wood dug into her palms, unnoticed in the flood of adrenaline. The memory of the graduation—so vivid, so full of warmth—faded like a mirage.

This was reality now. Harsh. Brutal. Immediate.

“Vaggie!” she croaked. She scanned the area, heart hammering in her chest. There was no answer. Only the distant gunshots and the groaning of the building made it seem like it might collapse at any moment.

Think.

She pushed herself to her feet, swaying as the room tilted and spun. One step. Then another. Her body moved on instinct, every nerve screaming for survival. She stumbled through the wreckage, eyes darting, searching for any sign of Vaggie or Angel or anyone in her group.

Charlie’s breath caught as she saw a silhouette approaching through the haze. For a moment, panic surged—friend or foe? Then, the shape solidified, the figure stepping into the fractured light. Alastor.

His assault rifle was slung against his back, the barrel still smoking. He moved with that usual unnerving calm. But something was off—no magazine was loaded in the weapon.

He crouched beside her, extending a hand. “Quite the welcoming committee, wouldn’t you say?”

Charlie gripped his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. “Where’s Vaggie? The others?”

“The others are still in position. Your lover, however…” He tilted his head, eyes scanning the wreckage as if contemplating the answer himself. “She moved elsewhere. Can’t say where. She has a habit of slipping away.”

Charlie’s heart twisted. “We need to find her. We need—”

A noise from the staircase cut her off. Both of them turned, their gazes falling on a figure slowly rising from where he’d collapsed at the base of the steps.

Adam.

Blood streaked his face, a gash above his brow where the explosion had thrown him. His eyes, however, were clear and sharp—filled with seething anger. He locked eyes with Charlie, and his expression darkened further.

He started to ascend, and his gaze never left her.

Alastor’s posture shifted, predatory stillness giving way to something colder. He leaned toward Charlie. “You need to retreat. Go to your father’s office.”

“No,” Charlie whispered, realization dawning. She grabbed his arm. “You can’t. You can’t fight him.”

Alastor’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Who said anything about can’t?” He gently but firmly pulled her hand away, his eyes fixed on Adam as he continued his slow ascent.

“Alastor, please!” Charlie’s voice cracked, panic rising.

He didn’t answer. He stepped forward, placing himself between Charlie and Adam, his shoulders relaxed but every muscle taut, ready.

Charlie took a step back, heart pounding. She knew she couldn’t stop him. All she could do was watch as Alastor faced Adam, or run off as suggested.

Alastor’s steps were slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving Adam. His smile widened. “Well, well. Look who’s managed to stay in one piece. I’d almost be impressed if you hadn’t made such a mess of things.”

Adam’s glare darkened, muscles tensing as he continued his slow ascent. He said nothing, but his jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out against the blood-streaked skin.

Without warning, Alastor lunged, driving a boot square into Adam’s chest. The force sent Adam sprawling back to the ground, skidding across the shattered floorboards. Adam hit the ground hard, a grunt escaping through gritted teeth.

Alastor leaned over him, the barrel of his unloaded rifle pointed mockingly. "How spectacularly your little coup has failed," he drawled. "Did you really think you could waltz in here, claim our home, and walk away unscathed? Tsk, tsk, Adam. Amateur hour.”

Adam scowled. Blood dripped from his brow, but he pushed himself up with his teeth bared. “You talk too much.”

However, Alastor’s boot was on his chest again, pressing him down. “Stay down, won’t you? It’s embarrassing to watch.”

He surged to his feet, but Alastor was faster. The butt of the unloaded rifle cracked down, aiming for Adam’s face. Adam twisted, the weapon narrowly missing, splintering the floor instead. Alastor swung again, relentless. This time, Adam ducked low, driving a fist into Alastor’s side.

The impact staggered Alastor, but he barely flinched, his grin unyielding. “Is that all?” he taunted.

Adam’s knuckles cracked across Alastor’s cheek, sending a spray of blood into the dust-choked air. Alastor stumbled back a step, laughter bubbling from his throat, almost delighted by the fight. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Feisty.”

They clashed again—fists and elbows, each blow more vicious than the last. Adam’s strikes were fueled by rage, desperation, while Alastor moved with deliberate movements. Blood spattered across the splintered floorboards as the fight raged, neither willing to give an inch.

Adam landed a brutal knee to Alastor’s gut, but Alastor retaliated, slamming the butt of his rifle into Adam’s ribs. The weapon cracked against bone, and Adam grunted in pain, but the fury in his eyes only intensified.

They grappled, sweat and blood mingling, until Adam twisted, using his strength to force Alastor’s arm back. With a savage roar, Adam drove his foot down, connecting squarely with Alastor’s kneecap. There was a sickening crack.

Alastor cried out, his leg buckling beneath him while Adam drove his shoulder into Alastor’s midsection, slamming him into a fractured support beam. Wood cracked, splinters flying, but Alastor’s hands were already around Adam’s throat squeezing hard.

Adam didn’t hesitate. He drew the Colt Python from his holster, the metallic click of the hammer echoing through the ruined hall.

Charlie’s scream pierced the air. “No!”

Too late.

A gunshot thundered through the room.

Alastor’s body jerked.

The Colt Python in Adam’s hand smoked, the bullet tearing through Alastor’s abdomen. For a moment, time seemed to slow. Charlie’s breath caught, her scream lodged in her throat.

The smile on Alastor’s face faltered, his eyes flicking down to the crimson bloom spreading.

He staggered, the rifle clattering to the ground. His hand went to the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. But his eyes never left Adam.

For a moment, silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Alastor’s eyes flickered, but the smile never left his face. “You... got lucky.” His voice was soft, almost amused, as he stumbled back, blood pooling at his feet.

Charlie’s heart pounded, her body frozen. She wanted to run to him, to pull him back…

But she couldn’t move.

The smell of smoke and gunpowder was sharp in Vaggie’s nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the frantic cries echoing through the mansion. She ducked behind an overturned dining table, her fingers fumbling to reload the pistol in her hand. The cover wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing with the chaos spiraling out of control.

Another shot rang out, splintering wood inches from her head. She swore under her breath, leaning against the table’s edge to catch her breath.

Her mind raced, and not just from the heat of battle. What the hell is going on? She replayed the sequence of events in her mind for the hundredth time, trying to make sense of it. The massive detonation by the main area—Charlie’s doing, obviously. Or was it? Vaggie clenched her jaw, her thoughts twisting.

She couldn’t believe it. Charlie detonated early? That wasn’t the plan, let alone Charlie won’t obviously touch that damned button. The confusion gnawed at her. Charlie must’ve slipped, but… that wasn’t like her.

But then who had thrown the damn grenade that started it all?

It wasn’t the exorcists—that much was clear. The blast had taken out part of their formation, leaving their surviving members scattered and disoriented. And it definitely wasn’t her plan to watch the mansion spiral into a literal blaze of glory.

Questions swirled, but there was no time for answers. Not when a burst of flame from a nearby tapestry licking at the edges of the furniture reminded her of the fire spreading fast. Too fast. The place was a death trap, and the current plan is useless now. She had no choice. They needed to regroup.

Vaggie popped her head over the table just long enough to assess the wreckage of the main hall. The once-grand space was unrecognizable—smoke filled the air, mingling with debris and flames. Across the loft, she caught a flash of Angel’s dirty purple jacket and Alastor’s tall silhouette. They were pinned down behind another pile of furniture, both aiming carefully downrange, picking off exorcists one by one.

She didn’t wait. Crawling low, Vaggie moved toward them, sliding into cover beside Angel. “Change of plans,” she hissed, her voice barely audible over the gunfire.

Angel’s head whipped around, a mix of disbelief and annoyance on his face. “Wait, you mean…?”

“Yes,” she snapped, not bothering to elaborate. “Spread the word. Everyone needs to head to the garage. If anyone finds Charlie, get her to her father’s office. The balcony there—”

She never finished. A blinding flash erupted in front of them, white-hot and searing. The world went silent, vision reduced to a blur of white and shadow. Her ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning everything else.

She heard Angel curse loudly, heard the clatter of Alastor’s rifle hitting the floor, but her body moved on instinct. Vaggie forced herself to blink through the haze, adrenaline roaring in her veins. Shapes started to form again, the chaos snapping back into focus just in time for—

Impact.

An exorcist tackled her with full force, driving her backward. Vaggie’s shoulder hit the banister behind her, and the wood groaned under the weight of both their bodies.

“Fucking damn it!” she snarled, her fists swinging wildly to try and break free. But before she could land a solid hit, the banister gave way with a loud crack.

For a brief, weightless second, she and the exorcist plummeted through the air, and then the floor rushed up to meet them. The impact was a dull roar in her body, knocking the air from her lungs and sending a sharp jolt of pain through her side.

The mansion groaned around her, firelight flickering in her peripheral vision. She gasped for air, trying to push herself up, everything a blur of heat, noise, and distant shouting. Somewhere above, Angel’s voice shouted her name.

She gasped, rolling onto her stomach, her vision spinning as she tried to push herself up. The exorcist groaned nearby, struggling to their feet. Vaggie’s hand shot to her holster, her breath ragged as she forced herself upright.

Vaggie’s eye darted to the central staircase through the smoke and flickering flames. Her breath caught in her throat. A familiar figure lay sprawled at the base of the stairs—blonde hair tangled and matted.

Charlie.

“Charlie!” The word tore from her throat desperately. She pushed herself upright, ignoring the dull ache in her ribs, and staggered forward. Each step felt like dragging herself through quicksand, but she focused on that crumpled figure, every muscle in her body straining toward her lover.

But she didn’t make it far.

The exorcist hit her like a freight train, their armored shoulder slamming into her side. Vaggie’s back crashed against the floorboards, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs again. Before she could react, a pair of gloved hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing tight.

Panic surged through her veins. She clawed at the exorcist’s wrists, legs kicking out wildly as she tried to break free. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. Her left hand shot up, fingers scrabbling at the smooth visor obscuring the exorcist’s face. She gripped it hard and yanked, the visor coming free with a sharp snap.

The exorcist’s eyes widened, momentarily disoriented. It was all Vaggie needed. Twisting her hips sharply, she planted her feet and heaved, using their weight against them. The exorcist’s grip broke, and Vaggie rolled free, gasping for air.

She scrambled to her feet, chest heaving. The exorcist rose too, and for the first time, Vaggie saw their face.

Lauren.

Recognition flared—along with anger. Lute’s eyes were cold, calculating, even as a thin trickle of blood ran from a cut on her forehead.

The two circled each other, the firelight casting jagged shadows across the floor. Vaggie’s heart pounded in her ears, her body tensed like a coiled spring.

Lute moved first, lunging with a sharp jab. Vaggie sidestepped, barely dodging the blow, and countered with a quick elbow strike to Lute’s ribs. Lute grunted but recovered fast, driving a knee toward Vaggie’s midsection. Vaggie blocked it with her forearm, the impact sending a shockwave up her arm.

They grappled, bodies colliding in a blur of limbs. Vaggie hooked her leg behind Lute’s knee, trying to destabilize her, but Lute twisted out of the hold, landing a sharp kick to Vaggie’s thigh. Pain flared, but Vaggie didn’t let it slow her. She ducked under a wild swing and slammed her splinted right fist into Lute’s stomach.

And Vaggie regretted every single thing as she felt the finger bones misaligned.

Lute staggered, but then she was back, throwing a series of rapid punches. Vaggie blocked most, but one caught her jaw, the taste of copper filling her mouth, but she didn’t let it distract her. She couldn’t afford to. Every muscle in her body ached, especially her splinted fingers, sending sharp daggers of pain through her hand with every movement.

Lute came at her again, this time faster. Vaggie barely managed to deflect the oncoming blow, her injured hand screaming in protest. She pivoted on her good leg, sending a low kick aimed at Lute’s knee. Lute anticipated it, sidestepping just enough to avoid the brunt of the impact, and retaliated with a vicious elbow strike toward Vaggie’s temple.

Vaggie ducked, barely missing the bone-shattering blow, and drove her shoulder into Lute’s midsection. The force sent them both stumbling backward, but Lute recovered faster, twisting like a snake and locking her arm around Vaggie’s throat. The pressure constricted instantly, cutting off her air.

Desperation flared. Vaggie clawed at Lute’s arm. She shifted her weight and slammed her heel down onto Lute’s foot, hard. Lute grunted, her grip loosening just enough for Vaggie to twist free, gasping for air.

The world spun. Vaggie staggered back a step, her body screaming at her to stop. But she couldn’t. Not with Charlie somewhere behind her, motionless. Not with fire licking at the walls and time running out.

Vaggie’s hand trembled, blood-slick fingers fumbling with the pistol as she aimed it at Lute’s torso. Her splinted right hand screamed in protest as she pulled the trigger—once, twice, the Beretta kicking hard against her fractured fingers. Bullets slammed into the armored vest with dull, brutal thuds. The shots echoed, reverberating through the burning mansion.

Lute staggered, her body jerking back with each impact, but the vest absorbed the rounds, leaving only the promise of deep bruises. Her expression didn’t even flicker, cold eyes locked on Vaggie.

The click of an empty magazine echoed like a death knell.

Lute’s hand shot out, lightning fast, knocking the pistol from Vaggie’s grip. The weapon clattered to the floor, lost in the debris. Vaggie barely had time to register the loss before Lute’s shoulder crashed into her, driving her backward.

The drywall splintered on impact, crumbling under their combined weight. Vaggie felt herself being slammed through it, shards of plaster raining down around them as they tumbled into the next room. They hit the floor hard, both of them momentarily stunned, gasping for breath amidst the wreckage.

Vaggie struggled to roll away, her body screaming in protest, but Lute was already on her.

Lute’s hand seized a fistful of Vaggie’s hair, yanking her head back with a savage jerk. “Get up,” Lute hissed. “I said, get the fuck up!”

Vaggie’s body protested every movement, muscles burning, but she was hauled to her feet anyway, dragged like a broken doll across the debris-strewn floor. Her boots scraped against splintered wood and shattered plaster, but her strength was fading, the fight draining out of her with every ragged breath.

They reached the window, firelight casting jagged shadows across the glass. Vaggie’s mind barely registered the danger before Lute slammed her head forward. The impact shattered the windowpane, the world exploding into a rain of splintered glass. Stars burst in her vision, and hot blood trickled down her face.

Lute didn’t stop. She pressed Vaggie’s head down toward a shard still lodged in the sill, aiming it directly at her remaining eye. The jagged edge gleamed, inches away, blurring as tears and blood filled Vaggie’s vision. Desperation surged—a raw, primal instinct. She pushed back, muscles straining, every fiber in her being resisting the downward force.

Her strength wavered, but she wouldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t.

With a sudden shift, she twisted her hips, driving her elbow back into Lute’s ribs. The angle was perfect, and she managed to strike. Lute grunted, and Vaggie used the opening. She pivoted, hooking her good leg around Lute’s and sweeping her off balance.

Lute recovered as she twisted and used Vaggie's momentum against her. Before Vaggie could react, Lute's leg hooked around hers, sweeping her off balance, and with a brutal yank, she slammed Vaggie to the floor. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, the sharp crack of her injured hand barely registering.

Lute was on her instantly, straddling her, one knee pressing down hard on Vaggie’s chest. Before Vaggie could catch her breath, Lute’s thumb shot under the edge of her eyepatch, prying it up with a rough, cruel twist. Vaggie’s scream ripped through the burning room as Lute’s thumb found the hollow space of her missing eye, pressing into the sensitive flesh around the socket.

“You fucking like that, huh?” Lute twisted her thumb deeper. “Experiencing this shit for the second time?” She then pulled outward, stretching the skin and scar tissue painfully. The leather strap of the eyepatch dug into Vaggie’s temple, making the pain sharper, rawer.

Vaggie’s screams mixed with ragged gasps, her muscles locking as she fought against the searing agony. Her right hand flailed, finding the retractable spear hidden at her holster. With a grunt of pure, desperate fury, she triggered it, the blade shooting out in a flash of steel. She thrust it upward, the spear’s tip plunging through Lute’s left bicep.

Lute’s scream was sharp and guttural, her grip loosening. Vaggie didn’t hesitate. She twisted the blade, using the leverage to wrench Lute’s arm back, tearing through muscle. Lute’s eyes widened in shock and rage, her strength faltering.

Vaggie seized the moment, twisting her body sharply. She hooked her leg around Lute’s and threw her weight into the motion, flipping them both. Lute hit the ground hard, rolling away to clutch her wounded arm. Blood seeped through her fingers, staining her uniform.

Vaggie’s breath came in ragged gasps. She ripped the eyepatch off, the leather strap pulling free with a sting, but she barely registered it. Her fingers trembled as she wiped the blood away, the exposed socket aching. She needed to keep the wound from aggravating further—she couldn’t afford any more weaknesses.

Vaggie’s blood-slick hand trembled, muscles screaming as she pulled herself up.

The firelight danced between them, both battered, both bleeding, the fight far from over.

Charlie snapped out of whatever haze she’d been in as a hand brushed against her shoulder. She blinked hard and turned her head, seeing Pentious crouched beside her. “Come on, we have to go,” he said, gripping her arm and pulling her to her feet before she could process anything.

She stumbled to her feet, still disoriented, everything loud and hot and too close. “Wait—Alastor,” Charlie stammered, her knees threatening to buckle. “We have to help him—please—”

Pentious shook his head, his grip steady but gentle as he helped her move. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” his tone softened while he pulled her toward the other set of stairs, “He’s a tough man. He’ll make it through this. Right now, we need to go. Vaggie’s orders.”

“Vaggie?” Charlie’s voice cracked. Her pulse thudded in her ears, drowning out the fire’s distant roar and the echoes of the chaos. “Where is she? I—”

She didn’t get to finish. A yell cut through the air like a whip. “GET THE FUCK OVER HERE, BLONDIE!” Adam’s voice was unmistakable—loud, guttural, and far too close for comfort.

Pentious didn’t need to say anything. He grabbed Charlie’s hand and bolted toward the left wing, pulling her along with him. She stumbled to keep pace, her breath hitching as her shoes slipped on the debris-littered floor. The pounding of boots behind them spurred her forward.

The air grew thicker, the scent of smoke and burning wood clawing at Charlie’s lungs.

They hit the top loft, the charred wood creaking under their weight, and Charlie’s heart sank further. The overturned furniture they’d used for cover was abandoned, the positions empty. No one was where they were supposed to be. Her stomach twisted as realization dawned: Plan B was already in motion.

But there was no time to process it.

“Keep going,” Pentious urged, tightening his grip on her hand. Charlie forced herself to move, her legs screaming with every step as Adam’s shouts echoed closer, the sound of his pursuit closing in behind them.

Charlie and Pentious reached the office door, breathless, when the sharp crack of a gunshot split the air. Pentious staggered, a guttural shout escaping his lips as his grip on Charlie’s hand fell away. She spun around, eyes widening in horror. His right hand was a mangled mess, blood streaming from where the bullet had torn through.

“Pentious!” she gasped, reaching for him.

He gritted his teeth, cradling his shattered hand against his chest. “Go, Charlie,” he rasped, his voice strained with pain. He glanced over his shoulder, and she followed his gaze. Adam was striding toward them, calmly reloading his revolver, the click of metal on metal like a death sentence.

Pentious drew his pistol with his left hand, fumbling slightly. He aimed, hands shaking, and squeezed the trigger. The shots went wild, ricocheting off the walls and sending splinters flying. His aim was poor—he wasn’t left-handed—but it was enough to buy a few precious seconds.

“Get in the office!” Pentious shouted, forcing Charlie to stumble backward toward the door.

Charlie hesitated, torn between the command and the sight of him, but survival instincts kicked in. She turned and scrambled toward the office, her heart hammering.

Behind her, the unmistakable click of Adam’s revolver being holstered sent a fresh jolt of fear through her. She turned just in time to see him pull a hatchet from his belt, the blade catching the flickering light of the flames.

“Pentious!” she cried.

Adam swung the hatchet in a wide, brutal arc. Pentious ducked, barely avoiding the blow, but the weapon found its mark—slicing into his right arm.