Page 53 of Faith Among Monsters

“Sinclair’s dead,” I confirm, watching the sharp, satisfied tilt of Dax’s mouth.

His voice is dark, approving. “That’s my girl.”

My breath hitches, but I don’t have time to unravel over that because I need answers.

“Zombies? Survivors?” I ask, scanning the room, already bracing for whatever comes next.

Chapter Eighteen

Dax

I stare at the monitors, flicking from one screen to the next. Things have gone from bad to fucking dire in a matter of hours.

The sun is rising. And now we can see it. The island isn’t ours anymore.

It belongs to the dead.

Faith stands at my side, where she’s staying.

Every time I walk away from her, shit goes sideways. Ain’t happening again.

Trip taps a finger against one of the screens, his mouth twisting. “Small group in the chow hall, holed up in the pantry. Looks like inmates.”

“That’s five groups,” Wilkes mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Counting the ones still in solitary.”

Four groups we need to get to.

I scan the faces in the room. We don’t have enough hands. We all know it. No one says it.

I look back at the screens. Zombies lumber across every camera feed, but they aren’t mindless. They gather near people, move toward them.

They’re hunting.

“Faith, Wilkes, Trip, Zachs,” I say, weighing our odds. They are the only people in the room, hell, on the whole island I half trust. “We’re down to about thirty. Split into groups of five or six, all armed to the teeth.” Against hundreds. Maybe more. “Silencers only. We take out as many as we can, get to the survivors, and fall back to either solitary or the block.”

Zachs tosses a box of walkies onto the table. “Got about ten.”

I nod. “Us five first. The rest, I don’t give a shit who.”

The remaining guards scramble for the spares. It won’t be enough.

I weigh our options.

Group One – The big one. Nearly twenty people. No way to move them quietly. Already attracting a horde. Getting them out will be a full-scale battle. Group Two – The pinned inmates. Trapped in close quarters. Surrounded. A bloodbath just to reach them. Group Three – The guards. Stranded on top of the cabana in the yard. Armed, but completely fucking useless. Group Four – The ones on the dock. More guards. Made a run for the warden’s boat. If they get it working, they’ll abandon the island. If they can’t, they’re sitting ducks.

I don’t like any of these options.

Then Faith slips her hand into mine.

Grounding.

I should lock her in a cell. Safe. Done. No question.

But not with guards I don’t trust still having keys on their belts. Not after Sinclair.

My jaw flexes as I study the screens, balancing survival against the one thing I won’t lose.

I exhale. “We’re taking the fucking dock.”