Page 12

Faith

Dax tucks me against his side as we cautiously make our way to the med wing. His arm is solid and warm around me, his grip firm. I fit there like we were made for each other. A thought that should be ridiculous in the middle of all this, but it lingers anyway.

The hallway stretches ahead of us, dim and silent except for the faint echo of our boots against the floor.

As we move, Dax recounts what he and Wilkes saw in the yard, his voice low and gruff, each word heavy with disbelief.

Wilkes is quiet, his face pale. Processing, probably.

Me too.

“What about the one that was in my room?” I ask, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my chest. “It, he, could be spreading whatever this is.”

Dax’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking toward me. “I need to get names and numbers from Doc. We’ve got to put a lid on this before it gets worse.”

I glance at Wilkes, who walks just a step behind us, his rifle at the ready.

“I’m going to need a minute alone with Doc,” Dax adds, his tone hardening. “To get the numbers.”

The way he says it makes his meaning clear. Dax isn’t asking for cooperation. He’ll get what he needs, one way or another.

Wilkes nods, his expression unreadable, but there’s something different in his voice when he says, “I’ll keep an eye on Faith.”

Sincerity? From Wilkes? A guard.

“You’ll do more than keep an eye on her,” Dax snaps, his voice sharp.

Wilkes gives a faint, almost grudging smile. “She’ll be safe.”

I know better than to remind Dax that I just managed to kill two of those things with nothing but a knife. This isn’t the time to argue, and I understand the dynamics here. They have a hierarchy, one that needs to be maintained.

The air changes as we approach the med wing. My nose wrinkles at the sharp, acrid scent of bleach failing to mask the stench of blood and sweat.

I stumble, my foot slipping slightly on something slick. I glance down.

Blood streaks the floor, smeared like someone was dragged across it.

Dax’s grip on me tightens, steadying me.

The sounds hit me next.

Shouts.

Raised voices echoing down the halls.

The sharp, guttural scream of someone in pain.

My heart clenches.

“You got a spare?” Dax asks Wilkes, his voice tense.

Wilkes nods, but his jaw sets stubbornly. “I can’t arm her.”

“You better arm her if shit’s like it was in the yard,” Dax snaps, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Wilkes hesitates, then hands over a knife instead of a gun. He glances at me. “If.”

I take the knife without a word, my fingers curling around the handle. It’s heavier than the one Dax gave me earlier, the grip rough against my palm.

Dax grinds his teeth. “If,” he mutters, clearly unimpressed.

The voices ahead grow louder as we approach. These aren’t growls or the guttural snarls from earlier. This is something else.

This is pain.

Men shouting, screaming. The sound cuts through me, sharp and raw, and I tighten my grip on the knife. My fingers ache against the handle, but I don’t let go.

The tension in the air is suffocating now.

“We’re almost there,” Dax says, his voice steady but low.

I nod, but my mind is racing.

Someone in the hallway looks up as we approach, their expression shifting to relief despite the hardened lines of their face. “Where the hell have you been?” they ask, their voice edged with exhaustion. Their eyes flick to me, dropping to Dax’s hand firm at my hip, and then back up to Dax.

“Cleaning up the yard,” Dax answers flatly. “I need to speak with Doc. Unless you’ve got something to tell me.”

The man doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as another wail cuts through the air. It echoes from one of the rooms ahead, sharp and raw, followed by muffled cursing.

“Come with me,” the man says, jerking his head toward the chaos.

I catch a glimpse of his uniform, though most of it is blotched with blood. The letters GR are the only part of his name tag not smeared.

Dax looks down at me, his eyes narrowing with a sharpness that cuts through the noise.

“Stay with Wilkes,” he says, his voice low. “Do what he says.”

Before I can respond, his hand slides behind my head, tangling gently in my hair, and he pulls me into a kiss.

It’s brief but full of everything he doesn’t have time to say. His lips are warm and firm, his breath a mix of adrenaline and heat. I don’t hesitate, I kiss him back, my hand curling against his chest. It’s over too soon, leaving the taste of him on my lips and a heat that lingers in my veins.

As he pulls back, his forehead brushes mine for the briefest second, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.

Wilkes shifts awkwardly beside us, wiping a hand over his face like he’s not sure how to deal with this.

When Dax finally steps away, it’s like a piece of me goes with him. I watch as he disappears around the corner with the man.

The moment doesn’t have time to get uncomfortable before another scream rips through the air, high-pitched and filled with agony.

It’s followed by a string of cussing, loud and vicious.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” someone shouts, their voice carrying down the hall.

My grip tightens on the knife, the cool metal pressing into my palm.

Wilkes exhales sharply through his nose. “Fuck me,” he mutters, his hand going to the spare gun at his side. He slides it free, holding it out to me. “You know how to use this?”

“Yes,” I say simply, handing him back his knife and taking the gun. It’s heavier than I expected, the cold metal biting into my palm.

“Head shot,” he instructs, his voice curt. “And make sure it’s one of them.”

I nod, flipping the safety off with a quick motion.

He pauses, looking me over for a beat before adding, “Anyone asks, you found that gun on the floor.”

“Understood,” I say, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest.

Wilkes doesn’t waste time. He steps forward, glancing into the first room, his posture tense and wary.

I shift slightly, keeping my back to the wall as I scan the hallway. The air feels thick, heavy with the coppery tang of blood and the sharper, bitter edge of antiseptic. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, the hum adding to the oppressive atmosphere.

Another muffled scream echoes, followed by a crash that makes the floor vibrate beneath my boots. My pulse quickens, but I keep my hands steady, my fingers curling tighter around the grip of the gun.

“Stay sharp,” Wilkes says over his shoulder, his voice firm.

I nod, my heart thudding as I take a careful step forward.

In the second room, an inmate lies on the bed, utterly still. His clothes are drenched with sweat, dark patches spreading across his chest and armpits. Splotches of dried blood crust his neck and arms.

Wilkes signals me with a quick tilt of his head to follow him inside.

I keep my eyes on the man, every nerve in my body buzzing. Dax’s words echo in my head. “The dead ones get back up.”

Zombies.

Wilkes approaches the bed cautiously, his gun up, his steps slow and deliberate.

My hand tightens around the pistol grip, the cold weight grounding me as I trail a few steps behind him.

The man doesn’t move.

Wilkes draws his knife, the metal glinting faintly in the dim fluorescent light, and nudges the man with the blade.

Nothing.

I hold my breath, my lungs burning as I wait.

A scream echoes down the hall, sharp and full of pain. The sound rattles through me, shaking my already frayed nerves.

Wilkes doesn’t flinch. In one smooth motion, he plants the blade into the man’s temple.

The sickening crunch of blade against bone fills the room, and my stomach churns.

Wilkes pulls the knife free, wiping it on the edge of the bed before slipping it back into its sheath.

“Move,” he mutters, already heading for the door.

Before we can step into the hall, something rounds the corner. A zombie, foam dripping from its bloodied mouth, its shirt torn and dangling from one shoulder. A chunk of flesh is missing from its face, exposing jagged teeth and glistening muscle.

I react on instinct. I aim and pull the trigger.

The gunshot punches through the air, impossibly loud in the small room. The force of it makes my ears ring.

The zombie drops instantly, a hole through its head.

“Good,” Wilkes says sharply, stepping in front of me. His tone isn’t warm, but there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes as he leans into the hallway, his gun at the ready.

Another scream cuts through the ringing in my ears.

“Get the fuck off me!” someone shouts.

Wilkes steps into the hall. I follow close, so close my arm brushes against him with every step. My pulse pounds, and the coppery tang of blood fills my nose, sharper than before.

The hallway is chaos.

A guard wrestles with a zombie, its teeth snapping inches from his face as they grapple. Blood stains the floor in long, smeared streaks.

Two more zombies shamble toward us from farther down the hall. One drags a destroyed leg behind it, the limb twisted at an impossible angle. The other looks like it’s been through a shredder, its arm hanging by a strip of flesh, flopping grotesquely with every jerky step.

Wilkes doesn’t hesitate. He fires twice in quick succession.

Both zombies drop, their heads snapping back as blood sprays against the walls.

I open my mouth to say something, but the words are lost in the muffled ringing in my ears.

Wilkes turns to me, his lips moving. I catch the faint edges of his voice. “Stay back.” But I don’t think he really expects me to listen.

He races forward, kicking the zombie off the guard with a brutal stomp before firing a shot into its head. The body jerks once, then goes still.

The guard groans beneath him, clutching at his arm.

Wilkes’s sharp gaze lands on a bite wound, deep, messy, and still bleeding. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. His jaw tightens as he raises the gun.

The guard freezes, his eyes wide with terror. “Wait…”

The shot cracks through the air before he can finish.

The man’s body slumps, lifeless.

I gasp, stumbling back a step as bile rises in my throat.

Wilkes glances at me, his expression softening ever so slightly. “You did good,” he says, his voice rough. He clears his throat awkwardly, like he’s not sure how to say more. “I mean it.”

The words are meant to comfort me, but they don’t settle right. My hands tremble slightly as I grip the pistol, my finger hovering just outside the trigger guard.

More gunfire echoes from farther down the hall.

“Anyone alive?” Wilkes shouts, his voice booming over the noise.

“In here!” a voice answers, sharp and urgent.

Wilkes starts toward the sound, his boots crunching over shards of glass scattered across the floor. I follow close behind, scanning every room we pass.

The rooms blur together, beds soaked in blood, bodies lying motionless in unnatural poses. I force myself to keep moving, but my fingers tighten around the gun as unease claws at my chest.

Any one of them could get back up.

More gunfire echoes ahead, but it feels distant, like I’m moving through a nightmare.

“Where the hell is Dax?” I whisper under my breath, the thought slipping out before I can stop it.

Wilkes glances at me but says nothing, his focus already on the next door.

The screaming down the hall grows louder, sharp and desperate.