Page 15

Faith

Dax stays with us until we near solitary, only vanishing once we’re close enough that he’s sure it’s safe. His goodbye is quick, just a kiss pressed to the space between my eyes, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the shadows.

I hate it. But I understand.

He has things to do, and I’d only be in his way.

As we near the heavy steel door leading into solitary, I hand Wilkes his gun back.

“Just for a little while,” he says, slipping it into his holster.

His voice is low, almost conspiratorial as we linger just outside.

“If the shit hits it, Zachs knows he can arm you. Just Zachs. You don’t want to lean too heavily on the other guards.

They’ve all got Dax’s back… until they think it’s not safe to anymore, if you follow. ”

I nod, even though my chest tightens at the implication.

“And the inmates?” I whisper. “Is Grip okay? Who, out of all of them, can I trust?”

Wilkes looks at me like I just asked if zombies can join a prayer group. “Trust?” He shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You can’t trust a con. Or a guard. But you can count on us for certain things.”

“Okay,” I say, lowering my voice even more. “Which inmate can I lean on if the shit hits the fan?”

Wilkes scratches his stubbled chin, looking thoughtful. “Trip,” he says after a pause. “And Dax.”

I almost laugh, stopping myself just in time. “Dax? Well, that’s a given.”

“Yeah, you can trust Dax for certain things,” Wilkes says with a faint grin, guiding me closer to the thick, reinforced door. “And you can count on Zachs in here. He’s solid. For Dax and me.”

“And you? Can I trust you?” I ask.

He has the nerve to grin. Not wide or charming like Dax’s, Wilkes isn’t the type for that. His is a little sheepish, a little wry, like he already knows the answer. “I already told you. You can’t trust any of us. I just said that. But you can count on me now. We’re going to get through this.”

I study him for a long moment. Could I trust him? Did I really want to be locked in a confined space with thirty dangerous men, only two of whom he’d deemed safe-ish?

“Trip and Zachs,” I say slowly. “How will I know Trip?”

Wilkes snorts. “He’ll be the crotchety old bastard sitting on his own.” He jangles his keys and unlocks the door.

Before he can push it open, it swings outward with a faint groan of hinges.

A man fills the doorway, tall and lean, his uniform looking like it’s been through hell.

His shaggy blond hair gives him the kind of laid-back surfer vibe that screams beach bum more than corrections officer .

But his sharp green eyes? Those tell a different story.

They flick over me, not lingering long enough to make me uncomfortable, before turning to Wilkes.

“Where’s Dax?” the man, Zachs, I assume, asks.

“Went to check the towers,” Wilkes says, slipping through the door and nodding for me to follow. “See who’s left to save.”

Zachs barks a short laugh, stepping aside to let us in. “Those chicken shits are probably pissing themselves,” he says. His voice is light, almost cheerful, but his too-wide smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

The room beyond the door is cold, the air thick with a metallic tang. The dim lighting casts long shadows along the walls, making the empty cells look more imposing than they have any right to. I rub my arms against the chill as Zachs shuts the door behind us with a metallic clang.

“I got her,” Zachs says, glancing at me again. His easy smile softens just a fraction, something steadier settling in his expression. “Keep your shit together and get your asses back here.”

There’s something about him, solid, unshaken, like a man who’s seen hell and learned how to laugh at it. The brightness in his voice doesn’t quite match the situation, but somehow, I don’t mind. I like him already.

I reach out, catching Wilkes’s arm before he can leave. “Listen to the man,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Pay attention out there. The living monsters are far more vicious.”

“Pretty and smart,” Wilkes says, winking.

He slips out the door before I can respond, leaving me with Zachs.

I draw in a breath, steadying myself as I turn to face him.

I’ve seen his kind before. Not usually in a prison, though. The type who never meets a stranger, who makes everything seem easy. Too easy. Normally, that would calm me, and it had a moment ago. But with Dax and Wilkes out there in the chaos, my nerves are frayed raw.

“Have you made sure none of the people in here were bitten? Or took that shot?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

Zachs’s steps slow. He turns to me with a crooked smile, the kind that looks deliberately disarming. “I didn’t strip search ‘em, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, his tone teasing. “But no one’s limping around with chunks taken out of ‘em, if that helps.”

“Maybe we should,” I press. “Did Wilkes tell you about them?”

His head tilts, still grinning. “You wanna strip search my prisoners and my men?” His green eyes glint, playful and unreadable. “Hell, come right on in. I’ll hold ‘em down for you.”

His laughter is so light, so casual, it almost feels like the world isn’t collapsing outside.

I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s being an ass or if this is just how he keeps his cool. “I’m serious,” I say.

He gives me a lopsided grin that makes him look younger than he is, like some surfer caught on the wrong side of a prison wall. “What, you think they’d tell me if they got bit? I don’t see anyone gnawing on the walls.”

“That’s not…” I start, but then he cuts me off with something even more ridiculous.

“Hell, I might’ve been bitten. You wanna practice your methods on me first?”

The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re absurd, but because my response comes too fast, too sharp.

“I belong to Dax.” I’m not expecting to say it. Not like that. Not so instinctively.

Zachs doesn’t miss a beat. His laughter doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, warm and unhurried, like this is the funniest damn thing he’s heard all week.

“Relax, Doc. It’s tense enough through the next door without you making it worse.”

I narrow my eyes, studying him. Trying to get him. But I can’t. His easygoing demeanor isn’t something I’m used to. It feels off in a place like this, like a mask that fits a little too well. A little too smooth.

Not unlike those charming psychopaths, the Ted Bundys of the world, grinning at you right before they strike.

A chill runs down my spine.

“Don’t overthink it,” Zachs says, voice pulling me from the thought. His grin stays, flashing quick and sharp. Then he stops at a barred door, keys jingling as he unlocks it. The sound is sharp in the oppressive quiet.

The solitary wing is colder than the halls leading to it. The air smells faintly of sweat, something metallic, and the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead makes it feel more sterile, less human.

“It’s best if you linger by me,” Zachs says, his tone light, like we’re walking into a casual meeting instead of a room full of killers.

The second we step inside, the conversations die.

Every pair of eyes in the room turns to us, expressions shifting between suspicion, curiosity, and exhaustion. The air thickens, weighted by unspoken tension.

The men, both inmates and guards, look like they’ve been through hell.

Their clothes are stained, ripped, and smeared with grime, and their faces tell the same story.

A few have dark stains on their shirts that I don’t want to examine too closely.

None of them are gnawing on the walls, or each other, but some look like they might be tempted if the opportunity arose.

I scan the room, taking in the dynamics.

There’s a clear divide. The guards have staked out their own corner, lounging on overturned crates and a couple of chairs dragged from who-knows-where.

The inmates occupy the cells, though none of the doors are closed.

It gives the illusion that the guards are in control, but the truth is obvious. The inmates outnumber them two to one.

Of course, the guards have the guns. That should level the odds.

The thought sits heavy in my chest. I don’t have a gun anymore. The weight of it is gone from my hands, and all I have left is my knife tucked into my waistband.

I recognize a few faces.

Grip leans against the wall of a cell, arms crossed, a smirk plastered on his face. He catches my eye and gives me a mock salute, but I don’t react.

Most of the men are talking in low voices or sitting in tense silence, their postures stiff and wary. But one man sits apart from the rest, occupying a cell toward the front.

Trip.

I know it’s him without needing confirmation.

He’s older, maybe in his fifties or sixties, though prison ages everyone differently.

Some faster than others. His build is solid, his frame broad and unyielding, like he was carved out of stone.

His tattoos are faded and blurred with age, but they still mark him as someone you don’t screw with.

His hair is silver, cropped short, and his cool blue eyes lock on me the second I step into the room.

Unlike the others, who size me up with varying degrees of curiosity, Trip’s gaze is calculating, assessing. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. The silence around him feels deliberate, like it’s not just the room that gives him space, but everyone in it.

I force myself to hold his gaze for a second longer than is comfortable before looking away.

“Don’t stare,” Zachs murmurs, leaning close enough for his breath to brush my ear. “Trip might bite you just for shits and giggles. He’s due to get out soon, and I guarantee he’s looking for an excuse to stick around.” The humor in his tone doesn’t quite mask the edge of warning beneath it.

I flick my gaze back to Trip for a brief moment, careful not to linger. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something faintly amused in the quirk of his brow, like he overheard Zachs and didn’t entirely disagree.

“Are all the inmates here this… welcoming?” I whisper.

Zachs’ grin widens. “Only the ones you haven’t pissed off yet.”

“I pissed off?” I turn to him, my voice just above a whisper.

Before he can answer, the door rattles.

The sound is sharp. Metallic. Deliberate.

Zachs’ expression shifts instantly. The easygoing humor vanishes, replaced by something tight and unreadable. He moves to a monitor, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across his face. “Well,” he mutters. “That changes things.”

I step closer, my stomach twisting. The grainy feed shows someone unlocking the door from the outside. A guard. Not Wilkes.

My pulse spikes. “Who?”

“Lock ‘em up,” Zachs orders.

“What?” My voice comes out too sharp, too panicked. “I don’t understand.”

Zachs doesn’t answer. He just presses a finger to his lips.

The guards move fast. Too fast. Heavy cell doors slam shut in a rapid, well-rehearsed sequence.

And just like that, the divide in the room becomes absolute.

I’m on the outside. With the guards.

Is that a good thing?

The main door swings open, and a guard strolls in like it’s just another routine patrol. Like the world outside isn’t crumbling. Like men aren’t being eaten alive in the yard.

Zachs straightens, his posture snapping into something sharp and professional. “Sir.” His voice is crisp. Neutral. “Did Wilkes inform you of the situation? The inmates have lost their collective shit. We managed to detain the ones we didn’t have to put down.”

Damn. He lies like a car salesman. Smooth. Easy. If I weren’t drowning in panic, I might be impressed.

The new guard, tall, broad, the kind of man who looks like he enjoys his job a little too much, sweeps his gaze over the room. His eyes land on me.

My stomach drops.

Some people, you just know.

He’s a monster.

“Saw some on the way over,” he says, voice casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You missed a few.” His lips twist, like he’s disappointed in Zachs.

Zachs stays quiet. Smart.

The guard exhales, shaking his head like we’re all just inconveniencing him. “Dax is MIA. Presumed armed and dangerous. Shoot on sight orders.”

The room shifts under my feet.

Shoot on sight.

I feel lightheaded.

“And any inmates who don’t come willingly to lockup,” the guard continues, voice smooth, practiced, unbothered, “Are to be shot as well.”

My breath catches. They know.

They know exactly what they unleashed, and they’re going to pin it on a prison riot.

Led by Dax.

It’s calculated. Sinister. A neat, bloody cover-up.

“I’ll take her with me.” The guard’s voice is almost lazy as he waves a hand toward me.

Every muscle in my body locks.

I flick my gaze to Zachs. This is it. This is shit hitting the fan. Where’s my backup?

Zachs hesitates. It’s so small, so quick, but I catch it. His mind is working. He knows exactly what’s happening.

“The inmates are still on the rampage,” Zachs says smoothly. “I can lock her in here. Safe and sound. Out of the way.”

The guard scoffs. “I can manage a walk across the yard.” He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head like Zachs is being ridiculous. His eyes flick over me again, slow, assessing. Lingering. “She’ll be here all month.” He smirks. “You’ll get your turn.”

A cold, sick dread settles deep in my gut.

No. No, no, no.

My eyes dart toward Trip.

Locked in. Expression unreadable. Unmoving.

No help.

I’m alone.

And I am so fucking screwed.