Page 21

Faith

Gravel crunches underfoot as we move from rooftop to rooftop, each step echoing the silence that’s fallen over us.

No more joking from Zachs, no more sharp orders from Dax, just the distant crash of waves and the occasional muffled pop of a silencer as we clear the way.

The weight of what we’re walking into settles deep in my bones.

I exhale slowly and squeeze the trigger. A zombie lurching along the ground below jerks back, its skull rupturing as it drops.

Dax is close. Too close. His heat presses against me, steady and unyielding, and I can’t decide if it soothes or unsettles me.

The way he looked at me back there, like he wanted to shake some goddamn sense into me and kiss the hell out of me in the same breath, I felt that deep.

My chest still aches from the moment I thought he might be gone, buried in that fucking building, lost in the madness.

Trip is glued to my other side, silent as ever.

I don’t think I’ve heard him speak more than a handful of words since I met him.

Maybe he just doesn’t waste breath on conversation when there are more important things to focus on, like clearing zombies with unnerving precision.

He’s not just a good shot. He’s efficient.

Clinical. There’s something unsettling about his calm, but hell, I’ll take cold calculation over reckless bravado any day.

Wilkes lingers at my back, quiet but there. I still don’t know exactly where I stand with him, but he didn’t hesitate to throw his body over mine like a damn bulletproof vest on the roof. Maybe it’s foolish, but I feel safer with him at my six.

The air shifts. The ever-present salt in the air thickens, turning sharp and wet. The ocean. We’re close.

Up ahead, the dock juts out into the churning water. From here, I can just barely make out the warden’s boat, still tethered in place. A handful of figures move near the vessel, their silhouettes jerky and restless. They’re not zombies. They’re alive.

Dax’s arm shoots out in front of me, bringing me to a sudden stop. “Low,” he orders.

Everyone drops.

Zachs, who’d been at point, flattens and crawls forward on his elbows, his usual smirk nowhere to be found.

It’s not the zombies we’re worried about.

It’s the people.

That realization chills me to my core.

Because if the monsters aren’t the biggest threat right now, then what the fuck are we about to walk into?

Zachs crawls back, his grin a little too easy for someone who just scouted a death trap. “This is gonna be a real dance,” he says, dusting off his hands. “Brass tacks are heavy on the ground.”

Dax shifts closer, his body heat steady against my side.

Zachs wipes a smear of dirt across his cheek. “Looks like we got three pure brass. Real skeezy. Klaus and Preston are down there.”

Wilkes exhales, sharp and pissed. “Fucking Klaus. He’ll kill Dax if we stroll up, even if we help him clear zombies and pack his boat.

” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Preston’s there too.

He’ll kill Dax first chance he gets. Then Trip.

Then probably,” He flicks his gaze to Zachs.

“Hell, maybe you first, considering you dumped his coffee all over his desk.”

Zachs shrugs. “It spilled.”

Dax’s fingers flex against his knee like he’s already preparing for the worst. “How many total?”

“Three brass, plus a few lapdog guards and some real boot-licker inmates,” Zachs says, stretching his neck like he’s getting ready for a morning jog. “Should be able to pop the brass first. The rest’ll either scatter or fall in line.”

“Everyone get behind the fucking door,” Dax orders.

We all crawl, gravel biting into my palms and knees as we move. All of us, except Zachs.

My heart stutters.

I whip my head toward Dax, my stomach in knots. “What if they have a rifle and scope?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but I want to shout for Zachs to drag his crazy ass back here so we can make a plan that isn’t total shit. “They’ll shoot him.”

Dax grabs my wrist and pulls me into his lap, positioning me between his legs with my back against the door. His arms cage me in, protective, steady. “Zachs is the luckiest bastard to ever step foot on this rock.”

I want to believe him, but luck isn’t bulletproof.

Then—

A soft pop.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Faster than any bolt-action rifle should be able to fire. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he had an automatic, but no, he’s just that fast.

Silence.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t hear gravel shifting, no sign of Zachs retreating. My pulse is hammering, panic clawing its way up my throat. I turn to Dax, begging for reassurance.

His smile melts me. Slow. Confident. Prideful.

“He’s a damn good shot,” Dax murmurs.

Another shot cracks through the air, not from Zachs. From the ground.

They’re firing back.

I tense, but I don’t hear Zachs move. Instead, I hear him laugh. Laugh.

And then, low and taunting, his voice carries just enough for us to hear. “Coward.”

Another shot.

More laughter, then the crunch of gravel as Zachs crawls toward us. His dimple is on full display, like he’s just come back from a fucking vacation, not from picking off men like a sniper in a damn horror movie.

I want to smack his crazy ass.

“Nailed Klaus between his beady little eyes,” Zachs announces, sounding like he just won a round of cards, not executed a man. “Coward-ass Preston used an inmate as a shield. We’re down to three. Preston, a lapdog, and some poor bastard too stupid to know who the real monsters are.”

Dax doesn’t get a chance to respond before a shout cuts through the air.

Wilkes exhales sharply. “Morons are calling to us?”

“They’re gonna attract every damn thing we didn’t kill,” I mutter. It’s obvious. Too obvious.

Dax doesn’t even blink. “Let ‘em.” His voice is cold. “They can’t fight them off if it’s just three of them.”

He’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Wilkes tilts his head toward Zachs. “I can’t believe you missed Preston.”

Zachs snorts. “Yeah, well, Klaus was the better shot. Most likely to put a bullet in one of us.”

“Not you,” Trip says.

The words come out of nowhere. Everyone turns. Trip doesn’t talk unless it matters.

Zachs flicks his gaze to him, something unreadable behind that damn grin of his. Trip just called out what no one else had. Zachs didn’t prioritize his own survival. He took out the biggest threats to the group. Even if it meant leaving his worst enemy alive.

For a second, I think Zachs might actually acknowledge it. Might say something that’s not a joke.

Instead, he just shakes his head, slings the rifle over his back, and crawls away.

His laughter is low, rich, and completely unhinged.

When he comes back, his grin is feral. “Three. Signaling surrender from cover.”

“You buy it?” Wilkes asks.

“No fucking way,” Dax mutters. His jaw tightens. “But if they think we do, we can get closer.”

Wilkes shifts beside me.

Something in Dax’s expression changes. A flicker of something deeper. “They get that boat started, we’re fucked.”

Not just stranded. Fucked.

My gut knots. What isn’t Dax telling me?

I look at him, searching his face.

He frowns.

And I read him loud and clear.

The ferry isn’t coming.

This isn’t just here.

My blood runs cold.

The island isn’t the only place burning.