Page 23

Faith

Preston lunges.

I see it, but not fast enough.

The inmate’s gun swings toward Dax.

No.

I throw myself at him, ramming my shoulder into his ribs. We hit the deck hard, his skull cracking against the metal. His arm jerks, finger tightening on the trigger.

A shot fires.

I turn, pulse hammering.

Dax’s body whips back. The impact sends him over the railing, his arms flung wide.

I hear the splash before I can process what just happened.

No. No, no, no.

Something inside me snaps.

I shove the barrel of my gun beneath the inmate’s chin and pull the trigger.

The shot is deafening. Blood and bone spray across the deck. His body twitches once before going still.

I push to my feet, my balance swaying, my mind locking onto one thing. The water.

Dax isn’t there.

I lurch forward, but Zachs moves past me. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop, just dives over the edge in a blur of motion.

Wilkes follows.

I can’t breathe.

Trip grabs me before I can throw myself after them, his arm locking around my waist. “With me.”

I fight him, but he holds firm. I know he’s right. I have to trust them.

Gunfire erupts from the dock.

I turn.

More zombies.

More than before. Too many.

Trip’s grip tightens. “Shit. I’m low on ammo.”

I force myself to focus. Dax isn’t my fight right now.

This is.

I scan the deck. The corpses. “We need more rounds,” I say.

Trip follows my gaze. “On it.”

We move fast, yanking weapons free, checking chambers.

A few rounds in each. Not enough.

I glance back toward the dock, my stomach twisting.

Zachs breaks the surface.

He has Dax. Wilkes is there. They’re dragging him toward the edge.

He’s not moving.

Zachs’ voice is sharp, cutting through the chaos. “Stay with us, asshole.”

I swallow down the fear clawing at my throat and turn back to the swarm.

We can’t get to him if we don’t survive this first.

I scan the swarm, my pulse thudding in my ears. Something flickers in my chest, something dangerous. Hope.

The zombies in the back are dropping.

“Trip,” I whisper, barely daring to say it out loud. “Are those people… ours?”

It feels absurd. Ours. Like we have a real side in this hell.

But Trip understands. His gun stays steady, eyes sharp. “Yeah.”

A breath I didn’t realize I was holding shudders out of me. “Thank god.”

I steel myself and take aim, focusing on precision. Every shot has to count. The closer we get, the clearer the fight becomes. Trip stays tight at my side, our rhythm seamless as we push forward.

Then we reach the edge of the dock.

And my legs nearly give out.

Zachs and Wilkes are dragging Dax from the water, their movements frantic but sure. As soon as they haul him up, I see the blood. It’s still flowing. Too much. Way too much.

“Pressure on it!” I shout, my voice sharp, cracking with something I can’t let in.

A rush of footsteps behind us, more survivors. The pounding of boots on the dock.

Shirts come flying toward Dax, hands scrambling, reaching.

Zachs is the fastest, snatching them up and pressing down hard on the wound.

Dax doesn’t even flinch. His eyes stay shut.

No.

“We’ve got to get him to the med wing. Now ,” Zachs barks, his usual humor gone.

My head snaps toward the group, my eyes locking onto a familiar face. Quince.

I swallow the instant wave of distrust. Later. That’s for later.

“Can we get there?” I ask.

Wilkes doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll get there.”

Trip shifts, positioning himself under Dax. “Move.”

He hoists him up like dead weight, and suddenly I’m running. Following. Eyes locked on the rise and fall of Dax’s chest, the blood soaking into the makeshift bandages, the too-pale cast to his skin.

He’s not talking.

Not cursing. Not barking orders.

The silence is wrong.

Gunshots crack behind us, but I don’t turn. Someone’s handling the stragglers. Doesn’t matter who. Nothing matters but getting to the med wing.

The shirts pressed to Dax’s wound are soaked through now, dark and dripping.

Too much blood.

Way too much.

I don’t remember getting to the med wing. I don’t remember running through the halls or shoving open doors.

I just remember Dax. His body, too still. His skin, too pale.

The operating room is a blur of motion, but my focus locks on Wilkes.

Wilkes is hunched over Dax, hands slick with blood, digging for the bullet with the kind of focus that says he’s in too deep to second-guess himself.

Dax should be moving. He should be thrashing, fighting, screaming, anything but this.

The silence is suffocating.

Zachs moves fast, tearing through cabinets, tossing anything remotely useful onto the bed, gauze, sutures, needles, tubing. It lands on Dax’s chest like he’s already a corpse.

Trip pulls a chair to the bedside and sits, solid as a goddamn mountain, watching, unmoving.

Then it clicks.

They’re treating him, but none of them have a fucking clue what they’re doing.

Zachs fumbles with an IV line, hands steady but uncertain. His usual cocky confidence is gone, replaced with something raw.

They’re guessing. Winging it.

Dax doesn’t have time for this.

“Unless you know what the hell you’re doing, get out,” I snap, my voice cutting through the stale air. “And keep those things out of this building.”

No one argues. No hesitation, no sarcasm. They listen. Because this is Dax.

The others clear out, leaving us with nothing but the sound of Wilkes working and the wet drag of Dax’s breath.

Zachs curses, trying to push a needle into Trip’s arm. It slips. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Trip doesn’t even react.

I push forward, shoving Zachs aside. “Move.”

I grab Trip’s arm, pressing my fingers against his skin, feeling for the strongest vein. Good flow. He’ll make a good donor.

“Alcohol,” I say, already reaching for the wipes.

Trip barely glances at me. “No need.”

Zachs tosses an entire bucket of alcohol wipes onto the bed.

I rip one open and swipe Trip’s arm anyway. “There’s always a need.”

I take the needle, inhale, steady my hands.

This, I can do.

I get the needle in on the first try, the sharp snap of punctured skin drowned out by my pounding heart. Trip barely flinches.

Good. That part’s ready.

“Got it,” Wilkes grunts before I can connect the line or think about putting a line in Dax.

I flick my eyes up just as he pulls the misshapen, bloody bullet from Dax’s shoulder. He tosses it onto a metal tray with a sickening clatter.

That’s not the worst of it.

Dax isn’t moving.

Zachs presses harder on the wound, gauze soaked through in seconds. “You know how to stitch this up?”

I nod, already reaching for the suture kit. “We have to slow the bleeding first.”

Zachs applies more pressure, but even through the gauze, too much blood seeps out. Too fast.

Shit.

I grab another wad of gauze and press down. “Hold this.”

Zachs doesn’t hesitate.

Wilkes moves to Dax’s head, checking his pulse, his breathing. Still too shallow. “Faith,” Wilkes warns.

“I know,” I snap. I push Zachs’ hand away, exposing the raw, gaping wound.

Dax needs blood, but if I don’t close this, it won’t matter.

I push the needle through.

Dax doesn’t flinch.

The room tilts for a second, but I don’t let myself think about what that means.

I just keep stitching.

Because Dax isn’t dying today.

The last stitch pulls tight, and I cut the thread with shaking hands.

Done.

I take a breath. One deep inhale, another slow exhale, trying to steady myself. Dax is stitched up, but he’s far from safe. His pulse is weak, barely there. Too slow, too unsteady.

I turn my attention back to the transfusion, forcing my hands to stay steady as I search for a vein. I won’t fail him.

The needle slides in smoothly, too smoothly, as if the universe is giving me this one small mercy. I tape it down and connect the line, watching as Trip’s blood begins to flow into Dax’s arm.

It’s not enough to slow the panic clawing at my chest.

He’s lost so much. Too much. And I don’t even know if they’re a match.

Trip shifts beside me. When I look up, he’s watching me, quiet and steady, like he already knows the storm in my head. “It’ll be fine,” he says, low and certain.

The simple confidence in his voice makes something in me loosen.

I nod, just once, and sit on the edge of the bed, gripping Dax’s hand. His skin is cold, too cold. I press closer, trying to share my warmth, trying to will heat back into him.

“Wilkes?” My voice is quieter than I mean it to be.

“Yeah,” he answers immediately.

“Is there food here?” I ask.

His brow furrows. “You hungry?”

“No. For Trip.” I don’t look away from Dax as I speak. “Dax is going to need a lot of blood. I don’t want to mix donors until I can check your records.”

Trip shifts again. “I’m good,” he says.

I shake my head. “You will be. But not if you pass out. Get him food. Juice. Something with sugar.”

Zachs lets out a quiet laugh, lighter than it should be given the situation, but laced with tension. “Sure, Doc.”

As he walks out, I let myself exhale for what feels like the first time in hours. Then, carefully, I crawl onto the bed beside Dax, curling against his side.

His chest barely moves.

But he’s breathing.

And for now, that’s enough.