Page 13 of Glass Rose (Where Roses Rot #1)

NINE

SOFIA

Alex wasn’t kidding. This is doomsday prepper heaven.

Hundreds of metal shelves, packed floor to ceiling with supplies, stretch up toward industrial fixtures that cast harsh shadows across the concrete floor.

My eyes burn from exhaustion as I try to take it all in, while Gavin’s fingers interlaced with mine offer warmth against the cold industrial atmosphere.

Alex pans his camera across the stockpiles. “And no one knows about it?”

“Close to no one,” John says. “OutdoorExtreme is a legitimate business—camping gear, survival equipment. However, this location was never publicly listed. Shipping address went to a PO box. Delivery drivers only came to the loading dock, never inside.”

“This is…” I say.

“Excessive?” Dr. Cho runs her finger along a shelf of backpacks.

“How long have you been preparing for this?” Gavin asks.

John grunts, shotgun hanging from his shoulder. “Been ready for this for fifteen years. This warehouse? Bought it seven years ago as a distribution center for my online business. Perfect cover. Nobody believed me. Called me Crazy John. Not so crazy now, am I?”

The place is impressive, I’ll give him that.

“You can stay here.” John looks between us. “Safety in numbers, right?”

“Fuck yes.” Alex’s shoulders visibly drop. “We lucked out, man. Seriously.”

John’s eyes narrow. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it. Preparation.”

“So what’s the plan here?” Alex asks. “We just?—”

“First,” John interrupts, “I show you the rest. Then we eat, then talk plans. Nobody thinks straight on an empty stomach. Over there’s the armory.” He points to a corner section enclosed by metal bars. “Weapons stay locked up. I keep the key.”

Gavin’s eyes linger. I can practically see him plotting on how to get in if needed.

“You all know how to shoot?” John asks.

Alex nods a bit too eagerly. “Sure, totally.”

Dr. Cho shakes her head. “I have no firearms training.”

“I can teach you,” John offers, then looks at me. “You?”

“No.”

John studies my face, then nods toward Gavin. “I don’t have to ask you.”

“Want to see what we’re running from?” Alex asks. “Might help you understand why we needed somewhere safe.”

John guides us through the shelves. “Is it better than what they showed on TV?”

“Way better.”

We follow him to the center of the warehouse, where three small camper trailers are arranged in a semicircle around what appears to be a communal living area with folding tables, chairs, a generator-powered television, and a makeshift kitchen.

So that could be our new home?

It feels almost cozy. A small oasis of domesticity in this industrial fortress.

Alex connects his camera to the television. “This was at Green Research.”

The footage flickers to life, showing sterile hallways splattered with blood, bodies twitching on the floor, and scientists and security guards transformed into monsters. My stomach churns as I recognize faces—colleagues I’d passed in hallways, nodded to in cafeterias. All dead or worse now.

Gavin squeezes my hand, and I’m grateful for the comfort, despite the lingering tension between us. Though honestly, he has more right to be angry than I do.

“I knew it,” John mutters. “It’s really happening.”

“You called it. They bite, they infect.” Alex’s voice takes on that practiced documentary tone he uses for his channel. “Incubation period seems to be short depending on the person.”

“Depends on viral load and infection site,” I correct. All eyes turn to me. “I’m—I was a virologist at Green. I know how it works.”

John’s eyes narrow. “You helped make this?”

“She tried to stop it,” Gavin says.

I want to correct him, want to confess that I was complicit through inaction, through turning a blind eye to the warning signs. But I don’t. Self-preservation keeps my mouth shut.

A door slams somewhere in the back of the warehouse.

“Marcus!” John calls out. “Come here and meet our guests!”

Footsteps approach from behind a tall shelf, and a man emerges—younger than John, maybe mid-thirties, with short brown hair showing early gray at the temples. He’s clean- shaven, wearing medical scrubs under a tactical vest, with a distinctive tattoo of a caduceus on his forearm.

“Didn’t know we were expecting company,” he says.

“Neither did I.” John gestures toward us. “Urban explorer and his friends. They brought footage of the outbreak.”

“How bad?” Marcus asks.

“Bad enough,” John says. “This is Marcus. Former National Guard medic. My second-in-command here.”

“You have a command structure?” Alex asks, half-joking.

“Not really. Just for fun,” John says. “Marcus has been staying with me for a few months. Knows the setup almost as well as I do.”

Marcus studies each of us. “You all look like hell.”

We most probably do. A mix of fear, sweat, and death.

“You should get cleaned up,” John says. “Got running water. Solar powered. Not unlimited, but enough for quick showers. I’ll make dinner. Been a while since I cooked for this many people.”

Food would be nice.

“There are clothes in the southeast corner,” Marcus adds. “Take what you need. Various sizes.”

“Shower? Hell yes.” Alex turns to Dr. Cho. “Ready to feel human again?”

She nods, relief visible in the loosening of her perpetually rigid shoulders. “A shower would be most welcome. Thank you.”

“I’ll show you where.” Marcus moves toward the opposite corner of the armory, guiding Alex and Dr. Cho away.

“Think I’ll check out those clothes.” Gavin eases his hand away from mine, the cold absence settling over me. “Need something more practical.”

John watches him go, then approaches me. “You’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

I try to remember. The van? Does that count? “I don’t know. Before everything went to shit.”

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” He gestures toward one of the campers. “Lunch won’t be ready for an hour. You could use the rest.”

I should argue, insist on helping, and keep busy. But my body betrays me, a wave of exhaustion so powerful it makes my knees buckle slightly. “Maybe just for a few minutes.”

He walks me to the nearest camper and opens the door. “Bed is in the back.”

I climb inside, the steps creaking under my weight. It’s cramped but clean. Kitchenette with mini-fridge to my left, small table with bench seats to my right, narrow hallway leading to what must be the ‘bedroom.’

“Sleep well.” John shuts the door.

The sudden silence feels like pressure against my eardrums. My legs carry me to the inviting bed, and I sink onto the edge, my body screaming with relief.

We’re okay.

I jolt awake with a gasp, clutching my mother’s necklace.

I’m safe, or whatever passes for it these days.

The lights outside have dimmed slightly. How long was I out?

I stretch, joints popping, and notice a bottle of water beside me on the bed. Dr. Cho? John? Marcus? Unlikely to be Alex—he’s never been thoughtful that way. That only leaves…

Gavin.

My fingers close around it, the plastic crinkling as I twist off the cap and drink. Cool water flows down my throat, washing away the taste of sleep and grief. I close my eyes and pretend this is just another day, another ordinary morning.

That everything is okay…

Weren’t we supposed to eat? Where is everyone?

I rise to my feet, a wave of dizziness passing over me as blood rushes to my head.

Food. I need food.

Outside, the rich aroma of meat stew, with hints of rosemary and thyme, makes my stomach respond with a growl.

“Hello?”

Nothing but silence answers back.

The living area sits empty, abandoned plates and bowls stacked in a plastic tub of soapy water. They ate without me. Can’t blame them—I passed out like someone had hit my off switch.

A soft metallic clatter echoes from somewhere deep in the warehouse labyrinth. My heart rate spikes instantly.

Can’t be an Infected, right?

I grab the hunting knife from my thigh and move along the massive shelving units, straining to hear over my own breathing.

Another sound. A soft curse this time.

I venture deeper, knife raised. One foot carefully in front of the other, and?—

Gavin.

He’s changed clothes to dark cargo pants hugging his hips, and a black t-shirt stretching across the broad planes of his shoulders and chest. The outfit is almost stereotypically tactical, like something from an action movie, but on him, it looks necessary rather than performative.

He stands with his back to me, examining something in his hands. “This is Gavin. Does anyone copy?”

Only static answers him. His shoulders tense slightly before he tries again on a different frequency.

I step closer.

He tilts his head, not even glancing at the knife. “You’re up.”

“How long was I out?”

“Three hours.”

Three hours of oblivion. Not enough, but better than nothing.

I nod toward the radio in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Checking emergency frequencies. Military bands. Seeing if anyone’s broadcasting instructions or gathering survivors.” He sets the radio down among a dozen others on the shelf. “They really have everything here.”

I sheath the knife. “Where is everyone?”

“John’s checking the perimeter. Marcus is inventorying medical supplies with Dr. Cho. Alex is…” He shrugs. “Being Alex.”

“New look?”

“More practical.” His eyes track over my borrowed outfit. “You should get some more practical clothes, too.”

“You wanna get me naked?” What’s wrong with me? A weak attempt at humor, at normalcy, at anything that isn’t grief and fear.

To my surprise, his mouth quirks up at one corner. “I meant you should grab tactical gear. Better protection.” He gestures toward a clothing section. Then his voice drops lower. “If I wanted you naked, I would’ve already done something about it. But there hasn’t been time. Yet.”

The way he says it… like a promise wrapped in a threat.

I duck my head, studying the radio equipment to hide whatever’s happening on my face. “Yet?”