Page 25 of Glass Rose (Where Roses Rot #1)

EIGHTEEN

SOFIA

The world transforms with each mile we drive. Suburbs, outskirts of a city, scattered rural communities, then nothing but forest and abandoned cars.

Three weeks ago, these roads would have been filled with commuters, families, people living their ordinary lives. Now they belong to the dead, or those desperate enough to risk encountering them.

“We’re close.” Gavin drives right at the upcoming fork in the road. “It’s longer but avoids the main highway.”

“Highways will be deathtraps by now,” John mumbles from the back seat.

I check on him in the rearview mirror. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” His beard twitches with what might be a smile. “Stop fussing, Doc. I’m not dying today.”

“You better not.” I focus back on the front. “I didn’t waste those antibiotics just for you to check out on us.”

Gavin’s hand finds my knee, a fleeting touch that somehow grounds me in the chaos.

“Tell us more about this island,” I say. “What should we expect? ”

“One main house, three outbuildings. Solar panels,” he rattles it like a grocery list. “Perimeter fence. Dock with boathouse. Rainwater collection system. Trees.”

“Sounds like paradise,” John says, with only the slightest edge of sarcasm.

“It’s defensible,” Gavin says. “Self-sufficient. Remote enough to stay clear of major population centers but close enough to make supply runs if necessary. They’ll be there.”

I hope he’s right.

The SUV rounds a bend, bringing us to a small cluster of houses set back from the road. Unlike the abandoned properties we’ve passed, these show signs of occupation—curtains moving, smoke rising from one chimney, a makeshift barricade blocking the communal driveway.

Three men with rifles, not looking like they’d invite us for tea, emerge from behind it.

“Slow down,” John says. “They look twitchy.”

Gavin eases off the accelerator but doesn’t stop completely. One of the men raises his hand in a clear signal to halt.

Maybe they’re nice?

We come to a stop thirty feet from the man on the road, engine running.

He approaches cautiously, eyes bouncing between Gavin and me. “Where you headed?”

“North,” Gavin says.

The man nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Military’s set up blockades on most major roads. Trying to contain the spread.” His laugh is brittle. “Fat lot of good that’s doing.”

“Any way around them?” Gavin asks.

“Depends which way you’re going.” The man gestures vaguely northward. “Harbor Bridge is clear for another five miles, then it’s all backed up. Crash, then a military checkpoint that got overrun. Nasty business. ”

“Is there an alternative?” I ask.

The man scratches his beard. “Not unless you’ve got a boat. Or want to add thirty miles to your journey through infected territory.”

Gavin and I exchange glances. Thirty extra miles with John bleeding in the back seat isn’t an option.

“What’s it look like at the blockage?” Gavin asks. “Passable on foot?”

The man’s eyes narrow. “If you’re desperate or stupid. Lot of infected clustered there. Military shot up a bunch of civilians who were showing symptoms. Now they’re all wandering around with bulletproof vests and sidearms.”

Perfect. Zombie cops and soldiers. Just what we need.

“Appreciate the intel.” Gavin reaches for the gearshift.

“Hold up.” The man steps closer, his posture shifting subtly. “Toll for information these days. Gas, food, or ammo.”

I tense, hand sliding toward the gun in my waistband.

“We’re running on fumes ourselves,” Gavin says. “But we can spare some medical supplies. Antibiotics. Bandages.”

The man considers this, then nods. “That’ll be great.”

I reach into my pack and extract a small bottle of pills and some gauze. Enough to show good faith without depleting our own critical supplies.

“Word of advice.” He accepts them. “Whatever you’re looking for, better be worth dying for. Because those odds ain’t good.”

“Thanks,” Gavin says.

He taps the hood of our SUV twice. “Good luck then.”

We drive away, the small community receding in our mirrors, those men standing guard over their fragile pocket of civilization.

“People helping people,” John muses. “Didn’t expect to see that still happening. ”

“Crisis brings out extremes.” Min-ji’s sacrifice, Alex’s betrayal. “The best and worst of humanity.”

“And everything in between,” Gavin adds.

The road curves through farmland, abandoned fields where crops grow wild without human intervention. Nature reclaiming what was briefly borrowed. In the distance, billboards advertise products no one will ever buy again, restaurants no one will eat at, and movies no one will see.

“You think there’s a way back from this?” I ask. “For humanity, I mean.”

John wheezes. “Always is. We’re cockroaches, kid. Hard to stamp out completely.”

“Smaller populations,” Gavin says. “Isolated communities. Eventually, networked settlements. It’s been done before.”

“After plagues, you mean?”

“After wars. Famines. Natural disasters. Humans rebuild.”

“Different world, though,” John says. “Can’t exactly have open borders when every corpse becomes a walking weapon or every human wanting your stuff.”

Slowly, we approach the disaster the man was talking about. Abandoned checkpoints, barricades, even a tank sitting empty on the shoulder of the road. Did they flee? Turn? Join the ranks of the infected now wandering aimlessly along the roadside?

And lastly, our death sentence.

A military checkpoint spanning the full width. Concrete barriers, sandbags, and an armored car turned sideways to block passage. No movement visible, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty.

“Go around?” I suggest.

Gavin shakes his head. “Too risky. Might have mines, spike strips. Look behind it.”

At least a dozen military and civilian vehicles form a tangled mass of metal and glass a hundred yards ahead. Bodies, or parts of them, litter the ground. Some still move, crawling or staggering between the wrecks.

“Peachy,” John says.

“Can we get through?” I ask.

Gavin studies the wreckage. “If we stick to the shoulder and move slowly. But it’ll be tight.”

“Do it,” John says. “Longer we sit here, more chance of company.”

I spot movement in my side mirror, shadowy figures appearing from the tree line, drawn by the sound of our engine. “Speaking of company…”

Gavin threads the SUV past the concrete barriers, navigating the shoulder that’s barely wide enough to contain us.

Branches and debris scrape against our sides as we inch forward, until we reach the pileup’s edge, and he jerks the wheel hard.

The SUV lurches partially onto the grassy verge, tilting at an alarming angle while the tires spin for purchase in the soft earth.

“Hold on.” He guns the engine.

The frame scrapes against something metal with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. An infected, once a soldier, judging by the tattered uniform, slams against my window, milky eyes fixed on me. Its teeth clack together as it paws at the window, leaving smears of black fluid across the surface.

I meld into the seat.

The SUV breaks free with a final screech, careening back onto the pavement. Gavin accelerates, putting distance between us and the wreckage.

“That was too close,” John mutters. “We got lucky.”

Luck. Such a strange concept now. Is it lucky to survive in a world where death might be kinder? Is it lucky to witness the collapse of everything you’ve ever known? To lose everyone you’ve ever loved?

Maybe luck isn’t surviving. Maybe luck is having something worth surviving for. I gaze at Gavin. Without him, I’d probably have already given up.

The outskirts of the city come into view, not a major metropolis, but large enough to have everything we don’t want to encounter. High population density and abundant hiding places for both infected and hostile survivors.

“Harbor’s on the far side.” Gavin takes us down side streets whenever possible. “Five miles through the city center.”

“Wonderful.” Every shadow moving between buildings makes my heart race faster. “Love a scenic tour.”

Scenic isn’t underrated. Broken windows, abandoned vehicles, makeshift barricades erected by people who thought they could wait it out. The streets grow narrower as we penetrate deeper into the commercial district, forcing us to slow our pace.

“The roads open past downtown,” Gavin says. “Harbor Bridge has four lanes. If we can reach it, we’ve got a straight shot to the marina.”

“Big if,” John comments as we pass an overturned city bus, its windows shattered and interior dark. Something moves inside. Many somethings.

I force a smile. “Maybe our luck hasn’t run out yet.”

The words have barely left my mouth when we round the next corner and encounter what the man at the barricade warned us about.

Harbor Bridge, our direct route to safety, stretches before us, completely blocked by the most colossal traffic jam I’ve ever seen. Cars, trucks, and buses sit bumper to bumper for as far as the eye can see, many with doors hanging open where their occupants fled or were dragged out.

And moving between these vehicles, a sea of infected. Dozens, maybe hundreds, wandering aimlessly. Some still wear the remnants of military gear—bulletproof vests, helmets, and utility belts with weapons still attached .

Gavin brings the SUV to a stop. “Fuck.”

“We can’t handle that.” I glance back at our injured companion. “He needs real medical attention soon.”

John straightens in his seat, face gray with pain but eyes clear. “I can handle whatever I need to. Don’t make decisions based on me.”

“If we proceed on foot, we can weave between the vehicles.” Gavin scans the blockage. “Stay low, stay quiet. It’s about two miles to the marina from here.”

“Two miles through that?” I gesture at the infected. “We might as well shoot ourselves now and save them the trouble.”

“They’re scattered,” Gavin says. “Not clustered. Most are trapped between vehicles. We stay alert, move carefully, we can make it.”

I want to argue, want to demand another option, but deep down I know we don’t have another. We’re committed now. The island is our best hope, perhaps our only hope, for long-term survival.

“Okay,” I say. “What’s the plan?”

“We gather everything essential,” Gavin says. “Weapons, medical supplies, water. Travel light but prepared. Move in a tight formation. Me on point, Sofia in the middle, John covering our rear.”

“I can take point,” John offers.

“No offense, but you can barely stand,” I tell him. “You’re in the middle. I’ll cover the rear.”

They both regard me with surprise.

“What?” I shrug. “I’ve killed infected before. I can do it again.” And I will do it again. We’re doing this together.

“Alright. Stay close.” He throws the rifle around his shoulder and carries the machete in one hand, exiting the vehicle. “If we get separated, head for the marina. Look for a blue boathouse with white trim. It has a keypad, but there’s also a key hidden in the right rain barrel. ”

And then figure out how to ride a boat. Easy. “Let’s do this.”

The smell of decay, stagnation, and bodies left too long in metal coffins under the sun hits me as I plant my feet on the street. Up close, the scale of the blockage is even more intimidating.

A metal maze populated by the dead.

Gavin leads us to the edge of the jam. “We follow the right shoulder as far as we can. Move only when I signal. Stop when I stop. Don’t speak unless necessary.”

John and I nod our understanding.

With a final glimpse back at the SUV, our last connection to the relative safety we’ve enjoyed since escaping the warehouse, we slip between the first abandoned vehicles and into the gauntlet. I breathe through my mouth, focusing on placing each foot silently, keeping low and alert.

The first infected we encounter is trapped in the driver’s seat, seat belt fastened across its chest. It thrashes at our approach, arms reaching through the open window, fingers grasping at air inches from John’s passing shoulder.

Gavin signals us to freeze as another infected staggers into view ahead, this one wearing the tattered remains of a police uniform, gun still holstered at its side. It pauses, head cocked as if listening, then continues its aimless wandering, disappearing behind a delivery truck.

We proceed step by step, using the vehicles as cover. Twenty yards become fifty. Fifty become a hundred. My legs ache from the constant crouching, from expecting an attack from any direction at any moment.

John’s breathing grows labored in front of?—

Suddenly, an infected lunges from between two cars, its mouth gaping in a silent snarl as it reaches for me. Gavin slices through the air with his machete in a clean arc that separates head from shoulders. The body crumples, but the damage is done.

The sound, slight as it was, attracted attention.

Heads turn throughout. Empty eyes seeking. Hungry mouths opening.

Our luck has officially run out.

The Infected begin swarming our position, drawn by the promise of fresh meat.

“Run,” Gavin orders, abandoning stealth for speed.