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The bike is gone.

They’re staring at an empty space where it used to be and that can only mean they’ve got unwanted company. Was just a matter of time before they ran into other people. It’s no safer now than it ever was, and they’ve got their weapons drawn and ready the moment it’s clear they could need them.

Wade and Kara work well as a silent team, following the wheel tracks off the path and into dense woods.

People and rotters have been sparse the last few years, she’s told him. Most that started alive are dead by now. The ones who turned have long since rotted away, except for recent victims or nearly skeletal, shambling remains.

It’s the runners they need to watch for. Some mutant strain of the virus that’s kicked the dead into high gear and given them a far longer shelf life.

“They don’t degrade as quickly, or at all, really. No one knows why. The older, slow ones have all started crumbling by now, but the fast ones are different. You won’t see them alone anymore. They’ve all formed herds.”

He’s spent six years of the apocalypse secluded and unaware.

Sure, he’s fought and killed them for the entertainment of others, but he hasn’t been out here in the wasteland, watching it all progress.

He is woefully unprepared to handle the reality of it and only grateful that Kara is here to guide him.

Runners haven’t taken the bike, though. That thief is a survivor, just like them.

They could be walking into a trap. Lack of vantage points leaves them easy targets, and the tracks leading to a clearing don’t help his anxiety any more than the wide expanse of broken-down cars piled into it.

Old vehicles fill the overgrown space, peppered with the occasional bicycle or motorcycle, though he can’t see theirs anywhere in the bunch.

He stops abruptly, feeling Kara run into his back with a muffled curse.

“Sorry,” he whispers, for fucking up that non-verbal skill they were doing so well at.

“Oh, this is weird.” She stares out at a field of cars dotting long grass like giant, rusted flowers.

The trail blends into green the further they go. Soon, he’s not sure anymore which way their only transportation was taken, but he’ll assume it has something to do with the cabin just over a small hill.

They both crouch down, carefully making their way through a car lot to perch behind a bush and peer into the backyard of their enemy.

A hoarder must live here. Piles of junk atop bags of trash make it hard to see anything.

Even if the bike was among all this crap, he might have a hard time picking it out.

There are signs of life around the property, though, starting with a stack of recently chopped wood and dried animal skins hanging from a tree.

“I’m ready for banjos to start playing,” he says under his breath.

“Get out of my head.”

“Stay here while I go around front and look for the bike?” Her unimpressed stare never changes. It’s a reply enough all on its own. “Was worth a shot.”

Kara has never been the type to stay behind. No reason to start now.

The owners could be waiting to put an arrow or bullet through them the moment they get a clear shot.

Might still be out there searching, or simply assumed they were long dead, and the bike was a gift from the gods.

Either way, he’s on edge. This place gives him a weird vibe that only gets worse as they make their way through a slim path carved out from the trash heap and up to a carefully hidden trip wire.

He points it out to Kara, who follows his finger from the string up to an ax poised to drop directly on their heads should they put a foot wrong.

Where the hell did they take the bike, he wonders, when they creep around the edge of the house to scan the front yard and find no reward.

In a last-ditch effort, he signals to her that they should check inside.

Stranger things have happened. Maybe they’ve got a whole shop in there for all he knows.

Leaving without making sure could land them stranded.

That’s not, however, what they find inside.

A quick look in the window shows only one room, thankfully empty, but the overpowering scent when they walk in nearly buckles his knees. Metallic like blood and depressing like death, something he should be used to by now, all concentrated in a small room, enough to have him lightheaded.

There’s no bike, but someone’s been here recently. That much is clear from the rustled cots in the corner and fresh cigarette ashes in a cup.

Kara wrinkles her nose in general disgust, reaching for the half-open fridge that can’t possibly be working. “Is that…”

He moves in behind her, covering his nose with one hand and spying a glass pickle jar filled to the brim with eyeballs.

“This is some full on backyard bred bullshit,” he groans, glancing toward the table at the middle of the room that he assumed held a tarp covered deer.

“Don’t. Let’s get out of here. I’ve seen this movie,” she warns.

She doesn’t want to know what’s under it, but he’s curious. Apparently, in a horror movie he’d be that guy who investigates instead of running because he can’t help but grab the corner of the tarp and lift it away, finding a torso missing its arms and legs.

“Aw fuck. Yep. Yeah, let’s go. Real fast.”

Screw the bike. They’ll find it later or find something else. Wade’s not about to squabble with cannibals. He’s no stranger to disgusting things, but this takes it to a whole other disturbing level.

He’s regretting that hesitation he had a moment ago when the sound of footsteps crunch on gravel, heading straight for them. There’s no back exit, no way of knowing how many are about to come through that door. It sounds like more than one, and so instead of trying to take their chances…they hide.

Kara scrambles into a pantry closet, and he follows.

It’s a tight fit. There’s a little alcove tucked into the wall they can squish behind.

It’s probably the dumbest thing they’ve ever done.

All these assholes need to do is open the door and look to the left and their cover is blown but despite the threat of impending cannibalism the majority of his thoughts are focused on the fact that her breasts are pushed into his chest.

Not the time to be thinking about anything but the situation at hand, yet when it comes to Kara, his brain follows no rules.

The front door creaks open, and he cautiously looks through the wall slats as three dirty men shuffle in. One of the cots shakes as something is tossed onto it, the cupboards open and slam, and the last guy decides now is a good time to finish that butcher job he started earlier.

They aren’t talking about any of it. Not saying a damn word. It’s eerily silent except for the sound of a knife carving through flesh.

He and Kara have weapons. They could win this battle if everything goes right.

If it doesn’t, they’d both end up on that table.

His mind is reeling with worst-case scenarios, so he tries to distract himself by thinking of how they should do something about this if given the chance.

Leaving these men alive is giving them a license to kill others, and they’ve grown good at it.

Have a whole setup going, nasty as it is.

Maybe they owe it to the next passerby to clean this place up.

He’s just not sure how or when to execute that plan, and as the minutes tick on, it becomes clear they might be here a while.

Once the meal prep is finished, it’s nap time. He watches them collapse on those dusty cots while an old-fashioned hand-crank record player blasts out an odd choice of classical music.

Not much to do now except wait. Wade lowers himself to the ground slowly, settling on his ass with bent knees and she does the same, having to scoot in so close she’s nearly in his lap.

They aren’t in the habit of this kinda thing. Never have been. Back before the end of the world, it was too difficult being close to her without wanting her, so he kept a firm line in the sand.

Then, after Silas left him a shell of who he was, he feared he could never be close to anyone again. Couldn’t fathom that he’d ever want to.

He does want to, though. It’s surprising and terrifying, the depth of his desire to feel Kara as close as they can get.

It’s far deeper than any physical attraction he’s felt for her before.

The comfort and solace in her touch soothes all his wounded edges, and he is growing addicted to the safety of her embrace.

He would have lain in bed with her all day when they woke up that morning if she hadn’t jerked away.

He tries not to read into that too much, or he’ll fall down the rabbit hole of insecurities and convince himself he’s a fool for hoping.

It is so simple to believe that if it hasn’t happened by now, after so many years and mutual declarations, it never will.

So he very pointedly does not overthink her reaction.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he likes being in here with her far too much. Sure, there’s some kinda backwoods shit happening five feet from them and he should be focused on that instead of the scent of her hair and how warm she is pressed to him, but he never claimed to be rational.

It’s a devastating blow when his nervous system betrays him and his fingers begin to tremble, his mind shifting from how good she feels pushed to his body, to how trapped he felt back in his cell, stuffed into a small space like this for so long that his bent legs ached.

Her hand closes around one of his, squeezing gently as she rests her head on his shoulder.