Chapter 2
TWO
CATCH UP
JACOB
There it is.
I ease off the gas, yanking the rig off the road and into the dense cover of the woods.
Dry branches screech against the sides of the van, scraping like skeletal fingers, while sunlight filters through the canopy, casting jagged patterns of light and shadow across the windshield.
The terrain shifts beneath the tires, uneven and riddled with roots, the whole vehicle lurching as we carve a rough path through the undergrowth.
In the side mirror, I catch a glimpse of Leon’s truck veering in behind us.
Inside the cab, Trish braces a hand against the dashboard, the other on the door handle in a death grip. “Jacob,” she warns, voice tight, “I know you’re panicking even if you won’t say it, but can you please stop treating my van like a damn bumper car?”
Even in a crisis, she’s trying to keep it together, but the sickly green tinge creeping up her dark skin tells me her stomach is doing somersaults. Trish never lets anything shake her, but I’m pushing it.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I bite out, yanking the wheel hard to the left, the tires grinding to a stop in a semi-open clearing with a narrow line of sight to the jail through the trees.
“Would you rather I ease in at a casual twenty-five miles per hour while our people get marched off to be tortured, killed, eaten, or worse by whoever the hell took them?”
Trish swivels to glare at me, eyes burning hot enough to melt steel. “No, dumbass, I didn’t say slow down. But do you wanna roll into town like it’s a damn parade and lead every starving corpse straight to us?”
Point taken.
I clench my jaw, my pulse hammering in my ears as I try to shove down the sick feeling twisting in my gut. Trish keeps her stare locked on me, unflinching, then reaches out, her fingers steady as they grip my shoulder. “Jacob. We’re all freaking out, but we need to stay frosty.”
I exhale sharply, forcing my shoulders to drop.
My grip on the wheel loosens, the tension in my knuckles fading from bone white to something closer to human.
Trish watches me, waiting, her body mirroring my own—tight, coiled, running too hot.
We both take a second to shake it off, to let logic shove emotion aside.
When it comes to the people I love, I lose my edge. I let panic creep in. I let fear drive the wheel. And right now, fear is a luxury we can’t afford.
A few more measured breaths. My pulse is still hammering, but steadier.
So, naturally, I turn to humor, my go-to defense against the kind of pressure that could crush bone. “Did you really just quote Aliens?”
Trish shrugs, casual as hell, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Of course. Right now, you’re Hudson, and I’m Hicks.”
I scoff, peeling my hands off the wheel and rubbing my palms against my jeans. “I have my shit together more than Hudson did.”
A door slams outside—Leon’s truck. His heavy footfalls crunch over sticks, moving toward us.
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “And Leon is?”
Trish chuckles, popping her seat belt with a flick of her wrist. “Why, the spunky Ripley, of course.”
I groan, pushing open my door, muttering as I hop down, “Leon’s always been your favorite.” I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. “All right. I’m calm. And I’m sorry for snapping earlier.”
Trish tilts her head, considering.
I huff out a laugh. “Next time we’re chasing down a transport van to a prison in the middle of nowhere, you drive. Good?”
She grins and pats me on the damn head like I’m a child. “Yes, Chief.”
I bat her hand away. “You know you’re getting that head pat back tenfold.”
She just smirks, already walking ahead. “You can try.”
I shut the door and shake off the tension that’s been coiling in my muscles since the second we found out they were taken. The anger sits heavy, a burning coal in my gut. I should’ve been there. Should’ve done something—anything—to stop it.
We’d come back to camp from a supply run, expecting to see familiar faces, the comforting sounds of life in the apocalypse: the clang of supplies being sorted, quiet conversations, Earl bickering with Edith over another one of his conspiracy theories.
Instead, we found nothing. Just silence and overturned crates where a camp should’ve been.
According to Pete, the coward, a transport bus had rounded them up like cattle at gunpoint.
He just cowered and watched while our people were forced onto that bus. He didn’t lift a finger to stop it.
Pete only slithered out from whatever hole he’d been hiding in to tell us what had happened because I was tearing through camp, yelling loud enough to shake the trees, not giving a damn who heard me.
And the only reason that son of a bitch is still breathing?
Because he at least had the decency to read the damn bus. Lawrenceville Correctional Center. The only clue we’ve got. The only thing that kept me from putting a bullet between his eyes and calling it a day.
I move to the back of the truck, flipping down the tailgate, metal clanking loud in the quiet morning air.
The scent of damp earth and old gasoline lingers as I start pulling out the guns, the familiar weight of steel centering me.
Leon is already there, moving with his usual quiet efficiency.
He taps my shoulder, drawing my attention.
The sunlight catches in his ginger beard, making it blaze like fire against his otherwise unreadable expression.
“What’s the plan?” he signs, his hands quick and precise.
Leon’s always been the cool head to my impulsive streak, the stable hand to my unrestrained determination. While I throw myself into the fire, he watches from the edge, calculating, waiting for the right moment to strike. We balance each other out, and it’s why we work so well together.
I inhale deeply, steadying my pulse. You’re Hicks, Jacob. Time to take control.
Strapping a knife to my thigh, I grab my handguns, loading each one with a satisfying click before slipping extra magazines into my holsters.
“We walk the perimeter,” I say. “Check for guards, figure out their numbers. We find a weak spot in the fence, cut our way in. Sneak through the outer buildings toward the main structure. Once we’ve cleared enough ground and found our people, we get the hell out.
If they chase us”—I slide the last magazine into place and snap it shut, meeting Leon’s sharp gaze—“we lead them into a herd of the undead and let them do our dirty work. Thoughts?”
Leon steps up beside me, already zipping up his Kevlar vest. He loads his crossbow, the familiar creak of the string stretching taut as he slings it over his back.
A quiver of arrows follows, secured in one easy motion.
His hatchet hangs at his side, its handle worn from years of use, as much a part of him as his own hands.
His eyes flick to the gas canisters in the truck bed, sharp and calculating.
His hands move, fingers slicing through the air. “I say we light one of the buildings on fire, draw them out.”
I hesitate, my fingers tapping against my thigh.
Gas is precious. Hard to come by, harder to replace.
Every drop is a step closer to whatever safety we’re scraping together.
But a fire? A fire could turn this hellhole into a frenzy, force them to scatter, give us the chaos we need to slip inside unseen.
Risk versus reward. The usual gamble.
My gut clenches. There’s always a cost. But hell, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that fire is as much a weapon as any blade or bullet. And it’s always helped me focus.
Screw it. Let’s burn something.
I glance at Leon, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Grab one.” My lips curl, something dark and reckless creeping into my voice. “Let’s cause some destruction.”
Leon’s dark green eyes gleam with mischief, a familiar glint that always means trouble—the good kind.
With his red hair and beard, he looks like some devil from an old war story, a man built for battle, for destruction.
He hefts the gas canister with ease, saluting with two fingers before striding toward the van.
Trish is already stepping down, rifle slung over her shoulder, her stance braced like she’s expecting a fight to land on our doorstep any second.
I swallow hard and exhale through my nose, trying to ground myself.
“I don’t know what shape they’ll be in when we get them back.
” If we get them back. The thought claws at my gut, but I shove it down.
“I want supplies ready to treat them the second they’re out.
” I pause, glancing past her to the open stretch of land, the distant fence line barely visible through the trees. “And keep an eye out for the infected.”
Her gaze sweeps the tree line, sharp and assessing. “You better bring them back, Jacob,” she mutters, her voice low and unwavering.
Leon moves his hands, “We’ll get them back.”
Trish watches, then sighs, nodding her head. “Of course you will, Ripley.”
Leon gives me a deadpan look and shakes his head while moving his hands. “She’s been quoting Aliens again, hasn’t she?”
I grin. “Game over, man.”
Trish chuckles, the tension in the air thinning just enough to breathe. Just enough to believe that when we come back, we won’t be coming back empty-handed.
Leon rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother responding, already moving toward the tree line, his steps light despite the weight of the gas canister.
Trish moves in the opposite direction, climbing up onto the roof of the van with practiced ease. “All right, boys,” she calls out. “Make them pay.”
She lies flat on her stomach, rifle in hand, and snugs the butt against her right shoulder. The scope glints in the dim light as she adjusts her position, settling in, ready to take out anything that moves the wrong way.
I turn after Leon, pushing forward into the woods. The scent of pine clings to the air, mingling with the distant stench of decay—the ever-present reminder that the dead are never far.
The trees around us are thick, their canopies casting shifting shadows that dance across the ground.
Plenty of coverage to stay hidden, but also plenty of places for something—or someone—to be hiding.
Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves sends my pulse hammering.
My grip tightens on the wire cutters, my other hand hovering near the knife strapped to my thigh.
Leon moves like a ghost beside me, his long strides effortless, his breathing even. He belongs in this setting—hunting, tracking, blending into the wild like he was made for it. His sharp eyes scan ahead, always searching, always knowing what to look for.
The closer we get, the heavier the air feels—thick with the eerie silence of a place that should be teeming with movement.
The fence looms ahead, rusted chain links stretching high, topped with razor wire that glints under the weak afternoon sun.
We crouch low, moving through the dense underbrush, our boots sinking into damp soil.
Every shift of leaves, every scrape of metal against my gear, sets my nerves on edge.
No one in the guard towers. No patrols pacing the perimeter. Just empty space where there should be men with guns, scanning for threats. The front lawn sprawls ahead of us, cracked pavement and patches of overgrown grass reclaiming the once-manicured prison yard.
It’s wrong. Too quiet. Too still.
As we creep closer to the compound’s entrance, my gut tightens. I raise my fist, signaling Leon to stop. He halts instantly, lowering himself deeper into the brush. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for my next move, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the sight ahead.
The air shifts, heavy with the stench of burnt flesh, thick and cloying, coating my tongue like ash. Thirty yards ahead, a blackened crater scars the earth, twenty feet wide. Charred remains are stacked in the center, twisted and fused together in grotesque shapes.
The bile rises fast, scorching the back of my throat as I clamp my jaw so tight my teeth groan under the pressure. The sheer number—bones piled like garbage, discarded, meaningless—
What if we’re too late?
The thought is a blade, slicing through my composure, embedding itself deep. What if this is them? What if we’re standing in the grave of the people we came to save?
I glance at Leon, searching for that unshakable presence, but even he looks rattled.
Breath too fast, pulse hammering against my ribs. God, I miss my anxiety meds.
A sharp whistle cuts through the tension, slicing into my spiraling thoughts like a blade. My head snaps toward Leon just as his hand grips the back of my neck. He pulls me forward, pressing our foreheads together, his touch grounding me like a damn anchor.
He begins breathing deeply. In and out. In and out.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing air into my lungs, but my chest still feels like it’s caving in. Focus. The sound of birds chirping. The weight of Leon’s palm, solid and sure. You’re here. You’re not alone.
I let the breath out slow, my ribs aching with the force of it. My forehead lifts from his, and I meet his waiting gaze.
I’m back.
Leon studies me for a beat longer before giving a firm pat to the side of my face.
He crouches low beside the fence, fingers running over to find the best spot to cut in, but his hand meets the edge of a jagged tear in the metal. His usual mask of indifference is still there, but beneath it, something else lingers. Concern. Unease.
His hands move swiftly. “Someone’s been busy.”
I step closer, scanning the damage. Not just one cut—multiple slashes, uneven and wide, running down the length of the perimeter. I grind my teeth, confusion dulling the rough edge of my nerves. “Question is, why?” The words slip out more to myself than to him.
Anyone or anything could slip through. A mistake? Unlikely.
Leon exhales sharply, the ghost of a shrug lifting his shoulders. His fingers flick in a quick sign, “We’ll find out.”
He slips through the opening first and I follow, my gun raised, senses stretched thin, every muscle braced for the worst. The air inside the fence feels different—thicker, heavier, like the world’s holding its breath.
The first building looms ahead, its dark windows gaping like hollow eyes. I force myself to look forward, to keep moving, to ignore the blackened pit of bodies behind me.
They’re still alive.
They have to be.