Chapter 4 Timing
FOUR
TIMING
LYLA
Gotta move. Gotta move. Gotta move.
My heart beats in sync with the thought as I make my way down the dim corridor. I need to get to the main office. If I know da Vinci—and unfortunately, I do—that’s where he’ll be. Holding court like some twisted monarch, relishing his reign over this festering hellhole.
But first, the hostages.
I stop and take a moment to orient myself.
Okay, based on the plans Joanie and I found at city hall—one of the many benefits of an apocalypse, no request form needed—the main office should be on the other side of the cafeteria, which is accessed near cell block A.
And I’m in . . . I look around and find a C in black paint at the end of the wall up ahead.
My mind sorts through the layout, piecing together every bit of intel I’ve gathered from my study of the outside of the buildings, every scrap of logic that fits da Vinci’s sick, methodical nature. He’d want them close. Not just for security—for pleasure. He’d want to hear their screams.
Cell block A it is.
I roll my shoulders, exhale slowly through my nose. No room for nerves. No room for mistakes.
Each footfall lands with precision as I move down the corridor, my senses sharpening, stretching out like a net, catching every whisper of sound, every hint of movement.
Images of the passengers flash—overlapping my mental map of the halls. The little girl’s tear-streaked face burns behind my eyes, her cries echoing like a haunting melody that won’t let go.
Back against the wall at the intersection, I hold my breath and listen. The air hangs heavy, stale—like the walls themselves suffocate under the weight of what they’ve witnessed. Sweat slicks my palms despite the chill bleeding from the concrete. My grip tightens on the knife.
There.
Voices. Faint. Just a tremor—muffled, strained. Crying. Soft, choked sobs slicing through the stillness like tiny blades.
Desperation coils in my gut, twisting like barbed wire. They’re close.
I ease forward, footsteps brushing the ground. Each one, a gamble. Each breath, a risk. My pulse pounds in my throat—louder than sense allows.
The sounds grow sharper. Raw. Anguished. Each sob cuts like a dagger.
At the final corner, I freeze and peer around. Two guards flank a heavy metal door, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their postures are loose, focus drifting as they exchange crude jokes. Screams behind the door cut through their laughter, a sick contrast that roils my stomach.
Back against the wall, adrenaline spikes.
Think, Lyla. Think.
Fingers curl around the knife. I draw it free, its weight grounding me, a reminder: one shot at this. No screwups.
The shotgun lowers in my grip with a solid thunk that echoes through the hall.
The guards stop laughing.
“Hey, did you hear that?” one asks, voice low, suspicious.
“Yeah.” The other scoffs. “Probably just Hank again, trying to cut in line.”
Footsteps echo down the hallway, growing louder. My grip tightens on the knife, the rough handle biting into my palm as anticipation floods my veins.
“Hank,” the guard calls, irritation creeping in. “You know the rules. Wait your damn turn.”
The steps stop, just around the corner. I steady my breath. Muscles tense.
He rounds the corner and before he can yell, my hand covers his mouth and I yank his body to mine as the knife slices into the right side of his throat, cutting off his airflow. His body slumps instantly and before I can catch it, his rifle hits the concrete hard.
“Phil?”
Footsteps inch closer. “Phil? You all right, man?”
I drag his body deeper into the shadows, boots sliding in the slick pool spreading beneath him.
Crouched at the corner, I press tight to the wall. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
The barrel appears first.
I snatch it—twist it up and away—yanking his body forward with the motion.
His breath catches right before I drive my fist into his gut. A choked grunt escapes him as the air rushes from his lungs.
No pause. I slam my forehead into his nose. Cartilage shatters against my skull, the wet crunch sickening. He stumbles, blood streaming down his face.
I drive the blade deep into his throat. His eyes widen, hands clawing at my wrist. I twist and slice across his neck in a brutal arc.
A fresh burst of blood sprays against the cement, painting the walls in violent red strokes.
He gurgles, staggers, knees folding under the weight of death.
I wrench the rifle from his weakening grip as he drops.
He twitches, fingers uselessly pressing against the gaping wound in his throat.
The fight drains from him in seconds, his body going still.
His lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling, glassy and unseeing.
Two down. Many more to go.
“Thanks for the rifles, boys,” I whisper, scooping up the second gun. A quick pat down yields a handful of ammo. I pocket the rounds, sling the weapons, and move to the door. I crack the door, just enough to peek inside.
My breathing stops.
This isn’t just a cell block—it’s a hellscape.
Open-bar cages line the walls, each one a stage for suffering. The prisoners sit trapped in their own nightmares, just close enough to hear each other scream.
At the far end, a young girl curls in a chair, light brown hair tangled around her face. Hazel eyes—wide, terrified—shimmer with unshed tears.
A few feet away, her mother strains against her restraints, chained to a chair in the next cell. Dark brown hair falls in loose waves around her face, softening the lines etched by fear. But while the girl trembles, her mother’s matching eyes burn with desperate defiance.
Chains rattle as she leans forward. “Poppy, sweetheart, look at me.” She forces a shaky smile. “It’s okay, honey. Just keep looking at me, all right? We’re going to be okay.”
Down the line, a white-haired woman thrashes against her bed restraints, wrists raw and red.
“Earl! Wake up! Earl, please!” she cries, each word soaked in desperation.
In the next cell, the older man—gray hair, heavy frame—slumps against the floor, motionless. Chains bind his ankles to the ground, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.
Across from him, a woman sags in her chair, her body so thin she barely fills the space. Crimped, dirty-blond hair hangs forward in tangled curtains, hiding her face. Her knees bounce in an erratic rhythm that doesn’t match the eerie stillness of her upper half.
At the final cell, an older woman—bruised and battered—lies crumpled on the floor, her hands tied in front of her. Her silver hair is speckled with blood.
Above her looms the bearded man from the bus, his presence oppressive, the knuckles on his hands cracked and bleeding.
My fingers tighten around the knife until they go numb.
“Shut the hell up, all of you!” he bellows, voice echoing through the corridor. “You’re ruining the mood.”
He turns back to the woman sprawled on the floor, fingers curling into her shirt like she’s nothing but trash.
With a violent yank, he hurls her against the back wall.
Her body hits the cement with a sickening thud.
A grunt escapes, but she doesn’t crumple.
She plants her spine against the wall, legs bent, arms limp—but not broken.
Then she lifts her head.
The glare she throws him burns with heat. Not fear. Not surrender. Fire. Sharp. Unyielding.
It punches jealousy through my ribs.
I slip into the cell like a shadow. Pulse pounding, hands steady. She glances past him—just once—brown eyes locking with mine. They flash like embers before cutting back to her attacker.
Her voice drops, low and satisfied. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
He scoffs, his broad frame relaxed, completely oblivious, fingers toying with his buckle.
“Oh really?” His voice drips amusement. “And what exactly are you gonna enjoy, darlin’?”
She leans forward, smile curling into something predatory. “This.”
He doesn’t even register the shift.
I’m behind him in a blink. One hand clamps over his mouth, cutting off the sharp inhale.
The knife slides through his throat—smooth, deep—slicing flesh and artery in a single, merciless drag.
Man, I’m on a roll today. His body jolts, muscles spasming as hot blood pours down his chest. I lower him to the floor, silent. Not even his gear dares to rattle.
The woman doesn’t flinch.
Yeah. I like her even more.
She shifts her sharp gaze to me, brown eyes sweeping over me like she’s weighing, measuring.
I step close and cut the ropes binding her wrists. The fibers snap, and she immediately rubs at the raw skin, wincing. Before she can sway, I grip her arm and steady her until she plants her feet.
She rolls her shoulders, a pop cracking in her hip as she straightens, and sizes me up with a smirk that’s more amusement than gratitude. Taller than I expected. Lean. Strong. The kind of strength built from survival rather than comfort.
“Had a feeling you weren’t actually crazy,” she murmurs, voice low and even—like an inside joke.
Her head tilts as she studies me. “At least, not in the way you wanted them to think. Although . . .” Her brown eyes glint with something close to admiration.
“Takes a special kind of nuts to willingly get on that bus.”
A quiet huff slips out as I kneel and wipe my blade on the dead man’s shirt. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve made plenty of questionable choices lately.”
She strides past before I can say more, heading straight to the next cell. Without hesitation, she begins untying the mousy woman slumped in the chair. Efficient. No nonsense. She throws a look over her shoulder that says, Aren’t you going to help?
Would it be weird if I asked her to be my mom?
I move to the bed where the elderly woman shudders against the restraints. The ropes fall under my blade, and she pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, blood on my clothes be damned. Tears streak her cheeks as the words pour out.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank the Lord for you, sweetie.”
She plants a kiss on my cheek before hurrying to the next cell. Kneeling beside her husband’s limp body, she shakes him gently.
“Earl, honey, wake up.” Her voice cracks.
Behind me, my new mom moves with purpose—steps steady, hands sure.
She makes quick work of the ropes binding the mousy woman, who immediately curls in on herself, arms wrapping tight, rubbing at the red lines carved into her skin.
No words. No sound. Just blank eyes fixed to the floor, bracing for whatever comes next.
New Mom doesn’t press her. Doesn’t waste breath on comfort that won’t land. She pivots to the little girl still trembling in the chair, her chest rising in short, uneven gasps.
Crouching low, she makes herself small, nonthreatening. Her voice stays soft—too quiet to hear—but whatever she says works. The girl’s gaze, still glassy with fear, begins to thaw. Her shoulders drop, a fraction of the tension slipping away.
Gently, New Mom wipes the tear tracks from her cheeks, her thumb gliding across freckled skin smudged with grime.
A sharp voice cuts through the moment.
“Earl! Wake up!”
A slap cracks against skin. Then another.
I move to the mother still struggling against her chains. I start searching around for the keys but can’t find anything.
“The keys are in his pocket,” the mother says quickly, nodding toward the dead man.
I move fast, patting him down until my fingers close around the metal in his back pocket. The keys clink as I rush back, unlocking her cuffs, then tossing them through the bars to the woman near the girl. Chains fall away, and the mother bolts upright the second she’s free.
The little girl launches into her arms.
“Mom!” she cries, burying her face into her mother’s shoulder. Her small body shakes as her mother wraps her up, holding her like she’ll never let go.
Tears carve silent tracks down the woman’s face as she meets my eyes over her daughter’s head. She nods once—no words, just raw gratitude, heavy and humbling. I nod back. A beat shared in silence. Real. Unshakable.
Behind me, the old man jerks upright, fists raised, eyes wild—pure instinct. The mother and daughter scramble to him, dropping to their knees to work the cuffs off his ankles.
I sweep the room, pulse ticking faster.
At the door, I scoop up the rifles, sling one over my shoulder, and chamber a round in the other. My watch glints in the low light.
Ten minutes.
I turn—and every set of eyes is on me.
The weight of expectation crushes my chest—thick, suffocating. They wait. For orders. Direction. Anything.
New Mom steps forward, hand extended.
“Barbara.” Her grip stays firm, voice steady despite everything she’s endured.
“Lyla,” I reply, shaking her hand with a small nod.
She lets go and gestures toward the mousy woman, who stiffens under the attention, arms locked across her chest like a shield. “That’s Jessica.”
Jessica doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. Just studies me with wary, unreadable eyes.
Barbara shifts, motioning toward the older couple. “Earl and Edith.”
Earl pulls me into a bear hug that knocks the air from my lungs.
He releases me, but keeps his hands on my shoulders, deep brown eyes locking with mine.
“Young lady, you have my deepest thanks. When we make it out of here, I’m treating you to dinner for the rest of our lives.
” He winks, earning an exasperated eye roll and a playful smack from Edith.
Barbara’s hand sweeps toward the mother and daughter. “Clair and little Poppy.”
Poppy clings to her mother’s hand, lifting a small tentative wave. Clair’s gaze softens. “I second what Earl said.”
Silence settles, heavy and expectant.
Here we go.
“It’s nice to meet you all, but we don’t have much time. Who here’s best with a gun?” My voice slices through the tension like a blade.
Earl and Barbara raise their hands without pause.
“Good.” I hand them the rifles and extra magazines. Earl checks the chamber with practiced ease. Barbara grips hers like she was born for it.
I face the rest. “Search the cells. Grab anything you can use.”
They scatter, urgency driving their steps. Chair legs. Pipes. It’s not much—but it’ll do. They return quickly, clutching their weapons with varying degrees of confidence.
Poppy clings to a hammer, arms locked to her chest, hands trembling.
I hand out extra knives from Lars’s stash, keeping one for myself.
“Stay close.” I scan each face. “If you see one of them—don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. They won’t.”
Nods ripple through the group, fear giving way to focus.
“For now, we wait for the signal.”
I glance at my watch. Five minutes.
Clair tightens her grip on Poppy’s hand, knuckles white. “You stay with me, okay?”
Poppy glances at me, worry etched in every line. She leans into her mom, voice a whisper. “What signal are we waiting for?”
I wink. “You’ll see.”