Chapter 5 Ring of Fire
FIVE
RING OF FIRE
JACOB
We move fast, hugging the perimeter. The compound sprawls larger than I anticipated, with wide-open spaces leaving us very little cover.
We weave between two small buildings, our boots silent on the dirt-packed ground. The air shifts—voices, sharp and agitated, slice through the quiet. I throw up a fist, signaling Leon to stop. We press ourselves against the wall, staying low, listening.
Two men pace near the entrance of a large metal shed.
“Man, I can’t wait to have my turn with this batch,” one grumbles, rolling his shoulders. His thick arms are littered with faded tattoos, his voice hoarse from years of chain-smoking.
The other guy scoffs. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t touch the mom. I call dibs on her.” His lips twist showing off his gold grill. “She’s got that fight in her—gonna be fun breakin’ that.”
My breath comes hard and fast, blood roaring in my ears.
I turn to Leon to sign my plan to approach them from behind, but he is already marching around the corner, death in his eyes as his fist connects with the wiry guy’s temple in a brutal arc, sending him into the shed.
The man crumples into the dirt without so much as a groan.
I rush around the corner, hand snapping out and locking around the other man’s throat as I press my knife against his side. He stiffens, a strangled noise escaping before I clamp his mouth shut. He starts to thrash, panic overtaking instinct.
“Quiet,” I hiss into his ear, my tone low and lethal.
The bastard quivers beneath my grip, his pulse hammering against my fingers as I dig my knife into the soft flesh of his arm.
The metallic scent of blood fills the air, mingling with the damp musk of the shed.
His breath comes in ragged gasps, eyes darting, searching for some miracle that won’t come.
Behind me, the wet, sickening thud of knuckles meeting flesh echoes like a drumbeat. Leon straddles the other guard, fists a blur, turning his face into a shattered mess of blood and bone. Gurgled sounds spill from the man’s throat as his gold teeth fly through the air, glinting in the sun.
The man flinches with every impact. I haul his rigid body backward into the shed and shove him into a rickety wooden chair that rattles beneath his weight. My boot slams between his legs, locking him in place, the knife still pressed to his arm.
“Let’s make this simple,” I crouch to his level. “How many people are in the facility?”
Leon’s final punch lands with a wet crunch. A gurgle. Silence.
Out of the corner of my eye, Leon grabs the gas canister and walks out.
The man clenches his jaw so tight his teeth grind. His fists grip the armrests.
I tilt my head, a mocking smile curving my lips. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”
The blade glides up, pressing beneath his jaw. He swallows. A bead of sweat trails down his temple. Still silent.
Stupid mistake.
The knife slams down, pinning his hand to the armrest. My other hand clamps over his mouth, muffling the scream. His body jerks, the chair wobbling as blood pours from his wrist.
I lean in, breath brushing his ear. “You’re gonna want to talk.”
His eyes dart toward the shed door again, hope flickering in their depths like a dying ember.
I sigh, long and slow, shaking my head like this is all a damn inconvenience. “All right then.”
Before he flinches, I rip the knife free and drive it into his left knee.
The blade tears through skin, muscle, tendon—straight into bone.
His body convulses, a strangled scream ripping into my palm.
Blood spreads fast, soaking his pants in a dark bloom.
He slumps in the chair, panting, eyes blown wide, skin draining to ash.
I pull my hand from his mouth and grip his jaw, forcing eye contact. “Speak.”
“O-okay,” he gasps, voice barely above a whisper. “Thirty . . . about thirty in the main building.”
“And the hostages?”
His chest heaves. “They’re in cell block A. Main building. Everyone’s in the main building.” He sucks in a wet breath, pain twisting his face. “Th-that’s it, I swear.”
“Good.” I yank the knife free.
Blood drips thick and slow, pooling at the hilt before sliding over my fingers. I wipe it clean on his shirt. He crumples forward with a broken sob, shoulders quaking, spittle threading from the corners of his mouth, breath wet and shallow.
“See?” I pat his cheek, the smack echoing in the cramped space. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
His glassy eyes lift to mine, a silent plea buried under the pain.
Leon’s boots scrape behind me. He steps up beside me, drops the body like trash, then douses it in gas. The stench swells in the air, clinging to my skin, sinking into my clothes, my lungs.
Leon straightens, fingers twitching slightly before his eyes find mine. “We good here?”
I unclip the rope from my belt, my fingers moving on autopilot as I loop it around the bastard’s ankles and wrists, pulling tight. He flinches but doesn’t resist.
When the last knot is secured, I rise, meeting Leon’s gaze. Leon arches a brow. I give a single nod.
He lights the match.
Flames roar to life with a hungry snap, racing the trail of gas like a fuse. Fire swells, curling up the shed’s walls in greedy waves. Wood pops. Smoke thickens.
We turn for the exit. The weight in my chest eases—just a fraction—knowing we’re one step closer to getting our people out.
“Hey! Hey! Wait! STOP!”
I don’t slow. Don’t speak. My grip tightens around the blade at my side, every step deliberate, controlled. Fury stays leashed—barely.
Behind us, the screams climb. Ragged. Choking. The fire answers louder.
We move, swift and silent, slipping through the shadows.
Outside the next building, we crouch low behind a rusted ATV, weapons drawn. Smoke curls skyward, thick and black. It’ll bring them out. That, and the screams.
The shed’s burning like a goddamn bonfire, flames clawing at the surrounding buildings, spreading fast across the dry grass. I keep my gun raised over the side of the ATV, waiting for the first face to appear. Beside me, Leon draws an arrow, calm as ever.
Boots crunch through the dirt.
“Shit! Fan out, check the perimeter!”
Three of them. First guy rounds the corner—barely registers the fire before I put a bullet through his forehead. He drops like a stone.
Leon’s bow twangs. Second man stumbles, clutching the shaft sticking out of his throat before collapsing in a gasping heap.
The third turns to run. Smart. But not smart enough.
I rise, pivot, and fire twice. He hits the dirt, twitching.
Leon taps my arm and jabs two fingers toward the main building—more movement. The fire and gunfire did exactly what we wanted.
Doors slam open across the clearing.
More men spill out. Five, six—maybe more. One’s got a sniper rifle and is heading for the guard tower.
Shit.
I motion to Leon—circle wide. He nods once, already rounding the burning shed, and disappears like smoke on the wind. I stay low, moving in the opposite direction. One shot, then another. Purposeful. Loud. Drawing their attention toward me.
Gunfire cracks the air as bullets whip too close to my chest. I drop flat, roll behind the transport bus, and return fire.
“Over here!” one of them shouts. “He’s flanking left!”
Good.
Let them think I’m alone.
While they spread out toward me, Leon moves like a ghost, picking them off from behind. One guy gurgles and drops. The rest don’t even notice.
I pop up, fire twice, then duck and sprint toward the building for cover.
They chase.
Idiots.
I spot Leon again through the flames—he raises a hand, motioning me to move.
I nod, then toss a rock toward the opposite side of the shed. It clatters, draws the sound chasers that way. Leon uses the distraction. He lunges out of the dark, silent and surgical—hatchet in one hand, bow slung over his back. Two go down before they can make a sound.
A figure crouches at the base—scope flashing in the sunlight, rifle slung tight to his back. If that sniper reaches the high ground, we’re screwed.
Each heartbeat closes the distance. He’s halfway up the ladder, boots scraping metal.
I lunge, grab his ankle, yank hard.
He slams back-first against the ladder, metal echoing like a gong. His hands flail, boots kicking—but I’m already on him, machete in hand.
One jab under the ribs—clean, silent.
He goes still.
I cock the rifle and move toward the fire. Leon’s already in motion, arrows cutting through the smoke. Two bodies hit the ground before I reach them. I zero in on the last man. He turns just in time for my bullet to punch through his chest.
Smoke curls through the clearing. The fire’s still raging. But the ground’s quiet again.
Bodies everywhere.
Leon emerges from the shadows, wiping blood on his sleeve. He meets my eyes, then flicks his head toward the building.
We move in tandem, fast and low, toward the entrance. Guns up. Breaths steady.
Then something shifts.
A low, rhythmic thump cuts through the silence—deep, pulsing, carried on the wind like an afterthought.
I stop dead. My head tilts, straining to catch it beneath the roaring blaze. It doesn’t belong here, doesn’t fit, yet something about it claws at my memory.
“What the hell?” The words slip from my lips, barely more than a breath.
Leon stiffens beside me. His gaze locks ahead, fixed on the front gate. Brows furrowed. Mouth parted. Hands start to move.
“Is that the Ramones?”
I barely have time to process before a bright yellow Hummer bursts from the tree line, barreling down the dirt road like a battering ram. Dust churns in its wake, swallowing the headlights in a thick haze. My pulse slams against my ribs.
No. Fucking. Way.
The Hummer plows forward with single-minded ferocity, aimed directly at the front gate. Then—impact.
Metal shrieks, groaning under the force as the steel gate crumples inward, twisted beams snapping in half.
The sound is deafening, an unholy mix of grinding metal and shattering glass.
The chain-link fence warps, parts of it torn from the posts, flailing wildly in the wake of destruction.
Shards of steel slice through the air, embedding into the dirt with deadly force.
I jerk forward, hand flying to my sidearm—then I see her.
A young girl grips the steering wheel. Her face—equal parts steel and recklessness—screams inexperience, the kind that charges straight into danger without understanding the cost.
But she’s not alone.
My gaze shifts.
Blood chills.
They follow. Dozens—no, more. A seething, writhing surge of rot and rage crashes forward, bodies slamming into each other in blind pursuit.
Flesh dangles in shredded ribbons, torn by time, by teeth, by death’s steady hand.
Some sprint, limbs flailing wild, broken bones jutting like blades.
Others drag ruined legs, jaws locked open in endless, silent screams.
The air thickens with snarls—wet, guttural, ravenous.
A sick twist coils deep in my gut as the Hummer tears through the compound, its tires chewing up the dirt, its battered frame rattling with violent momentum.
The undead pour in behind it, a relentless, unstoppable wave, tumbling over the ruined gate, bodies smashing together in a desperate bid to reach fresh meat.
She’s a twisted piper of the apocalypse, and we’re standing squarely in her path.