Chapter 6 Hey Ho, Let’s Go!
SIX
HEY HO, LET’S GO!
LYLA
The opening chords of the Ramones detonate across the compound. Each drumbeat slams through my veins, syncing with the adrenaline surging under my skin.
“Now!” I shout, voice lost in the storm.
We burst from the hallway, fury and desperation wrapped in flesh and grit. Chaos reigns—guards yelling, boots thundering over concrete. We move through the bedlam like smoke, slipping past blind spots, striking hard and fast, taking advantage of their divided attention.
Earl’s rifle cracks, the single, deadly shot dropping a guard midstep. Barbara rushes ahead, blade punching deep into a man’s side. He writhes, clutching the wound, scream swallowed by the pulsing bass. She doesn’t flinch, but instead snaps up her rifle and starts firing.
Hell yes. Let’s go!
I lunge, knife flashing before it buries deep into the throat of the man on my left. His gurgling choke vibrates against my blade, blood pooling around my fingers. I rip it free, already turning as another lunges. I slash across his throat—clean and fast. Arterial spray streaks the wall.
To my left, a burly guard grabs for Clair. She spins, pipe cracking against his ribs with a sickening thud. He doubles over—gasping. Poppy strikes, her hammer slamming into his shin. Bone cracks. He screams, his knee buckling, and Poppy swings again.
Clair brings the pipe down onto his skull, the wet crunch of bone shattering under the force. He drops like a stone.
Another man charges—a blur of rage and muscle wrapped in tattered camo, but I reach him first. My knife buries deep in his gut. He folds around it.
Behind me, Jessica stands frozen beside Edith, her shoulders locked with fear. A guard lunges at them, snarl curling his lips—
Edith moves.
Her knife flashes, steel driving into his throat with brutal force. His eyes bulge, a garbled choke slipping past his lips as he crashes to the floor, twitching as blood pools beneath him.
She bends down, yanks the blade free, wipes it on her pants, then looks up and grins like we’re at a Sunday barbecue.
“Took notes from your fight with that fat man on the bus. Thanks, sweetie!” She winks and shuffles behind Earl, who’s reloading like he’s done it every day of his life.
Who the hell are these people?
Barbara fires. Her rifle kicks, the shot punching clean through a guard’s skull. He drops.
The path to the main office opens.
“Move!” I bark, waving the others forward.
Barbara and Earl flank me, rifles up, eyes like stone. Clair keeps Poppy close, her grip tight around the girl’s hand. Jessica and Edith hold the rear—tense, alert, teeth clenched like they’re ready to bite someone.
We’re bloodied, bruised, barely standing, but . . .
A smile tugs at my lips. We’re having fun. Well, most of us are.
The twisted truth sinks in—pride and grief curling in my chest like smoke.
I think I found my people.
Too bad I won’t see them again.
Joanie’s face flashes in my mind—that wild, reckless grin, the fire in her eyes, the sharp snap of her voice when she calls me an idiot.
The ache spreads deep, hollow and sharp.
I won’t see her again either.
But there’s no room for regret.
I shove it down and press forward. One step. Then another. The future can wait. I’ve got a job to finish.
The warden’s office door looms ahead, a final threshold, a promise of whatever hell waits on the other side.
I grab Barbara’s arm and yank her toward me. “Listen,” I shout, cutting through the gunfire and distant, hungry moans.
Her eyes snap to mine—wild, sharp, lit with adrenaline. Fingers white-knuckled around her rifle. Breath ragged.
“You need to get them to safety.” My voice slices through the noise, each word clipped and biting.
“Take everyone. Head for the entrance. Save your ammo for the infected. Look for Joanie—she’ll be in the yellow Hummer.
Flag her down and give her the code word: Romero.
She’ll know. Tell her I said to get everyone out. ”
Her lips part. The protest builds.
I tighten my grip. “Tell her I’ll meet you at the safe house.”
A lie. But it lands clean.
Barbara’s jaw clenches. Breath hisses through her teeth.
I ease—just a fraction. “Please. I need you to do this.”
“All right,” she says. Voice tight, trembling, but steady enough. She turns to the others like a switch flipped—snapping into command. “You heard her. Let’s move!”
The group follows without question, ducking between bodies and bullets, slipping into the smoke like ghosts. Some glance back. Confused. Hesitant. Waiting for me to fall in line.
I don’t.
Then there’s Poppy.
She pauses. Turns. Hazel eyes lock on mine. She lifts a small hand and gives a small wave.
The simple gesture hits harder than a bullet.
I nod, fist curling tight at my side. Please, let them make it.
I face the door. Fingers tighten around the knife. Each breath drags deeper. Rage coils with fear, winding tighter around my ribs, my chest, my heart, until I feel like I might explode.
Mark’s face flashes. That carefree grin. Those warm, hazel eyes. The memory punches the air from my lungs.
A chair scrapes behind the door.
Someone hums. Slow. Rhythmic. Tapping in time with the distant pulse of the Ramones.
One breath.
Another.
The knife bites into my palm.
I kick the door open.
The impact cracks like thunder. Wood splinters. Hinges shriek. The force shudders through the room. Candles gutter. Shadows leap, stretching jagged shapes across the battered desk and yellowed maps.
There he is, planted behind the warden’s desk like a king on his rotting throne. At ease, like he’s been expecting me. A twisted smile creeps across his face. It crawls like mold over wet stone.
No flinch. No surprise. Not even a blink.
He leans back, soaked in smug calm. Fingers fold over his stomach. Every inch of him a mockery.
“Well, well.”
The voice slides over my skin, slow and smug, every syllable oozing with condescension.
“If it isn’t the infamous Agent Matthews.”
He says it like a joke. Like my name’s the punchline.
My pulse hammers harder.
Head tilts. He drinks in the moment like it’s his last meal.
“I was wondering when you’d show up.”