Chapter 9 A Meet Cute?
NINE
A MEET CUTE?
JACOB
They disappear into a room ahead, smoke curling through the doorway like a living thing. I burst through after them, and the outside chaos pales compared to what waits inside.
Mom crouches in the center, gripping an unconscious, bloodied body, struggling to drag her toward me. Sweat streaks her face, eyes wild with raw determination.
A second body lies sprawled nearby, male, lifeless, his form twisted unnaturally on the floor. Jessica stands beside them, caught between frustration and panic, voice raised over the roaring fire and distant screams.
“Barbara, leave her!” she shouts, coughing, eyes darting to the groaning walls as flames lick the edges. “We don’t have time! She’s a lost cause!”
Mom spins toward me. “Jacob! Help me! We can’t leave her!”
Her face stops me cold.
Bruises bloom across Mom’s cheekbone and jaw like dark accusations. A cut near her temple bleeds into the lines of exhaustion carved into her skin. My chest tightens. Rage flares white-hot.
I’m going to find the bastard who did this and peel the flesh from his bones until he begs for mercy.
I reach out to her, but Jessica steps into my path, her fingers clamping on to my arm with surprising strength.
“Jacob, listen.” Her voice rushes out fast. “She’s done. If we stay, we die. You can’t save her—she’ll only slow us down.”
Mom turns, fury blazing in her eyes. “If it weren’t for her, none of us would still be breathing! We owe her this—we owe her everything!”
Jessica freezes, mouth open to argue, but I push past her, eyes locked on Mom and the woman she’s desperately trying to pull from the fire. I drop low, grab the woman under her arms, careful to avoid the switchblade jutting from her side.
Shit.
She stirs as I lift, her head lolling against Mom’s shoulder. One ice-blue eye cracks open, paralyzing me in place. Blood streaks down her face and trickles out the corner of her mouth—still curved in a grin. Mischief twinkles behind the pain.
“Hello, gorgeous,” she murmurs, voice smoky, low, and edged with something playful. “I’d fight off a horde just to see that face. Whaddya say, want to go out sometime?”
I blink.
She’s bleeding out, semiconscious, clinging to life—and she’s flirting?
“See? Delirious. Too much blood loss,” Jessica spits.
Mom whirls, snapping with that fire I grew up fearing. “Shut it!”
The woman lets out a weak, breathy laugh that crumbles into a harsh fit of coughing. Blood spatters across her already ruined shirt as she slumps harder against Mom.
She locks those wild, unfocused eyes on to mine, her lips curving, “I call ’em like I see ’em,” she rasps, the words slurring together. “What would you call me?”
The answer slips out before I can stop it, along with the smile spreading across my face. “Trouble.”
Her grin widens. More blood spills down her chin. And God help me—I’m turned on.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Then her head tips back, eyes rolling shut as she crumples. I lunge just in time to catch her before she hits the floor. She’s dead weight, heavy and limp, her warmth bleeding into my hands.
“We have to go!” Jessica barks, slicing through the moment.
“She saved us.” Mom’s voice is steel, cutting through the havoc. I haven’t heard that tone since the night she dragged me home after the cops found me drinking in the school parking lot.
Her eyes lock on mine. “If we leave her, you might as well leave me too. I’d be dead without her.”
Well. Fuck.
When she puts it like that—
I shift my grip and haul the woman over my shoulder, same as I’ve done with too many others.
Her head rests against my back. Her blood soaks through my shirt, hot against my skin. Time’s running out.
I yank my machete free, grip tightening as I stalk past Jessica, boots scraping over blood-slick concrete.
“We’re not leaving her.” My tone is final. No debate.
Jessica stiffens, arms crossed, frustration etched deep. I brace for the argument—but she just exhales, shakes her head, and heads for the exit.
Mom falls in beside me, pulling my pistols from their holsters.
“You know,” she mutters, flipping a safety off, “sometimes, I really want to punch that girl in the face.”
A short laugh escapes me. “You know, that’s exactly what you said before you decked Aunt Jill on New Year’s.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Well,” she says, tucking a pistol into her waistband, “she asked if my resolution was to lose weight. I’d say she deserved it, don’t you?”
“Hell yes.”
Mom cocks the second pistol. “Let’s move.”
I nod, tightening my hold on the woman’s legs.
As we leave the office behind, I murmur low, just for her, “Hold on, Trouble.”
Smoke claws at my throat, thick and acrid. Every breath scorches like fire.
Her breath is a whisper against my back, each rise and fall shallow. If she stops breathing, if she—
A sharp pinch on my ass snaps me out of the downward spiral.
“Nice view,” she mutters, her voice slurred and hazy before she slips back into unconsciousness.
Of course she’d cop a feel while bleeding out.
A laugh slips out, dry and disbelieving. “Down, girl,” I mumble, shifting my grip as I charge forward.
We explode out of the building, open air slamming into me. For a split second, it feels like salvation—until reality crashes back in.
Screams tear through the air, a mixture of human and inhuman, gunfire punching through the madness. The fire rages higher, its glow casting shadows across the gore-soaked ground.
Near the entrance, Leon, Earl, and Edith stand ready. Heads snap toward us, their eyes locking on the bloodied, unconscious woman hanging from my shoulder.
Edith waves us forward, blade gleaming, soaked. Her other arm slices through the air in sharp, frantic signals.
“Where’s Clair and Poppy?” Mom shouts, her gun still smoking from the last shot.
“They’re with Trish! We came back to help!” Edith yells.
The roar of the horde closes in, swelling like a crashing wave.
Earl pumps his fist in the air. “Let’s go!”
We bolt. The ground beneath us vibrates with the relentless pursuit of the dead. Their groans turn to shrieks as they pick up speed. The air shifts—a clawed hand swipes at me, fingers grazing my back.
Mom fires beside me, her gun kicking back, the sharp cracks ringing. Every pull of the trigger drops another rotting corpse, but for every one that falls, three more push forward, climbing over their own to reach us.
Leon bursts ahead. His hatchet rips through flesh, bone, cartilage—clearing a path one corpse at a time. Blood splashes wide, hot and wet. A severed hand hits the dirt near my boot.
The others form a barrier around me and the woman, weapons raised, bodies tense.
The woods loom ahead, the jagged gap in the fence barely visible through the shifting sea of rotting bodies.
“Stay tight! Move as one!” I shout, every muscle straining, adrenaline burning through the fatigue.
A blur lunges at Leon, rotted skin, snapping jaws, clawing hands.
He spins, hatchet already swinging. Bone cracks. The blade sinks deep. He yanks it free, turns, and buries it in the next one.
Mom’s gunfire is relentless, each shot ringing out in brutal succession. Empty shells hit the ground. She switches to pistols, movements smooth despite the trembling in her fingers.
The gap narrows.
“Go, go, go!” she yells.
We crash through the opening, the horde’s rancid breath nipping at our heels. Branches tear at my skin, leaves lash my face as we hit the tree line at full speed.
Then, like a beacon through the nightmare, the vehicles come into view.
Atop the ER van, Trish stands, rifle raised, legs braced. Her shots are lethal, every bullet a lifeline.
She catches sight of us, and despite the undead and the sheer insanity of this day, her lips pull into a fierce grin.
“No guts, no glory!” she shouts.
To her left, Clair and Poppy work from the back of the truck bed. Clair fires at will, while Poppy stands beside her, ready to hand over a fresh clip.
“I see you finally found your inner Hicks, Jacob!” Trish calls, voice riding the gunfire like a battle cry.
I flip her off without breaking stride.
Her wild laughter rings out over the pop, pop, pop of her gun.
The van door’s already open. With a grunt, I lower the woman onto the stretcher.
Her chest rises in shallow, wheezing breaths, each one sounding more like a struggle than a victory. Her forehead glistens with sweat, her blond hair drenched with blood.
Trish scrambles down from the roof and her eyes widen the moment she sees the woman. “Hot damn.” She reaches for an IV, hands moving with experience.
The front doors slam and Leon slides behind the wheel, Mom in the passenger seat.
“Are the others okay?” I ask.
Leon nods, motioning, “Earl’s driving the others. Hold tight.”
He kicks the engine on and we peel out, the wheels kicking up dust as we leave the compound behind, the roar of the undead fading into the distance. The van jolts and bumps along the forest floor, the suspension groaning with every uneven stretch.
My knees jam into the stretcher as we lurch. Trish crouches, hooking up the IV.
“Blood and fluids,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. She pulls the other end of the tubing, her gaze flicking to me. “All right, O neg. Show me your veins.”
I shove up my sleeve. “Have at it.”
The needle stings as it slides into my arm. My eyes stay locked on the woman’s face. Her cracked lips still curve in that faint, reckless smile, even though she’s comatose.
The van hits a pothole, jostling us both. “Careful, Leon!” Trish snaps as she steadies the IV. Blood fills the tubing, snaking toward her arm.
Then—headlights.
A blur of yellow swerves into view. Leon slams the brakes. The van jerks to a stop, tires screaming. The smoking Hummer skids to a crooked halt. Music cuts off.
The driver’s door swings open.
A teenage girl with dark, curly hair jumps out of the destroyed vehicle, gun raised, her eyes scanning us. She hurries to the back of the van but before she can grab the door handle, I kick it open. Gun raised while keeping the IV untangled.
She doesn’t flinch. Her stance shifts, weapon trained, eyes hard. “Where is she?” she demands, scanning every face in the van.
Her hardened expression cracks when her gaze lands on the woman. Her eyes widen, fear and shock fluttering across her face. “Holy shit.”
“Are you Joanie?”
The girl’s head snaps toward Mom, gun now pointing at her.
Nope. Don’t like that.
“Maybe,” she says, tone edged with sass and suspicion.
Before I can redirect her aim, Mom says, “Romero.”
What the hell?
Mom nods to the woman on the stretcher. “Lyla said to tell you to take us to the safe house.”
Joanie’s face shifts, suspicion melting into something softer as her gun lowers. She nods once, sharp, then leaps into the van.
“I’ll give you directions,” she says, slamming the door. “Just keep driving straight down this road until you hit Main Street. Once you reach Anderson Road, take a right.”
Leon punches the gas, and the wheels spit gravel as we lurch forward.
Joanie moves to Lyla’s other side, dropping into the seat beside the stretcher. Her fingers curl around the woman’s hand, gripping it tightly as she leans in close.
“Hey, boss,” she whispers. Her leg bounces with anxious energy. Her other hand lifts, shaky fingers brushing blood from Lyla’s cheek. Her thumb moves slow, careful. “You better not fuckin’ die.”
Lyla’s breaths are too damn weak, a reminder of how close to the edge she is. She shifts on the gurney, her skin white and clammy beneath my hands. So much blood. It soaks into the sheets, sticks to my fingers, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating off her like she’s fighting hell itself.
Trish tears into the trauma kit and grabs gauze, clamps, a roll of pressure bandages, but she stops short at the sight of the blade lodged in Lyla’s side.
“I can’t pull it,” she says, voice tight. “If I do it wrong, she’ll bleed out before we hit pavement again.”
My stomach twists. “So what do we do?”
“We stabilize it,” she says, already moving. “Pack around the wound, keep pressure on the bleed, and pray we hit a flat road soon.”
She grabs a wad of gauze and gently presses around the embedded knife. Blood oozes around the edges.
“Joanie, I need you—hold the base of the knife steady. Don’t let it shift.”
Joanie slides in, hands ready, eyes wide with fear but focused.
I press my hands to Lyla’s shoulders, grounding her as her body twitches and her eyes flutter open. “You’re okay,” I whisper. “We’ve got you.”
Trish works quickly, padding gauze around the handle, wrapping it tight with torn strips of cloth and medical tape to keep it from moving, hands slick with blood.
Lyla shudders against me, her head lolling forward, her breath barely there as Trish continues to work on her side.
Everything tunes out as I press my forehead to hers, my voice barely a whisper.
“Keep fighting.”
And I swear she gives me a wink before she passes out in my arms.
Again.