Chapter 14 Road Trip
FOURTEEN
ROAD TRIP
LYLA
Hours crawl by, marked only by the steady hum of the van as it jostles over cracked roads and gravel shoulders.
Three supply stops broke the monotony—though Jacob insisted I stay behind, which gave me some time to hobble to a nearby gas station to get paper, pens, and nails—but otherwise, it’s been nothing but silence.
Giving me plenty of time to think of the notes I’m going to leave for da Vinci to find.
Outside, the trees blur together, shadows stretching across the dirt path. Inside, the only sounds are the low growl of the engine, the occasional clatter of shifting supplies, and the unspoken weight hanging between us.
The most thrilling thing we’ve seen? An undead farmer in faded overalls, repeatedly body-checking a black-and-white cow statue in the middle of a cornfield like some undead square dance. It was weirdly hypnotic—and tragically on brand for our lives now.
Talk about entertainment.
Jacob’s grip on the steering wheel is firm, fingers flexing every now and then, like he’s working something out in his head.
His eyes stay locked on the road, jaw tight, muscles in his forearm taut.
The soft glow from the windshield cuts across his face, tracing the sharp edges of his profile, making it impossible not to look.
I shift in my seat, forcing my eyes away. The air between us feels stretched, taut, like a string pulled too tight.
I never get a chance to find out which one of us will break the silence because from the back, Joanie’s voice slices through the quiet.
“Sooooo,” she drawls, dragging out the word as long as humanly possible. Her knee bounces, fast and restless. “What kind of fucking music do ya got?”
Clearly she didn’t listen to me when I told her the basics of interrogation. I turn in my seat and shoot her a sharp look. “Language.”
She shrugs, unbothered, leaning back against the wall of the van with her legs stretched out in front of her. A piece of her dark, curly hair drops into her eyes.
“Do you ever not run your mouth?” Jacob asks, his voice dry, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to meet hers.
Joanie sticks out her tongue at him. “You’re just grumpy because I don’t take your shit.”
Trish snorts, her eyes blazing with amusement. “Aww, she’s like a mini me.”
Jacob’s lips quirk up. It’s fleeting, just the ghost of amusement, but it loosens the tight knot I keep wound around my heart.
My eyes drift, drawn to the tattooed black forest inked across his forearm, the dark lines stretching over muscle. Strong. Defined. The kind of arms built for holding, protecting. Damn. I was always an arm girl, and Jacob’s? Well, they’re very nice.
His fingers flex against the wheel, veins shifting beneath his skin, and heat flickers low in my stomach. My gaze trails upward, catching on the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint stubble that I know would feel rough against my fingertips. Then, his eyes.
Deep, chocolate eyes. The kind that shouldn’t be able to pull a person in the way they do. There’s something unreadable in them, something that feels like a challenge and a secret all at once.
The slow widening of his smile tells me I’ve been caught.
Shit.
I snap my gaze forward, heart kicking up a notch.
Jacob chuckles under his breath, and I swear I can hear the smugness in it.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
“So,” he says after a moment, his tone more conversational now. He rubs the stubble across his jaw. “What’s your story, Trouble? You and the kid. What were you doing before everything went to hell?”
I hesitate, my fingers brushing against the edge of the door handle, the weight of his question pressing against me. But his tone isn’t probing—it’s genuinely curious.
“I was an FBI agent,” I say finally, keeping my voice matter-of-fact, ready for the inevitable surprise reaction I get when I say this.
However, Jacob just hums, a knowing look crossing his face as though he’s just slotted a puzzle piece in place in his head.
Joanie adds, “She was badass too. Some of the stories she told me are wild.” Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her shirt as she leans back against the wall.
My eyes squeeze shut at her dramatics. “She likes to make it sound more exciting than it actually was.” The way Joanie puts it, I sound like the coolest person ever, but she couldn’t be farther from the truth. “I was tracking a specific group of criminals.”
“What group?” Jacob asks.
I sigh. Might as well give him this. “They called themselves the Artists. Each one took the name of their favorite painter and used . . .” I pause, searching for the least horrifying way to say it. “. . . distinct methods in their kills.”
Jacob glances at me, brow furrowed. “What kind of methods?”
I take a deep breath. “Van Gogh specialized in amputation. Pollock? Splatter art, only with blood. Dalí had a thing for power tools. Called them ‘transformative.’ ” My voice flattens. “There were six in total. One ringleader.”
A beat of silence.
“Did you get them all?” Trish asks.
I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my shirt, my fingers working mindlessly as my thoughts drift to the life I had before all of this. Before everything I thought I knew was ripped away.
“Almost,” I whisper.
I could blame da Vinci for how everything unraveled, for the isolation that’s sunk into my bones like rot, but the truth is, I was always a loner.
Dated when it suited me. Spent time with Mark and his family when I felt like it.
But after my dad died, I stopped showing up.
Didn’t have much family left, and I convinced myself that was fine.
I was self-reliant. That was enough.
Or so I thought.
Then Mark was taken, and the ground vanished beneath me. No warning. No chance to brace. Just free fall.
The weight settles in deep, thick and frigid. I clamp my jaw tight, trying to swallow it down, but it clings, refuses to let go.
I just need to hold out until he shows. Once I finish what I started, this emptiness will go with him.
Jacob looks at me, obviously waiting for me to continue, so I say, “I was investigating a case when everything went sideways.”
“What kind of case?”
I shrug, eyes locked on the blur of trees outside the window. “Doesn’t matter now.” I can’t bring her back, but I can make damn sure the monster who took her stops breathing.
He nods, gaze sliding to Joanie, clearly catching the hint that I’m done sharing. “And you, kid? What’s your story?”
Joanie shrugs, the usual spark in her eyes dimming. “I was a freshman. I was at school when the emergency broadcast went out. They sent us all home on buses.”
She hesitates, the air between us shifting. “Unfortunately, some of the buses didn’t make it home.”
Her voice wavers, just enough to crack through the mask she always wears.
Joanie never talks about the time before I found her. Anytime I ask, she freezes up, her whole body going still, or she deflects with some half-assed joke. I don’t push. I should, but I don’t.
Because I worry about her.
She buries her pain under humor, grinning through the cracks, pretending like the past can’t touch her if she doesn’t acknowledge it. But grief doesn’t work like that. It festers. It lingers. It eats at you from the inside out.
She won’t heal if she doesn’t talk about it. But who am I to say differently?
I do the exact same thing.
She continues, “Anyway, Lyla found me. Saved my ass. And she’s been stuck with me ever since.”
Trish’s voice is gentle. “And your folks?”
Joanie stares ahead, eyes locked on the wall, but she’s not seeing it. She’s back in that living room, gun in hand, crouched between her dead parents, tears streaking down her face. Her usual fire’s gone, snuffed out and replaced with a hollow, faraway look.
Jacob notices. His voice drops, steady and soft. “I’m sorry, kid.”
No teasing. No sarcasm. Just quiet understanding.
No one speaks for a while. Trish watches Joanie with quiet sadness, like she knows the shape of this kind of grief all too well. Jacob keeps glancing in the rearview, worry etched deep across his jaw.
Fantastic. He’s not just built like every terrible decision I’ve ever wanted to make, he’s got a good heart too. The universe is mocking me. Loudly.
I clear my throat, needing to shake off whatever this is. “What about you?” I ask, breaking the silence. “Where were you when it started?”
Jacob’s hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles paling slightly.
“On the job. Putting out fires—literally. We got a call about an explosion at the edge of town, and when we got there . . . people were running. Screaming. Then we saw them, the dead, moving, chasing. Coms went down soon after, and we were on our own.”
His voice is even, but there’s something underneath it. Something sore.
I turn to Trish.
She exhales sharply, raking a hand through her short hair. “Same. I was responding to 911 calls in the emergency van. It was madness, people begging for help, not understanding what was happening. We kept going until we couldn’t. Until it was just us.”
No one says it out loud, but I know what she means. Until everyone else was dead.
I shift in my seat, wincing as my ribs remind me they’re still in recovery. Joanie is leaning back in the rear corner, her legs crossed at the ankles, picking at her nails like she’s trying to act unbothered, but she sneaks glances at Jacob through the rearview mirror.
“So,” I say, breaking the quiet. We all really need to pick a new word to break the silences. My gaze shifts to Trish. “What’s the routine and pace on this fun journey?”
Hopefully, not too fast.
Trish leans forward. “We drive until we hit a small town. Stick to the main roads long enough to scope out the infected levels. If it looks clear, we scavenge—shops, houses, cars. Three-hour limit. Then we regroup, pack up, and move on.”
“Once it gets close to nightfall,” she continues, “we post up near the next town, sleep, then hit it fresh in the morning. Same pattern every day. Quick meals. No long breaks. Just steady progress before winter hits.”
It’s late August, which gives us maybe three months to make it to the farm, if we keep pace.
Jacob cuts in. “Basically, we favor the slow-and-steady mindset.”
Score.
He glances at me. “Unlike you.”
Our eyes meet, and there it is again, that spark of challenge in his gaze, the one that gets my blood pumping. Then he winks, the bastard, and tingles spread across my body like a live wire snapping to life.
“All right,” I say, eyeing him. “Where to next?”
Jacob’s grin turns downright sinful, voice dropping an octave, thick with amusement. “Next?” He drags it out, glancing at Joanie, who’s practically vibrating. “Stony Creek, where we’re getting you ladies some wheels.”
Good. The more we stop, the more time da Vinci has to catch up.
Joanie lights up like the Fourth of July. “Oh, hell yes!” she yells, punching the air like she just won the apocalypse lottery.
I arch a brow, shifting my gaze to Jacob. “Since we didn’t pick up a car earlier, I assumed you wanted me riding shotgun for the rest of this trip, Gorgeous.”
His grin widens, smug, cocky, dangerous. “Just wanted to see if I could get more information out of you. And I did.”
You didn’t get all the information, bud.
“Don’t worry. I plan on enjoying your company for many, many miles. But you need your own space. Somewhere to crash. Somewhere to stash gear.” His eyes rake over me, lingering in a way that has zero to do with logistics.
“Besides, I plan on having you ride shotgun on something else, Trouble.” He winks.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
Joanie makes her classic gagging noise. Trish snorts from the back.
“Careful, Jacob,” I say, tone light, edged with warning. “You might regret giving me that much freedom.”
His eyes snap back to mine. For a beat, everything stills. Thick air. A spark caught between us.
Then he looks away, eyes on the road, voice low, sure.
“Looking forward to it.”