Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
CHAOS FULLY IN SESSION
LYLA
Jacob’s brow lifts. “What’s that?”
I don’t answer.
I slip out the side door and head for Lucy. Pop the back, pull out the boombox Joanie and I found scavenging a half-collapsed neighborhood, buried under a pile of junk in someone’s garage, miraculously intact—and still loaded with working batteries.
Joanie lifted it over her head like Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, beaming. “Pretty please, with a shitload of sugar on top, can we take this and jam out at night?” Her glee was contagious. We named it Gerald.
I cradle Gerald now and head back toward the church.
Jacob’s eyes narrow as soon as he sees what I’m holding. “And how exactly are you planning to use that?”
A grin spreads across my face. I pat the top of the boombox. “By attracting every infected in the area and killing them. Violently.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You realize that’s incredibly dangerous, right?”
I shrug. “Dangerous, therapeutic—tomato, tomahto.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face, but a smile tugs at his lips. “You’ve got a really weird idea of self-care.”
I sling Gerald under my arm and head for the front doors, blood humming in my veins like I’m about to exhale for the first time in years. This isn’t just about killing. It’s about control. Taking something back.
I pause at the threshold. “You in or out?”
He folds his arms, pretending to think, but the answer’s already there in the curl of his mouth. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
“Glad to have you on board, Gorgeous.”
The heavy front doors groan open, dragging against stone.
The last of September’s summer air hits my lungs.
I breathe deep, catching the last of the season, thick with heat, but tinged with the whisper of colder nights to come.
Fall is close. A faint moan echoes in the distance.
Close enough to be a threat, far enough to make this fun.
I stride forward, place the boombox on the top step with reverence, like I’m offering it to the night. Dig into my bag, fingers brushing the scratched CD case Joanie and I swore we’d save for a moment like this.
Slide it in.
Press play.
Crank the volume.
The opening notes of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 slice through the night—bold, ominous, fate knocking on the door of the damned. Strings swell, brass thunders across the broken streets. A funeral dirge disguised as a masterpiece.
Glorious.
Jacob cocks his head, arms crossed, watching the sound ripple out like an invitation to hell. “Classical music?”
I spin Sweetness between my fingers. “I’m an interesting woman.”
The first infected shamble into view, pulled from the dark like moths to a flame. They stagger from alleys, out of buildings, rising from wherever they’ve been hiding. Hungry. Twitching. Groans rise, echoing off crumbled walls.
Jacob steps up beside me, shotgun resting easy in his hands. But I know the tension in his shoulders, the way his stance tightens. He’s ready to move.
And so am I.
“Let’s call this our second date,” I say. “Fun activity, shared experience. Like bowling. Only bloodier.”
He huffs a laugh. “Okay, psycho.”
I tap my blade against my palm. “Most kills before the music ends wins?”
His grin turns sharp. “What does the winner get?”
I drag my gaze to his mouth, then back up. “The loser has to beg the winner in bed.”
His pupils flare. “You’re on,” he says, voice dark.
The violins swell. The dead close in.
The first corpse lurches onto the church steps.
We move.
Sweetness sings through the air, cutting through decayed flesh. A body crumples, its eyeball dangling before hitting stone with a wet plop. Black, tar-thick blood sprays across my arms.
The next groans—joints snapping. I drive my blade up through its chin. Bone crunches. It drops.
Every kill wears his face. That smug, hollow-eyed stare. That crooked leer. I bury my knife in another skull, rip it free, kick the body into the next one.
They come faster. Gaping mouths. Snapping teeth. Skin like melted wax. One in workout gear reaches for me with fingers stripped to the bone. I grab its wrist, twist, slam my blade into its throat. Blood gurgles. It collapses midscream.
The rage pours through me—hot, endless, volcanic.
Jacob moves beside me—fluid, brutal. Shotgun blasts tear holes through undead flesh. When the shells run dry, he draws his machete, moonlight flashing on silver as he steps back into the fight.
The symphony climbs—violins frantic, drums pounding.
More pour in.
They sprint now, jaws snapping. One’s missing its lower jaw, tongue flapping. I slash its throat, shove into the next, drive my blade through its eye socket.
Breathe. Strike. Move. Kill.
The dance continues—violent, precise, relentless. My blade sings with the orchestra’s screech.
Jacob and I move back-to-back, seamless. His machete arcs wide as mine drives deep. We twist together, pivot, slice. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Flesh tears.
The music builds toward its crescendo. My pulse races to match. Every kill bleeds the rage from me. My muscles burn, but I don’t stop.
The final note hits.
I drive my knife through the last skull. Twist. Rip free.
The hate, the vengeance, the grief—gone, leaving exhaustion in its place. My chest heaves, lungs wide and clear.
I press stop on the boombox.
Silence. Just our breathing—rough, human.
The world around us is painted in blood and ruin. And I feel better.
Jacob bolts for the church doors, grabs my hand, yanks me with him. We reach them just as fists slam into the other side. He throws them shut—BOOM—and we drag a pew across, bracing it with shaking arms.
We stand there, sweat-slicked, blood-soaked, hearts hammering.
Then he moves.
Three strides, and Jacob’s on me—hands in my hair, lips crushing mine. Raw, desperate, and I match him. I fist his shirt, yanking him closer like I can fuse us into one body. His fingers dig into my scalp, his breath ragged.
He pulls back just enough to rasp, “Feel better?”
“Hell yeah.”
He kisses me again, quick, bruising, then slides his machete home. “Good. You’ve got zombie goo on you.”
I glance down. Dark blood splattered across my arms and stomach. “So do you.”
“Guess that makes us a matching set.”
“How romantic,” I mutter. I scoop up Gerald, sling my bag over my shoulder. “So, how many did you get?”
Jacob wipes my blade and sheathes it on my thigh without a word.
“Dodging the question?”
He steps in, body heat brushing mine, smirk dangerous. “Maybe I lost count.”
“How convenient.”
“I guess that means I lose.” His eyes glint. “How would you like me to beg?”
My mouth curves. “Oh, I have ideas.”
A thunderous bang shakes the doors. The barricade groans. Moans rise—shrill, starving.
Jacob’s grin vanishes. “We overstayed our welcome.”
“Time to go.”
We move through the sanctuary’s hollow bones.
At the back exit, my fingers brush the frame. I pause. I glance toward the altar. The pounding is faint now, but still there—like a heartbeat.
“Goodbye, Mark,” I whisper.
When I turn, Jacob’s waiting.
I reach for him.
He meets me without hesitation, fingers sliding into mine.
Without a word, we slip into the night, leaving the blood and ghosts behind.