Chapter 6
SIX
DAKOTA
My father and mother didn’t talk to me since she was about to slap me.
Did slap me. Rosa just intervened.
I grab fancy porcelain plates when Mrs. Abernathy’s face flashes through my mind, her teeth snapping, me smashing her skull, and I nearly drop the whole stack.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The wedding food we never got to eat sits spread across the industrial kitchen counter before me, little towers of hors d’oeuvres sealed in plastic wrap.
Canapés. And shrimp cocktail that’ll go bad first. I arrange them on plates like this is some fucked-up dinner party instead of a zombie apocalypse, while my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Are you okay?” Julien’s question replays in my head.
I huff.
Guess I’m not okay.
And why does he even care? I mean, of course, I lashed out. What would he have done? Hug me close to his chest and stroke my…
I shake my head, banishing the image.
If it were Amelia, he’d comfort her. She’d let him, while I couldn’t even handle the warmth of his hand when everything inside me was frozen.
I load another plate with tiny quiches and try to ignore the blood caked under my fingernails. Try to forget how he looked sleeping on that couch, all that hard tension finally softening, making him almost human.
We are still human.
Before the shower—thank god for small mercies, the faucet still runs—I didn’t feel like it.
“Need help with that?”
I flinch, nearly dropping a quiche.
Sienna stands in the doorway, blonde hair damp from her shower, wearing clothes from the lost and found box. Faded jeans. Plain blue t-shirt. Still looking like a woman who could model mountain gear in outdoor magazines.
“Almost done.” I continue dividing the food.
“It’s weird, right?” She steps into the kitchen, gesturing at the food. “Eating finger food while… everything.”
“Better than eating each other.”
Sienna barks a surprised laugh. “Dark. I like it.”
It wasn’t supposed to be a joke.
My hands move mechanically. This food would’ve fed thirty-five wedding guests. Nine remaining. Eight, if you don’t count the reverend, which I don’t.
Not after what he did.
We’re lucky my father wanted to save money and took the Thursday spot instead of Saturday. Would’ve meant more people. More deaths.
“So…” Sienna rocks on her heels. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
“Amazing. Me too,” she says, voice dripping sarcasm.
“Totally fine. Not traumatized at all. Nearly got my throat ripped out at my boyfriend’s wedding to another woman, watched people get eaten alive, and now I’m camping in a church with my boyfriend’s almost-bride and her family, who hate me. Living the dream. I…”
I glance up, meeting her eyes.
“I wanted to thank you.” Her mouth quirks up like a shrug. “For saving my life back there.”
My hands freeze. “Anyone would have done that.” Except the reverend. He would have happily fed me to the zombies to save his own skin.
“Thought maybe we could…” She takes another bite, chews, then swallows. “Bond over our shared trauma?”
I place a tiny cucumber sandwich next to the quiche. “You don’t have to be nice to me.”
“I’m not being nice. I’m being honest.” Her blue eyes are steady, unflinching.
“Look,” I say, “I get it if you hate me. It couldn’t have been easy.”
“I don’t hate you.” She frowns. “Why would I?”
“Because I was going to marry Cameron? Because my father blackmailed your boyfriend’s family?”
“Did you know about the blackmail?”
“No.”
“Then why would I blame you?” She tilts her head. “That’s on your dad, not you.”
The simplicity of her words doesn’t reflect the complicated, mixed emotions they spark inside me.
Why would she blame me?
I stare at my hands, arranging tiny, perfect bites of food that no one will appreciate, and I’m still doing it—trying to make things acceptable, even as the world crumbles around us.
What would happen if I just… stopped?
If I let the plates crash to the floor, walked out, and never looked back?
“Dakota?” She places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes flick to the ground before returning to mine.
“I wish we’d figured it out before all this.
Before you got caught in the crossfire. I got into a big fight with Cam about it, but I understood where he was coming from.
He felt the need to save his family. All his time, Julien—Anyway, what I wanna say is I’m sorry. ”
I stare at her. Not sure what to say. How did we go from ‘she should be hating me’ to ‘her apologizing’?
My mother will hate me for what I’m going to say next. “Can I—” Tell you that I was actually relieved he didn’t go through with it, although we need the money? “You don’t have to apologize. Everything happens for a reason, right? Besides, you two obviously have… belong together.”
Her features soften. “He’s my person. Has been since that stupid corporate team-building retreat where he fell off the climbing wall and landed on his ass. I knew right then.”
I feel a strange twinge.
“Do you have someone?”
I laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. “No.”
“Not even a crush? Some celebrity?”
“Not since I was fourteen and plastered my walls with boy band posters.” My mother made me take them down.
She snorts. “Can I ask you something? For real?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Were you in love with Cam?”
“Why does it matter now?”
“Because I need to know if I ruined your life or just your day.”
Her eyes show real concern. Not pity. Worse. Genuine interest.
“I wasn’t,” I say. “We were friends as kids because our parents had a business together. Nothing more.”
She leans against the counter, studying me. “So you’re not heartbroken?”
“About Cameron?” I shake my head. “No. About my sister’s treatment getting canceled because we lost the money? That’s another story.”
A low groan echoes from somewhere outside—distant but unmistakable. We both freeze, listening.
After a few seconds of silence, Sienna musters a smile. “If this whole zombie thing ends, Cam will help with the money for your sister. He feels terrible about everything.”
I doubt my father was only after the money.
“Do you really think this will be over?” I ask. “That we’ll go back to normal and file insurance claims for the zombie apocalypse?”
“They won’t give us a dime.” She laughs. “But I’d like to think that maybe some good came out of it? Maybe a new friend I can trauma bond with?”
She watches me, waiting. There’s no pressure in her gaze, just openness. It’s disarming.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Why not?” She grins, teeth flashing white in the dim kitchen. “You seem badass.”
Badass is the last word I’d ever use to describe myself. “That word fits you better.”
“Thanks.” She hops up on the counter, swinging her legs like we’re at a slumber party instead of hiding from the walking dead. “So now that we’re friends, want to tell me what happened between you and Julien in that room?”
My hands fumble with a plate as I continue dinner prep. “Nothing happened.”
“Fine.” She smirks. “Too soon. Dakota?”
“Hmm?”
“I really do think you’re pretty badass. Not everyone could’ve done what you did back there.”
A knock on the doorframe startles us both.
Cameron leans against it, his eyes finding Sienna immediately, a smile blooming across his face. “Food ready?”
I nod, arranging the last plate. “Yeah.”
“Here.” Sienna grabs a tray. “We’ll help carry.”
I grab the last try with bottles of water and follow them back through the corridor we cleared earlier, to what used to be a meeting room but now serves as our makeshift camp.
It took hours to drag bodies out and mop floors, but necessity overruled disgust. My father complained the entire time about his back, his expensive suit, and his ruined shoes, while my mother refused to help entirely.
Now, the room is almost cozy, in a post-apocalyptic way.
Blankets and pillows, salvaged from various rooms, cover the floor, sofas are placed against the walls, and no electric lights, just the warm glow of candles placed around the room, low enough not to attract attention from outside but enough to see.
Julien stands by the window, peering through a gap in the curtains. His shoulders are rigid under his ruined dress shirt, the rolled-up sleeves revealing forearms corded with muscle. He turns as we enter, eyes tracking our movement before returning to his vigilant watch.
Rosa sits in an armchair, knitting. Apparently, there’s a weekly group meeting at the church—was—from which she got the yarn.
The reverend huddles in the far corner with a bible on his lap, and my mother arranges pillows behind my sister, while my father arranges the blankets in the sofa section they claimed. She looks better after her medication, but is still too pale.
“Dinner,” Sienna announces with forced cheerfulness.
“About time,” Father mutters. “We’re starving.”
We set the trays on a coffee table in the center of the room. For a moment, everyone just stares at the fancy spread arranged on plates and the bottled water.
“Well,” Rosa says, breaking the silence. “At least we have a feast.”
“Enjoy.” My mother shoots her a glare. “We paid for it.”
“Everyone eat.” Julien leaves his post by the window long enough to grab a plate before returning to stand guard. “Cameron and I will take watch tonight.”
He hasn’t looked at me since our little, way-too-embarrassing encounter in the bridal suite. I’m still not sure if he’s angry about having to rescue me or angry that I exist.
But he made sure we got a shower. Made sure we had clean clothes. Made sure we all have a safe place to sleep tonight.
That counts for something, even if he hates me.
And at this point, I’m too exhausted to care either way.
I grab a plate for Amelia and bring it over.
“Thanks, Dakota,” she whispers as I pass it to her.
“Eat what you can. Need to keep your strength up.”
“Dakota, mija.” Rosa beckons me over, patting the chair beside her. “Sit. You’ve been working non-stop.”