Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
DAKOTA
The front door is locked. Julien tries the windows next, finding one unlatched at the side of the house. He opens it, then helps me climb through before following.
We land in what looks like a small home office, desk still covered with papers and coffee mugs as if the owner just stepped out for a moment.
He puts a finger to his lips, then moves to the door, machete raised. He eases it open, peering into what appears to be a hallway. After a moment, he gestures for me to follow.
We move silently through the house—living room, kitchen, small bathroom, one bedroom upstairs, with another bathroom. Everything neat, undisturbed. No signs of struggle. No blood. No bodies. Just the eerie emptiness of a place suddenly abandoned.
“Clear.” Julien lowers the machete. “Looks like they got out in time.”
I sink onto the bed, the adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright ebbing away. “Or they’re walking around outside somewhere.”
“Optimistic.”
“Realistic.” I touch the back of my head, fingers coming away sticky with half-dried blood. “Think they have a first aid kit?”
“Bathroom probably.” He hesitates, looking back at me. “You okay here for a minute?”
I manage a tired smile. “I promise not to pass out until you get back.”
“Hold you to that.”
His footsteps fade down the hall, and I let my eyes drift around the room, taking in the happy couple photos on the wall, a half-finished crossword puzzle on the bedside table, and a dreamcatcher above the headboard. Normal things from a world that no longer exists.
Did they make it? If they’re alive somewhere, I hope they don’t mind us being here, using their home as temporary shelter while the dead walk outside.
I trace my fingers along the quilted bedspread, focusing on its texture to anchor myself as the room tilts and shifts around me.
Footsteps in the hallway signal Julien’s return, and I straighten my spine despite the pain.
“Found some supplies.” Julien appears in the doorway, arms laden with towels, a white plastic box with a red cross, and a bottle of amber-colored liquid. Rum? “For medicinal purposes.”
“My father would approve.” I chuckle awkwardly, regret the words instantly.
He sets everything on the nightstand without comment, but his eyes find mine, asking a silent question I’m not ready to answer.
“So what’s the verdict?” I offer my arm.
He kneels in front of me, gentle as he takes my arm, turning it to examine the cuts.
His shirt is darker in places where sweat and blood have soaked through, face streaked with grime and something darker.
“It’ll heal, but this will sting.” He uncaps the amber bottle—whiskey, not rum, by the smell—and pours some onto a clean cloth.
I bite down on my lip as he dabs the alcohol-soaked fabric against the first cut. They’re shallow but numerous, crisscrossing my forearm like some sick, abstract artwork. The burning sensation makes my eyes water, but I’ve had worse.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?” He doesn’t look up, focused on cleaning each wound with the concentration of someone threading a needle.
“For coming back for me. For not leaving me there. For…” Killing him to save me. “I mean, why did you even come after me? You could have died. It was risky.”
His hands pause for a second before resuming their work. “You’d have done the same.”
“I don’t know if I would have.”
“You would.” No doubt in his voice. Just certainty.
I watch him work, the way his brows furrow in concentration and the tightness around his eyes that betrays his own pain. Blood still cakes his temple, and his split lip has swollen. And here I am letting him take care of me.
“After you finish with me,” I say. “It’s your turn.”
“No need.”
“But you’re hurt.” I tilt my head, trying to catch his gaze. “So please just—”
“I don’t need your help.”
I drop my gaze to the floor and clamp my lips shut, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Of course, he doesn’t want my help. He’d probably welcome Amelia’s tender care and gentle hands. Or Rosa’s professional hands.
But not mine. Message received.
Julien soaks another cloth with alcohol and cleans the gash on my cheek before putting ointment on it. His fingers brush against my skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. I focus on that sensation instead of the hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs.
“Here.” He holds out a white pill and bottle of water. “Take this.”
I nod, swallowing the pill before taking a sip of water.
“Almost done.” He leans close to examine the cut while I fidget with the bottle label. “Hmm. Butterfly bandages should be fine.”
He places the adhesive strips across the wound and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing gently over the bandage as if checking that it’s secure, while I wish it were for another whole reason.
The gesture feels too intimate, too caring, and my pulse quickens.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
I make the mistake of looking up, catching his eyes.
His pupils dilate, gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back up. For a heartbeat, maybe two, neither of us moves, and a softness I thought was reserved for my sister spreads across his features.
“That should hold.” He stands abruptly, turning away. “You should check if there’s any food in the kitchen while I finish up in here.”
I nod, though he can’t see me, and rise from the bed, setting the bottle aside on the nightstand. My legs feel steadier now, and the room no longer swims quite as badly. I make it to the doorway before glancing back.
He’s moved before the dresser mirror, fumbling one-handed with a cloth while squinting in the mirror.
Stubborn asshole.
I march back into the room and snatch the disinfectant from his hand.
“What are you—”
“Shut up.” I guide him down to sit on the edge of the bed, positioning myself between his knees.
His mouth opens, then closes, a surprised chuckle escaping. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hold still.” I tilt his head to better see the wound. Blood has matted his hair at the temple, and I gently clean it away, revealing a nasty gash.
He sits still as I dab antiseptic over the cut. “You have terrible bedside manner.”
“And you’re a terrible patient.” I continue working, my hands steadier than I expected. “If I’m not allowed to die, you’re not either. This doesn’t work only one way. We help each other.”
His eyes narrow. “So you did try to jump?”
“No!” I step back, horrified. “I did not. It was—” My shoulders sag under the weight of his suspicion. “It was… Well—Figure of speech. Like ‘break a leg’ or ‘I’m dying to try that cake’ or ‘knock ‘em dead.’”
Julien’s laugh starts as a surprised snort that grows warmer and deeper by the second. The sound is so unexpected, so genuine that I can’t help but join in, the tension between us dissolving into shared absurdity.
“You should do that more often,” he says.
I pause, hand hovering over his split lip with antibiotic ointment. Is he mocking me?
His eyes study mine. “It was meant as encouragement, not to shut you up.”
A small but real smile plays on my lips. “You too. You’re like a grumpy cat.”
“A cat?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. One of those big, mean-looking ones that hisses at everyone, but secretly wants belly rubs.” I dab the ointment on his lip. They’re full and so soft…
“I do not want belly rubs.” He tries to look serious, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Sure you don’t.” I finish with his lip and move to a scrape on his neck. “What would you prefer then? Maybe a wolf? Too cliché. Oh! One of those honey badgers. Mean as hell but surprisingly resilient.”
“I can live with that.” He tilts his head back, giving me better access to the wound. “What about you?”
“Me? I don’t know.”
He studies me, eyes serious again. “A cat. But not a house cat.”
“What then?” I finish cleaning the scrape and lower my hands.
“Something smaller but fiercer than it looks. Like those fishing cats that swim for their prey.” His voice drops. “Most people assume they’re harmless until they see what they’re capable of.”
I apply a small sticking plaster to the scrape. “Done. It wasn’t so bad. Was it?”
“Thanks.” The word sounds rusty, like he doesn’t use it often.
I step back, suddenly aware of how close we’ve been standing, of the heat radiating from his body, of how his knees bracketed me as I worked. “You’re welcome.”
“Let’s find some food.”
“Good idea.”
We ransack the house like professional thieves, moving from room to room.
My fingers trail along countertops and shelves, touching strangers’ lives—a coffee mug with “World’s Best Dad” printed on the side, a refrigerator magnet shaped like a palm tree, and prescription bottles with names I’ll never know how to pronounce.
“Jackpot.” Julien stands in the pantry doorway, gesturing me over. “Whoever lived here was a hoarder.”
I join him, peering into what looks like a dream. Shelves lined with canned goods, pasta, rice, bottles of water stacked in neat rows, and an assortment of snacks.
“They must have left in a hurry. Or vacation?” I reach for a can of chicken noodle soup, the label bright and cheerful. “To leave all this behind.”
“Their loss, our gain.” Julien grabs a canvas grocery bag hanging on the pantry door and starts filling it. “Enough here to last us a while.”
“We should eat and then head to Pine Lake.” I take a second bag, adding items methodically. “If we leave within the hour, get lucky with a car, we might make it before dark.”
Julien stops, turning to look at me with narrowed eyes. “We’re not leaving today.”
“What? Why not?”
“Do I really have to spell it out?”
“I’m f—”
“You have a concussion, multiple cuts, and you almost died.”
“I am really f—” The word dies on my lips as his glare intensifies. “Not… dying?”
He almost smiles. Almost. “Nice save. But we’re staying the night. You need real rest, not bouncing around in a car while I try to navigate roads potentially full of the undead and blocked. That would be risky.”
He’s right. My head still pounds, the room occasionally shifting when I move too quickly.
“Okay,” I say. “One night. But we leave first thing in the morning.”
“Deal.” He nods toward the back door visible through the kitchen window. “There’s a fenced deck out there with a grill. Might still have propane.”
We load our arms with supplies and head outside. The afternoon sun feels almost normal, warm on my skin, the breeze carrying the scent of pine. For a suspended moment, I can almost pretend the world hasn’t ended.
Julien checks the grill, a fancy stainless-steel monstrosity, and grins when he turns the knob and hears the hiss of gas. “Still working.”
I set a pot of water on the burner, adding pasta from the pantry. “Carbs?”
“And canned sauce.” He opens a jar of marinara, sniffing it cautiously before nodding approval.
We work together in easy silence. He stirs the pasta, and I chop a few cloves of garlic found in the pantry.
It makes me wonder if the others have a peaceful moment, too. Did they already make it to Pine Lake? Are they safe? Eating? Is Amelia resting properly? Does she have enough water?
The last time she went more than a day without proper nutrition, she ended up in the hospital for a week. I should be there with her, not here, playing house with Julien.
A gentle pat on my head pulls me back. Julien’s hand rests there for a brief moment before withdrawing. “You okay?”
I blink, focusing on his concerned face. “Yeah. Sorry. Just hoping they’re okay. My sister—”
“You should think more about yourself sometimes.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
I nod, unsure what else to say, and lean back against the wooden fence. It’s so peaceful here, so at odds with the horror we’ve escaped.
“I’m wondering about them too.” Julien’s voice softens as he turns back to the pasta. “But I’m sure they’re okay. My brother is with them, and Rosa… She doesn’t look like much, but she’s feisty. The last thing I’d want is getting her angry.”
The image of tiny, gray-haired Rosa facing down a horde of zombies with nothing but her crochet needles, cane, and curses startles a laugh out of me. “I can see that.”
He drains the pasta, steam rising around his face. “One time, she caught me sneaking out to meet a girl when I was sixteen. Made me scrub every toilet in her house with a toothbrush while lecturing me about respecting women.”
“Did it work?”
“What do you think?” He hands me a plate loaded with pasta and sauce. “I never snuck out again. At least not through the kitchen window.”
We settle inside on the dinner table, the food simple but somehow the most delicious meal I’ve ever tasted. Maybe it’s the hunger, or the adrenaline crash, or just the relief of being alive when so many aren’t.
“This is good,” I say between bites. “Thank you.”
He looks up, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Glad you like it.”
The sun begins its slow descent, casting everything in honey-gold light. Julien’s face softens in the warm glow, the hard lines around his mouth relaxing as he eats. Making him more handsome, even with all the grime.
“Do you think we’ll ever get back to normal?” I scrape the last bit of pasta. “Not like before, but something stable?”
“I think we’ll find a new normal.” He looks out the window. “People adapt. They survive.”
I’ve survived my whole life, so why does him saying it make my chest ache?
His eyes narrow slightly as he studies me with that look—the one that feels like he’s peeling back my layers without permission. Does he see how pathetic I am underneath? I drop my gaze to my empty plate, toying with a stray bit of sauce.
“Worrying again?” he asks.
“No.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “You just went somewhere dark. I could see it.”
The fork scrapes against ceramic. “Just wondering if surviving is enough.”
“There’s more to life than just making it through each day. Even now.”
“Is there?” I look up. “Or are we just kidding ourselves?”
“Depends.” He stretches back in his chair, that casual confidence I both envy and admire. “The world’s fucked, sure. But maybe that means we get to decide what matters now. No more bullshit obligations or expectations.”
“Freedom through apocalypse.”
“Why not?” His smile is crooked, challenging. “What would you want? If you could have anything in this new world.”
What would I want?
“For Amelia to get better,” I whisper. “For her to have the treatment she needs.”
He nods, eyes steady on mine. “And for yourself?”
Something that is just… mine?
“I’m not sure.” My thumb finds my inner wrist, circling.
“Then figure it out.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ve got time now.”
“Time?” I laugh, the sound sharp even to my ears. “We could die tomorrow.”
“Or we could live.” He takes my plate and walks to the sink. “There was a rain barrel outside. We could heat the water, get cleaned up, and grab some clean clothes. I doubt the owners will mind.”
“Pretty sure zombie apocalypse negates property laws. Though I might leave a thank-you note. Just in case.”