Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DAKOTA
The car jolts over another pothole, and I curl my fingers around the edge of my seat, not because he’s a bad driver, but because each time a spike of pain shoots through my still-tender skull.
Julien drives on the backroads with singular focus—hands at ten and two, eyes constantly scanning the road ahead and the trees to our sides in the rearview mirror.
Checking, always checking. For the dead. For the living. For anything that might want to kill us.
We don’t use the main roads, which costs us a lot of time, but it’s better than walking.
We’ve been lucky so far. No abandoned cars blocking our path, no hordes of zombies shambling across the road, no desperate survivors trying to flag us down.
Just miles of empty asphalt gradually giving way to dirt and gravel.
But good luck never lasts this long.
Not in my experience.
“You okay?” Julien glances at me, one hand loosening on the steering wheel.
I peel my fingers from the seat, forcing them to relax in my lap. “Just worried.”
“About?”
“How suspiciously easy this has been.” I gesture out the window at the empty countryside rolling past. Fields without farmers to tend them. Abandoned tractors rusting in the sun. “Like we’re the last people on earth.”
“Worried you’re stuck with just me for company?”
“Could be worse.” My cheeks burn as I rush to add, “I mean, at least you know what you’re doing.”
He doesn’t respond, but I catch that almost-smile again, the one that tugs at the corner of his mouth before he smothers it.
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with things unsaid. Like, are the others at Pine Lake already? Has Amelia’s condition worsened? Or maybe I’m the only one worrying too much.
I twist my fingers together, anxiety crawling up my spine like hungry ants.
“They’ll be fine,” Julien says. “Cameron knows the way. Rosa will take care of your sister.”
“I should be with her. She’s always been my responsibility. It’s hard to kind of let that go…”
“And who takes care of you?”
“I-I don’t need—”
“Everyone needs someone.” His eyes stay fixed on the road, but his words dig into me. “Even you, Dakota.”
My name in his mouth still sounds strange. Careful, like he’s testing how the syllables feel. I turn back to the window, waiting for the inevitable moment everything changes again.
We drive another ten minutes before the car’s engine begins to sputter. Julien’s hands tighten on the wheel.
“What’s wrong?” I straighten in my seat.
“Fuel gauge is acting up.” He taps the dashboard display. “Could be nothing.”
But it’s not nothing. The car limps another quarter mile before the engine coughs, hiccups, and dies. Julien coasts to the side of the dirt road, bringing us to a stop beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak.
“Perfect timing for lunch.” He kills the ignition, voice casual like this was the plan all along.
“We’re out of gas, aren’t we?”
“Low, but not empty.” He opens his door. “We’ll find another car after we eat.”
I follow him out, stretching my stiff limbs. The sun sits high overhead, warm against my skin despite the spring chill. We’re surrounded by rolling hills, a patchwork of abandoned fields, and encroaching forest.
No houses in sight. No people. No dead.
And no cars.
Julien spreads a blanket on the ground and gestures for me to sit. “Your dining room, madam.”
“Very fancy.” I snort, lowering myself to sit cross-legged.
He unpacks canned peaches, beef jerky, and crackers. “Eat.”
I accept a can of peaches he’s opened. The sweet syrup coats my tongue, so delicious that it makes me close my eyes in momentary bliss.
We have to enjoy what we can.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say between bites. “I want you to teach me how to fight.”
Julien pauses with a piece of jerky halfway to his mouth. “Fight?”
“Not like boxing or whatever.” I set the can down, wiping sticky fingers on my jeans. “But how to defend myself. How to survive if—” I swallow hard. “If something happens and you’re not there.”
His eyes narrow. “Your head—”
“Is fine.” I touch the tender spot. “Well, fine enough. We both know I can’t keep being helpless out here and do whatever I’ve been doing.”
His gaze slides to my arms, where he bandaged the reverend’s handiwork. “You weren’t helpless. You killed zombies at the church.”
“By accident,” I say. “Or luck. And I froze up first. What if next time I’m alone? Or what if Amelia needs me to protect her? You had to carry me out of the church. You had to save me from the reverend. I want to be… more useful.”
He considers, chewing slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I blink, surprised by his quick agreement. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He dusts his hands and stands. “We’ll start slow. Basics first.”
I scramble to my feet, heart suddenly racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. “Now?”
“Good a time as any.” He pops the last cracker in his mouth. “First lesson: the best self-defense is avoidance.”
“That’s it? Run away?” I frown. “That’s not really fighting.”
“Which is exactly why it’s the first lesson.” He moves to the center of the clearing. “Fighting should be your last resort, not your first instinct. If you can avoid the situation completely, do it.”
“Hard to avoid zombies these days.”
“Not just zombies.” He points to the road. “See that bend? You can’t tell what’s around it. In our new world, you never approach blind corners without caution. You listen first. You find high ground if possible and observe. You avoid the situation before it becomes a problem.”
I nod, trying to absorb his words. “Observation before action.”
“Exactly.” He gestures for me to join him. “Now, if avoidance fails, you need to know how to create distance. Show me how you’d push someone away.”
I hesitate, then step forward and place my hands on his chest, giving a soft push.
“Again.” His voice hardens. “Like you mean it.”
I push harder, still ineffectually.
“Use your body weight, not just your arms.” He grabs my wrists, showing me how. “Plant your feet. Push from your core.”
I try again, focusing on shifting my weight forward, but still barely move him.
“Better,” he says, though I can tell he’s just being nice.
We continue like this—Julien demonstrating a move, me attempting to copy it with mixed results. It feels unnatural, and each time I fail, I grow more frustrated.
“Sorry, I’m not very strong.” I drop my hands to the side. “I don’t… it feels like my body doesn’t want to.”
He sighs and steps directly in front of me, crossing his arms. “Stop apologizing.”
“Sor—” I bite my lip.
He reaches out, his hand moving toward my cheek, but I jerk back on instinct before he can make contact.
“I’m sorry.” His hand stays suspended between us. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t be.” I force a smile, shame burning in my chest. “Old habits.”
His hand drops to his side, but his eyes don’t leave mine. They’re tightening at the edges like he’s angry.
Not at me, I hope.
“It’s scary out here,” I add quickly.
“How long?”
“Hm?”
He says nothing, waits, his silence drawing the truth from me like poison from a wound. My fingers find my inner wrist, circling.
His eyes flick down then back up. “Your father.”
I look away, staring at the distant treeline. Part of me wants to brush it off, change the subject, or lie. But another part, a part I barely recognise, doesn’t want to. Not with him.
“After Amelia got sick,” I say.
“And you were convenient.” It’s not a question.
“I was invisible.” I shrug. “Until I wasn’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair, tension radiating from every line of his body. “You’re not invisible now.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flip. Like a promise. Or a threat.
“I thought about fighting back,” I whisper. “But then I remember Amelia needs me. Needed me. If I got kicked out or hurt worse…”
“Come here.” His voice is gruff but gentle.
I hesitate, then step into his space. His arms encircle me, drawing me to his body. It’s different from last night, not for warmth or comfort in the dark.
“I keep thinking,” I mumble, “that if I just do better, do more—”
“Stop.” His palm presses firmly against the small of my back. “That’s their voice in your head. Not yours.”
Is it? After so many years, I’m not sure I know where their voice ends, and mine begins. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”
His thumb traces circles at the base of my spine. “You start by recognizing it. Then you fight back.”
“I thought avoidance was the first step?”
“Not in that case.”
“Speaking from experience?”
After he doesn’t answer, I tilt my head back to look up at him.
His eyes are fixed on some distant point, and his throat works. “I wasn’t always…”
“Like this?”
A humorless laugh escapes him. “Liam would call me an asshole, too.”
“Liam?” I prompt softly, not wanting to break whatever’s happening.
“My best friend. Loved him like a brother.” He guides my face back to his chest, away from his and the expression on it.
“We served together. Eight years. We were on an extraction. Civilians trapped in a collapsed building, and Liam volunteered to rappel down.” His voice flattens, like he’s giving a mission report rather than sharing a personal story. “I was on the rope. Securing him.”
My fingers curl into his shirt.
“He wasn’t sleeping well for weeks. Nightmares. Mood swings. I saw it but didn’t…” His chest rises with a deep breath that he holds too long before releasing. “I should’ve reported it. Had him evaluated. Pulled from active duty. But he begged me not to. Said it would ruin his career.”
“So you protected him.”
“He got everyone out, and when it was his time.” The words fall like stones. “He cut the rope and fell.”
I fight against his hold, peering up at him. “That’s not—”
His eyes lock with mine, raw and burning. “If I’d insisted he stay behind. If I’d seen how bad he really was…”
This is why he’s always checking, always vigilant. Why he came back for me when everyone else left. Why he made me promise…
“You can’t save everyone,” I say.
“I know.” But his expression says he doesn’t believe it. “After that, I promised myself I’d never miss the signs again. Never let someone I’m responsible for down.”
Is that what I am to him? A responsibility?
“I’m sorry.” I wrap my arms around him tighter, molding my body to his with a desperation I didn’t know I had.
One of his hands slides up to cup the back of my head, cradling it.
“Thank you.” My words come out muffled against his shirt. “For telling me about him.”
His fingers spread through my hair, careful to avoid the tender spot. “Thank you for trusting me with your truth.”
“Didn’t really have a choice.”
He chuckles, and it makes me smile.
Trust.
Such a simple word for something that feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing what waits below.
“Weird timing for a sharing circle.” I laugh weakly. “Zombie apocalypse therapy session.”
“Better late than never.” His thumb caresses my neck. “Come on. We should get moving.”
I nod, suddenly awkward again now that the moment has passed. We pack up our meager lunch supplies, and as I’m shouldering my backpack, a splash of color catches my eye.
A tiny wildflower, deep lavender with a yellow center, growing stubbornly between the dirt and gravel of the roadside. It’s no bigger than my little finger.
Perfect and fragile and somehow still alive.
“What’s wrong?” Julien asks.
I crouch down, carefully plucking the bloom, and turn back to him.
“Look.” I smile, holding it up. “Growing here, of all places. It’s beautiful, right?”
He stares at me, his expression frozen in… shock?