Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
JULIEN
My left arm is gone. Just a slab of dead meat pinned under her weight. Pins and needles shoot up my shoulder, a thousand tiny knives waking me up.
Dakota’s head is tucked under my chin, her breath hot against my collarbone. She’s clinging to my shirt. Even in her sleep, she’s holding on for dear life. But I’m okay with her never letting go.
Sunlight blades through the cracks in the treehouse walls, cutting through the gloom. I shift my legs, grimacing as they protest. Yesterday’s sprint wrecked me more than I’d like to admit.
Dakota stirs. Her grip on my shirt tightens before her eyes flutter open. She blinks, disorientation written all over her face until her gaze lands on my jaw. Then the wall comes up. The shutter drops behind her eyes, dimming them to a muted gray-blue.
“Sorry.” She scrambles back, putting three feet of floorboard between us in a heartbeat. Her hand flies to her hair, smoothing it down like appearance matters when we haven’t brushed our teeth in twenty-four hours. “I didn’t mean to crowd you.”
I flex my hand, trying to get the blood flowing again. “You drooled on me.”
Her eyes widen, hand jumping to her mouth. “I did not.”
“Right on the sternum.” I smile, sitting up and rolling my neck until it cracks. “Gonna leave a stain.”
She flushes, looking mortified as some color returns to her eyes. Good. Angry or embarrassed is better than that hollow, resigned look.
“Relax. I’m kidding.” I grab my water bottle and take a swig, rinsing the taste of morning breath and copper out of my mouth before offering it to her.
She hesitates.
“Take it,” I say, harder than intended.
She grabs the bottle. “Thanks.”
“How’s the head?”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Fine.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“It hurts.” She hands me back the bottle. “But I can walk. I won’t… I won’t slow you down.”
Another stamp on the asshole card. How many do I have now?
Enough.
I need to get better at communicating. I never had that problem, or more like I didn’t care until now.
“Context matters.” I shove my water bottle into my pack, zipping it closed. “I was mad because you ran toward danger. That’s not what I told or taught you.”
She flinches, pulling her knees to her chest. “When do we leave?”
I scrub a hand over my face, the stubble grating against my palm. I’m fucking up again, ain’t I?
“Listen to me.” I crouch in front of her and tip up her chin, forcing her to look at me. “I didn’t want you running after me because I couldn’t protect both of us. And you—”
“I can take care of myself.” Her chin juts out, defiant even in my grasp.
“You were concussed and barely holding a knife right. But you’re not baggage, and while you may slow me down because you’re doing—” I sigh. “You’re not a burden.”
“Then why—”
“Because I can’t lose another person.” The words scrape out of my throat. “I’ve already got enough ghosts. I don’t need yours, too. So when I tell you to run, even if it means leaving me behind, you do just that. Understood?”
Her mouth opens, those perfect lips parting in a small sound that goes straight to my—
I stand up, ignoring the need to run my fingers over her lips. “Pack up. We move in five.”
She nods, her fingers ghosting over her chin. “Okay.”
I move to the trapdoor and slide the rusted bolt back. Green and brown blur below. No gray faces. No movement. No answering groans. Even the birds are keeping their mouths shut.
“Clear,” I whisper.
I look back. She’s standing now, hand resting on the hilt of the knife I gave her. She looks like hell—bruised, pale, clothes hanging off her frame—but she’s standing.
“You take the rear,” I tell her. “Watch our six.”
“Got it.”
“And Dakota?”
She pauses, shifting the weight of her pack. “Yeah?”
“Avoidance first.”
The trees thin and the first glimpses of water flash between trunks. Pine Lake stretches out before us, the surface gleaming in the late afternoon sun. It took us almost two hours, but now we’re here.
It’s as I remember: tall log fence surrounds the perimeter, cabins nestled among pine trees, the main lodge overlooking the water.
And it’s empty.
No sign of the others. Three unfamiliar cars sit in the parking area—not the vehicles our group had.
“Stay behind.” I catch her by the arm. “Take out your knife.”
She unclips the hunting knife from her belt, gripping it the way I showed her earlier. Her knuckles whiten around the handle, but her hand doesn’t shake.
We approach the main gate cautiously. The padlock hangs open, chain loosely threaded through the metal loops.
“Someone’s been here recently.” I remove it, open the gate, and secure it behind us, wrapping the chain tightly.
“The others?” Hope colors her voice.
“Maybe.” I don’t mention it could just as easily be strangers.
Hostile ones.
We move toward the nearest cabin, footsteps silent on the pine needle-covered ground. I signal Dakota to stay behind me as I approach the door, testing the handle. Unlocked. I open it slowly, blade raised.
Empty. Undisturbed.
The second cabin tells a different story. The door hangs crooked on its hinges. I gesture for Dakota to wait, but she steps up beside me, knife gripped white-knuckled but determined.
“Together,” she whispers.
My fist curls at my sides, but I nod once. “If I say run, you run. No arguments.”
She nods.
Inside, the stench of rotting meat and something fouler hits immediately. A small scratching sound comes from the back room. I move forward, each step placed carefully on the creaking floorboards.
Scratching.
My hand flies up. Dakota’s footsteps stop.
The sound’s wrong. Too rhythmic. Too deliberate. Like fingers drumming on a table, except the table is rotting wood and the fingers might be bone.
I signal Dakota back with two fingers. She doesn’t move. Signals are the next thing I’m going to teach her.
Something rounds the corner, jerking and twitching.
A rat. Huge fucking thing, half its body seized up and spasming. Foam at its mouth. Eyes milky.
The virus got to the animals, too.
Dakota’s knife rattles in her grip. I catch her wrist before she can lunge.
“Don’t,” I mouth.
The rat convulses twice more, then goes still.
“Is it—” Dakota whispers.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” I swing my machete, making sure the brain’s split. “Let’s check the rest.”
She nods, but she can’t stop staring at the thing. Neither can I.
If the rats are turning now, we're more fucked than I thought.
We clear the remaining cabins, maintenance shed, and boathouse. Nothing but dust and emptiness, except for one cabin close to the lake, where three sleeping bags are laid out on beds.
But no sign of any people.
No signs of Cameron, Rosa, or the others.
No signs of struggle either, which I count as good news.
Maybe they’re just delayed.
And the people who have been here… Gone.
Back outside, Dakota’s shoulders slump as she scans the empty compound. “They should be here by now.”
“They’re probably taking it slow with Amelia. Being careful.”
“What if something happened? What if they never—”
I place my hands on her shoulders, turning her to face me. “Cameron knows what he’s doing. Rosa would never let anything happen to Amelia.”
Her eyes find mine, searching for reassurance I’m not sure I can give. I see doubt creeping in—the uncertainty eating at her, the way her teeth catch her bottom lip.
“Isn’t it weird though? The place is empty, but the gate was unlocked. Those cars…” She nods toward the parking area.
“Off-season.” I scan the tree line, unease prickling along my spine. “Still…”
“You think something’s wrong.”
“I think we stay alert.” I’m about to rest my hand on the small of her back, but stop and walk toward the lodge on the hill. “Let’s get settled before dark.”
“So we just wait?” She falls into step beside me, knife still ready in her hand.
“We prepare.” I glance at her. “And we wait. Not much else we can do.”
Her lips form a thin line, and I can practically hear her thoughts churning and worrying about Amelia, wondering if her parents made it, questioning why the hell she’s stuck with me instead of her sister.
“If they’re not here by morning,” I say, “we’ll—”
“We’ll what?” Her voice sharpens. “Go looking for them? Leave without them? Head to your secret cottage in the woods?”
There it is. The anger I’ve been waiting for.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say. “But right now, we need to make sure we survive the night.”
“Fine.”
Not fine. Nothing about this is fine. But it’s all we’ve got.
I lead her toward the larger cabin set on a small rise near the lake’s edge.
Tactical advantage: clear sightlines in all directions, elevated position, solid log construction with minimal windows on the north and west sides.
A single entrance we can fortify, plus the back door that opens onto a covered porch overlooking the water.
Perfect defensive position if—when—we need it.
Because something doesn’t add up here.
The old cabin I used to stay in has a spacious interior with rustic furniture, a stone fireplace, and a kitchenette along one wall. Still the same. Dakota moves past me to run her fingers along the back of the worn leather couch.
I secure the door behind us, checking locks and windows before setting my pack down. “Looks like the main generator’s off, but there’s a wood stove. Should be enough for heat and cooking.”
She nods, wandering toward the large windows overlooking the lake. “It’s beautiful.”
The water shimmers in the late afternoon sun, but it feels hollow compared to her. Or the light in her eyes when she held that stupid flower. Even when she’s angry at me, she fucking glows with something I can’t name. Something I haven’t earned the right to touch.
The fading daylight catches her profile, softening the bruises, highlighting the stubborn tilt of her chin.
“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”
Fuck. Focus, Mora. Not on her.
I turn away and check the other rooms, finding a queen-bed, lines in a closet, a bathroom with no running water, and a small loft space with a desk and books.
The kitchen cabinets hold nothing. In another linen closet, I discover clean towels and soap.
I toss one to Dakota, who catches it with a surprised blink.
“Let’s wash up.” I nod toward the lake visible through the windows. “Before it gets dark.”
She clutches the towel against her chest. “Is it safe?”
“I’ll go first.” I grab my knife and the soap. “Keep watch from the porch. If you see anything, anyone, get back inside and bolt the door.”
The path from the cabin to the shore takes less than twenty seconds to navigate. The late afternoon sun warms the clearing, but the air carries the first hint of evening chill.
I scan the treeline one more time before setting my weapons and towel on a flat rock near the water’s edge.
Dakota watches from the porch. She looks almost comically serious, her brow furrowed in concentration. It shouldn’t be endearing. It shouldn’t make my chest tighten.
But it does.
I strip down to my boxers and wade into the lake, the cold water lapping at my thighs.
I glance back toward the cabin, checking Dakota’s position.
She’s still watching, her posture alert, but I catch the way her gaze travels down my body, before snapping back up.
The flush on her cheeks is visible even from this distance.
Not mad anymore?
I dive under, the shock of cold water clearing my head. When I surface, I scrub quickly with the soap—face, hair, body—keeping an eye on the shore and the cabin between dunks.
When I finish, I wade back toward shore, water streaming from my skin. Dakota’s still on the porch, but her stance has relaxed. I reach the shallows and can’t resist. I cup my hands through the water and send a perfect arc splashing in her direction. Not close enough to hit, but enough to startle.
“What the hell?” She jumps back.
“All clear.” I grin, shaking water from my hair like a dog. “Your turn.”
She narrows her eyes, but her mouth twitches. Half scowl, half smile—the latter the expression I’m starting to look for, to want to cause and crave. She marches down to the shoreline, towel clutched in one hand, knife in the other.
“You’re such an asshole,” she says.
“So I’ve been told.”
She sets her supplies down and works the buttons of her flannel shirt, one by one. My breath catches as the fabric parts, revealing the borrowed tank top beneath, then skin as she shrugs it off her shoulders.
The tank top follows, leaving her in the same white bra I saw at the church. My brain short-circuits. Her fingers hesitate at her waistband, and I should look away, should give her the decency of privacy, but I can’t, as I catch those fading yellow-purple bruises on her ribcage.
“Turn around.” Her voice wavers slightly.
“Afraid I’ll peek?”
“You already are.”
I turn my back to her, water still streaming down my chest. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I start checking the perimeter again.”
Her laugh is sharp but genuine. Fabric rustles behind me. “So much for privacy in the apocalypse.”
I scan the treeline. “Thirty…twenty-nine…”
A splash interrupts my count, followed by a gasped “Fuck!” that makes me spin around.
Dakota stands waist-deep in the lake, arms wrapped around herself, wearing only her underwear. Her hair clings to her neck, water droplets sliding down her collarbone.
“Cold?” I smirk.
“N-no shit.” Her teeth chatter. “You c-could’ve warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She splashes water in my direction.
I cock my head. “Keep that up, and I’ll come in there.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Oh, but I would.
Because even surrounded by the walking dead, all I can think about is how her lips might taste, how her body would feel against mine. And what scares me most is that I don’t want to stop it, whatever this is.