Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
JULIEN
Ramirez’s cabin smells like pine sap and gun oil. Familiar scents that remind me of my father’s workshop before he died.
I sit on a wooden chair that creaks under my weight, Dakota perched beside me on a bench that’s seen better decades.
Across from us, Ramirez leans against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed, while his sister—Maya, maybe thirty with tired eyes—hovers near the back bedroom where her kid disappeared the moment we walked in.
The rifle from last night rests within Ramirez’s reach, propped against the wall.
Not pointed at us, but not exactly friendly either.
“Coffee?” Ramirez gestures to a pot sitting on a camping stove.
“Thanks.” I accept the chipped mug he offers.
Dakota takes her mug with both hands, warming her fingers against the ceramic. “Thank you for letting us stay.”
“You saved our asses last night,” Ramirez says.
“We heard you arrive yesterday afternoon.” Maya shifts, wrapping her arms around herself.
Her son, seven or eight, peeks through the crack in the bedroom door before she shoos him back inside with a sharp gesture.
“Leo wanted to say hello, but I…” She glances at her brother. “Wasn’t sure if you were safe.”
“You did the right thing,” I say.
Ramirez pushes off the counter, moving to the small table between us. He grabs a chair, spins it backward, and straddles it. “I fucked up with the gate. That’s on me.” No bullshit, straight to the point. I like him already.
“What happened?” I ask.
He scrubs a hand over his beard. “Been using this place as a base since the outbreak started. Know every trail, every cabin. Thought we were safe. I left two days back to scout the main road. See if there was a way through to the next town. That’s when I first saw them.”
“The zombies,” I say.
“Five of them, moving through the trees like they were tracking something. Not shambling. Hunting. I watched them corner a deer and take it down in under a minute. Coordinated. One drove it toward the others, they flanked, brought it down.” He meets my gaze. “They fed on it. Tore it apart.”
Beside me, Dakota goes still.
“Regular zombies don’t hunt animals,” I say slowly. “They only go after the living.”
“These ones do both,” Ramirez says. “Yesterday I went checking for snares. Took me longer, and they just… appeared. Followed me. I thought I got them off my scent, but then right before camp, I heard them again. I ran and didn’t have time to secure the gate properly.“
Maya moves closer, standing behind her brother’s chair. “We’re sorry. If we’d known you weren’t a threat—”
“It’s okay,” Dakota says. “We understand. Really.”
The tension in her shoulders eases fractionally.
“What else do you know about those…” I trail off, not sure if we should call them wolves. They’re clearly more than that.
“Wolf Zombies,” Ramirez says. “They only come out after dark, and that first time I saw them. Soon as the sky started lighting, they scattered. Haven’t seen one during daylight hours.”
“Nocturnal,” I say, filing that away. “Like actual wolves.”
“Or vampires,” Leo whispers, then ducks his head when we all look at him.
“Not a bad comparison, kid.” I find myself almost smiling. “Useful to know their weaknesses.”
“They’re smart,” Ramirez says. “They communicate. Didn’t you hear them last night? Those clicking sounds?”
I did. The leader giving orders, the pack responding. The coordinated retreat.
“And they felt pain,” Dakota says. “When Julien cut one, it flinched. Pulled back.”
“Shot one,” Ramirez says. “Clipped its shoulder. It screamed. Actual sound, not just a moan. Then it ran. Didn’t stick around to fight.”
“So they can be hurt,” Dakota says. “Driven off.”
“Fire works best,” Ramirez confirms. “But yeah. Pain response. Fear response. They’re more alive than dead, if that makes sense. They’re not mindless, which makes them dangerous. Regular zombies, you can predict their movements. These things adapt.”
The implications settle heavy in my gut. We can fortify against shambling corpses. Set up basic defenses, make noise to draw them away. But intelligent predators that hunt in packs? That’s a different threat entirely.
Ramirez sets his mug down. “Look, we’ve got supplies for a week. How many are you?”
“Eight,” Dakota says. “They should’ve been here by now.”
I straighten, transitioning to the topic that’s been gnawing at me since we arrived.
“My brother Cameron, looks like me but younger. My grandmother Rosa, small Hispanic woman, about seventy. A blonde woman named Sienna, athletic build. And—” I pause, glancing at Dakota, whose fingers have found that familiar circular pattern on her wrist. “Dakota’s sister Amelia, she’s ill. And their parents, Nicklas and Carmen.”
Ramirez shakes his head slowly. “Haven’t seen anyone. Just you two.”
Where the hell are they? If something’s happened to Cameron or Rosa…
“They had vehicles,” Dakota adds, voice smaller than before. “A minivan and a pickup truck.”
“Roads are bad,” Maya says. “Maybe they had to find another route.”
“Maybe.” But every hour they don’t arrive shrinks the odds. I’ve seen how quickly things go wrong out there.
Ramirez seems to read my thoughts. “If they’re coming, they’ll need that gate secure. Those wolf-things will be back.”
I nod. “We need to check the fence line first, find any gaps. Then reinforce the gate with something they can’t push through.”
“Fence runs into the water on both sides,” Ramirez says. “Was designed to keep bears out. It’s solid, except for the gate. Chain’s old. If they really wanted in—”
“They’d get in,” I finish. “So we make it harder. Slow them down enough that we have time to respond. Set up a watch rotation. Two people minimum, armed, rotating every four hours through the night.”
“So we can stay?” Dakota asks. “Work together? Pool resources?”
“Safety in numbers.” Ramirez exchanges a look with his sister, a silent conversation passing between them before he turns back to us and stands, offering his hand. “Let’s get started on that gate.”
I shake, measuring the strength of his grip, the steadiness of his gaze. He’s solid. Capable. The kind of man who’ll have your back when things go sideways.
“I’ve got lumber and tools in the maintenance shed,” Ramirez says. “Could reinforce the gate with cross-beams. Maybe string some cans along the perimeter as an early warning system.”
“Good idea.”
Leo tugs at his mother’s sleeve. “Can I help?”
Maya hesitates, but Ramirez nods. “You can help string the cans, mijo. Good ears and fast feet are important jobs.”
The kid beams and rushes to the door for his boots.
As we prepare to head out, Dakota touches my arm. “I’ll stay and help Maya. Maybe look through supplies, see what we have to work with.”
“Be back soon,” I tell her.
She nods, and for a moment, I see flickers of last night in her eyes—the torch flames, the fear, the kiss. What happens between us now, with daylight stripping away our excuses?
Relationships wouldn’t work.
What if they did?
I strangle the thought before it can take hold.
Focus on the fence. On survival.
Everything else is secondary.
It has to be.
But as I follow Ramirez out the door, the memory of Dakota’s lips against mine burns hotter than any torch.
The fence looks solid enough. Every section checked, no gaps. The gate’s another story. We’ve added a crossbar, reinforced the hinges, doubled the chain. It won’t stop them forever, but it’ll buy us time. Time to grab weapons. Time to think. Time to not die.
Not perfect, but better than we had.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with my arm, muscles loose and warm from the work, and head back toward the cabin just as Dakota steps onto the porch.
“How’s the gate?” She shields her eyes with one hand, hair gathered in a ponytail, and a knife at her hip. Good girl.
“Holding.” I climb the steps, noting the fresh scrapes on her knuckles. “What happened there?”
She glances at her hand, flexing her fingers. “Tried making a snare like Maya showed me. Rope burned.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“Did you eat?” She points inside. “Maya sent some canned stew.”
“Later.” I roll my shoulders, working out the knots. “We should train.”
“Now? Aren’t you tired?”
“Best time to learn is when you’re exhausted. Real fights don’t happen when you’re fresh.”
She makes a face but follows me around the side of the cabin, where a flat stretch of grass shaded by tall pines offers enough space.
I drop into a ready stance, beckoning her forward. “Remember what I showed you before? Creating distance?”
She nods, mirroring my position, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.
“Show me.”
She braces her hands against my chest, body weight behind it, and shoves me. I rock back a step, not because she’s strong enough to move me, but because her form’s improved. Core engaged. Balance maintained.
“Good.” I reset. “Again. Harder.”
This time, she drives forward with a grunt, and I let her momentum carry me back two full steps before catching her wrists. “Better. You’re thinking about leverage now, not just strength.”
“Because I’m not strong,” she says, breathing harder.
“Because strength isn’t everything.” I release her wrists, circling her slowly. “You’re smaller. Faster. Use that. If someone grabs you—” I move behind her, arms wrapping around her torso, pinning her arms. “What do you do?”
She struggles against my hold. Not working.
“Stop fighting the grip.” I brush my lips against her ear. “You won’t win that way. Drop your weight. Make yourself heavy.”
She goes limp, and my arms slip up toward her neck as she drops. Smart.
“Now?”
“Now you’re lower than my center of gravity.” I keep my hold loose, letting her figure it out. “What’s vulnerable?”
She slams her heel down on my instep.
I grunt, releasing her automatically. “Fuck. Yes. Exactly that.”
She spins to face me, grinning before it falls. “Shit. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“You did good.” I shake out my foot. “Do it again.”