13. Chapter thirteen #2
We break out of the trees and hit old pavement. It’s cracked and eaten at the edges, weeds pushing up through the seams, but it’s a road, a real one. The full moon is a blessing; there are no other lights for miles, just that pale smear painting everything silver.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“This is an old coastal road. Hear that? Ocean’s that way. We’re on the west coast. If we follow this road, we get to my… hidey-hole.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, and fuck me, it’s true. Every new thing about him should scare me, but instead it hooks deeper, like I’ve been waiting for this kind of wrong my entire useless life. It’s almost as if I’m starting to look forward to feeling that scare.
“Yeah. I got something cool to show you. But first…” He drops the body with a heavy thud; the sound punches the night and makes me flinch.
He points to a scraggle of bushes a little up the road.
“There should be a cart there. One they used in The Before for groceries and shit. I shoved it in the brush—use it for hauling… stuff.”
He grins, that wicked thing, like the cart is the last detail in some ridiculous plan. I swallow, stomach still a knot, but a small part of me is already imagining the hidey-hole.
We walk over, and I crouch by the bush he pointed at while he stretches his arms and legs, shaking off the strain of carrying a full-grown body like it’s just another chore. It’s dark under the leaves, but a sliver of metal glints in the moonlight.
Frowning, I reach in, fingers brushing cold steel, and yank.
Sure enough. A fucking cart. He has a cart hidden in the woods for this exact purpose. Of course he does. I pretend not to notice the brown smears dried along the edges—stains that look too much like old blood—as we wrestle the brute into it. The wheels creak, the sound sharp in the night.
“There. That’s better,” Max says, dusting his hands. “Now, follow me. It’s a two-hour walk.”
So I do.
The cart rattles, the road cracks beneath our feet, and the night folds in around us. The stars and the moon are the only friends we have left, trailing above as we walk into whatever waits.
W e shouldn’t have taken the cart. I could’ve lived a little longer without knowing what I know now, without seeing what I’m seeing now.
And I thank the fucking Gods it’s still dark enough that I don’t see everything .
When Max said he was gonna show me something cool, with that manic gleam in his eye I’m starting to recognize—like a kid showing off a dead bird—I should’ve known better. Should’ve said no. Because the “cool” thing he’s showing me? It’s straight out of one of my many nightmares.
We ditched the cart a while back and started up what feels like the world’s longest driveway, cracked concrete and weeds crunching under my flip-flops. The trees thinned, the night opened up, and then the moonlight hit us, throwing its glow over a drained swimming pool.
And that’s where I see it.
A literal freaking zombie alligator thrashing in the shallow concrete pit, its massive tail smacking against the tiles, tearing straight into what’s left of Goatee after Max hauled the body in with a grunt.
“That’s Chompy,” Max says, grinning like he’s just introduced me to a newly adopted kitten. “Isn’t he awesome? He helps me rid the island of the infected.”
I don’t move. Partly because I’m terrified any sudden motion will draw its eyes—even though Max swears we’re safe up here on the ledge—and partly because my brain refuses to process this.
Chompy is a fucking Walker. An alligator Walker. Chompy is eating someone. Not just some random zombie, not someone already lost—an actual human being.
And Max is smiling.
He glances at me, eyes a little too wide, a little too bright. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
“That thing’s rotting.”
It has a gaping hole where part of its snout should be, chunks of flesh hanging loose, and half of its toes are gone. The smell is indescribable, like death dredged up and reheated under the sunlight.
“We all are,” Max says, in the most cheerful tone I’ve ever heard from him. “He just wears it better.”
I nod. Slowly. “Right. Cool. Uh… how long have you had him?”
“I found him years ago, wandering all alone when I was clearing out an infected nest near the mountains. Already knew about this place so I made him follow me here and he just fell in. Pretty sure he’s a remnant of some private zoo I found a little bit further up the road.
” He gestures around at the pool walls. “It’s high enough so he can’t get out.
I mean, look at him. A little rough around the edges, sure, but he’s pretty fucking cool. ”
Chompy makes a wet, tearing sound and I swear something stringy arcs through the air. I swallow back bile. I love the anatomy book Max gave me, and learning all the details about old medical practices, but I’m not a fan of… this.
Max inches closer to the edge of the pool, his voice dropping to something low, almost tender. “Most things bite because they’re scared. Chompy bites because he likes it.”
I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is a massive red flag and I should walk the fuck away.
Or better yet, run like hell. But he’s still smiling at me like we’re bonding over some hobby, and fuck me, that smile is doing things to me.
He’s never been this talkative before, either.
Somehow, here, he really pulled those demons back.
“Is this where you were the last three days?” I ask, tearing my gaze off that horrible beast.
He scoffs. “Yeah. But I wasn’t here for the gator.” His thumb jerks over his shoulder. “I was here for that.”
I turn. And only now do I notice the massive house looming just beyond the pool, its silhouette carved right into the cliffs. From a distance, in daylight, it must’ve looked like part of the mountain itself—stone and shadow swallowing it whole. No wonder I missed it until now.
I can’t see all of it, but what I can is enough.
It’s enormous. Levels stacked unevenly on top of one another, windows like dark eyes still intact against all odds, the sliding door in front of us gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
The jagged line where rock meets concrete makes it look like the house clawed its way out of the cliff face.
“Is it yours?” I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
“It isn’t anyone’s. Hasn’t been for a long time,” Max says. But there’s something in the way his eyes fix on it—sharp, hungry, possessive—that tells me it doesn’t really matter who it used to belong to.
It’s his now, in all the ways that matter.
“What do you do when you come here? When you’re off-grid?”
A dark chuckle rolls out of him as he strides across the terrace toward the sliding doors. Behind us, Chompy keeps chomping, the wet, relentless sound an ominous soundtrack to the night.
“Hasn’t Tass told you?” he tosses over his shoulder as he pushes the door open.
I follow him inside. It’s dark and I can’t see shit at first, only thin strips of moonlight leaking through the window.
But the air is what gets me. It doesn’t feel old, stale, rotten, like most ruins do in this world. No, there’s something fresh here, aired out, like someone’s been keeping the ghosts at bay. Like the place is alive.
“She said you slay your demons here.”
“Mostly true. How are you feeling? You okay?”
I almost trip over myself in the dark, but his hand is there in an instant, steadying me, guiding me up some stairs. His fingers find mine and the breath that leaves my lips at the contact is nothing short of stupid. It’s like a small electric shock, my head going fuzzy in a good way.
And it hits me.
We’re alone. In his house. With no one close for miles. No bar, no Watchers or Walkers, no people to barge in and ruin whatever this is. Just his godsawful zombiegator and us.
And we’re going to spend the night here—what’s left of it.
“Is it safe?” I ask, and my voice still sounds like someone else’s.
He chuckles, dark and confident. “It’s a cliffside villa. The front isn’t accessible anymore. The back? Well, anything that tries to come up the slope falls into Chompy’s pit before it reaches the sliding doors.”
“So there are none?”
“Not in this general area. Not since my three-day killing streak.”
I stop, tilt my head. He turns with me, but the dark hides half his face. “So that was what you were doing.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, then his tone softens. “Mostly, I’m in the woods, culling Walkers. Coming back here whenever I need rest. It helps… it keeps the noise down. Makes things simpler. I’ll tell you more if you want to. But first…”
He lets my hand go, and I want to whine at the sudden loss of contact, at the warmth gone from my palm. Instead, he fishes a key from his pocket and slips it into the lock. The door opens with a low groan and a breath of warmer air.
He steps aside and the words fall out of him easily, like he’s been waiting to say them. “Welcome to my little hidey-hole.”