Chapter 2 Finnegan
two
Finnegan
The woman passes out halfway to the cabin. Easier that way.
People talk too much. Ask questions I don't want to answer. Form opinions about my life. This one was already starting—the data drives, the apologies that weren't apologies. Quick tongue even through hypothermia. That takes a particular kind of person.
Unconscious, she's just variables to manage. Hypothermia: strip wet clothes, wrap in furs, fire. Ankle: compression, elevation, monitor swelling every twelve minutes. Dehydration: fluids ready when she wakes. Simple inputs, predictable outputs.
I lay her on my bed close to the fire and strip her clothes. Practical. Necessary. I don't think about it beyond the steps. Wrap her in furs that smell like smoke and cedar. Check her temperature by touch. Build the fire to exactly the level that will warm her without risking overheating.
I glance at her sleeping form. She's objectively attractive.
I can acknowledge this factually, the way I'd note the symmetry of a leaf or the proportions of a well-made tool.
High cheekbones. Strong features. Even unconscious and hypothermic, there's something.
.. compelling about her face. The way her brow furrows slightly, like she's solving problems in her sleep.
Attraction is a variable I haven't accounted for in three years. I don't intend to start now.
As she sleeps, I go through her pack. Her notebooks are fascinating.
Three different handwriting styles. One small and precise with margin notes questioning every conclusion.
This is her handwriting, I can tell from the consistency with the pack labeling.
One in all capitals with jokes scattered throughout—"zombie rush hour" "dead man's curve" "the walking dead-on-time.
" The third draws diagrams, connects dots with colored lines showing migration patterns, tracks correlation coefficients in neat columns.
Migration patterns. Not random wandering. Actual patterns, tracked over months, documented with scientific rigor I can appreciate.
I spend an hour reading while she sleeps. Her pulse steadies. Color returns to her face. The swelling in her ankle remains concerning but stable.
The handwriting that makes jokes also draws little cartoon zombies in the margins.
Tiny faces on shambling bodies. One wearing a party hat with the caption "birthday boy.
" I don't smile, but I note it. Someone who could make jokes while documenting death is someone who understood survival isn't just physical.
Someone who thinks like I do. Patterns and data and dark humor to cope with the horror. The realization is uncomfortable. Interesting. Potentially dangerous.
This woman is a problem.
Not just because she's here, disrupting my systems. Because part of me wants her to stay.
She’s not a threat, but she’s valuable. People will look for her. My mountain, my silence, my systems are all about to be disrupted by one researcher who couldn't watch where she stepped.
I should take her to Larkspur when she wakes. Two days' travel if the weather holds. Drop her off. Return to routine. That's the logical solution.
She opens her eyes after midnight. Her brown eyes are sharp despite the fever haze. She takes in the cabin: handcrafted furniture, organized shelves, single chair, single plate.
"Did you save my research equipment?"
I stare at her. Most people would say thank you. Or where am I. Or who are you. Or please help me. Any of the normal responses that make social interactions predictable.
"Instead of thanking me for saving your life."
"The research is more important than my life. Did you save it?"
I understand that. Understanding it doesn't mean I want to engage with it.
"By the door. Ankle needs a week. Then you leave."
"A week?" She tries to sit up, fails with a wince. "I need to get this data to settlements!"
"Not walking out on that ankle. You'll reinjure it, slow yourself down, die somewhere nobody will find you for months. Your research will rot with you."
"Then help me get to the nearest settlement."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Not my problem."
She huffs. Glares at the ceiling. I wait. Conversations have patterns too, even frustrating ones.
"The data shows zombie herds migrating in coordinated patterns," she says, switching tactics.
Her voice takes on a measured cadence—presenting research, hoping data will persuade where emotion didn't. "Someone or something is directing them.
If settlements know when herds are coming, they can evacuate. Fortify. Save lives."
"Still not my problem."
"You're impossible."
"I'm consistent. That's different."
"I'm Kate. Kate Reynolds. Wildlife biologist, former park ranger. And you are?"
"Not interested in conversation."
"Finn," she says, reading my knife.
I sigh. "Finnegan MacLeod. This is my family hunting cabin, expanded post-outbreak, but I’m the only one left. I’ve been here alone for years. I supply settlements with meat but don't live in them."
She takes in this information silently. Thank God.
"Get some rest," I say. "I'll make food."
"Finn?"
"Finnegan. And don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because leaving you to die would make me different than I want to be."
I go to the kitchen. Twelve steps. I count them every time. Have for three years, four months, and twelve days.