Chapter 2 Mayson
two
Mayson
I sit in my room with my rifle across my knees, listening to Ruby toss and turn on the couch. Every time she shifts, I tense, waiting for the sound of her trying to sneak around, looking for valuables or weapons or ways to signal whoever might be waiting outside.
But all she does is sleep. Restlessly, with small sounds that might be nightmares, but just sleep.
By dawn, I'm starting to think she might actually be what she claims: a survivor separated from her group, nothing more sinister. But two years of staying alive by being careful means I'm not ready to fully trust her yet.
I make coffee and the smell wakes her. She sits up on the couch, instantly alert, hand going to where her pistol would be if I hadn't moved all her weapons during the night.
Smart woman. She realizes what I did and doesn't panic, just meets my eyes evenly.
"Coffee?" I offer, holding out a mug.
"You moved my guns."
"Seemed prudent."
"Can't fault you for that." She takes the coffee, wrapping her hands around it. "Would've done the same."
"They're on the table by the door. You can have them back when you leave."
"When I leave or if I leave?"
"That depends on how the next week goes."
She nods, taking a sip. "Fair enough."
The storm's still raging outside, worse than yesterday if that's possible. Through the window, I can't see more than a few feet. The world has contracted to just this cabin, this woman, and whatever trouble she might have brought with her.
"How bad is it?" she asks, following my gaze.
"Bad. This could last days."
"And you're prepared for that."
"I'm prepared for most things."
"I noticed." She looks around the cabin with an assessing eye, and I can see her cataloging everything. Not with the desperate hunger of someone planning to steal, but with the critical analysis of someone who knows what they're looking at. "You've got a good setup here. Really good."
"It works."
"More than works. The water collection system, the insulation, the way you've organized your storage,” she lists it off. “This isn't amateur hour. You knew what you were doing before the outbreak, didn't you?"
I don't answer, but she's already reading the truth in my silence.
"Let me guess," she continues, "some kind of outdoor profession? Forestry, maybe? Fire crew?"
My jaw tightens. "Something like that."
She has the grace not to push, but I can see her filing the information away. Too observant for her own good.
"I'll make breakfast," I say, changing the subject. "Then we need to check your truck, see if there's anything worth salvaging before the snow buries it completely."
"In this storm?"
"We won't go far. Quarter mile at most. But if there are supplies worth recovering, we should get them now."
"Makes sense." She stands, wincing slightly. "God, I'm sore."
"Rolling a truck will do that."
By the time we've eaten and geared up, the storm has eased slightly—still dangerous, but survivable for a short trek. I hand Ruby her weapons back.
"Don't make me regret this," I say.
"Don't give me a reason to regret it either."
We head out into the white chaos, following the direction she came from yesterday. The cold is brutal, but my winter gear is quality, built for this kind of weather. Ruby's gear is decent too—her convoy knew what they were doing, at least when it came to equipment.
We find the truck about where she estimated, nose-down in a ravine, already half-buried in snow. It's a miracle she walked away from this crash at all.
"Dave," she says softly, looking at the driver's side. "He had kids back at the settlement. Two boys."
"I'm sorry."
"He was teaching me to drive stick shift. Said every survivor should know how in case we found working vehicles." She swipes at her eyes, then straightens her shoulders. The time for mourning is brief in our world now. "Let's see what we can salvage."
We work quickly, pulling out supplies before the storm worsens again. Extra ammunition, medical supplies, food stores, another rifle, tools. Ruby knows exactly what's worth taking and what to leave behind—she's not just randomly grabbing, she's prioritizing based on weight-to-value ratio.
That's when I hear it.
A crack of breaking brush, too deliberate to be wind or animals. Ruby hears it too, her hand going to her pistol in one smooth motion.
"Company?" she whispers.
"Maybe."
Three figures emerge from the trees, all armed, all moving with the purposeful aggression of people who've found easy prey. Raiders. The ones who've been trailing her convoy.
"Well, well," the lead raider calls out, a man in his forties with a scarred face and a cruel smile. "Little bird got separated from her flock."
"Keep walking," Ruby says, her voice steady despite the odds. Three against two isn't terrible, but it's not good either. "We've got nothing you want."
"See, that's where you're wrong. We've been watching your convoy for days, and you've got plenty we want. Food, weapons, whatever's in those packs."
"And a woman all alone," one of the others adds, leering and licking his lips like an animal. "That's a valuable commodity these days."
Ruby's grip on her pistol tightens, but before anyone can make a move, a sound cuts through the storm that freezes everyone in place.
Moans. Multiple. Close.
"Fuck," the lead raider swears, his bravado evaporating. "Zombies."
The dead shuffle into view, drawn by our voices. Seven, maybe eight of them, moving with that terrible, relentless purpose. The storm must have driven them down from higher elevations, same as the raiders.
Everything happens fast after that.
The raiders scatter, more concerned with the immediate threat than with us.
Smart. Ruby and I move in perfect sync, falling back toward the cabin, weapons up, covering each other's blind spots.
One zombie gets close enough that I can smell it, but Ruby puts it down with a clean headshot before it reaches me.
"Move!" I shout, and we run.
The cabin's in sight when two zombies lurch out from behind my workshop, cutting us off. Ruby fires, dropping one, but her pistol clicks empty. The second zombie lunges for her.
I don't think, just react. I slam into the thing with my shoulder, knocking it sideways, then bring my axe down on its skull. It drops like a puppet with cut strings.
"You good?" I ask Ruby.
"Yeah. You?"
"Fine."
Movement to my left. Another zombie, this one fast, already too close. I twist, trying to bring my axe around, but I know I won't make it in time.
Ruby's knife flies past my ear, burying itself in the zombie's eye socket. It collapses inches from me.
For a frozen moment, we just stare at each other, both breathing hard, both realizing how close that was. Then I grab her hand and we sprint the last thirty feet to the cabin.
Inside, I slam the door and throw the bar across, listening to the moans outside. Not many—the storm will slow them down, maybe drive them elsewhere. But enough that we need to stay vigilant.
Ruby's leaning against the wall, her chest heaving, face flushed from exertion and adrenaline. There's zombie blood on her jacket and her hair's come loose from its tie, falling around her face in waves.
I'm suddenly, acutely aware of how close she is. How good she was out there, how she didn't freeze or panic, how she watched my back without being asked. How alive she looks, with her eyes bright and her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat.
"That was close," she says.
"Too close."
"You saved my life. That thing would've killed me."
"You saved mine first. With the knife throw."
"So we're even."
"I guess we are."
We're still standing close, too close, and the air between us feels charged with more than just post-battle adrenaline. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, and I can see the same awareness in her expression that's currently making my pulse race.
I should step back. Should put distance between us. She's leaving in a week, and getting involved is the last thing either of us needs.
But I don't move. Neither does she.
"Mayson," she says softly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming with me. For having my back out there."
"Seemed like the right thing to do."
"Still. Not many people would've done it."
She's so close I can smell the cold on her skin mixed with fear-sweat and determination. My hand comes up without conscious thought, almost touches her face, almost…
I pull back, stepping away deliberately. "You should shower. Get the blood off. I'll keep watch."
She nods slowly. "Yeah. Right. Good idea."
She disappears into the bathroom, and I lean against the door, listening to the zombies outside and trying to ignore the sound of water running and the knowledge that Ruby's in there, naked, just a few feet away.