Chapter 4 Mayson
four
Mayson
Three days pass in a strange mixture of domestic comfort and electric tension.
Ruby works on improvements during the day—she's built a better early-warning system with tripwires and bells, reorganized my entire supply cache, and made a dozen small changes that prove she wasn't just talk about her logistics background.
At night, we sit by the fire, not quite touching, both very aware of what almost happened.
"Tell me about the fire scar," she says on the third evening, gesturing out the window to the blackened trees visible in the moonlight.
I stiffen. "What about it?"
"You built your cabin right in the middle of it. That seems deliberate."
"Maybe I liked the view."
"Or maybe you're punishing yourself for something."
She's too perceptive for her own good. I should deflect, change the subject, but there's something about her that makes me want to tell the truth.
"I was a wildfire firefighter," I say slowly. "Before the outbreak. Hotshot crew—twenty of us who went into the worst fires, the ones regular crews couldn't handle."
"And?"
"And when the outbreak started, we were in the middle of a major fire season. We got separated from our base during an evacuation, tried to shelter in place." I stare into the fire, seeing different flames, hearing different voices. "The zombies found us. Overran our position."
"You're the only survivor."
It's not a question. She already knows.
"I made the call to hide in a burnout zone. Told them to follow me. But when the zombies came, I..." I swallow hard. "I heard them dying. Screaming my name. I tried to get to them, but it was too late."
"You survived."
"I let them die."
"You made an impossible choice in an impossible situation."
"They trusted me. I was crew boss. They followed my orders right into—"
"Stop." Her hand covers mine, and I realize I'm shaking. "You didn't kill them. The zombies did. The apocalypse did. You surviving doesn't make you responsible for their deaths."
"Then why does it feel like it does?"
"Because you loved them. Because survivor's guilt is a bitch. Because it's easier to blame yourself than to accept that sometimes terrible things happen and there's no one to blame." She says it with the confidence of someone who knows. Someone who's carried her own guilt.
"Dave," I say quietly. "Your driver."
"Yeah." Her voice goes soft. "He had a family. I should've been driving—I was learning stick shift. If I'd been behind the wheel instead of him—"
"You might both be dead."
"Or we might both be alive."
"Exactly. You can't know. That's what makes it so hard." I turn my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. "So we carry it. The guilt, the what-ifs, the voices we hear in the dark. We carry it and we keep going."
"Is that what you've been doing for so long? Just carrying it?"
"I've been existing. Working myself to exhaustion so I don't have to think. Building this place on the grave of my crew because... I don't know. Because I couldn't leave them behind completely."
"That's not existing, Mayson. That's penance."
"Maybe I deserve it."
"Bullshit." Her voice is fierce now. "You deserve to live. Really live, not just go through the motions. Your crew wouldn't want you suffering like this."
"You don't know what they'd want."
"I know what Dave would want. He'd want me to survive, to thrive, to find reasons to keep going. To be happy if I can." She squeezes my hand. "Your crew would want the same for you."
We sit in silence, hands linked, both of us carrying ghosts we can't put down.
"Ruby," I say eventually.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. The real me. Not just the hermit in the woods."
She leans her head on my shoulder, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. "You're welcome."
We stay like that until the fire burns low, neither of us willing to break the moment.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of Ruby cursing softly. I emerge from my bedroom to find her at the radio, trying different frequencies with increasing frustration.
"Still nothing?" I ask.
"No. I've tried every frequency, every possible channel. It's like the whole convoy just vanished." She looks at me, and I can see real fear in her eyes. "They should be at Dawson Ridge by now, setting up, sending out signals. But there's nothing."
"Storm could've damaged equipment."
"For everyone? Every truck? Every handheld unit?" She shakes her head. "Something bad happened, Mayson. I can feel it."
I move to the radio, trying a few adjustments myself, but she's right. There's nothing but static on channels that should be active. It's not a good sign.
"Two days until the rendezvous," she says quietly. "I have to go now. I can’t keep waiting. Even if they're not transmitting, they might be there."
"And if they're not?"
"Then I..." She trails off, and I see her struggling with the reality. "Then I find another settlement. Or I keep moving. Or I..."
"Or you stay here."
The words are out before I can stop them. She turns to look at me, eyes wide.
"Mayson?"
"I know it's not what we agreed. I know you have people, obligations, a whole life beyond this mountain. But if they don't show, if something happened..." I take a breath. "You'd be safe here. We work well together. And I..."
I can't finish. Can't say what I'm really thinking that I've gotten used to her presence, that the cabin feels wrong when I imagine it empty again, that maybe I'm tired of being alone.
"Let's see what happens at Dawson Ridge," she says softly. "One thing at a time."
We spend the day preparing for her departure. I pack food, ammunition, first aid. Draw maps of safe routes. Mark settlements that might take her in if her convoy is gone. Each item I pack feels like a betrayal, like I'm helping her leave when what I want is to convince her to stay.
By evening, everything is ready. She'll leave at first light, hike to Dawson Ridge, wait at the rendezvous point. Either her convoy shows, or they don't. Either way, our time together is ending.
We eat dinner in silence, neither of us willing to address the elephant in the room. After, we sit by the fire, the tension between us so thick it's hard to breathe.
"I'm going to miss this," Ruby says suddenly. "The cabin, the quiet, the... you."
"Ruby."
"I know. I know we agreed, one week, no complications. But I'm not good at pretending, Mayson. I like you. More than I should, given that I'm leaving tomorrow."
"I like you too."
"So what do we do about it?"
I look at this stubborn, brilliant, beautiful woman who crashed into my life and somehow made me want to live again, and make a decision.
"We stop pretending we don't want this. It wasn’t just survival. What I feel about you is more than that." I pull her into my lap, and kiss her with all the pent-up desire. She responds instantly, hands in my hair, body pressed against mine, and there's no hesitation this time, no stopping halfway.
"This time we go all the way," I growl against her mouth.
"Yes. God, yes."
I carry her to the bedroom, kick the door shut. She's already yanking my shirt over my head, hands on my chest, my shoulders. I shove her jeans down, taking her underwear with them, until there's nothing between us.
I look at her spread out on my bed - flushed skin, hard nipples, that look in her eyes that says she wants this as badly as I do.
"Stop staring and touch me," she says.
I cover her, skin to skin, and, wow, she's warm everywhere, soft in all the right places. Her legs wrap around me and I can feel how wet she is, right against my cock.
"You sure?" I ask, even though I'm already lining myself up.
"If you don't get inside me right now," she warns.
I push in and she gasps, mouth falling open. She's tight and I force myself to go slow even though everything in me wants to just drive in deep. Her nails bite into my shoulders as I work deeper.
I can barely breathe once I'm all the way in. Can barely think straight.
She rocks her hips, testing, and we both groan. "Don't you dare go slow."
I pull back and thrust hard. Once. Twice. Finding what makes her gasp.
"Like that," she pants. "Just like that."
I give it to her harder, faster. The bed creaks under us and she's making these sounds - little gasps and moans that go straight to my cock. Her tits bounce with every thrust and I want my mouth on them but I can't stop moving.
I shift angle and she cries out.
"There, fuck, right there!"
I hit that spot again. And again. Her face is flushed, lips parted, completely wrecked, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"Touch yourself," I tell her. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
Her hand slides between us and I can feel her fingers working while I'm inside her. It's too much. I'm not going to last.
"Ruby, I need to—soon—"
"Do it, oh god," She goes tight around me, pulsing, and I nearly lose it right there.
I manage three more thrusts before I have to pull out, fisting myself as I come across her stomach. The orgasm hits hard, leaves me shaking.
When I can breathe again, we're both covered in sweat and my release.
"Sorry," I mutter, reaching for my discarded shirt to clean her. "Should've warned you better."
"It's fine." She stops my hand. "No condoms in the apocalypse. I get it."
I clean us both up, toss the shirt aside. "Next time I'll have better control."
"Next time?" She's grinning. "Confident."
"Give me ten minutes."
"Ten minutes?" She laughs. "Okay, mountain man."
She’s so beautiful. I can feel myself getting hard again. “Maybe less,” I laugh and kiss the top of her head. I pull her against me, her head on my chest. Her heart's still racing. I can feel it against my ribs.