Chapter 2 Kole
two
Kole
I don't sleep.
Can't, really. Not with her here.
Sierra—aka Goldfinch—is in my bed, finally warm and resting after her near-death experience in my yard.
I've positioned myself where I can watch both the door and the bedroom entrance, rifle within easy reach.
Not because I think she's a threat, but because having another person in my space after three years of isolation has every instinct on high alert.
She talks in her sleep. Soft murmurs about frequencies and check-in times, occasionally calling out call signs I recognize. Even unconscious, she's trying to hold the network together.
Eighteen months I've listened to her voice over the radio.
Eighteen months of morning check-ins where her cheerful "Good morning, North Ridge, this is Goldfinch coming to you live from absolutely nowhere interesting" became the highlight of my day.
I'd built up an image of her—probably former military or emergency services, definitely not someone who'd nearly die trying to reach me in a blizzard.
The reality is different. Younger than her radio voice suggested, maybe late twenties.
Soft features that remind me of my communications instructor at Fort Gordon, back when the world still had forts and instructors.
There's a competence to her even while sleeping—her pack organized for quick access, her pistol positioned where she could reach if she woke suddenly.
A survivor. Like recognizes like.
The storm howls outside, getting worse as the night deepens. I check my preparations again—boards reinforced over windows, supplies organized, weapons loaded. Two hundred zombies. I've handled herds before, but never that large. Never in a storm that prevents escape routes.
"Can't sleep either?"
I turn to find Sierra standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing the oversized flannel shirt and sweatpants I'd left for her. Her feet are bare, and she's favoring the left one slightly—the one that came closest to real frostbite.
"You should rest," I tell her.
"Can't. Keep thinking about the herd." She limps to the other chair by the fire, lowering herself carefully. "How many zombies have you dealt with at once?"
"Forty-three."
"Exactly forty-three?"
"You count when your life depends on it."
She nods like this makes perfect sense. "My record is twenty-seven. But that was with a full team and prepared positions."
"And now it's just us."
"Unless you've got reinforcements hidden somewhere."
"Fresh out of reinforcements."
She almost smiles at that. "So what's the plan? We can't fight two hundred."
"No, but we might not have to." I move to the map on my wall, one I've annotated with every trail, every chokepoint, every defensive position in a five-mile radius. "Herds follow the easiest path. In this storm, that's the valley."
"But your cabin—"
"Is elevated. If we're quiet, if we're smart, they might pass right by."
"Might."
"Better odds than fighting."
She stands, moving closer to study the map. Close enough that I can smell her—woodsmoke and pine.
"What if we could divert them?" she asks, tracing a path with her finger. "Make noise here, draw them away from both the cabin and Old Pines?"
"That would require someone being bait."
"Or something. You have equipment, supplies. We could rig something automated."
I look at her. She's already thinking tactically, already problem-solving. Not panicking about the threat but working through solutions.
"What kind of automated?"
"Radio distraction. Speakers in trees, timed broadcasts. I've done it before to clear supply routes."
"That would take equipment I don't have."
"But equipment you could build?"
"Maybe. With help."
"Good thing you've got help."
The confidence in her voice, the assumption that we're partners in this, makes my gut twist in ways it hasn’t in forever.
"It's been a long time since I worked with someone," I admit.
"How long?"
Three years, eight months, and twelve days. But I don't say that.
"Long enough."
She doesn't push, which I appreciate. Instead, she returns to studying the map, occasionally asking questions about terrain, sight lines, zombie behavior patterns I've observed.
Professional questions that keep us focused on survival rather than the awkwardness of two strangers forced into proximity.
"You were in the military," she observes. "The way you mark positions, your sight line calculations. Communications?"
"Army. Signal Corps."
"That explains the radio setup. Even damaged, it's more sophisticated than most settlements manage."
"Training sticks."
"Is that why you are isolated? Something that happened during service?"
"No." The word comes out harder than intended. "That came later."
She backs off immediately, recognizing the closed door. "Fair enough. We all have our reasons."
"What's yours?"
"My what?"
"Your reason for being alone at that outpost while everyone else evacuated."
Her expression tightens. "Someone had to coordinate. Make sure everyone gets out safely."
"But not you."
"I was supposed to leave last. After everyone was clear." She shrugs, but I can see the weight of it. "I miscalculated how fast the storm would move in."
"Or you prioritized everyone else over yourself."
"Same difference."
"No, it's not."
We look at each other across the map. We're both the type to put ourselves at risk for others, even when those others don't necessarily deserve it.
"I should check the equipment," I say, breaking the moment. "See what we have to work with."
"I'll help."
"Your feet—"
"Are fine. Sore, but functional." She tests her weight, grimaces slightly but stays standing. "I'm not going to sit around while you do all the work."
"Stubborn."
"Practical. Two people work faster than one."
She's right, though I don't like admitting it.
We spend the next few hours inventorying my supplies, testing equipment, sketching out plans for the radio distraction. She knows her stuff—not just radios but electronics in general, improvising solutions with limited resources.
"You weren't kidding about maintaining the network," I observe, watching her splice wires with steady hands despite the cold.
"It was important. Keeping people connected, maintaining hope." She doesn't look up from her work. "Some days, knowing there were other voices out there was all that kept people going."
"Including you?"
"Especially me." She does look up then. "Your morning reports were usually the first transmission I'd receive. 'North Ridge reporting clear skies and no movement.' Reliable. Consistent. It helped."
"Just doing my part."
"No, it was more than that. You gave detailed weather reports when no one asked for them. You relayed messages between settlements that couldn't reach each other. You participated even while staying separate."
She's seen through me more in one conversation than anyone managed in three years.
"Isolation doesn't mean abandonment," I say quietly.
"No, it doesn't." She connects two wires, and a small LED flickers to life. "There. That's one speaker unit. How many more can we build?"
"With what we have? Maybe three."
"Four points of sound. We can work with that."
Dawn is breaking by the time we've assembled our makeshift system. The storm has lessened slightly, though snow still falls steadily. Sierra's exhausted but trying not to show it, her hands shaking slightly as she makes final adjustments.
"You need rest," I tell her.
"We both do."
"I'm used to not sleeping."
"Nobody's used to not sleeping. They just get better at functioning through exhaustion."
She's right again. An irritating habit she's developing.
"Two hours," I compromise. "We both rest for two hours, then position the speakers before the herd arrives."
"Together?"
"Can't position four speakers alone."
"That's not what I meant."
I know what she meant. She's asking if I trust her enough to sleep at the same time, to be vulnerable in the same space.
I sigh. "If we're going to face two hundred zombies together, we should probably get used to being in close proximity."
"Practical."
"Always."
We settle on opposite ends of the couch, a carefully maintained distance between us.
But as exhaustion takes over, that distance shrinks.
By the time I drift off, her feet are tucked against my thigh, and somehow that small point of contact is more intimate than anything I've experienced in three years.
I wake to find her curled against my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest. My arm has somehow ended up around her, holding her close. We both freeze as awareness returns, but neither pulls away immediately.
She sits up slowly, and I immediately miss the warmth. Not just physical—though that too—but the warmth of human contact I've denied myself for so long.
"We should position those speakers," she says, not meeting my eyes.
"Yeah."
The moment passes, but something has shifted. We're not strangers anymore. Not quite friends either, but something in between. Partners, maybe, united by the approaching threat.
As we prepare to head out into the storm, she checks her pistol, checks mine, hands me extra ammunition without being asked.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Are you?"
"I've been ready for worse things with worse odds." She manages a small smile. "At least this time I've got backup I trust."
"You trust me? You've known me for less than twenty-four hours."
"I've known your voice for eighteen months. I've heard how you handle crises, how you help others while maintaining boundaries, how you prepare for every contingency." She shoulders her pack. "I trusted you before I met you. Meeting you just confirmed I was right."
The admission hits harder than it should. Trust is dangerous in this world. Trust gets you killed or worse. But looking at Sierra—Goldfinch—ready to face impossible odds beside me, I realize I trust her too.
"Let's go," I say. "We've got a herd to redirect."