Chapter 4
four
Travis
I crossed a line with Hazel last night, and now the awkwardness is killing me.
She's riding on Eric's ATV today—said something about wanting to give my suspension a break, which is bullshit. My ATV's suspension is fine. She's avoiding me, and we both know it.
I catch myself watching her again, the way she sits stiff-backed behind Eric, one hand gripping the handlebar support instead of his waist like she'd held mine. Professional distance. Like we didn't fuck each other raw in my tent while she cried into my shoulder.
"You're staring," Jess says from beside me, her voice dry.
"I'm watching the convoy."
"You're watching her." She adjusts her grip on my waist as we navigate a rough patch of broken asphalt. "And she's watching you not watching her. It's painful."
"Mind your business."
"This is my business. Tense leadership makes for tense crews." She's quiet for a moment, then adds, "Was it just the grief? For her, I mean."
I don't answer because I don't know. Maybe it was just survival sex—two people clinging to life in the face of death. Maybe she woke up and regretted it. Maybe I read everything wrong.
Maybe caring about someone after a year of staying professional was the stupidest decision I've made since Alaska.
We ride for another three hours before making camp in a clearing Ken scouted last year, with a defensible position, good sightlines, close to running water.
The crew falls into familiar routines. Patricia and Eric set up the perimeter alarms. Jess organizes medical supplies.
Ken gets the fire going with practiced efficiency.
Everyone stops. I raise my fist, and the convoy goes silent except for idling engines.
"How many?" I ask into my radio.
"Can't tell. Definitely not human movement. Too erratic."
Zombies, then. Probably a small group, drawn by our engine noise.
"Jess, take point with me. Ken, Patricia, Eric—defensive positions. Keep the engines running."
I swing off my ATV, and Jess follows. We move toward the treeline where Eric spotted the movement, weapons ready. The forest is too quiet—no birds, no small animals. That's never a good sign.
Then I hear it. The shuffle-drag of dead feet through underbrush. The wet, rattling breathing.
"Three of them," Jess murmurs. "Maybe four."
They stumble into view—decomposing bodies in various stages of decay, drawn by the sound of our convoy. Old ones, probably from the initial outbreak. Slower than fresh zombies but unpredictable.
"I've got left," I say.
"Right."
We take them down efficiently. Headshots, quick and clean. I've done this hundreds of times. It should feel routine.
But when the last one drops and I turn back toward the convoy, I see Hazel standing beside Eric's ATV, her good hand white-knuckled on the medical kit she pulled from the cargo netting. She's pale, breathing hard, watching the treeline like more might come.
She's not afraid of the zombies. She's afraid of losing more people.
Something in my chest cracks.
"Clear," I call out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's move."
I walk back toward my ATV, and for a second I think Hazel might say something. Her mouth opens, then closes. She turns away, climbing back onto Eric's ATV without a word.
The rejection stings more than it should.
"Still giving you the cold shoulder?" Jess asks as we mount up.
"Drop it."
"I'm just saying, you could actually talk to her—"
"I said drop it."
She does, but I can feel her disapproval radiating from behind me. Great. Now my crew thinks I'm the asshole.
We ride for another three hours before making camp in a clearing Ken scouted last year—defensible position, good sightlines, close to running water.
The crew falls into familiar routines. Patricia and Eric set up the perimeter alarms. Jess organizes medical supplies.
Ken gets the fire going with practiced efficiency.
Hazel helps without being asked, moving between tasks with the competence of someone who's done this a thousand times. She checks Jess's inventory, helps Patricia string the alarm wire, assists Ken with the cooking pot.
But she doesn't look at me. Not once.
My crew likes her. More than that—they respect her. And watching her laugh at one of Ken's terrible jokes while Patricia braids her hair so it won't catch on her injured shoulder, I realize something that makes my chest ache.
I'm losing her before I ever really had her.
Dinner is awkward. Hazel sits on the opposite side of the fire, her attention focused entirely on her food. When Eric asks her a question about medical training, she answers easily, warmly. When Patricia mentions tomorrow's route, Hazel engages without hesitation.
But she won't look at me.
After the meal, I try. "Hazel, can we—"
"I'm going to help Jess reorganize the medical supplies," she says, standing abruptly. "We're running low on gauze."
"We have plenty of gauze," Jess says, confused. Then she catches my expression and adds, "But, uh, yeah. Could use a second set of hands."
They disappear toward the supply ATV, leaving me sitting by the fire like an idiot.
"She just needs time," Ken offers quietly.
"Yeah." I poke at the fire with a stick. "Or she's figured out that getting close to people in this world is a mistake, and she's smart enough to cut her losses."
"You don't believe that."
"I don't know what I believe anymore."
After everyone else has gone to their tents, I pull out the radio for our scheduled check-in. At least this is something I know how to do. Something I'm good at.
"Northern routes, this is Mountain Station. How copy?"
"Mountain Station, this is Travis. Reading you five by five."
"Good to hear your voice, Travis. Sierra says hi." There's warmth in Cole's tone—we've been coordinating routes for over a year now, and he's become more than just a contact. He's a friend. "You're still on track for Old Pines?"
"Affirmative. Two days out, maybe less if terrain cooperates."
"Copy that. Be advised—Tom's been trying to raise the medical convoy for over a week now. No response."
My stomach drops. "That's Hazel's convoy. We found the sole survivor three days ago."
Silence on the other end, then: "Shit. How bad?"
"Total loss. Seven dead. Coordinated raider attack, same signature Ruby and Mayson have been tracking."
"Hold on, I'm patching through to Hope Tower. Rebecca and Joseph need to hear this."
The radio crackles as Cole switches frequencies. A moment later, Rebecca's voice comes through, steady and professional.
"Travis, this is Hope Tower. Cole briefed us. What's the situation?"
"Survivor's name is Hazel Cooper, trained medic. She was carrying medical supplies to Old Pines when we found her. We're completing the delivery."
"Good man." That's Joseph in the background. "Those families have been waiting months."
"That's not all," I continue. "The attack was professional. Coordinated. They disabled vehicles first, then systematically eliminated the crew. This wasn't opportunistic—this was planned."
Rebecca's voice sharpens. "Same pattern as the attacks near Hope Tower?"
"Identical."
"Hold for Mayson."
More crackling. I glance toward the fire where Hazel sits with Jess, their heads bent together over something. She looks up, catches my eye, and the worry on her face tells me she knows this conversation is about her crew.
Mayson's voice cuts through the static. "Travis. Ruby and I have been tracking this group for three months. Multiple cells, coordinated leadership, targeting medical supplies specifically. The Chen convoy makes attack number seven that we know of."
"Seven?" I feel cold despite the evening warmth. "Why medical supplies?"
"Best theory? Someone's building a stockpile. Either to control distribution or to establish themselves as the only reliable source in the region. Classic power play—control medicine, control people."
"Any idea who's running it?"
"Not yet. But the pattern's escalating. They're getting bolder, hitting larger convoys, taking more risks." He pauses. "Travis, if they know the survivor made it out..."
"They'll be hunting for her."
"And anyone traveling with her. Watch your back."
After sign-off, I sit with the radio for a moment, processing. Seven convoys. How many people dead? How many families waiting for loved ones who'll never come home?
And Hazel might be next if the raiders are still hunting.
I find her sitting alone at the edge of camp, staring into the darkness beyond our perimeter. For a moment I consider walking away, giving her the space she clearly wants.
But fear is a shitty reason to avoid hard conversations.
"We need to talk about what Mayson said," I tell her, sitting down a careful distance away. "If the raiders know you survived…"
"They'll come after me. I know." Her voice is flat. "That's why I should leave. After Old Pines. Before I get your whole crew killed like I got mine."
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it?" She finally looks at me, and her eyes are hard. "You read the attack site. You know how professional it was. And I was on watch, Travis. I should have seen something, should have—"
"You can't keep blaming yourself for an ambush you couldn't prevent."
"And you can't keep acting like last night meant something when we both know it was just—" She stops, swallows hard. "I used you. To feel something other than grief. That's not fair to either of us."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
"Is that really what you think it was?"
"I don't know what I think anymore." She stands, wrapping her arms around herself. "I just know that everyone I care about dies, and I can't—I won't do that to you. To your crew."
"Hazel."
"I'm going to bed. Alone." She walks away before I can respond.
I sit there for a long time, watching the fire die down, replaying the conversation. Trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I should have said differently.
Finally, I crawl into my tent alone. The space feels too empty without Hazel's warmth beside me, without the sound of her breathing.
But she made her choice tonight. She chose distance, chose safety, chose to push me away before I could get too close.
The question is whether I'm going to let her.
I think about Alaska. About the settlement we couldn't save. About all the times I've played it safe, kept my distance, refused to care too much because caring makes you vulnerable.
And I think about Hazel walking all night on an infected wound because she promised to finish a delivery. About the way she held the families' grief like it was her own.
I don't sleep. Instead, I lie awake listening to the night sounds, trying to figure out how to convince someone who's lost everything that some things are still worth the risk.
Tomorrow we'll get closer to Old Pines. Closer to the moment when Hazel has to face the families of the people she couldn't save. Closer to the raiders who might still be hunting for her.
And somewhere in all of that, I need to figure out if what we started is worth fighting for, or if she's right that the smartest thing is to let it go before anyone else gets hurt.
I already know my answer.
I'm just not sure it matters if she's already made up her mind.