13. Bleed, Scavenge, Survive
Bleed, Scavenge, Survive
The day bled away in a rhythm of risk and reward—siphoning gas while one stood guard, scavenging quickly before moving on.
The memory of armed men in the trees had sharpened their routine into a silent, brutally efficient language.
They scanned every tree , checked every rooftop, and treated every abandoned car as a potential ambush.
It was a new kind of normalcy, and it was exhausting.
The infected weren't the only predators anymore.
By late afternoon, the snowfall eased to nothing, leaving a crisp blue sky that carried no warmth. The highways glittered under fresh snow, and the low early spring sun stretched long shadows across the empty landscape.
Inside Beast, Layla eventually drifted off, head against the window, a stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her chin like a small promise against the cold. Josie folded the map tighter across her lap, tracing the route with a fingertip that didn't quite steady when she reached the next decision point.
"We're making good time," she said.
Seth glanced over from the wheel. "Think so?"
Josie nodded once, confident in the math even if certainty had become rare. "If the roads keep up like this... we should reach my parents' place sometime tomorrow."
Seth nodded too, leaving the rest unsaid. Tomorrow carried hope, but it also carried the kind of possibility that could turn hope into heartbreak in a single moment. He noticed his hands were already moving—folding the map, capping the pen—and hers were too, busy with small, unbidden tasks.
The sun stretched lower as the convoy rolled on, and Jay's voice crackled over the radio with a warning edge.
"We're going to need to start looking for somewhere to bed down."
Seth reached for the handset. "Copy."
He glanced upward at the fading light and did the quiet calculation everyone shared without naming it. Maybe another hour—maybe. Once darkness settled over the snow-covered roads, driving meant giving whoever—or whatever—wanted them a clearer target.
A few minutes later, the radio snapped again.
"Got something up ahead."
Seth leaned forward. "What is it?"
Jay's tone tightened with cautious interest. "Looks like a farm supply place. Maybe equipment sales."
There was a pause, then Jay's voice returned, laced with weary pragmatism. "Honestly... probably the best we're gonna get tonight."
Seth spotted it moments after: a faded green sign leaning crookedly beside the highway.
HENDERSON FARM the other stayed closed and dark.
Jay stopped about fifty yards out and muttered, "Same drill."
Everyone acknowledged. Rifles stayed ready. They kept their flashlight beams tight. The night didn't deserve to be surprised.
The cold bit Seth the instant he climbed out. His rifle rose to his shoulder without needing thought, and his eyes tracked the door, the shadows beyond, the space between.
Cara disappeared around the far side of the building while Jay approached the partially open entrance. Wind pushed at the loose metal, pulling a low, uneven groan from it, then silence, then another.
Jay paused. He listened.
Nothing moved.
Silence stretched after that—thick, deliberate.
No snarling. No footsteps. No movement at all. Just darkness and the faint scent of cold steel.
Jay swept his flashlight across the interior. Dust drifted lazily through the beam, catching the light like slow snow indoors. Rows of old tractors lined the space, with seed drills and hay balers pushed into the corners. Shelves held fertilizer bags, stacked and forgotten. Everything stayed still.
"Looks clear," Jay called quietly.
"Looks," Seth answered. Clear didn't survive long in their world.
They moved in together, boots echoing across concrete. Diesel fuel, grease, old hay, and cold metal filled the air. It should've been unpleasant, yet the familiarity of "a place to check" settled their nerves into something usable.
Cara reappeared from a side doorway. "Office is clear."
Jay nodded and kept the search moving, scanning for any sign that someone had already decided this space belonged to them. Seth walked slowly between rows of equipment, flashlight cutting tight lanes through the dark.
Then he stopped so suddenly his breath stalled.
Eyes reflected back at him—wide and bright.
Seth's finger tightened on the trigger before logic caught up.
Moooo.
"You've got to be kidding me."
A skinny brown cow wandered from behind an old combine, chewing lazily as though the barn's contents had nothing to do with incoming strangers. Another stepped out behind it. Then a third.
Jay lowered his rifle, letting out a shaky breath that plumed in the cold. "Jesus Christ. A second later and we'd be eating steak for a month."
Josie stepped inside, taking in the calm herd without panic. "They've been living in here."
One of the barn doors at the back had blown partially open, letting animals wander in and out.
Seth looked toward that gap and realized what they hadn't seen anywhere else: no broken signs of recent disturbance, no scramble of frantic footprints, nothing suggesting anyone had come through with a plan to steal.
"They look healthy enough," Josie said.
"They've probably been eating spilled feed," Jay replied.
Seth tipped his head toward the back wall. "And nobody's bothered them."
Jay grunted in agreement. "Means people haven't been through here much. Good sign."
They swept the outbuildings and found the same story. The only tracks belonged to animals, the only dust disturbed by wind. The place was truly empty, abandoned.
Jay finally exhaled, and even that small motion sounded loud inside the barn. "I think this is it."
Seth looked around one last time, then gave a single, decisive nod.
Cara leaned her bow against an old workbench and gestured toward the wide interior. "I'll happily take a barn over sleeping outside."
"Me too," Josie said, her voice soft with relief.
Jay pointed to the center aisle. "We'll park nose-out. Easy exit if we need it."
Within minutes, the SUVs rolled inside and the huge doors began to swallow the outside world again. Engines echoed through the space as they found their positions, side by side with enough clearance to shift quickly if trouble showed up.
Seth and Jay worked the sliding barn doors shut until the metal scraped across frozen gravel with a harsh, stubborn sound—then slammed into place. An iron bar dropped across the track with a clunk that resonated in the chest, the kind of sound that meant something had been decided.
The silence inside the pole barn settled in fast. Outside, wind kept whistling through the fields. Inside—protected, blocked from the open air and the long sight-lines—warmth didn't exist, but safety did. For one night, that counted.
Jay removed his gloves and rubbed his hands together, his movements sharp and efficient. "Keep the fire small. No big smoke column."
Seth just nodded, already scanning the concrete floor for a clear spot away from the drafts sighing through the metal walls.
Cara was already gathering broken pallets near the wall, stacking them with the practiced speed that came from too many nights with too few options. "We've become professionals at this."
"Don't jinx it," Seth muttered.
She grinned as she tossed another board onto the pile. "You know..."
She paused just long enough for the humor to land. "...for the end of the world, we've gotten pretty good at checking into hotels."
Jay barked a laugh, and the sound eased the tightness in the space for a moment. "Yeah."
He looked around the barn, at the cows calmly chewing, at the equipment arranged like forgotten history. "The hotels are just getting progressively weirder."