Naná Miller

Tommy walked north, and the world let him walk.

That was the strange part. Four years of the road teaching him that every quiet would later have a loud price, and now, alone, the miles just kept coming. He crossed open ground he'd have avoided a week ago, taking the straight road instead of the covered one. Passed a treeline with something big moving parallel to him, and didn't raise the rifle, just kept his pace, and whatever it was lost interest before he did.

The flinch was gone.

All his life there'd been somebody on the other end of his caution. Austin to Boston, Boston to here, there was always a reason to check the corner twice. The folks from the first convoy, then the winter group, then just Joel, for a long time just Joel. And then, for a bit more than one month, a smart-mouthed cargo who couldn't run, couldn't fight, couldn't shoot. But somehow was able to cause a lot of headaches and had to be lived for at all hours.

Until the day that cargo was no longer just a cargo, and his world was shifted upside down.

And now… Caution was a thing he did for people. Turned out that with nobody left to take care of, he simply couldn't make himself care about himself. At all.

It wasn't that he wanted to die. He turned that over honestly, walking, because a man alone has nothing but time to audit himself. No… he'd fight anything that came, same as always. It was just that the fire had gone. If something got him out here, it would be a shame the way rain on a saturday is a shame. It just… happens.

What a luxury, he thought, dry, stepping over a collapsed guardrail. Most freedom I've had in years, and it feels like a burial.

He kept his spirits up the only way he knew, which was talking to himself. One thing at a time, Miller. The shoulder kept pulsing in pain, which he either ignored or took painkillers once and a while when he was fed up with the strain.

The farm supply Sarah mentioned had a machine shed and the machine shed had a truck and the truck had a battery corroded into shit, so that was that. The National Guard checkpoint had six vehicles, five stripped, one with keys still in it and a skeleton still in that, and he'd apologized to the man out loud. “Sorry, brother, no offense meant.” Before discovering the tank was drier than his joke.

He looked for Joel the way you look for a specific raindrop. It was impossible and he knew it was impossible. One man, miles of country, a hundred routes north. So he did what could be done: he read the road. Checked the shoulder mud for hoofprints. Checked burnt-out camps for Joel's kind of tidiness, ash kicked over, cans buried, the habits of a man who never left a story behind him. Checked, God forgive him, the ditches.

The ditches were the good news. Every mile of nothing was a mile without his brother's body in it. No fresh corpses, no horse dead on the road he'd recognize. No sign of your firefly friends dead, either, which he chose to read as everyone still upright and moving.

The longing he carried was different now. It had changed weight since the auto shop. No longer the live, arguing want of a man who might turn around, but something settled and cold-ripened, like grief, because he'd made his decision. He wasn't fighting the thoughts of you anymore. He was visiting them, carefully.

He caught himself narrating the country to you. A ruined billboard for a water park, and your voice in his head had opinions about it.

A pharmacy he swept for supplies, and he stood a full minute in front of one shampoo, of all the goddamn things, because you'd have made a speech. Made him smell, probably. You’d tell him to keep that and take a shower because he was a smelly walking corpse at this point.

He laughed at that. Your obsession with showers and with keeping yourself clean, despite everything.

And because he couldn’t fight it, he thought about your showers together, and all the times your body was bare and wet and vulnerable against his or beneath his eyes. How easy it was for you to trust him when he never gave reasons to.

When he stopped to eat, he fumbled his pack for something but soon the candy box was in his hand. He laid there with his thumb on the dented cardboard. But some stupid, hopeless part of him could not eat it.

Just in case.

He made his decision, yes, but something deep down on him was promising if he kept that box, he would still have a change to give it to you. He placed the cookie dough candies back in the pack and swapped to beef jerky instead.

Later that day, finally with the city behind and cutting through the wild, he spotted a narrow river which seemed decent. It would be the typical kind of place you’d ask to bath.

He stood on the bank a moment, and the urge came, and for once there was no reason on earth to say no. No watch to keep. No cargo. No brother telling him they were burning daylight. He stripped down to his skin and waded in, hissing at the cold, and stood there while the current combed past him.

He started cleaning the external tissue of the shoulder wound, and didn’t like what he saw. It was swollen, uglier than it should be. He'd torn stitches twice now. He cleaned it slow, jaw tight, and made himself a promise: Joel's antibiotics are in the bag. Today you take them like a grown man. Dying of stubbornness was his brother's retirement plan, not his.

Then he washed. And his hands, moving soap-less and rough over his own body, kept finding the map of scars. He'd stopped seeing them years ago. But alone, in cold water under end of daylight, every one of them stood up and remembered their reasons for him. Here's who you are. Here's what you did. Here's what was done back.

His hands slowed on his own chest. He remembered warm instead of cold: your palms, flat on his chest reading the scars like you were the first person ever to find them worth reading. Nobody had touched him in four years except to hurt him or stitch him, and then you'd come along and put your hands on all that ruin like it was worth something. And standing in this river he'd have traded the rifle, the road, the whole mission north for one more minute of your hands doing what his couldn't.

He ducked under, all the way, held himself there in the cold dark with his hair loose, and came up gasping.

All these marks all over his body reminded him who he was. The river could not wash it away, only rinse the surface of it.

Listen to you, Miller. Standing bare-ass in a river, mourning a woman like a widower. He'd buried friends he'd known for years and stood straighter at their graves than he was standing now. It was pathetic.

He looked down at the water moving past him and asked the question honestly. How'd you do it? What was it about you? Five-foot-nothing of smart mouth and a bad heart, that had walked through his armor easily like that?

He didn't have an answer. Pathetic, he told himself again, firmly.

He waded out, dried off with his spare shirt, and dressed with his hair still dripping down his back. Took the antibiotics, dry, two of them.

Then he shouldered the pack, and walked north, cleaner than he'd been in weeks and no lighter at all.

He decided to forbid himself the thoughts of you, and for most of the day it worked. He walked like a responsible man again: reading shadows, wise steps, giving every small sound the attention it deserved.

Twice the country tested him. A runner first, blundering out of a gas station lot. He put it down quiet with the knife, and the follow-through lit his shoulder up so bright he had to stand a minute with his hand braced on a pump, breathing through his teeth. Later, near dusk, two more in a field, tangled in old fencing. He could've gone around, but he finished them anyway.

When it was dark he found a decent spot to lay down. And he finally lost the battle.

Because he knew what was waiting for him in sleep: Nightmares. So he let you in again.

He went back to the house. Joel healing, the world on pause. The whiskey night. You swinging your leg over his lap, and then — God — the Chernobyl story. Dying firefighters and pregnant widows, delivered straight-faced as a seduction. He huffed a laugh into the dark, alone, remembering how badly it had worked and how completely it had worked anyway. He hadn't understood, then, why you'd reach for something that grim just to get his hands on you.

He was drowsing in the warm remains of it. Your weight, your forehead against his, I can feel your heart, Tommy.

But something different pulled out of his memory then.

My friend found the doctor, Tommy. The one who did my last surgery. If there's anyone who can still do something about this it's him.

Tommy's eyes opened in the dark.

The doctor. You'd said the doctor. Not just Marlene, not just taking Boston back from Lincoln. Your surgeon, waiting in Baltimore. He'd been three drinks and two painkillers deep that night, half his blood replaced with wanting you, and the word had gone into him and never come back out until now. You weren't only going to Baltimore to plan a war. You were going to Baltimore for the doctor. Checked? Repaired?

He scavenged his thoughts to recall whatever piece of information left you spill. And then the other night surfaced, the fire, the guitar still warm between you, right after you'd told him the truth about the infected. He'd asked, careful are you doin' anything about it? And you'd looked away. Let's say... yes. There's somethin' in Baltimore to discuss about it.

It.

He lay there staring at the black shapes of branches and turned the word over like a stone with something under it. Something in Baltimore to discuss about.

Which it?

The heart? Or the other thing, the thing the stalkers knew about you, the thing that made clickers part around you like you were already spoken for?

He'd assumed, that night, you meant the device. Now he wasn't sure you had. Now he wasn't sure you were sure.

And Baltimore was burned. So whatever doctor, whatever equipment, whatever discussion was waiting for you down there was waiting in a graveyard, and you were walking toward it believing.

He'd made you promises of nothing. He'd walked north. And he'd left you headed for a ruined city to be discussed.

He shake it away. You knew what you’re doing. You were smart, and you wouldn’t walk toward a ruined city if there wasn’t something real waiting for you there. The sleep was gone, anyway.

“You're gonna be alright,” he told you, or at least told the version of you that was following him in his mind. “Frank's got you. Marcus's got you. You're a week out from Baltimore and whatever's waitin' there.”

It helped, believing that.

It was the only thing he got completely wrong.

---

The old theater where they dragged you stood in your front now, and all the control you had managed along the way until this point felt about to shatter at once. Your body was exhausted. Every muscle burned from how hard you had fought and screamed the entire way here. They let you scream for the first mile. Eventually shoved a gun into your mouth until you gagged on cold metal and your own terror, and you had spat around the barrel that you’d rather be shot than suffer whatever they had planned. The man only laughed, low and cruel, and dragged the gun slowly through your body, patiently, explaining everything that could happen to you before dying became an option. That was the moment you remembered that fighting back with strength had never been a solution for you. The only weapon you had and the only one that had ever worked was your brain. So you went silent and let your mind work.

The thought pressed against your ribs, suffocating. This can’t be. This can’t be it. But you had put yourself together at every attempt at collapsing. You used every breath, every cell in your body to claw back control. And focused on doing what you did best: cataloging everything.

Learning every detail, from the men, from the place, from every inch of the situation. I can get away. I’ll find a way. Nobody here is smarter than I am. I’m gonna be fine. It’ll all be fine. I’ll figure it out.

You repeated it as a mantra, panting, one hand pressed flat over your heart, hammering so violently you could feel it close to exploding.

I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna be fine.

You evaluated everything at every step. The once-grand marquee sagged, most of the letters long gone. Vines and cordyceps crawled up the brick facade like living rot.

From the surrounding ruins you could hear them: the desperate, wet growling and sharp clicks moving through the alleys on either side of the theater. The Gilead Crew hadn’t cleared the block. They didn’t seem to bother. You realized why within seconds: they farmed it.

One of the men gripping your arm, a big, greasy bastard with a missing front tooth and breath that smelled like cheap alcohol and rot, laughed at your surprise.

“Relax, doll. The freaks are our fuckin’ doormen,” he said, giving your ass a hard squeeze through your jeans. The violation disgusted you more than any infected ever could. “Any rat bastard tries to sneak up on us, they get turned into mushroom food before they hit the alley. We just gotta know when to ring the dinner bell.”

He pointed up. Four heavily armed men stood on the theater roof, rifles ready. The infected, dozens of them, were trapped behind crude fences and barriers like controlled attack dogs. One of the roof guards held what looked like a remote or a switch. They could release the horde at any moment.

That’s their security system, you realized. You see the first advantage there, and somehow it calms you a bit. Those infected can actually be your ally.

They shoved you through the heavy front doors.

The main level used to be beautiful. Now it was a disgusting parody of what it once was.

The vast auditorium had been divided by piles of scavenged filth. Crates, many crates, of ammo, canned food, filthy clothes, stolen weapons, even old theater seats stacked into crude walls. These piles carved the space into territories. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, cheap whiskey and body odor. Several men were scattered in the remaining good seats, boots up, following you with their eyes like hungry dogs watching fresh meat. On the old stage beneath the tattered remains of a gold curtain sat their command ‘office’ a big scarred table covered in maps, ledgers, half-empty bottles, and a working radio.

Clients waited in the audience. You felt the full architecture of the operation assemble itself in your head, unbidden, and the urge to vomit rose with every step.

They dragged you past all of it. More men leered. You walked close enough that one of them reached out and grabbed your breast hard through your shirt, twisting viciously. You cried out, trying to pull away, but the man holding your arm only laughed and shoved you forward.

“Nice batch,” he grins. “She’s got fight in her. Gonna be fun.”

Another spat on the floor near your feet. “Bet that tight little cunt’s still got some use left before she turns into another broken-down whore like the rest of ‘em.”

You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them back furiously. You couldn’t afford to break.

They took you through a heavy reinforced door behind the stage.

The temperature dropped as they shoved you down the concrete stairs into the basement.

Below was where the building stopped pretending. A long corridor under the stage, lined with doors: the old dressing rooms. Each one had a number stenciled on it and a heavy lock on the outside. Some doors were shut, and the noises you heard from behind them were absolutely terrifying.

The stink of mildew, piss, sweat, and sex hit you like a wall. Your footsteps echoed. So did the sounds coming from behind the doors: soft crying, the occasional sharp slap or moan, men grunting.

One door was open with people inside. A man was in a girl who looked barely conscious. Blood stains the mattresses. Her legs held open by another man gripping her ankles. He slapped her ass hard and laughed.

“Next,” he called out like it was a fucking deli counter.

Tears started falling freely then, and your body contorted in fear. That was when you lost it. Panic flooded you, raw and animal. You started fighting with everything you had, kicking, twisting, screaming.

“No! Get the fuck off me! Don’t touch me, you sick fucks! Let me go now, let me go!”

They laughed. One of them grabbed your face hard, fingers digging into your jaw.

“Keep that fire in you, doll,” he said, breath hot and foul against your cheek. “Some clients really like the ones who fight back.”

They dragged you down the end of the corridor to the last door.

The man who had been manhandling you the whole time shoved you inside. The door slammed shut behind you.

For a moment you just stood there, panting hard, the world tilting. Your heart was hammering so violently you genuinely thought you might pass out. You stared at the closed door like a death sentence, except a death sentence would be much nicer, and the panic rose so fast and so high you had to press both hands against the wall to stay upright.

Then hands landed on your shoulders.

You snatched at them on pure instinct, ready to fight, before your brain caught up. These hands weren’t cruel. They were small, trying to steady you.

You blinked, and the room came into focus.

It was bigger than you expected. A large, windowless basement room that had once probably been storage or a green room. Now it was the dorm. Maybe seven other women. Some sitting on thin, stained mattresses. Some curled on the floor. All of them looked like ghosts of who they used to be, once beautiful, now lifeless, hollowed out by exhaustion and trauma.

Most of them came to you slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. One older woman kind eyes guided you down until you were sitting on the cold floor, back against the wall. Another brought a dented metal cup of water and pressed it into your shaking hands.

“Breathe, honey,” someone whispered. “Just breathe. You’re safe in here. For now.”

You drank the water in small, desperate sips, your heart still racing. The women kept talking to you in low, soothing voices. Nonsense words, reassurances, small comforts, until the worst of the panic retreated and your heartbeat slowly, painfully, came back under control.

When you were calmer, you finally looked around properly.

A few bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting harsh, sickly light. Thin, filthy mattresses against the walls, some with blankets, most without. The air smelled of unwashed bodies and tears. In one corner, a small pile of shared clothes and rags.

Everybody was quiet now, watching you, giving you space to settle your thoughts.

Then you spotted a girl sitting on one of the mattresses in the corner, younger than the rest. She had two small dogs on her lap, fluffy little things that looked impossibly out of place in this hell. For one second, the image of those cute, lively animals captured your full attention. They were so wildly discrepant with everything else in the room that your brain latched onto them like a lifeline.

“You like dogs?” the young girl asked shyly.

You nodded, still a little displaced, not fully back in your body yet.

“Go on,” the girl said softly and lovingly to the two dogs. “Go say hi.”

Both little dogs jumped off her lap and trotted straight to you, tails wagging. You let them climb into your lap, their warm bodies and wet tongues a small, absurd comfort in the middle of hell. You buried your hands in their fur and let yourself breathe with them, still shaky but slowly coming back.

The door shoved open without warning. The men brought back the girl you had seen being used before. She walked in silently, eyes empty, and went straight to her mattress without looking at anyone. She lay down and curled into herself like she could disappear.

One of the men at the door barked, “Kelly! Miriam! Lucy!”

Two women around you moved to the door without protest. The young girl who had the dogs before stood up calmly and walked toward the men too. As she passed you, she paused for half a second and said softly, “Take care of them for me, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

Then they were gone. The door slammed shut again.

One woman stayed sitting by your side the whole time, rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back in silence. Just understanding and silently supported.

You noticed fully the environment now, and snapped at a new sight: A man. He was sitting quietly beside the girl who had just been brought back. He was big and strong, but he sat so softly next to her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder as he asked, low and careful, “You okay? Was it… fine?”

The girl nodded without looking at him. “Yes. Thanks, Bruce.”

You snapped your head violently toward the woman beside you, as if she was already someone you trusted.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, reading your panic. “Bruce is our friend. He’s nice. He’s here to protect us.”

You kept staring at her, trying to process it. It was all too much. It was all surreal in the worst possible way.

“I’m Kath, by the way,” the woman said gently. She proceeded to introduce the others in the room, one by one. “Kelly, Miriam and Lucy you just met… and other two are ‘at work’ right now.” She reached down and gently petted the two small dogs still curled in your lap. “These are Coco and Mochi.”

The women murmured quiet greetings, some offering small, exhausted faces. A few reached out to touch your arm or shoulder, just… there for you. One of them pressed a thin, ragged blanket around your shoulders. Nobody pushed for conversation. They simply sat with you in the heavy silence, letting you breathe.

“You have a few days before starting,” Kath said after a while, her hand still rubbing slow circles on your back. “Might use it to prepare mentally. We’ll be here to support you, okay?”

You couldn’t say anything, your mind spinning too fast to form proper words.

Kath continued, her voice dropping with clear disapproval. “First time is always Damian’s. He’s the big boss, ran it with Patricia. Newcomers are always tested by him first. It’s some sort of disgusting ritual so he has the privilege… but he’ll say it’s to ‘map the new material,’ understand the product so he can tailor the right offer to the right clients.” She shook her head, jaw tight.

“Luckily for you,” she added, “he’s out with Joshua looking for the men who killed Patricia.” She stared at your face, waiting for your reaction.

You snapped your eyes to her, heart lurching.

“You were with them, weren’t you?” Kath asked quietly. “Why weren’t you together anymore?”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “Do you know if they found them? Any of them?”

“If they did, they’d be back already.”

You exhaled.

“So until they’re not here, it means they’re safe. And you’re safe.” She squeezed your shoulder. “But please, honey… prepare yourself because as soon Damian is back—”

You interrupted her, voice still shaky but gaining strength. “No. We need to get out of here. All of us. Tell me everything about this place. The full layout, how they run it, the routines, the weak points, everything. I’m good at this. I’m good at finding ways. I can make it work.”

The women exchanged glances. Some looked hopeful for half a second. Most just looked tired.

“Honey…” Kath said gently, almost pitying. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”

You shook your head, refusing to accept it. “Then we try again. Smarter this time. I can do this, believe me. We can do this together.”

The room stayed quiet. You turned to the man, your voice sharper now. “And you? How come you’re here ‘protecting’ the girls if you’re not helping them get out?”

Bruce stepped closer, his big frame surprisingly gentle as he crouched down to your level. His eyes were tired but kind. “Sweetheart… it’s not strength that keeps us locked here. That’s not what prevents us from joining forces and running away.”

The women in the room exchanged heavy glances, some swallowing hard.

“It’s the psychological game,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Those cute dogs they give us? It’s not for our fun. They’re tools. For small misbehaviors. Anyone who steps out of line… the dogs are tortured and killed in front of everyone. Then they give us new ones. We get attached again. And the cycle repeats.”

You swallowed, but kept your chin up.

“But we could—”

He interrupted you, calm but firm. “This is the easy part. The dogs are for the minor misconducts. You don’t want to imagine what they do for big misbehaviors. Like… trying to escape, for example.”

“Try me.” You said, standing up.

Bruce looked at Kath. “We don’t talk about it.”

“Let me tell her, Bruce.” Kath said standing up by your side. “She needs to know before deciding putting us all in danger.”

Some of the women quietly moved away from the circle, clearly not wanting to relive it. The air in the room grew thicker, heavier.

Kath took your hand, squeezing it gently before she started.

“They never punish the one who misbehaved. That’s the first rule. So know that: for whatever you do… someone else here will pay for it.”

She soothed your hand with her thumb.

“We had two real attempts at escaping. The first one was a girl alone. She got caught. They chose the youngest of the group to be punished instead.” Kath’s voice dropped, disgust and pain twisting her features. “I won't tell you what they did to her. I'll tell you it lasted hours, that they made all of us watch every second of it, and that she was seventeen.” A long, heavy pause. “And I'll tell you they didn’t stop… even after she stopped breathing.”

You felt bile rise in your throat. “No—” you interrupted.

Kath continued, voice quieter. “When we tried months later to escape as a group… then, it was even worse—”

“Stop!” You cut her off suddenly, stomach heaving. “Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

You barely made it two steps before you bent over and vomited on the floor, your whole body shaking violently. The horror of it, the shocking cruelty, the systematic breaking of these women hit you like a physical blow.

Kath rubbed your back gently while you dry-heaved, her touch the only thing keeping you tethered.

--- Tommy slept with the gun in his hand, the way he'd slept for four years. He was sure that after those days walking, almost non-stopping for rest or sleep, he would finally be heavy sleeping. So he made sure to find a safe place – as safe as it could be, given the circumstances.

But the usual cycle repeated itself. Nightmares tore him awake gasping. In the hazy in-between moments, half-awake and drenched in sweat, he let himself think of you. The way you’d smiled at him, the way your body had felt under his hands. The way you’d said you loved him like it was simple. Then the guilt would crash back in, heavier each time, and he’d force himself under again, chasing the few hours of oblivion he could steal.

When sleep finally pulled him under for good, it didn’t last long. The sound that woke him was small, a boot finding a stick, and his body was already moving before his eyes finished opening, the gun coming up in one practiced arc.

He got as far as a shape, a shoulder, the beginning of a trigger pull.

Then a weight crashed onto his arm and pinned it to the dirt, and a second weight landed on his chest, and the world became knees and hands and someone's breath. He bucked, threw an elbow, felt it connect with something that cursed. The shoulder screamed white,  and then the night folded in half. Something hard met the front of his skull before everything faded.

He had the vague sensation of being carried, the rocking motion of horses, the low murmur of men’s voices, the metallic taste of blood dripping from his head.

He tried to open his eyes, vision blurred and burning, before everything went black again.

The dark kept him a long time. No nightmares reached him down there. Just depth, and quiet, and somewhere far above it all, his body being moved around like luggage.

Water hit his face.

Cold, thrown. Tommy came back coughing, chin dripping, and the water running over his lips carried a copper taste. Blood, his, from somewhere on his scalp, thinning pink down his face and into his mouth.

"There he is," a voice said. "Wake up, sunshine. You're sleepin' through the introductions."

He took inventory before he took the bait, the way the army had taught him and the apocalypse had drilled. Hands: behind him, tied at the wrists, laced through the back rails of a wooden chair.

The room was small, a rotting dining area connected to a kitchen that must have once been a modest family home.

Two men.

The one who'd spoken sat on the edge of the table close to him. Older than Tommy by maybe a decade, and clean-shaven in a world where clean-shaven meant somebody does the hard work for me. Good clothes and boots. Tommy had met enough men like him to know the type on sight: the ones who'd made the apocalypse work for them.

"Joshua here tells me," the man on the table said, conversational, "that you and another fella ran into an associate of mine a while back."

The second man stood by the door with a rifle and one arm and bandages in the other one.

He had ginger hair and Tommy's stomach dropped through the floor as he realized. He kept his face empty while it fell. He knew that man, he'd made that wound in his arm, just as that same man shot his shoulder. The ginger was staring at him with pride and dislike.

"You'd remember her. Memorable woman.” The man in front of him picked a rag off the table, folded it, unhurried. “…Pregnant. He told me your fella killed her."

Tommy said nothing. His head was pounding in long, rolling waves, and the blood kept finding the corner of his mouth.

"I'm Damian." The man said it like a courtesy, like they were being seated at the same table. "And you're gonna help me find your fellow that killed Patricia."

Tommy grunted a low, unimpressed sound from somewhere under the pain and rolled his neck once, slow. It was the oldest trick in the Miller portfolio: when they want fear, give them boredom.

"Y'all coulda just asked," he drawled, voice gravel and water. "Didn't have to hit me. I'm real approachable."

Damian smiled without any of his face joining in. He stood, crossed to the stove on the kitchen, and held his palm above the pot for a moment, testing the steam patiently.

"I want you to look at something for me," he said. "That water you're wearing? That was the friendly bucket." He tapped the pot's rim with one knuckle, twice, and looked back at Tommy. "Next one comes off the stove. Would think twice before being funny if I was you."

Tommy huffed a low, painful laugh.

“Friendly bucket,” he repeated, voice rough but steady. “Nice. You got a whole hospitality program out here or what?”

Damian smiled thinly and stepped closer. Without warning, he pressed his thumb hard into the gunshot wound on Tommy’s shoulder. The skin yielded under the pressure, and fresh agony exploded through Tommy’s body. He contorted his face, jaw locked tight, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a sound.

“We don’t need to go further on this, you know?” Damian said, voice smooth and almost reasonable as he kept the pressure on the wound. “We’re a peaceful crew. We usually don’t hurt or kill men. If we killed every man who got in our way or caused problems, we wouldn’t have any clients left. So lucky for you… my intention isn’t to kill you today.” He leaned in closer. “I will kill your friend though. Because, you know? We just can’t let him walk away after killing ours. But you could still walk free if you collaborate. And I’m sure you’ll be a good client for us sooner or later. You all are, at some point.”

Damian finally removed his thumb from the wound. Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, breathing through the fire in his shoulder.

“Well, congrats,” Tommy said, voice dripping with audacity despite the pain. “You found the one who killed her. Because I was the one who pulled the trigger, you motherfucker.”

Damian glanced at Joshua.

“Nah,” Joshua said, shaking his head with a lazy grin. “This guy was begging the other man to let us go. Practically crying about it. A real pussy.” He let out a short, ugly laugh. “The other one is the dangerous one. I’m sure of it.”

Joshua shifted his weight, exhausted but certain.

“They look a lot alike.” The ginger man continued. “Might even be brothers. He’s protecting him.”

“Hm. That’s cute,” Damian said, smiling with genuine, intimidating delight. “That’s real cute and brave.” He pinched Tommy’s bloody cheek like he was a misbehaving child. “But real stupid.”

He walked back to the stove, picked up the pot of boiling water, and held it casually, steam rising in thick curls.

Tommy stared at the pot, then back at Damian, eyes hard.

“Go ahead,” he said, daring him. “You better boil more water, because you’ll need it.”

Damian paused, studying him. Then, slowly, he set the pot back down on the stove.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Alright. Maybe I have something else that’ll make you speak.”

He reached for the radio clipped to his belt and keyed it.

“Lucas, copy.”

A crackle, then a voice. “Copy, Damian. Lucas here.”

Damian’s eyes never left Tommy’s face. “How’s the girl? Is she behaving nicely?”

Tommy’s whole body snapped to attention. No. This is a trap. Ain’t happenin’.

His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure the other men could hear it.

“Hell no, boss. Bitch is a feisty little thing,” Lucas replied, laughing. “But we’re taking it easy with her for now, just like you asked.”

Tommy’s posture changed completely without him meaning it. Shoulders rigid, breathing shallow and fast, eyes burning with a mixture of rage and raw fear.

Damian smiled, slow and satisfied. “Good. Nobody enjoys her before I do. We don’t hurt our product too much, do we? We don’t want disappointed clients over tiny defects, huh?”

“Copy that, boss.”

Tommy’s voice came out rough, almost a snarl. “Bullshit. You’re bluffing.”

Damian lowered the radio and tilted his head, clearly enjoying the shift in Tommy’s expression. He glanced back at Joshua with a smug little smirk.

“You were right,” Damian said to Joshua. “He cares about the bitch.”

"Fuck you," Tommy snarled, and the chair moved with him in a jolt, wood barking against the floor. "You're lyin'. You're fuckin' lyin', she's— you piece of shit."

He was pulling against the wrist ropes hard enough to open the skin and didn't notice. The chair legs stuttered on floor. Blood and water ran pink off his chin and his voice had dropped into a register neither man had heard from him yet.

Damian watched him with fascination.

" Two minutes ago he was cracking jokes. Now look at him." he murmured to Joshua, genuinely pleased. Then he turned back to Tommy. "You'd tear my throat out with your teeth right now if the rope let you, wouldn't you?"

"You're bluffing." Tommy made his voice flat. It cost him everything he had left and it still came out cracked down the middle. "You got nothin'. Some girl, any girl, you heard him call me soft and now you're fishin'. You've got nothin'."

"Hm." Damian tilted his head. Then, without standing, without hurry, he keyed the radio again. "Lucas. The new batch. Describe her for a friend here."

The crackle. The wait. Tommy's heart slammed.

"Which part, boss?" Lucas's grin traveled through the static. "Pretty face. Prettier ass. Smart mouth — Christ, the mouth. She's been trying to get in our heads since we found her."

Tommy's stomach went through the floor.

"—oh, and the scar in the chest," Lucas added, casual, inventory-voiced. "Ugly thing on such nice packaging. Told you already, hope it don't knock the price."

Something in Tommy's chest didn't break, because breaking was too gentle a word for what he felt. He snaps and thrashes in the chair.“I'll kill you, I'll kill every last one of you, you hear me? Look at me. You even think of touching her and there ain't a hole on this earth deep enough—"

Damian interrupts Tommy’s keying the radio again. “We found one of them, Lucas. Means we’re probably coming back sooner than expected. Keep her clean and pretty for me, alright? I’ll make good use of her before we open her agenda.”

The radio clicked off and went back to his belt.

"I'm bluffing, huh?" Damian said softly, almost amused. He stepped closer, leaned down into Tommy's face. "Tell you what, sunshine. Don't you worry." His voice dropped, warm, confiding, the worst voice a man could choose. "I'll pass along your regards. Whisper 'em to her ear real gentle while I'm fucking her nice and slow."

Tommy’s mind was refusing to accept it. It can’t be. It can’t be her.

He kept running the math that had let him walk north. The worst thing that could possibly happen had happened, and it had happened while he was walking the other way, and the spiral opening under him had no fear anywhere in it. Only rage, black and total.

And then, through the rage, one thought arrived and stood still in the middle of it: She needs you.

He'd believed, he'd bled for it, that you’d be better off without him. That was the math. That was the noble math.

But the math was wrong. There was a cage, and there was a man ready to use you and sell you as meat, and out of everyone left alive on this ruined earth, out of everyone who loved you gentler and deserved you more, the only one built for this, for these men, for what came next, was the man tied to this chair.

You didn't need a good man right now. You needed him.

There was no version of this story, none, not one, not in this world or the next, where a hand got laid on you. He took that fact and set it down in the center of himself like a cornerstone, and everything in him reorganized around it, instantly.

So he remained still. But not calm. The thrashing stopped all at once. His breathing slowed and evened out and dropped low into his belly, and his eyes came up to Damian's face and stayed there, unblinking, and something behind them had finished a calculation and filed the answer.

"There he is," Damian said softly, misreading it entirely, satisfied. "There's the reasonable man. See, this is what I like about product with attachments, everybody negotiates eventually." He stood, brushed his knees, and picked a knife from the table, turning it once in the light. "So here's my offer, and it's the only one on the menu. You help us find your brother and I give you my word she stays intact. I'll handle her gentle. I'll make sure the clients do too. We're businessmen; we take care of the merchandise." He smiled, and pressed the flat of the blade almost tenderly against Tommy's shoulder, finding the wound through the wet shirt. "But if you don't—" He leaned on it.

The steel parted the swollen edges of the gunshot wound and Tommy watched it happen from somewhere very far away. There was pain distantly, he understood there was a great deal of it. But every cell in him was working a different problem now. The rope's stretch. The chair's joints. The knife's reach. The stove. The door. Joshua's bad arm. Damian's throat, one short move away.

"So?" Damian said, twisting the blade a degree, watching Tommy's face for the flinch that didn't come. "What'll it be?"

Tommy looked up at him through the blood, and smiled slow.

"It’s a shame you haven’t boiled more water."

Damian's brow creased, half a question forming, but in the next heartbeat, Tommy exploded. He surged upward with every ounce of feral rage and adrenaline his body could produce. His forehead slammed into Damian’s face with brutal force. Bone met bone with a flat, ugly crack. The knife skittered. Damian sat down on the floor without meaning to, blood already sheeting from his nose, eyes rolling loose in his head.

Across the room, Joshua got the barrel halfway up. Tommy turned at the last step and drove himself, chair-first, and slammed it against the ginger man into the wall, hard enough to shake dust off the ceiling. The chair detonated between them. Joshua went down under the wreckage. The ropes in Tommy’s wrists loosened a fraction, but enough.

Joshua hadn't pulled half a breath before the boot came down on his throat.

Tommy’s foot stood on his neck while the man's hands scrabbled at his ankle and his face went through different colors, and Tommy twisted his wrists, frantic and methodical at once, tearing skin, eyes flicking between the two men.

He got one hand free, then the other. Tommy snatched the gun from the floor, releasing Joshua’s throat. The man gasped desperately for air.

Damian was already getting up some steps across him, dizzy and bleeding, reaching for his own weapon. In a quick movement Tommy shot Damian in the knee, precisely. The man screamed and dropped again.

Tommy turned back to Joshua and delivered three brutal punches to his face, each one harder than the last, knocking him unconscious.

Then he was back at Damian. “Here’s three for you too,” Tommy growled, voice low and venomous, “so you don’t get jealous.”

He punched Damian hard, twice in the mouth, and once in the already broken nose. The man grunted hard and spat blood.

He gathered the rope and crouched over Damian. The man fought it, he twisted his wrists away and clawed at Tommy's forearm with surprising will.

"Hey. Easy now," Tommy said, gently, almost kind. "Cooperate. Make this easy on yourself."

Damian spat blood at him.

"Alright."

Tommy grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the boards to the kitchen, Damian bucking the whole way, the ruined knee leaving a smeared red line behind them.

He lifted the pot of boiling water off the stove, set it aside almost gently, and pressed the man's face down toward the open flame.

Damian jerked and screamed, high and raw, hands beating at Tommy's grip, the smell of burned flesh filling the little kitchen. Tommy held him there a moment longer, then released.

The man dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping, one cheek scorched red and already blistering at the edge.

"See, that's the thing about cooperation," Tommy said, hauling him up by the armpits and dropping him into the one unbroken chair. "It's got a real short learning curve."

He tied him this time without resistance. And while he worked, he talked patiently.

"Now pay attention, 'cause y'all did this part wrong." He looped the rope, cinched it. "You tie the hands, palm to palm, then anchor to the frame separate." He pulled the final knot tight. "There. Now that's a man who ain't goin' anywhere. Free lesson. Consider it hospitality."

Damian sagged against the ropes, half his face scorched, blood running off his chin, cursing him in a low, continuous stream.

"You're dead, you're a dead man, you have no idea what you've signed yourself up to, you fucker!"

Tommy let the man curse. He stood in the middle of the wreckage, chest heaving, covered in blood and sweat, breathing like a wild animal. He pushed the loose hair back out of his face with both hands, slow, and retied it.

"Okay. I'd be real nice if I was you now."

He walked back to the stove. Took the cigarette pack from his pocket, shook one out, lit it off the burner flame. One drag, calm and deliberate, watching Damian through the smoke the whole time. Then he dropped it and ground it out under his boot.

He picked up the pot of boiling water.

Damian jerked in the chair, ropes creaking.

"Chill. This ain't for you." Tommy crossed the room toward Joshua, out cold against the floor. "I need your friend awake. Lucky for you, you only boiled enough for him."

He poured. Joshua came back to the world screaming, jolting, skin going red down his neck and chest where the water found it. He barely had time to understand where he was before the gun was in his face.

“Mornin’.” Tommy crouched down to his level, voice low and calm. “Stay awake and behave real nice for me, ok?”

He tapped the barrel of the gun once against Joshua’s scalded collarbone, making the man flinch. “I know that’s hard to hear… comin’ from the man you thought was a pussy.” Tommy’s smile was cold. “But here’s the thing you wanna consider.” He leaned in closer.

“I am the real dangerous brother.”

He tossed the empty pot aside. It hit the boards with a flat thud.

Then he went to his own pack in the corner and came back with a folded map. He dragged another chair over and sat in front of Damian and watched his ruined face, for some seconds, before continuing. Joshua was still making noises in the corner, wet and ragged.

"My brother's got a strategy for this kinda conversation," he said, spreading the map across his own knee. "Always hated it.” He looked up. "But you're about to show me it's just good sense."

Tommy's voice stayed level, unhurried. "Here's how this works. You point out in this map where she is. Then I ask the cryin' baby on the floor the same question. If the answers don't match—" he tipped his head toward the stove, the wreckage, the blood, all of it, "…everything that's happened to you so far becomes the good part of your day."

"Fuck you." Damian's voice came out mangled through the broken nose, but the spine was still in it. "Fuck you, you asshole, I ain't telling you shit—"

Tommy looked away. Out the window, patient, like checking the weather. "You know, I used to be the talker. Whole life, I'm the one sayin' there's another way, let's everybody calm down." He looked back. "I’m tired of that."

He lowered the pistol and pressed the muzzle into Damian's lap.

"What was it you said on that radio, again? Gonna make good use of her before you opened her agenda?" A beat. Damian went very still. "Yeah. I don't believe you'll be makin' use of anything ever again."

He fired between his legs. Damian's scream tore out of him with nothing held back, raw and high, tears cutting through the blood on his face. Joshua was cursing from the floor, panicked, wordless. Tommy sat back and waited for the screaming to come down to sobbing.

He leaned in, took a fistful of Damian’s hair, and yanked the man’s ruined face up to his. When he spoke again, all the drawl’s looseness was gone. His voice was low, flat, and terrifyingly calm.

“Tell me. Now. Where is she.”

“Please—” Damian was shaking now, words tumbling over each other in panic. “Please, stop, I swear to God she’s being treated nice, we don’t hurt—”

“You sell women,” Tommy cut him off, voice ice-cold, “and you want credit for bein’ gentle about it.”

Without hesitation, Tommy punched him hard, right in the burned, blistered skin of his face. Damian screamed, high, broken, and pathetic.

“No whinin’ now, buddy.” Tommy slid the barrel of the gun down slowly, almost tenderly, and positioned it into the man’s shoulder joint.

He clicked the gun’s trigger back.

"The theater!" It came out of him in one piece, everything at once. "She's at the theater, the theater, for God's sake, please, stop, I swear—"

"WHAT THEATER?!" Tommy snapped, grave and furious. He grabbed the knife, shoved the handle into Damian's mouth, and snapped the map open in front of his face, holding it flat. "Show me! Show me where the fuck she is!"

Damian was shaking hard, but he was precise. The tip of the knife tapped the spot twice and dropped, falling from his mouth into his own lap.

"There. There, that's it."

"Attaboy," Tommy said, calmer, studying the map.

The old man was crying openly now, words slurring through the ruined face. "He can confirm it, ask him, ask him,” he nods to Joshua. “That's the place, I swear on my life. Now please. Please just leave us alone."

"It's fine," he said, folding the map and putting in his jacket. "I trust you."

He took the knife from the man's lap and put it through him, and held it there, eye to eye, until the businessman's eyes closed for good.

Joshua had gone silent in the corner. When Tommy stood and turned, the ginger man started pushing backward with his heels, into the wall, as far as the wall allowed, which was nowhere.

"Wait! Wait! Please." The words came tumbling, scalded voice cracking apart. "Let me go. I'll forget this ever happened, I swear to God, I'm keeping my mouth shut, I won't tell nobody nothing, I'll just disappear, you'll never—"

Tommy reached down slowly and picked up one of the broken chair legs, testing its weight in his hand, unhurried.

He walked over calmly.

"This ain't to keep you quiet."

--------

Author notes: I'm making a dream come true in this last part. I have dreamed with feral tommy for soooo long!

He's my white feather hawk tail deer hunter hummmmmmm

Tag list:

Tommy walked north, and the world let him walk.

That was the strange part. Four years of the road teaching him that every quiet would later have a loud price, and now, alone, the miles just kept coming. He crossed open ground he'd have avoided a week ago, taking the straight road instead of the covered one. Passed a treeline with something big moving parallel to him, and didn't raise the rifle, just kept his pace, and whatever it was lost interest before he did.

The flinch was gone.

All his life there'd been somebody on the other end of his caution. Austin to Boston, Boston to here, there was always a reason to check the corner twice. The folks from the first convoy, then the winter group, then just Joel, for a long time just Joel. And then, for a bit more than one month, a smart-mouthed cargo who couldn't run, couldn't fight, couldn't shoot. But somehow was able to cause a lot of headaches and had to be lived for at all hours.

Until the day that cargo was no longer just a cargo, and his world was shifted upside down.

And now… Caution was a thing he did for people. Turned out that with nobody left to take care of, he simply couldn't make himself care about himself. At all.

It wasn't that he wanted to die. He turned that over honestly, walking, because a man alone has nothing but time to audit himself. No… he'd fight anything that came, same as always. It was just that the fire had gone. If something got him out here, it would be a shame the way rain on a saturday is a shame. It just… happens.

What a luxury, he thought, dry, stepping over a collapsed guardrail. Most freedom I've had in years, and it feels like a burial.

He kept his spirits up the only way he knew, which was talking to himself. One thing at a time, Miller. The shoulder kept pulsing in pain, which he either ignored or took painkillers once and a while when he was fed up with the strain.

The farm supply Sarah mentioned had a machine shed and the machine shed had a truck and the truck had a battery corroded into shit, so that was that. The National Guard checkpoint had six vehicles, five stripped, one with keys still in it and a skeleton still in that, and he'd apologized to the man out loud. “Sorry, brother, no offense meant.” Before discovering the tank was drier than his joke.

He looked for Joel the way you look for a specific raindrop. It was impossible and he knew it was impossible. One man, miles of country, a hundred routes north. So he did what could be done: he read the road. Checked the shoulder mud for hoofprints. Checked burnt-out camps for Joel's kind of tidiness, ash kicked over, cans buried, the habits of a man who never left a story behind him. Checked, God forgive him, the ditches.

The ditches were the good news. Every mile of nothing was a mile without his brother's body in it. No fresh corpses, no horse dead on the road he'd recognize. No sign of your firefly friends dead, either, which he chose to read as everyone still upright and moving.

The longing he carried was different now. It had changed weight since the auto shop. No longer the live, arguing want of a man who might turn around, but something settled and cold-ripened, like grief, because he'd made his decision. He wasn't fighting the thoughts of you anymore. He was visiting them, carefully.

He caught himself narrating the country to you. A ruined billboard for a water park, and your voice in his head had opinions about it.

A pharmacy he swept for supplies, and he stood a full minute in front of one shampoo, of all the goddamn things, because you'd have made a speech. Made him smell, probably. You’d tell him to keep that and take a shower because he was a smelly walking corpse at this point.

He laughed at that. Your obsession with showers and with keeping yourself clean, despite everything.

And because he couldn’t fight it, he thought about your showers together, and all the times your body was bare and wet and vulnerable against his or beneath his eyes. How easy it was for you to trust him when he never gave reasons to.

When he stopped to eat, he fumbled his pack for something but soon the candy box was in his hand. He laid there with his thumb on the dented cardboard. But some stupid, hopeless part of him could not eat it.

Just in case.

He made his decision, yes, but something deep down on him was promising if he kept that box, he would still have a change to give it to you. He placed the cookie dough candies back in the pack and swapped to beef jerky instead.

Later that day, finally with the city behind and cutting through the wild, he spotted a narrow river which seemed decent. It would be the typical kind of place you’d ask to bath.

He stood on the bank a moment, and the urge came, and for once there was no reason on earth to say no. No watch to keep. No cargo. No brother telling him they were burning daylight. He stripped down to his skin and waded in, hissing at the cold, and stood there while the current combed past him.

He started cleaning the external tissue of the shoulder wound, and didn’t like what he saw. It was swollen, uglier than it should be. He'd torn stitches twice now. He cleaned it slow, jaw tight, and made himself a promise: Joel's antibiotics are in the bag. Today you take them like a grown man. Dying of stubbornness was his brother's retirement plan, not his.

Then he washed. And his hands, moving soap-less and rough over his own body, kept finding the map of scars. He'd stopped seeing them years ago. But alone, in cold water under end of daylight, every one of them stood up and remembered their reasons for him. Here's who you are. Here's what you did. Here's what was done back.

His hands slowed on his own chest. He remembered warm instead of cold: your palms, flat on his chest reading the scars like you were the first person ever to find them worth reading. Nobody had touched him in four years except to hurt him or stitch him, and then you'd come along and put your hands on all that ruin like it was worth something. And standing in this river he'd have traded the rifle, the road, the whole mission north for one more minute of your hands doing what his couldn't.

He ducked under, all the way, held himself there in the cold dark with his hair loose, and came up gasping.

All these marks all over his body reminded him who he was. The river could not wash it away, only rinse the surface of it.

Listen to you, Miller. Standing bare-ass in a river, mourning a woman like a widower. He'd buried friends he'd known for years and stood straighter at their graves than he was standing now. It was pathetic.

He looked down at the water moving past him and asked the question honestly. How'd you do it? What was it about you? Five-foot-nothing of smart mouth and a bad heart, that had walked through his armor easily like that?

He didn't have an answer. Pathetic, he told himself again, firmly.

He waded out, dried off with his spare shirt, and dressed with his hair still dripping down his back. Took the antibiotics, dry, two of them.

Then he shouldered the pack, and walked north, cleaner than he'd been in weeks and no lighter at all.

He decided to forbid himself the thoughts of you, and for most of the day it worked. He walked like a responsible man again: reading shadows, wise steps, giving every small sound the attention it deserved.

Twice the country tested him. A runner first, blundering out of a gas station lot. He put it down quiet with the knife, and the follow-through lit his shoulder up so bright he had to stand a minute with his hand braced on a pump, breathing through his teeth. Later, near dusk, two more in a field, tangled in old fencing. He could've gone around, but he finished them anyway.

When it was dark he found a decent spot to lay down. And he finally lost the battle.

Because he knew what was waiting for him in sleep: Nightmares. So he let you in again.

He went back to the house. Joel healing, the world on pause. The whiskey night. You swinging your leg over his lap, and then — God — the Chernobyl story. Dying firefighters and pregnant widows, delivered straight-faced as a seduction. He huffed a laugh into the dark, alone, remembering how badly it had worked and how completely it had worked anyway. He hadn't understood, then, why you'd reach for something that grim just to get his hands on you.

He was drowsing in the warm remains of it. Your weight, your forehead against his, I can feel your heart, Tommy.

But something different pulled out of his memory then.

My friend found the doctor, Tommy. The one who did my last surgery. If there's anyone who can still do something about this it's him.

Tommy's eyes opened in the dark.

The doctor. You'd said the doctor. Not just Marlene, not just taking Boston back from Lincoln. Your surgeon, waiting in Baltimore. He'd been three drinks and two painkillers deep that night, half his blood replaced with wanting you, and the word had gone into him and never come back out until now. You weren't only going to Baltimore to plan a war. You were going to Baltimore for the doctor. Checked? Repaired?

He scavenged his thoughts to recall whatever piece of information left you spill. And then the other night surfaced, the fire, the guitar still warm between you, right after you'd told him the truth about the infected. He'd asked, careful are you doin' anything about it? And you'd looked away. Let's say... yes. There's somethin' in Baltimore to discuss about it.

It.

He lay there staring at the black shapes of branches and turned the word over like a stone with something under it. Something in Baltimore to discuss about.

Which it?

The heart? Or the other thing, the thing the stalkers knew about you, the thing that made clickers part around you like you were already spoken for?

He'd assumed, that night, you meant the device. Now he wasn't sure you had. Now he wasn't sure you were sure.

And Baltimore was burned. So whatever doctor, whatever equipment, whatever discussion was waiting for you down there was waiting in a graveyard, and you were walking toward it believing.

He'd made you promises of nothing. He'd walked north. And he'd left you headed for a ruined city to be discussed.

He shake it away. You knew what you’re doing. You were smart, and you wouldn’t walk toward a ruined city if there wasn’t something real waiting for you there. The sleep was gone, anyway.

“You're gonna be alright,” he told you, or at least told the version of you that was following him in his mind. “Frank's got you. Marcus's got you. You're a week out from Baltimore and whatever's waitin' there.”

It helped, believing that.

It was the only thing he got completely wrong.

---

The old theater where they dragged you stood in your front now, and all the control you had managed along the way until this point felt about to shatter at once. Your body was exhausted. Every muscle burned from how hard you had fought and screamed the entire way here. They let you scream for the first mile. Eventually shoved a gun into your mouth until you gagged on cold metal and your own terror, and you had spat around the barrel that you’d rather be shot than suffer whatever they had planned. The man only laughed, low and cruel, and dragged the gun slowly through your body, patiently, explaining everything that could happen to you before dying became an option. That was the moment you remembered that fighting back with strength had never been a solution for you. The only weapon you had and the only one that had ever worked was your brain. So you went silent and let your mind work.

The thought pressed against your ribs, suffocating. This can’t be. This can’t be it. But you had put yourself together at every attempt at collapsing. You used every breath, every cell in your body to claw back control. And focused on doing what you did best: cataloging everything.

Learning every detail, from the men, from the place, from every inch of the situation. I can get away. I’ll find a way. Nobody here is smarter than I am. I’m gonna be fine. It’ll all be fine. I’ll figure it out.

You repeated it as a mantra, panting, one hand pressed flat over your heart, hammering so violently you could feel it close to exploding.

I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna be fine.

You evaluated everything at every step. The once-grand marquee sagged, most of the letters long gone. Vines and cordyceps crawled up the brick facade like living rot.

From the surrounding ruins you could hear them: the desperate, wet growling and sharp clicks moving through the alleys on either side of the theater. The Gilead Crew hadn’t cleared the block. They didn’t seem to bother. You realized why within seconds: they farmed it.

One of the men gripping your arm, a big, greasy bastard with a missing front tooth and breath that smelled like cheap alcohol and rot, laughed at your surprise.

“Relax, doll. The freaks are our fuckin’ doormen,” he said, giving your ass a hard squeeze through your jeans. The violation disgusted you more than any infected ever could. “Any rat bastard tries to sneak up on us, they get turned into mushroom food before they hit the alley. We just gotta know when to ring the dinner bell.”

He pointed up. Four heavily armed men stood on the theater roof, rifles ready. The infected, dozens of them, were trapped behind crude fences and barriers like controlled attack dogs. One of the roof guards held what looked like a remote or a switch. They could release the horde at any moment.

That’s their security system, you realized. You see the first advantage there, and somehow it calms you a bit. Those infected can actually be your ally.

They shoved you through the heavy front doors.

The main level used to be beautiful. Now it was a disgusting parody of what it once was.

The vast auditorium had been divided by piles of scavenged filth. Crates, many crates, of ammo, canned food, filthy clothes, stolen weapons, even old theater seats stacked into crude walls. These piles carved the space into territories. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, cheap whiskey and body odor. Several men were scattered in the remaining good seats, boots up, following you with their eyes like hungry dogs watching fresh meat. On the old stage beneath the tattered remains of a gold curtain sat their command ‘office’ a big scarred table covered in maps, ledgers, half-empty bottles, and a working radio.

Clients waited in the audience. You felt the full architecture of the operation assemble itself in your head, unbidden, and the urge to vomit rose with every step.

They dragged you past all of it. More men leered. You walked close enough that one of them reached out and grabbed your breast hard through your shirt, twisting viciously. You cried out, trying to pull away, but the man holding your arm only laughed and shoved you forward.

“Nice batch,” he grins. “She’s got fight in her. Gonna be fun.”

Another spat on the floor near your feet. “Bet that tight little cunt’s still got some use left before she turns into another broken-down whore like the rest of ‘em.”

You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them back furiously. You couldn’t afford to break.

They took you through a heavy reinforced door behind the stage.

The temperature dropped as they shoved you down the concrete stairs into the basement.

Below was where the building stopped pretending. A long corridor under the stage, lined with doors: the old dressing rooms. Each one had a number stenciled on it and a heavy lock on the outside. Some doors were shut, and the noises you heard from behind them were absolutely terrifying.

The stink of mildew, piss, sweat, and sex hit you like a wall. Your footsteps echoed. So did the sounds coming from behind the doors: soft crying, the occasional sharp slap or moan, men grunting.

One door was open with people inside. A man was in a girl who looked barely conscious. Blood stains the mattresses. Her legs held open by another man gripping her ankles. He slapped her ass hard and laughed.

“Next,” he called out like it was a fucking deli counter.

Tears started falling freely then, and your body contorted in fear. That was when you lost it. Panic flooded you, raw and animal. You started fighting with everything you had, kicking, twisting, screaming.

“No! Get the fuck off me! Don’t touch me, you sick fucks! Let me go now, let me go!”

They laughed. One of them grabbed your face hard, fingers digging into your jaw.

“Keep that fire in you, doll,” he said, breath hot and foul against your cheek. “Some clients really like the ones who fight back.”

They dragged you down the end of the corridor to the last door.

The man who had been manhandling you the whole time shoved you inside. The door slammed shut behind you.

For a moment you just stood there, panting hard, the world tilting. Your heart was hammering so violently you genuinely thought you might pass out. You stared at the closed door like a death sentence, except a death sentence would be much nicer, and the panic rose so fast and so high you had to press both hands against the wall to stay upright.

Then hands landed on your shoulders.

You snatched at them on pure instinct, ready to fight, before your brain caught up. These hands weren’t cruel. They were small, trying to steady you.

You blinked, and the room came into focus.

It was bigger than you expected. A large, windowless basement room that had once probably been storage or a green room. Now it was the dorm. Maybe seven other women. Some sitting on thin, stained mattresses. Some curled on the floor. All of them looked like ghosts of who they used to be, once beautiful, now lifeless, hollowed out by exhaustion and trauma.

Most of them came to you slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. One older woman kind eyes guided you down until you were sitting on the cold floor, back against the wall. Another brought a dented metal cup of water and pressed it into your shaking hands.

“Breathe, honey,” someone whispered. “Just breathe. You’re safe in here. For now.”

You drank the water in small, desperate sips, your heart still racing. The women kept talking to you in low, soothing voices. Nonsense words, reassurances, small comforts, until the worst of the panic retreated and your heartbeat slowly, painfully, came back under control.

When you were calmer, you finally looked around properly.

A few bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting harsh, sickly light. Thin, filthy mattresses against the walls, some with blankets, most without. The air smelled of unwashed bodies and tears. In one corner, a small pile of shared clothes and rags.

Everybody was quiet now, watching you, giving you space to settle your thoughts.

Then you spotted a girl sitting on one of the mattresses in the corner, younger than the rest. She had two small dogs on her lap, fluffy little things that looked impossibly out of place in this hell. For one second, the image of those cute, lively animals captured your full attention. They were so wildly discrepant with everything else in the room that your brain latched onto them like a lifeline.

“You like dogs?” the young girl asked shyly.

You nodded, still a little displaced, not fully back in your body yet.

“Go on,” the girl said softly and lovingly to the two dogs. “Go say hi.”

Both little dogs jumped off her lap and trotted straight to you, tails wagging. You let them climb into your lap, their warm bodies and wet tongues a small, absurd comfort in the middle of hell. You buried your hands in their fur and let yourself breathe with them, still shaky but slowly coming back.

The door shoved open without warning. The men brought back the girl you had seen being used before. She walked in silently, eyes empty, and went straight to her mattress without looking at anyone. She lay down and curled into herself like she could disappear.

One of the men at the door barked, “Kelly! Miriam! Lucy!”

Two women around you moved to the door without protest. The young girl who had the dogs before stood up calmly and walked toward the men too. As she passed you, she paused for half a second and said softly, “Take care of them for me, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

Then they were gone. The door slammed shut again.

One woman stayed sitting by your side the whole time, rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back in silence. Just understanding and silently supported.

You noticed fully the environment now, and snapped at a new sight: A man. He was sitting quietly beside the girl who had just been brought back. He was big and strong, but he sat so softly next to her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder as he asked, low and careful, “You okay? Was it… fine?”

The girl nodded without looking at him. “Yes. Thanks, Bruce.”

You snapped your head violently toward the woman beside you, as if she was already someone you trusted.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, reading your panic. “Bruce is our friend. He’s nice. He’s here to protect us.”

You kept staring at her, trying to process it. It was all too much. It was all surreal in the worst possible way.

“I’m Kath, by the way,” the woman said gently. She proceeded to introduce the others in the room, one by one. “Kelly, Miriam and Lucy you just met… and other two are ‘at work’ right now.” She reached down and gently petted the two small dogs still curled in your lap. “These are Coco and Mochi.”

The women murmured quiet greetings, some offering small, exhausted faces. A few reached out to touch your arm or shoulder, just… there for you. One of them pressed a thin, ragged blanket around your shoulders. Nobody pushed for conversation. They simply sat with you in the heavy silence, letting you breathe.

“You have a few days before starting,” Kath said after a while, her hand still rubbing slow circles on your back. “Might use it to prepare mentally. We’ll be here to support you, okay?”

You couldn’t say anything, your mind spinning too fast to form proper words.

Kath continued, her voice dropping with clear disapproval. “First time is always Damian’s. He’s the big boss, ran it with Patricia. Newcomers are always tested by him first. It’s some sort of disgusting ritual so he has the privilege… but he’ll say it’s to ‘map the new material,’ understand the product so he can tailor the right offer to the right clients.” She shook her head, jaw tight.

“Luckily for you,” she added, “he’s out with Joshua looking for the men who killed Patricia.” She stared at your face, waiting for your reaction.

You snapped your eyes to her, heart lurching.

“You were with them, weren’t you?” Kath asked quietly. “Why weren’t you together anymore?”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “Do you know if they found them? Any of them?”

“If they did, they’d be back already.”

You exhaled.

“So until they’re not here, it means they’re safe. And you’re safe.” She squeezed your shoulder. “But please, honey… prepare yourself because as soon Damian is back—”

You interrupted her, voice still shaky but gaining strength. “No. We need to get out of here. All of us. Tell me everything about this place. The full layout, how they run it, the routines, the weak points, everything. I’m good at this. I’m good at finding ways. I can make it work.”

The women exchanged glances. Some looked hopeful for half a second. Most just looked tired.

“Honey…” Kath said gently, almost pitying. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”

You shook your head, refusing to accept it. “Then we try again. Smarter this time. I can do this, believe me. We can do this together.”

The room stayed quiet. You turned to the man, your voice sharper now. “And you? How come you’re here ‘protecting’ the girls if you’re not helping them get out?”

Bruce stepped closer, his big frame surprisingly gentle as he crouched down to your level. His eyes were tired but kind. “Sweetheart… it’s not strength that keeps us locked here. That’s not what prevents us from joining forces and running away.”

The women in the room exchanged heavy glances, some swallowing hard.

“It’s the psychological game,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Those cute dogs they give us? It’s not for our fun. They’re tools. For small misbehaviors. Anyone who steps out of line… the dogs are tortured and killed in front of everyone. Then they give us new ones. We get attached again. And the cycle repeats.”

You swallowed, but kept your chin up.

“But we could—”

He interrupted you, calm but firm. “This is the easy part. The dogs are for the minor misconducts. You don’t want to imagine what they do for big misbehaviors. Like… trying to escape, for example.”

“Try me.” You said, standing up.

Bruce looked at Kath. “We don’t talk about it.”

“Let me tell her, Bruce.” Kath said standing up by your side. “She needs to know before deciding putting us all in danger.”

Some of the women quietly moved away from the circle, clearly not wanting to relive it. The air in the room grew thicker, heavier.

Kath took your hand, squeezing it gently before she started.

“They never punish the one who misbehaved. That’s the first rule. So know that: for whatever you do… someone else here will pay for it.”

She soothed your hand with her thumb.

“We had two real attempts at escaping. The first one was a girl alone. She got caught. They chose the youngest of the group to be punished instead.” Kath’s voice dropped, disgust and pain twisting her features. “I won't tell you what they did to her. I'll tell you it lasted hours, that they made all of us watch every second of it, and that she was seventeen.” A long, heavy pause. “And I'll tell you they didn’t stop… even after she stopped breathing.”

You felt bile rise in your throat. “No—” you interrupted.

Kath continued, voice quieter. “When we tried months later to escape as a group… then, it was even worse—”

“Stop!” You cut her off suddenly, stomach heaving. “Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

You barely made it two steps before you bent over and vomited on the floor, your whole body shaking violently. The horror of it, the shocking cruelty, the systematic breaking of these women hit you like a physical blow.

Kath rubbed your back gently while you dry-heaved, her touch the only thing keeping you tethered.

--- Tommy slept with the gun in his hand, the way he'd slept for four years. He was sure that after those days walking, almost non-stopping for rest or sleep, he would finally be heavy sleeping. So he made sure to find a safe place – as safe as it could be, given the circumstances.

But the usual cycle repeated itself. Nightmares tore him awake gasping. In the hazy in-between moments, half-awake and drenched in sweat, he let himself think of you. The way you’d smiled at him, the way your body had felt under his hands. The way you’d said you loved him like it was simple. Then the guilt would crash back in, heavier each time, and he’d force himself under again, chasing the few hours of oblivion he could steal.

When sleep finally pulled him under for good, it didn’t last long. The sound that woke him was small, a boot finding a stick, and his body was already moving before his eyes finished opening, the gun coming up in one practiced arc.

He got as far as a shape, a shoulder, the beginning of a trigger pull.

Then a weight crashed onto his arm and pinned it to the dirt, and a second weight landed on his chest, and the world became knees and hands and someone's breath. He bucked, threw an elbow, felt it connect with something that cursed. The shoulder screamed white,  and then the night folded in half. Something hard met the front of his skull before everything faded.

He had the vague sensation of being carried, the rocking motion of horses, the low murmur of men’s voices, the metallic taste of blood dripping from his head.

He tried to open his eyes, vision blurred and burning, before everything went black again.

The dark kept him a long time. No nightmares reached him down there. Just depth, and quiet, and somewhere far above it all, his body being moved around like luggage.

Water hit his face.

Cold, thrown. Tommy came back coughing, chin dripping, and the water running over his lips carried a copper taste. Blood, his, from somewhere on his scalp, thinning pink down his face and into his mouth.

"There he is," a voice said. "Wake up, sunshine. You're sleepin' through the introductions."

He took inventory before he took the bait, the way the army had taught him and the apocalypse had drilled. Hands: behind him, tied at the wrists, laced through the back rails of a wooden chair.

The room was small, a rotting dining area connected to a kitchen that must have once been a modest family home.

Two men.

The one who'd spoken sat on the edge of the table close to him. Older than Tommy by maybe a decade, and clean-shaven in a world where clean-shaven meant somebody does the hard work for me. Good clothes and boots. Tommy had met enough men like him to know the type on sight: the ones who'd made the apocalypse work for them.

"Joshua here tells me," the man on the table said, conversational, "that you and another fella ran into an associate of mine a while back."

The second man stood by the door with a rifle and one arm and bandages in the other one.

He had ginger hair and Tommy's stomach dropped through the floor as he realized. He kept his face empty while it fell. He knew that man, he'd made that wound in his arm, just as that same man shot his shoulder. The ginger was staring at him with pride and dislike.

"You'd remember her. Memorable woman.” The man in front of him picked a rag off the table, folded it, unhurried. “…Pregnant. He told me your fella killed her."

Tommy said nothing. His head was pounding in long, rolling waves, and the blood kept finding the corner of his mouth.

"I'm Damian." The man said it like a courtesy, like they were being seated at the same table. "And you're gonna help me find your fellow that killed Patricia."

Tommy grunted a low, unimpressed sound from somewhere under the pain and rolled his neck once, slow. It was the oldest trick in the Miller portfolio: when they want fear, give them boredom.

"Y'all coulda just asked," he drawled, voice gravel and water. "Didn't have to hit me. I'm real approachable."

Damian smiled without any of his face joining in. He stood, crossed to the stove on the kitchen, and held his palm above the pot for a moment, testing the steam patiently.

"I want you to look at something for me," he said. "That water you're wearing? That was the friendly bucket." He tapped the pot's rim with one knuckle, twice, and looked back at Tommy. "Next one comes off the stove. Would think twice before being funny if I was you."

Tommy huffed a low, painful laugh.

“Friendly bucket,” he repeated, voice rough but steady. “Nice. You got a whole hospitality program out here or what?”

Damian smiled thinly and stepped closer. Without warning, he pressed his thumb hard into the gunshot wound on Tommy’s shoulder. The skin yielded under the pressure, and fresh agony exploded through Tommy’s body. He contorted his face, jaw locked tight, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a sound.

“We don’t need to go further on this, you know?” Damian said, voice smooth and almost reasonable as he kept the pressure on the wound. “We’re a peaceful crew. We usually don’t hurt or kill men. If we killed every man who got in our way or caused problems, we wouldn’t have any clients left. So lucky for you… my intention isn’t to kill you today.” He leaned in closer. “I will kill your friend though. Because, you know? We just can’t let him walk away after killing ours. But you could still walk free if you collaborate. And I’m sure you’ll be a good client for us sooner or later. You all are, at some point.”

Damian finally removed his thumb from the wound. Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, breathing through the fire in his shoulder.

“Well, congrats,” Tommy said, voice dripping with audacity despite the pain. “You found the one who killed her. Because I was the one who pulled the trigger, you motherfucker.”

Damian glanced at Joshua.

“Nah,” Joshua said, shaking his head with a lazy grin. “This guy was begging the other man to let us go. Practically crying about it. A real pussy.” He let out a short, ugly laugh. “The other one is the dangerous one. I’m sure of it.”

Joshua shifted his weight, exhausted but certain.

“They look a lot alike.” The ginger man continued. “Might even be brothers. He’s protecting him.”

“Hm. That’s cute,” Damian said, smiling with genuine, intimidating delight. “That’s real cute and brave.” He pinched Tommy’s bloody cheek like he was a misbehaving child. “But real stupid.”

He walked back to the stove, picked up the pot of boiling water, and held it casually, steam rising in thick curls.

Tommy stared at the pot, then back at Damian, eyes hard.

“Go ahead,” he said, daring him. “You better boil more water, because you’ll need it.”

Damian paused, studying him. Then, slowly, he set the pot back down on the stove.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Alright. Maybe I have something else that’ll make you speak.”

He reached for the radio clipped to his belt and keyed it.

“Lucas, copy.”

A crackle, then a voice. “Copy, Damian. Lucas here.”

Damian’s eyes never left Tommy’s face. “How’s the girl? Is she behaving nicely?”

Tommy’s whole body snapped to attention. No. This is a trap. Ain’t happenin’.

His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure the other men could hear it.

“Hell no, boss. Bitch is a feisty little thing,” Lucas replied, laughing. “But we’re taking it easy with her for now, just like you asked.”

Tommy’s posture changed completely without him meaning it. Shoulders rigid, breathing shallow and fast, eyes burning with a mixture of rage and raw fear.

Damian smiled, slow and satisfied. “Good. Nobody enjoys her before I do. We don’t hurt our product too much, do we? We don’t want disappointed clients over tiny defects, huh?”

“Copy that, boss.”

Tommy’s voice came out rough, almost a snarl. “Bullshit. You’re bluffing.”

Damian lowered the radio and tilted his head, clearly enjoying the shift in Tommy’s expression. He glanced back at Joshua with a smug little smirk.

“You were right,” Damian said to Joshua. “He cares about the bitch.”

"Fuck you," Tommy snarled, and the chair moved with him in a jolt, wood barking against the floor. "You're lyin'. You're fuckin' lyin', she's— you piece of shit."

He was pulling against the wrist ropes hard enough to open the skin and didn't notice. The chair legs stuttered on floor. Blood and water ran pink off his chin and his voice had dropped into a register neither man had heard from him yet.

Damian watched him with fascination.

" Two minutes ago he was cracking jokes. Now look at him." he murmured to Joshua, genuinely pleased. Then he turned back to Tommy. "You'd tear my throat out with your teeth right now if the rope let you, wouldn't you?"

"You're bluffing." Tommy made his voice flat. It cost him everything he had left and it still came out cracked down the middle. "You got nothin'. Some girl, any girl, you heard him call me soft and now you're fishin'. You've got nothin'."

"Hm." Damian tilted his head. Then, without standing, without hurry, he keyed the radio again. "Lucas. The new batch. Describe her for a friend here."

The crackle. The wait. Tommy's heart slammed.

"Which part, boss?" Lucas's grin traveled through the static. "Pretty face. Prettier ass. Smart mouth — Christ, the mouth. She's been trying to get in our heads since we found her."

Tommy's stomach went through the floor.

"—oh, and the scar in the chest," Lucas added, casual, inventory-voiced. "Ugly thing on such nice packaging. Told you already, hope it don't knock the price."

Something in Tommy's chest didn't break, because breaking was too gentle a word for what he felt. He snaps and thrashes in the chair.“I'll kill you, I'll kill every last one of you, you hear me? Look at me. You even think of touching her and there ain't a hole on this earth deep enough—"

Damian interrupts Tommy’s keying the radio again. “We found one of them, Lucas. Means we’re probably coming back sooner than expected. Keep her clean and pretty for me, alright? I’ll make good use of her before we open her agenda.”

The radio clicked off and went back to his belt.

"I'm bluffing, huh?" Damian said softly, almost amused. He stepped closer, leaned down into Tommy's face. "Tell you what, sunshine. Don't you worry." His voice dropped, warm, confiding, the worst voice a man could choose. "I'll pass along your regards. Whisper 'em to her ear real gentle while I'm fucking her nice and slow."

Tommy’s mind was refusing to accept it. It can’t be. It can’t be her.

He kept running the math that had let him walk north. The worst thing that could possibly happen had happened, and it had happened while he was walking the other way, and the spiral opening under him had no fear anywhere in it. Only rage, black and total.

And then, through the rage, one thought arrived and stood still in the middle of it: She needs you.

He'd believed, he'd bled for it, that you’d be better off without him. That was the math. That was the noble math.

But the math was wrong. There was a cage, and there was a man ready to use you and sell you as meat, and out of everyone left alive on this ruined earth, out of everyone who loved you gentler and deserved you more, the only one built for this, for these men, for what came next, was the man tied to this chair.

You didn't need a good man right now. You needed him.

There was no version of this story, none, not one, not in this world or the next, where a hand got laid on you. He took that fact and set it down in the center of himself like a cornerstone, and everything in him reorganized around it, instantly.

So he remained still. But not calm. The thrashing stopped all at once. His breathing slowed and evened out and dropped low into his belly, and his eyes came up to Damian's face and stayed there, unblinking, and something behind them had finished a calculation and filed the answer.

"There he is," Damian said softly, misreading it entirely, satisfied. "There's the reasonable man. See, this is what I like about product with attachments, everybody negotiates eventually." He stood, brushed his knees, and picked a knife from the table, turning it once in the light. "So here's my offer, and it's the only one on the menu. You help us find your brother and I give you my word she stays intact. I'll handle her gentle. I'll make sure the clients do too. We're businessmen; we take care of the merchandise." He smiled, and pressed the flat of the blade almost tenderly against Tommy's shoulder, finding the wound through the wet shirt. "But if you don't—" He leaned on it.

The steel parted the swollen edges of the gunshot wound and Tommy watched it happen from somewhere very far away. There was pain distantly, he understood there was a great deal of it. But every cell in him was working a different problem now. The rope's stretch. The chair's joints. The knife's reach. The stove. The door. Joshua's bad arm. Damian's throat, one short move away.

"So?" Damian said, twisting the blade a degree, watching Tommy's face for the flinch that didn't come. "What'll it be?"

Tommy looked up at him through the blood, and smiled slow.

"It’s a shame you haven’t boiled more water."

Damian's brow creased, half a question forming, but in the next heartbeat, Tommy exploded. He surged upward with every ounce of feral rage and adrenaline his body could produce. His forehead slammed into Damian’s face with brutal force. Bone met bone with a flat, ugly crack. The knife skittered. Damian sat down on the floor without meaning to, blood already sheeting from his nose, eyes rolling loose in his head.

Across the room, Joshua got the barrel halfway up. Tommy turned at the last step and drove himself, chair-first, and slammed it against the ginger man into the wall, hard enough to shake dust off the ceiling. The chair detonated between them. Joshua went down under the wreckage. The ropes in Tommy’s wrists loosened a fraction, but enough.

Joshua hadn't pulled half a breath before the boot came down on his throat.

Tommy’s foot stood on his neck while the man's hands scrabbled at his ankle and his face went through different colors, and Tommy twisted his wrists, frantic and methodical at once, tearing skin, eyes flicking between the two men.

He got one hand free, then the other. Tommy snatched the gun from the floor, releasing Joshua’s throat. The man gasped desperately for air.

Damian was already getting up some steps across him, dizzy and bleeding, reaching for his own weapon. In a quick movement Tommy shot Damian in the knee, precisely. The man screamed and dropped again.

Tommy turned back to Joshua and delivered three brutal punches to his face, each one harder than the last, knocking him unconscious.

Then he was back at Damian. “Here’s three for you too,” Tommy growled, voice low and venomous, “so you don’t get jealous.”

He punched Damian hard, twice in the mouth, and once in the already broken nose. The man grunted hard and spat blood.

He gathered the rope and crouched over Damian. The man fought it, he twisted his wrists away and clawed at Tommy's forearm with surprising will.

"Hey. Easy now," Tommy said, gently, almost kind. "Cooperate. Make this easy on yourself."

Damian spat blood at him.

"Alright."

Tommy grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the boards to the kitchen, Damian bucking the whole way, the ruined knee leaving a smeared red line behind them.

He lifted the pot of boiling water off the stove, set it aside almost gently, and pressed the man's face down toward the open flame.

Damian jerked and screamed, high and raw, hands beating at Tommy's grip, the smell of burned flesh filling the little kitchen. Tommy held him there a moment longer, then released.

The man dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping, one cheek scorched red and already blistering at the edge.

"See, that's the thing about cooperation," Tommy said, hauling him up by the armpits and dropping him into the one unbroken chair. "It's got a real short learning curve."

He tied him this time without resistance. And while he worked, he talked patiently.

"Now pay attention, 'cause y'all did this part wrong." He looped the rope, cinched it. "You tie the hands, palm to palm, then anchor to the frame separate." He pulled the final knot tight. "There. Now that's a man who ain't goin' anywhere. Free lesson. Consider it hospitality."

Damian sagged against the ropes, half his face scorched, blood running off his chin, cursing him in a low, continuous stream.

"You're dead, you're a dead man, you have no idea what you've signed yourself up to, you fucker!"

Tommy let the man curse. He stood in the middle of the wreckage, chest heaving, covered in blood and sweat, breathing like a wild animal. He pushed the loose hair back out of his face with both hands, slow, and retied it.

"Okay. I'd be real nice if I was you now."

He walked back to the stove. Took the cigarette pack from his pocket, shook one out, lit it off the burner flame. One drag, calm and deliberate, watching Damian through the smoke the whole time. Then he dropped it and ground it out under his boot.

He picked up the pot of boiling water.

Damian jerked in the chair, ropes creaking.

"Chill. This ain't for you." Tommy crossed the room toward Joshua, out cold against the floor. "I need your friend awake. Lucky for you, you only boiled enough for him."

He poured. Joshua came back to the world screaming, jolting, skin going red down his neck and chest where the water found it. He barely had time to understand where he was before the gun was in his face.

“Mornin’.” Tommy crouched down to his level, voice low and calm. “Stay awake and behave real nice for me, ok?”

He tapped the barrel of the gun once against Joshua’s scalded collarbone, making the man flinch. “I know that’s hard to hear… comin’ from the man you thought was a pussy.” Tommy’s smile was cold. “But here’s the thing you wanna consider.” He leaned in closer.

“I am the real dangerous brother.”

He tossed the empty pot aside. It hit the boards with a flat thud.

Then he went to his own pack in the corner and came back with a folded map. He dragged another chair over and sat in front of Damian and watched his ruined face, for some seconds, before continuing. Joshua was still making noises in the corner, wet and ragged.

"My brother's got a strategy for this kinda conversation," he said, spreading the map across his own knee. "Always hated it.” He looked up. "But you're about to show me it's just good sense."

Tommy's voice stayed level, unhurried. "Here's how this works. You point out in this map where she is. Then I ask the cryin' baby on the floor the same question. If the answers don't match—" he tipped his head toward the stove, the wreckage, the blood, all of it, "…everything that's happened to you so far becomes the good part of your day."

"Fuck you." Damian's voice came out mangled through the broken nose, but the spine was still in it. "Fuck you, you asshole, I ain't telling you shit—"

Tommy looked away. Out the window, patient, like checking the weather. "You know, I used to be the talker. Whole life, I'm the one sayin' there's another way, let's everybody calm down." He looked back. "I’m tired of that."

He lowered the pistol and pressed the muzzle into Damian's lap.

"What was it you said on that radio, again? Gonna make good use of her before you opened her agenda?" A beat. Damian went very still. "Yeah. I don't believe you'll be makin' use of anything ever again."

He fired between his legs. Damian's scream tore out of him with nothing held back, raw and high, tears cutting through the blood on his face. Joshua was cursing from the floor, panicked, wordless. Tommy sat back and waited for the screaming to come down to sobbing.

He leaned in, took a fistful of Damian’s hair, and yanked the man’s ruined face up to his. When he spoke again, all the drawl’s looseness was gone. His voice was low, flat, and terrifyingly calm.

“Tell me. Now. Where is she.”

“Please—” Damian was shaking now, words tumbling over each other in panic. “Please, stop, I swear to God she’s being treated nice, we don’t hurt—”

“You sell women,” Tommy cut him off, voice ice-cold, “and you want credit for bein’ gentle about it.”

Without hesitation, Tommy punched him hard, right in the burned, blistered skin of his face. Damian screamed, high, broken, and pathetic.

“No whinin’ now, buddy.” Tommy slid the barrel of the gun down slowly, almost tenderly, and positioned it into the man’s shoulder joint.

He clicked the gun’s trigger back.

"The theater!" It came out of him in one piece, everything at once. "She's at the theater, the theater, for God's sake, please, stop, I swear—"

"WHAT THEATER?!" Tommy snapped, grave and furious. He grabbed the knife, shoved the handle into Damian's mouth, and snapped the map open in front of his face, holding it flat. "Show me! Show me where the fuck she is!"

Damian was shaking hard, but he was precise. The tip of the knife tapped the spot twice and dropped, falling from his mouth into his own lap.

"There. There, that's it."

"Attaboy," Tommy said, calmer, studying the map.

The old man was crying openly now, words slurring through the ruined face. "He can confirm it, ask him, ask him,” he nods to Joshua. “That's the place, I swear on my life. Now please. Please just leave us alone."

"It's fine," he said, folding the map and putting in his jacket. "I trust you."

He took the knife from the man's lap and put it through him, and held it there, eye to eye, until the businessman's eyes closed for good.

Joshua had gone silent in the corner. When Tommy stood and turned, the ginger man started pushing backward with his heels, into the wall, as far as the wall allowed, which was nowhere.

"Wait! Wait! Please." The words came tumbling, scalded voice cracking apart. "Let me go. I'll forget this ever happened, I swear to God, I'm keeping my mouth shut, I won't tell nobody nothing, I'll just disappear, you'll never—"

Tommy reached down slowly and picked up one of the broken chair legs, testing its weight in his hand, unhurried.

He walked over calmly.

"This ain't to keep you quiet."

--------

Author notes: I'm making a dream come true in this last part. I have dreamed with feral tommy for soooo long!

He's my white feather hawk tail deer hunter hummmmmmm

Tag list:

Author notes:

I knew I wouldn't have enough time this week to write everything I'd planned, so I made a decision: shorter chapter, stretched suspense. And honestly? It worked better than the original plan. This is one of the most heart-wrenching things I've ever written. And so special, because yesterday I was at a Twenty One Pilots concert, crying and singing Drag Path at the top of my lungs. And here we have two lovers leaving trails to find each other. omg.

----

It was just another warm Saturday in Austin. Tommy honked again and dropped his elbow out the car window, with a cigarette hanging off his lip. The radio was playing some country song he half knew and couldn't name, and he turned it up anyway, drumming the wheel.

The front door banged open and Sarah came down the walk like a hurricane, with her cleats untied, jersey half-tucked, sports bag on one shoulder, water bottle under her arm, a tube of lip gloss in one hand and a strip of bacon in the other.

She hauled the truck door open and dumped herself into the passenger seat, all elbows.

"Jesus Christ, kiddo. We robbin' a bank on the way?"

"We're late, Uncle Tommy."

"We're fifteen minutes early by my count."

"Your count's been broken since the nineties." She took a bite of the bacon. "Drive."

Tommy shook his head, grinning around the cigarette, and eased the truck off the curb.

Sarah eased her bag down between her feet, and the country song cut out mid-chorus for a news break: something about an outbreak overseas, officials monitoring the situation.

"This again." She reached over and punched the dial to a pop station without asking, and some song made entirely of sugar filled the cab.

"Your daddy doesn't like you ridin' up front."

"My dad doesn't like a bunch of things." She said it breezy, then her face dropped an inch. "He's gonna miss the final again, isn't he."

"He ain't missin' nothin'. We're pickin' him up on the way. He's done now, I talked to him twenty minutes ago."

Sarah's whole face lit up, and she did a happy little shimmy in the seat, drumming her cleats against the floor mat. "Yes. Okay. Okay okay okay."

Tommy watched her out of the corner of his eye, that quick flare of joy.

"'Course," he said, poking her shoulder, "I will be tellin' him you are eatin' bacon before a game."

"No, I'm not." She shoved the entire strip into her mouth and chewed at him, slow and enormous and dramatic.

"That's disgustin'."

"And I'm," she said, still finishing the bacon, "telling my dad you're smoking in my presence."

Tommy took one long, luxurious drag, mirroring her theatrics beat for beat, then flicked the cigarette out the window. "No, I'm not." He gave her the same smile she'd given him.

"How are you even gonna play after eating bacon, kiddo?"

"How are you gonna hit on women after bein' all smelly of smoke?"

"Wait, what? I'm not hittin' on any women—"

"Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy." She reached over and lifted the dog tag off his chest with two fingers. "You only wear these outside the shirt when you're trying to impress somebody." Her hand went up to his hair next, patting it once. "And this? There's product in this. Please."

He swiped her hand off and tucked the tag inside his collar, ears going warm. "It's called bein' presentable."

Tommy's eyes left the road just long enough to look at her, this scrawny teenager with a foot up on the dash, tying her cleat, reading him like a large-print book.

"I'm tellin' your old man you keep puttin' your foot on my panel."

"I'm telling your brother you keep making a move on Lindsay's mom."

"Ohhh." He nodded slowly, tongue in his cheek. "That so? 'Cause I'm tellin' my brother somebody's been makin' a move on Lindsay herself."

Sarah's mouth fell open. A full three seconds of scandalized silence. Then she raised both hands, palms out. "Okay. Truce. Truce."

"That's what I thought." He settled back fully, insufferable, one wrist on the wheel. "And you best keep it that way, kiddo, 'cause I can also tell him a certain somebody lifted a twenty out of his wallet to fix his own watch and hand it back to him as a birthday present."

"I didn't steal it. I earned it."

"For it to be earned, he's gotta give it to you."

"I earned it," Sarah said, with confidence, "because tomorrow he's gonna forget his own birthday cake. And I will have no cake to eat. You wanna bet?"

Tommy laughed. "No bet. Man forgot his own birthday two years runnin'."

"Last year I had to remind him. On the day." She dropped her voice into the gravel register, doing the impression she'd been perfecting for years: "'Huh. That today, babygirl?'"

"'Well. Don't make a thing of it.'" Tommy matched it, jaw set, eyebrows down, the full Joel.

"'Sarah. The door.'"

"'Tommy. The music.'"

They broke at the same time, Sarah tipped her head back against the seat, gasping.

The laughter slowly settled into the road hum and pop music. Sarah was still looking at him. She reached over and pulled the dog tag out from under his collar again. She turned it over in her fingers, reading the stamped letters.

"Uncle Tommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" He kept his eyes on the road.

"Why'd you decide to join the army?"

He glanced at her, shifted his grip on the wheel. “Well… after I finished high school, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. Joel was already workin’. I felt kinda lost, like I needed to do somethin’ that mattered.” He paused, glancing at her again. “I guess I wanted to be useful. I wanted to protect people. Help make the world a little safer, even if it was just one small piece of it. Sounded noble at the time.”

Sarah stared at him for a long moment. "That's so naive."

“Well, somebody's gotta be dumb enough to believe things can get better. Might as well be me."

"Now, that’s profound.” She smiled, then looked at the road. "And why didn't Dad join?"

"Because the army don't take young guys that behaves like grumpy old men."

Sarah cracked up. He tapped the wheel, letting her giggle run out, and then gave her the real answer. "Nah. He never felt like it. And he had you very young. Single dads don't get to enlist, even if he wanted to." He shrugged one shoulder. "Besides," Tommy added, "between the two of us, I'm the better shooter, the more athletic, and the better-lookin' one. The army simply took the superior Miller. It's basic math."

"Come on! You're literally identical from behind. Lindsay's mom said so."

"She's been lookin'?"

"UGH." Sarah slammed her hand against her face.

They stopped at a red light and Sarah's head turned round toward the shop window on the right, her whole face changing.

"Uncle Tommy!" She grabbed his arm with both hands. "Look. Look at that shirt. Can we come back here after? Please?"

In the window, a pink Nirvana t-shirt, faded graphic.

"You got money?"

She turned to him with the expression. Head tilted exactly forty-five degrees, bottom lip barely out, eyes enormous. The one expression that had been breaking him and Joel both since she was approximately three years old and had figured out it worked.

"I don't," she said sweetly. "But my very generous and extremely handsome uncle does."

Tommy huffed a laugh, glancing back at the traffic light. “Now I’m extremely handsome, huh?”

Sarah nodded, completely earnest. “Yes. The most handsome.”

He raised an eyebrow, unable to resist. “More handsome than your dad.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Way more handsome than dad.”

Tommy looked back at the shop window, satisfied. "Okay. If you win the game. We come back. I'll buy it."

She made a sound somewhere between a thank you and a victory screech, patting his arm rapidly. "You're the best! You're my favorite uncle."

Tommy looked at her and felt the particular, uncomplicated love that she produced in him without even trying. “I’m your only uncle, Sarah.”

“See? Favorite and exclusive.”

He watched this kid grow up from a tiny howling red face thing into this sharp, sarcastic hurricane, and she still managed to be the best thing in his life. She owned some piece of him that nobody else had ever had access to, and she didn't even know it, and he was glad she didn't know it because she'd absolutely use it against him.

The light turned green.

And a sharp impact came from the left without warning. Just the sudden enormous crash of glass and metal and the world tilting sideways faster than his brain could process, the world spun and the truck was on its side and something was ringing and ringing and would not stop.

When he opened his eyes, it was night. The rifle was in his hands. He didn't remember picking it up. He didn’t remember being in this street. He was behind the overturned truck, and the street was wrong, the street was completely wrong. People running and screaming and something was terrifying with the way some of them were moving, and he turned and fired at the shape coming toward him before he'd could process it.

The shape twisted and dropped. He stared at what he'd done.

And then he knew. The knowledge arrived all at once, fully formed: He knew what this night was. He knew exactly what came next. He ran.

Because every time he dreamed it, he knew what would happen and he’d ran anyway.

He heard the shot. He turned the corner toward the empty field.

The FEDRA officer was still standing. Tommy raised the rifle and fired once, and the man dropped, and he crossed the distance to his brother in three strides, already knowing, his chest already hollowed out.

And then he was there and Joel was on the ground and Sarah was bleeding and breathing hard.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Joel said, moving immediately to his daughter.

“I know, I know, I know it hurts baby. Let me see,” His hands ran to her stomach and found nothing that could be fixed with his hands. “You’re ok. I know, I know, I know baby, I know,” Joel says urgently, pressing were the blood spilled. “You’re gonna be ok. Baby? Baby? Listen to me. I gotta get you up. Ok? I gotta get you up. Come on,”

Joel pulled her up as carefully and as quickly as he could.

“Come on. I know, baby. I know, I know, I know,”

She was so small in Joel’s arms.

He could still hear it. Uncle Tommy! Look. Look at that shirt. Can we come back here after? Please? They lost that day. Tommy didn’t buy it.

Joel was rocking her, voice breaking. “I know baby girl, I know.”

You're the best! You're my favorite uncle.

“Tommy! Help me!”

Silence.

“…Joel,”

He'd failed them. He'd been the only one in this family with military training, and he was behind the overturned car with a rifle in his hands while this was happening thirty feet away, and he'd failed them. And no version of this ever ended differently, and he would never stop running toward that field, and he would never stop being too late.

Tommy woke up on the thin mattress on the floor, gasping for air loudly.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Sarah, the other Sarah, was already sitting up across the camp with her rifle in both hands in an automatic reflex. She looked at him. Looked at the empty camp around them. Lowered the rifle a fraction.

"You scared me," she said, not rude but not gentle either. "Again."

She set the rifle across her knees and pushed her hair back with one hand. "Do you ever actually sleep? Or is that just not somethin' you do anymore?"

“I… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She tried to read his face, tried to understand why this man is being punished by his own mind like this. But she realizes there’s too much in those eyes to be asked to someone she barely knows, and just turns back to sleep instead.

He was ashamed of himself. He had woken Sarah three times before dawn. The second nightmare had been the pregnant lady dropping after he pulled the trigger.

The first one had been you.

You, with your hand pressed flat to your chest, panting. Except in the dream there was no one else, just you on the ground, looking up at him and saying go away, you made your choice already, while your fingers pressed harder against your sternum like you were holding together a heart he was the sole responsible for breaking.

He'd woken from that one with his hand reaching across the dirt for a person that wasn't there.

He was used to dreaming about the night his niece died. As he was used to dream with all the other horrific things he had to either enforce or endure.

Tonight it had broken the routine. Tonight it had put you in the rotation, slid you in among the dead like you belonged there. And then it had done something it had never done in four years: it had given him the day before with Sarah. Every second of it real, every second of it the last good bye he could never see coming, like his mind had been keeping it pristine all these years specifically so it could hurt him with it now.

He shifted on the thin mattress, pulled the blanket up, and tried to lie still.

The signs. He'd asked God for one. One. And he had two versions of Sarah’s coming uninvited with many messages he could not read. God was either silent and these were painful coincidences, or He was a sadist, and Tommy was starting to suspect the second.

Sarah. Sarah meant Joel. Right?

But this Sarah has a camp to help people. That Sarah asked about his dog tag. This thing, this… hope. Meant the fireflies?

Is it worth to continue? Would he ever reach Joel? Would he be too late once more?

…Would he ever see you in Boston again?

The guilt crawling back meant the debt with his brother.

But whatever you had to do in a ruined Baltimore seemed more complicated than his mind could figure out and he was scared of what that would really mean.

God. His brain barely woke up and it was twisting and turning inside his head.

He didn't even know if his brother was alive, and lying here he could admit the ugliest thing: he genuinely didn't know if he was going for Joel or just back for you.

But he knew he couldn’t allow his mind to go into this rabbit hole. So, he did the only thing that quieted the storm. The one thing a coward man should never do when he's trying to forget a woman who’s heart he finished breaking.

He thought about your smell, still living in his chest where he'd breathed you so many times and not remotely enough. He thought about the book open in your hands, your neck close enough and the urge to never let his lips away from it. He thought about your kiss and the way you'd smile into the second one. The taste of you. The exact shape you made inside his arms, how you fit there like the space had been measured for you years in advance and now he'd just been carrying it around empty.

He played it again, and again, and again. Not to feel good, because it hurt like pressing on a wound to keep from bleeding out. He played it because the devils couldn't get in while you were there.

Somewhere before dawn, it finally pulled him under.

  ---

It's still too early when you wake up. Frank is asleep in the sleeping bag beside yours, and your eyes go looking for the familiar shape of broad shoulders and dark long curls you've been waking up to for weeks. They find Marcus short blond hair instead, pacing the perimeter slow and alert, rifle in both hands. He catches you looking and nods a silent good morning. You manage half a smile back.

You get up and cross to him, hugging your jacket closed against the dawn chill.

"Sleep well, boss?"

"Don't call me boss," you giggle. "And yes."

It was a lie.

"You?"

"I always sleep well. Too well, honestly. Frank says I could sleep through the end of the world."

You huff a small laugh. The quiet stretches, comfortable, until it isn't.

"…May I ask you something?" he says.

"Sure."

He tips his chin toward your chest. "What happened yesterday. Is it okay? Should we be… concerned?"

For one second you let yourself believe he's asking about you. The human, not the solution. And he might be. Marcus is a good man.

"Don't worry," you say, lighter than you feel. "I'm not ruining the mission. It'll reach Baltimore intact. The doctor gets it exactly as promised."

"No— no, that's not what I—" Marcus fumbles, and the protest comes exactly one beat too late. "I was asking —"

"It's okay, Marcus." You wave it off before it can become a thing.

Marcus looks at his boots.

"…What I'm carrying is bigger than me," you finish instead. "That's the only reason any of us are in this mess."

He nods slowly, still not looking up. Somewhere a bird starts singing.

"But,… there's this thing with the device," you go on, because facts are easier. "It has a smart battery function. Lifespan control. When the heart rate spikes too high, it corrects just enough to keep it from failing completely. It won't waste charge smoothing out the discomfort. Made perfect sense when they implanted it. How often does a person's heart really redline on mundane life?" You give a dry laugh and gesture at the ruined world in general. "In the apocalypse, in the other way around..."

"And it happens often?"

"Thankfully, no. Yesterday was the fourth time in all these years." You count them off without meaning to. "Outbreak day. The day my uncle died. The day Lincoln betrayed us. And… yesterday."

Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, the way a man steps onto ice: "I'm sorry, but… doesn't that seem like it's being triggered by smaller things now? I mean, no offense, but… Lincoln’s deal, Lincoln you saw coming, let’s be honest. Can't compare with outbreak day and your uncle passing away. And then yesterday it was just that smuggler—"

"Well." You cut him off fast. Heat crawls up your neck, because he's right, and you know he's right.

"…I'm sure the doctor will have answers," you say. "For all of it."

Marcus looks at you. You look at Marcus. "Yeah," Marcus says. "Yeah. It'll all be fine."

He pats your shoulder, careful and warm, and it lands like hope and strength and farewell delivered at once. "Thanks for being this brave. Whatever happens there, I hope you know you're our—"

"It will all be fine, Marcus." You cut him off before the sentence can finish becoming whatever it was becoming. "I've survived one hundred percent of everything life has thrown at me so far. I’ll survive this one too."

"…Right." He huffs. "Right."

Boots in the grass behind you. Frank, scrubbing a hand through his hair, squinting at the light. "You two solvin' the world's problems before breakfast?"

"Something like that."

"Road looks good on the map. If the weather holds and that bridge at the county line is still standing, we're maybe a week out from Baltimore. Week and a half if it's not." He looks at you then. "How you feelin' about that, pumpkin?"

You glance at Marcus. Back at Frank. Two men who cares deeply for you, watching you like a held breath.

"I'm feeling we should move," you say.

And so you do.

You walk most of the day. It’s afternoon already and you walk between the two men. The formation feels wrong.

You keep glancing back occasionally, even knowing you’ll find nothing there. For weeks there was always something back there worth the glance, sometimes scowling, sometimes scanning the tree line, sometimes pretending so hard not to look at you that it was its own way of looking. Always Tommy, holding you in his attention a thousand small ways he thought you never noticed.

Marcus catches your fourth glance and gives you a kind, useless smile.

You spot a small river. The sun is warm and should settle soon, and you feel the pull of it in your skin before you've said a word. Water is the only thing left in the world that takes things off of you. Days, sins, hands, grief.

“Frank,” You nod to the river. "Ten minutes," you ask. "Please."

Frank and Marcus scan it. Sight lines, calm water. Birds behaving. Nothing but a calm afternoon.

"…Ok. There's a boathouse past the bend," Frank points. "We'll check it quickly for resources to give you privacy. Anything moves, you shout."

"Sure.”

You strip on the flat rock and walk into the river.

The cold grabs you. You duck under, come up gasping, and stand there with the water at your waist while the sun makes the surface look shattered and golden. You wash your arms, your neck, the back of your shoulders, and your own hands are careful and small and completely, uselessly wrong. You can’t stop yourself from wishing they felt differently. Rough. Calloused. Warm even in cold water, spread wide across your stomach. You touch the top of your scar and think of a thumb that traced it once like it was something holy instead of something broken.

The last river you stood in, those hands held you under it. And it’s sick and twisted but you'd give anything to have those hands on you again, gentle, silently asking forgiveness.

You allow yourself exactly three tears. They fall off and mix with the river water, and the river takes them like it takes everything from your back. Then you walk out.

You dress fast, skin still damp. Panties, trousers, boots. You're just secured your bra when a hand closes over your mouth.

"Isn't this our lucky day," a voice says against your ear.

Your whole body lurches, and the arm around you was ready for that, tightening you back against him. Your heart slams once, hard, and then begins to climb.

"Easy," the voice says. "Behave and you'll be fine."

Your eyes rake the bank. The bend. The boathouse. Frank. Marcus. Nothing.

A second man steps around into your field of view, unhurried, rifle slung, looking at you the way men evaluate horses. "Well, hell," he says. "They weren't lying. This will be the best batch we'll have had in years." He pulls a radio off his belt, keys it. "Damian, you copy?"

Ten seconds.

"Copy."

"We found the girl. Matches the description head to toe." His eyes travel down and stop, and something in his face does arithmetic. "Damn. She pretty as fuck. Got one flaw on her, though. Big ugly scar, right down the middle." He traces the line of it with his thumb, slow, proprietary, and the disgust and fear run equal parts through you. "Hope that don't knock the price. Some clients get particular about the packaging."

Damian's voice is flat and bored and absolutely in charge. "The men. You have them, Lucas?"

Lucas glances toward the bend, unbothered. "Two with her, armed, off down the bank. They’re not who we’re looking for, though. Don't match at all. It ain't the brothers, for sure."

A pause on the radio, long enough to hold a decision about whether Frank and Marcus live or die without ever meeting them.

"Then don't waste the time or ammunition."

“Damian. I think we should—”

“Lucas. We don’t kill men. Anyone is a potential client, sooner or later. Take the batch and head for the office. Quiet.”

"Copy, Damian."

“No, no, no, no, please no, please!” You say it muffled into the man’s hand.

They turn you away from the river, and your heart is climbing now, the fear and panic consuming you completely.

This can’t be happening. No. This can’t be. Can’t be. Think. Think.

Your fingers find the chain at your throat.

You snap it with one discrete pull and open your hand.

The firefly lands face-up in the grass. Your name. 00001. The first light, left laying behind you.

Because that's what people in love do, you learned it from him. They leave pieces of themselves along the road, bright enough to be found.

Please come for me, Frank.

The plea fires on its own, automatic, the way you'd reach for a railing while falling. Frank loves you. Frank will search until his body give out.

But the trees close around you, and your heartbeat throws itself against the device.

There was exactly one person in this world who would never have let this happen. One person built for men like these.

And you know the difference between the man who would die looking for you… and the man who would refuse to die until he found you.

…Please. Please. Find me, Tommy.

--- Tommy woke to the smell of coffee. Sarah was crouched at the fire.

"Well. You finally went down proper," she said. "Last stretch there you didn't move once. I checked twice to make sure you weren't dead."

"Sorry. Again. For the—"

"It's fine." She said, flat and done.

He sat up, worked the stiffness out of his neck, and his stomach announced itself with a long, loud sound

Sarah laughed. An actual laugh, short and surprised out of her. "Good Lord." She pointed the stick at a milk crate by the supply lean-to. "There's food in the box. Help yourself."

He crossed the space and dug through it, and then his hand stopped on a small cardboard box, dented but sealed, the print faded to pastel.

Cookie Dough Bites.

You have got to be kiddin' me.

He stood there holding it. Of course. Of course it was this. God couldn't even let a man eat breakfast.

"Lucky find, those," Sarah said, watching him. "Whole case in a flipped vending truck last spring. Taste amazing, I'm warnin' you now. Ruined me for regular jerky."

Tommy turned the box once in his hand. Then he slid it into his pack.

"Not eatin'?"

"Later," he said.

She poured coffee into a mug and held it out to him, then filled her own. They sat across the fire from each other and drank quietly.

"So," she said, in the tone of someone who already knows the answer and has decided to ask anyway. "The nightmares. Every night like that?"

He looked into his mug. "Most. Some worse than others." He shrugged one shoulder. "Who ain't got 'em, since outbreak."

"I don't."

He looked up.

"I sleep well."

He didn't mean to do it, but his eyes went the clouded blind eye with the scar run clean through it, the mapwork of marks in her neck disappearing under her collar, the left hand around the mug with its missing finger. The whole weight of what the world had inflicted to her, and his face must have asked the question, because she caught him at it and didn't flinch.

"You're wonderin' how somebody who looks like this sleeps fine," she said.

"…Sorry. Didn't mean to stare."

She turned her mug slowly, looking into the fire. "I'll tell you what changed it. Somewhere along the way I stopped puttin' my life first. Sounds backwards, I know. But the day my own survival dropped to second on the list, behind bein' of use to somebody, the nights went quiet." She shrugged. "There's nothin' left in this world for me to want, Tommy. Think about it. Things? Everything's free now and none of it's worth carryin'. Experiences? I've had all of 'em I'd wish on anyone. Knowledge, money, land. For what?" She shook her head slowly. "I've been mostly alone four years. And the only thing that still fills the tank, the only thing, is when somebody stumbles into this camp half-dead and walks out whole." She tipped her chin at him. "That's the entire economy I run on. Bein' useful. Everything else is decoration."

The fire popped. Tommy drank so he wouldn't have to answer.

"Only thing I ever grieved," she went on, quieter, "was Baltimore. The idea of it. Whole group of people organized around exactly that: bein' of use, at scale. Takin' whole cities back for regular folks." Her jaw shifted. "I was gonna be part of somethin'. And it burned down before I ever got to touch it."

Tommy sat very still.

"…If you knew they were still workin'," he said. "Still operatin', successful, somewhere else. Would you go?"

She thought about it properly. "Hm. Maybe. I've settled here. Every once in a while I get to be some use where I stand. So… maybe. Or not." Her good eye came up to him, narrowing. "Why?"

He was silent.

She leaned over and topped off his mug, unhurried, eyes never leaving his face. "You know something."

"I might." He sipped.

He tipped his head, a small, sideways acknowledgment.

"Say the name, then," she said. "If you know that much."

"You say it first."

"We say it at the same time."

They looked at each other like two card players evaluating the opponent.

"Fireflies?"

The word came out of both of them at once, and Sarah sat back slowly with her mug halfway to her mouth and did not drink.

"Boston QZ," Tommy said. "They're operatin' there. Organized." He watched her face do a thousand calculations in the spam of seconds "I’m heading there. You could come," he said. "Safer with two."

The sentence hung in the air in front of him, and he looked at it, and something in him asked, quiet and honest: Am I? Am I really going to Boston?

Sarah looked past him, at her camp. He watched her and recognized: hope arriving in a person who had carefully, methodically finished grieving it. It didn't look like joy. It looked like disturbance.

"That's… useful to know," she said finally, and her voice had gone somewhere careful. She turned the mug in her hands. "But… maybe later. Maybe when winter comes. For now I'm… I'm good here." A pause. "I'll think about it. Okay? Thank you. For tellin' me." Another pause, and the corner of her mouth moved. "Maybe we meet there."

"Maybe. Yeah."

They drank in silence. The air had gone thick, he could see her doing it, the thing he'd been doing for weeks since he met you: taking her whole settled life down off the shelf and turning it over.

He reached for something else.

"How'd you manage it, anyway? Alone, four years... I mean, it's hard enough with two. Most people don't last a season solo."

"Experience," she said simply. "I had a head start on the apocalypse. Army, before. Twelve years in."

Tommy went stiff.

No. Not this. Not one more. Goddamit, not one more.

He set his jaw and stared into the fire and something behind his ribs started to hurt in advance, because he already knew that whatever she said next was going to be precisely tailored to him at this point.

"All this damage you're lookin' at," she went on, and gestured roughly at herself . "I want you to understand somethin'. None of it was done to a victim. Every mark on me, I was standin' in front of somebody. Or somethin'." She flexed the four-fingered hand once, looked at it. "And I don't regret one square inch. That's the job. That's what a soldier is. You put your body between trouble and your country, and whatever trouble takes off you on the way through, that was the price and you knew it when you signed."

Tommy puts the mug down because his hand started shaking and had stopped being reliable.

"People look at me and see what the world took," Sarah said. "I look at me and see everything it didn't get. Because it had to come through me first." She drained her coffee.

Tommy was not well. It came up through him like floodwater. She was the road not taken sitting six feet away drinking coffee. She was what he'd told a younger Sarah he was going to be. She was the real hero, and not a coward that convinced himself years ago he could be.

He stood. Adjusted his jacket, got his pack, small mechanical motions, reassembling himself piece by piece in real time.

"I'm sorry— I'm too far behind already," he said. "I need to find a horse, a car, somethin' with more legs than I got."

She noticed the retreat for what it was, she let him have it.

"Oh. Ok. Horse, good luck. Car…" she considered. "There's a farm supply six, seven miles north, machine shed out back, might be somethin' with a battery worth pullin'. And the state route past that had a National Guard checkpoint. Some vehicles left standin' last I passed, most stripped, but most ain't all. Long odds either way."

"Long odds is my whole portfolio these days."

He gathered his things. She walked him to the edge of the camp, rifle slung, and he stopped and faced her.

"Thank you," he said. "And I'm sorry to run out on you like this, I know this is a hell of a way to repay hospitality”, he gestured at all of it, the pit, the mattress, the coffee, the stitches. "I mean, thank you. Profoundly. I owe you one I can't pay."

"You don't owe me nothin'. Told you how my economy works." The scarred face creased, almost warm. "Door's always open here, Tommy. You, anybody with a decent heart. They find me eventually."

He hesitated. He was already turned half away and he came back to it, because it was going to come out of him whether he permitted it or not.

"Thank you for bein' this good to the world, Sarah. Somebody ought to say it to you out loud once in a while. The world got mean," he said. "got mean 'cause people stopped helpin' each other. And you didn't have to, but you chose being good and nobody's watchin', and you do it anyway." His voice had gone rough at the edges.

Sarah looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled.

"You're no different than me."

His chest detonated quietly. Nothing moved in his face, but somewhere behind the sternum the whole structure went at once.

He smiled at her. Completely, silently disagreeing.

"Take care of yourself, Sarah."

"Avoid the central region goin' north, it’s full of infected." she said.

"And Tommy." He looked back. "Whoever the candy's for. They are welcome too, if needed."

He didn't answer that. There was no answering that. So he just walked.

He walked, and the camp fell away behind him, and the roads and the hours took him deep. And he walked. North, he told himself, north, the farm supply, the checkpoint, to Joel.

Because Sarah proved good people survive hell intact. It was always a possibility to stay good.

The message that was sent to him was clear now, brick by brick. What he did was a choice, not a necessity.  Which proves you were wrong about him. He's not a good man buried under bad acts, he's a man who chose the acts. Your love is a symptom. Of captivity, fear, of your own desperate thesis needing a proof.

I love you, Tommy Miller.

And I love you too, he heard his own voice saying back.

He felt it crush his chest: the sincere smile in your lips just for him, your hopes fully laid on him. The absurdity of repaying that with violence, with brutality, with bruises and broken fingers and abandoning.

In another life, he’d be the man who stands beside you. In this one, he is not the hero young Tommy thought he could be. This version of himself can only bring disappointment and pain.

The kindest thing I'll ever do is stay a stranger. He thinks.

The best possible thing I can do is acknowledging I’m no good for her before it’s too late.

And he was never more in love than in this very moment, where he really decided he had to leave.

And he walked, and walked, and walked.

The box of cookie dough bites rode in his pack anyway, untouched, waiting there.

-----

end notes:

Off to survive second day of music festival now. I'm exhausted, I'm too old for this omg. This chapter cost me sleep I'll never get back, so: did it hurt? Tell me it hurt! haha

Please flood me with love for all effort I put to write it in this chaotic week. Now I'm leaving to watch Ethel Cain (again) and The Cure <3

Tag list:

Author notes:

I knew I wouldn't have enough time this week to write everything I'd planned, so I made a decision: shorter chapter, stretched suspense. And honestly? It worked better than the original plan. This is one of the most heart-wrenching things I've ever written. And so special, because yesterday I was at a Twenty One Pilots concert, crying and singing Drag Path at the top of my lungs. And here we have two lovers leaving trails to find each other. omg.

----

It was just another warm Saturday in Austin. Tommy honked again and dropped his elbow out the car window, with a cigarette hanging off his lip. The radio was playing some country song he half knew and couldn't name, and he turned it up anyway, drumming the wheel.

The front door banged open and Sarah came down the walk like a hurricane, with her cleats untied, jersey half-tucked, sports bag on one shoulder, water bottle under her arm, a tube of lip gloss in one hand and a strip of bacon in the other.

She hauled the truck door open and dumped herself into the passenger seat, all elbows.

"Jesus Christ, kiddo. We robbin' a bank on the way?"

"We're late, Uncle Tommy."

"We're fifteen minutes early by my count."

"Your count's been broken since the nineties." She took a bite of the bacon. "Drive."

Tommy shook his head, grinning around the cigarette, and eased the truck off the curb.

Sarah eased her bag down between her feet, and the country song cut out mid-chorus for a news break: something about an outbreak overseas, officials monitoring the situation.

"This again." She reached over and punched the dial to a pop station without asking, and some song made entirely of sugar filled the cab.

"Your daddy doesn't like you ridin' up front."

"My dad doesn't like a bunch of things." She said it breezy, then her face dropped an inch. "He's gonna miss the final again, isn't he."

"He ain't missin' nothin'. We're pickin' him up on the way. He's done now, I talked to him twenty minutes ago."

Sarah's whole face lit up, and she did a happy little shimmy in the seat, drumming her cleats against the floor mat. "Yes. Okay. Okay okay okay."

Tommy watched her out of the corner of his eye, that quick flare of joy.

"'Course," he said, poking her shoulder, "I will be tellin' him you are eatin' bacon before a game."

"No, I'm not." She shoved the entire strip into her mouth and chewed at him, slow and enormous and dramatic.

"That's disgustin'."

"And I'm," she said, still finishing the bacon, "telling my dad you're smoking in my presence."

Tommy took one long, luxurious drag, mirroring her theatrics beat for beat, then flicked the cigarette out the window. "No, I'm not." He gave her the same smile she'd given him.

"How are you even gonna play after eating bacon, kiddo?"

"How are you gonna hit on women after bein' all smelly of smoke?"

"Wait, what? I'm not hittin' on any women—"

"Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy." She reached over and lifted the dog tag off his chest with two fingers. "You only wear these outside the shirt when you're trying to impress somebody." Her hand went up to his hair next, patting it once. "And this? There's product in this. Please."

He swiped her hand off and tucked the tag inside his collar, ears going warm. "It's called bein' presentable."

Tommy's eyes left the road just long enough to look at her, this scrawny teenager with a foot up on the dash, tying her cleat, reading him like a large-print book.

"I'm tellin' your old man you keep puttin' your foot on my panel."

"I'm telling your brother you keep making a move on Lindsay's mom."

"Ohhh." He nodded slowly, tongue in his cheek. "That so? 'Cause I'm tellin' my brother somebody's been makin' a move on Lindsay herself."

Sarah's mouth fell open. A full three seconds of scandalized silence. Then she raised both hands, palms out. "Okay. Truce. Truce."

"That's what I thought." He settled back fully, insufferable, one wrist on the wheel. "And you best keep it that way, kiddo, 'cause I can also tell him a certain somebody lifted a twenty out of his wallet to fix his own watch and hand it back to him as a birthday present."

"I didn't steal it. I earned it."

"For it to be earned, he's gotta give it to you."

"I earned it," Sarah said, with confidence, "because tomorrow he's gonna forget his own birthday cake. And I will have no cake to eat. You wanna bet?"

Tommy laughed. "No bet. Man forgot his own birthday two years runnin'."

"Last year I had to remind him. On the day." She dropped her voice into the gravel register, doing the impression she'd been perfecting for years: "'Huh. That today, babygirl?'"

"'Well. Don't make a thing of it.'" Tommy matched it, jaw set, eyebrows down, the full Joel.

"'Sarah. The door.'"

"'Tommy. The music.'"

They broke at the same time, Sarah tipped her head back against the seat, gasping.

The laughter slowly settled into the road hum and pop music. Sarah was still looking at him. She reached over and pulled the dog tag out from under his collar again. She turned it over in her fingers, reading the stamped letters.

"Uncle Tommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" He kept his eyes on the road.

"Why'd you decide to join the army?"

He glanced at her, shifted his grip on the wheel. “Well… after I finished high school, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. Joel was already workin’. I felt kinda lost, like I needed to do somethin’ that mattered.” He paused, glancing at her again. “I guess I wanted to be useful. I wanted to protect people. Help make the world a little safer, even if it was just one small piece of it. Sounded noble at the time.”

Sarah stared at him for a long moment. "That's so naive."

“Well, somebody's gotta be dumb enough to believe things can get better. Might as well be me."

"Now, that’s profound.” She smiled, then looked at the road. "And why didn't Dad join?"

"Because the army don't take young guys that behaves like grumpy old men."

Sarah cracked up. He tapped the wheel, letting her giggle run out, and then gave her the real answer. "Nah. He never felt like it. And he had you very young. Single dads don't get to enlist, even if he wanted to." He shrugged one shoulder. "Besides," Tommy added, "between the two of us, I'm the better shooter, the more athletic, and the better-lookin' one. The army simply took the superior Miller. It's basic math."

"Come on! You're literally identical from behind. Lindsay's mom said so."

"She's been lookin'?"

"UGH." Sarah slammed her hand against her face.

They stopped at a red light and Sarah's head turned round toward the shop window on the right, her whole face changing.

"Uncle Tommy!" She grabbed his arm with both hands. "Look. Look at that shirt. Can we come back here after? Please?"

In the window, a pink Nirvana t-shirt, faded graphic.

"You got money?"

She turned to him with the expression. Head tilted exactly forty-five degrees, bottom lip barely out, eyes enormous. The one expression that had been breaking him and Joel both since she was approximately three years old and had figured out it worked.

"I don't," she said sweetly. "But my very generous and extremely handsome uncle does."

Tommy huffed a laugh, glancing back at the traffic light. “Now I’m extremely handsome, huh?”

Sarah nodded, completely earnest. “Yes. The most handsome.”

He raised an eyebrow, unable to resist. “More handsome than your dad.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Way more handsome than dad.”

Tommy looked back at the shop window, satisfied. "Okay. If you win the game. We come back. I'll buy it."

She made a sound somewhere between a thank you and a victory screech, patting his arm rapidly. "You're the best! You're my favorite uncle."

Tommy looked at her and felt the particular, uncomplicated love that she produced in him without even trying. “I’m your only uncle, Sarah.”

“See? Favorite and exclusive.”

He watched this kid grow up from a tiny howling red face thing into this sharp, sarcastic hurricane, and she still managed to be the best thing in his life. She owned some piece of him that nobody else had ever had access to, and she didn't even know it, and he was glad she didn't know it because she'd absolutely use it against him.

The light turned green.

And a sharp impact came from the left without warning. Just the sudden enormous crash of glass and metal and the world tilting sideways faster than his brain could process, the world spun and the truck was on its side and something was ringing and ringing and would not stop.

When he opened his eyes, it was night. The rifle was in his hands. He didn't remember picking it up. He didn’t remember being in this street. He was behind the overturned truck, and the street was wrong, the street was completely wrong. People running and screaming and something was terrifying with the way some of them were moving, and he turned and fired at the shape coming toward him before he'd could process it.

The shape twisted and dropped. He stared at what he'd done.

And then he knew. The knowledge arrived all at once, fully formed: He knew what this night was. He knew exactly what came next. He ran.

Because every time he dreamed it, he knew what would happen and he’d ran anyway.

He heard the shot. He turned the corner toward the empty field.

The FEDRA officer was still standing. Tommy raised the rifle and fired once, and the man dropped, and he crossed the distance to his brother in three strides, already knowing, his chest already hollowed out.

And then he was there and Joel was on the ground and Sarah was bleeding and breathing hard.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Joel said, moving immediately to his daughter.

“I know, I know, I know it hurts baby. Let me see,” His hands ran to her stomach and found nothing that could be fixed with his hands. “You’re ok. I know, I know, I know baby, I know,” Joel says urgently, pressing were the blood spilled. “You’re gonna be ok. Baby? Baby? Listen to me. I gotta get you up. Ok? I gotta get you up. Come on,”

Joel pulled her up as carefully and as quickly as he could.

“Come on. I know, baby. I know, I know, I know,”

She was so small in Joel’s arms.

He could still hear it. Uncle Tommy! Look. Look at that shirt. Can we come back here after? Please? They lost that day. Tommy didn’t buy it.

Joel was rocking her, voice breaking. “I know baby girl, I know.”

You're the best! You're my favorite uncle.

“Tommy! Help me!”

Silence.

“…Joel,”

He'd failed them. He'd been the only one in this family with military training, and he was behind the overturned car with a rifle in his hands while this was happening thirty feet away, and he'd failed them. And no version of this ever ended differently, and he would never stop running toward that field, and he would never stop being too late.

Tommy woke up on the thin mattress on the floor, gasping for air loudly.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Sarah, the other Sarah, was already sitting up across the camp with her rifle in both hands in an automatic reflex. She looked at him. Looked at the empty camp around them. Lowered the rifle a fraction.

"You scared me," she said, not rude but not gentle either. "Again."

She set the rifle across her knees and pushed her hair back with one hand. "Do you ever actually sleep? Or is that just not somethin' you do anymore?"

“I… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She tried to read his face, tried to understand why this man is being punished by his own mind like this. But she realizes there’s too much in those eyes to be asked to someone she barely knows, and just turns back to sleep instead.

He was ashamed of himself. He had woken Sarah three times before dawn. The second nightmare had been the pregnant lady dropping after he pulled the trigger.

The first one had been you.

You, with your hand pressed flat to your chest, panting. Except in the dream there was no one else, just you on the ground, looking up at him and saying go away, you made your choice already, while your fingers pressed harder against your sternum like you were holding together a heart he was the sole responsible for breaking.

He'd woken from that one with his hand reaching across the dirt for a person that wasn't there.

He was used to dreaming about the night his niece died. As he was used to dream with all the other horrific things he had to either enforce or endure.

Tonight it had broken the routine. Tonight it had put you in the rotation, slid you in among the dead like you belonged there. And then it had done something it had never done in four years: it had given him the day before with Sarah. Every second of it real, every second of it the last good bye he could never see coming, like his mind had been keeping it pristine all these years specifically so it could hurt him with it now.

He shifted on the thin mattress, pulled the blanket up, and tried to lie still.

The signs. He'd asked God for one. One. And he had two versions of Sarah’s coming uninvited with many messages he could not read. God was either silent and these were painful coincidences, or He was a sadist, and Tommy was starting to suspect the second.

Sarah. Sarah meant Joel. Right?

But this Sarah has a camp to help people. That Sarah asked about his dog tag. This thing, this… hope. Meant the fireflies?

Is it worth to continue? Would he ever reach Joel? Would he be too late once more?

…Would he ever see you in Boston again?

The guilt crawling back meant the debt with his brother.

But whatever you had to do in a ruined Baltimore seemed more complicated than his mind could figure out and he was scared of what that would really mean.

God. His brain barely woke up and it was twisting and turning inside his head.

He didn't even know if his brother was alive, and lying here he could admit the ugliest thing: he genuinely didn't know if he was going for Joel or just back for you.

But he knew he couldn’t allow his mind to go into this rabbit hole. So, he did the only thing that quieted the storm. The one thing a coward man should never do when he's trying to forget a woman who’s heart he finished breaking.

He thought about your smell, still living in his chest where he'd breathed you so many times and not remotely enough. He thought about the book open in your hands, your neck close enough and the urge to never let his lips away from it. He thought about your kiss and the way you'd smile into the second one. The taste of you. The exact shape you made inside his arms, how you fit there like the space had been measured for you years in advance and now he'd just been carrying it around empty.

He played it again, and again, and again. Not to feel good, because it hurt like pressing on a wound to keep from bleeding out. He played it because the devils couldn't get in while you were there.

Somewhere before dawn, it finally pulled him under.

  ---

It's still too early when you wake up. Frank is asleep in the sleeping bag beside yours, and your eyes go looking for the familiar shape of broad shoulders and dark long curls you've been waking up to for weeks. They find Marcus short blond hair instead, pacing the perimeter slow and alert, rifle in both hands. He catches you looking and nods a silent good morning. You manage half a smile back.

You get up and cross to him, hugging your jacket closed against the dawn chill.

"Sleep well, boss?"

"Don't call me boss," you giggle. "And yes."

It was a lie.

"You?"

"I always sleep well. Too well, honestly. Frank says I could sleep through the end of the world."

You huff a small laugh. The quiet stretches, comfortable, until it isn't.

"…May I ask you something?" he says.

"Sure."

He tips his chin toward your chest. "What happened yesterday. Is it okay? Should we be… concerned?"

For one second you let yourself believe he's asking about you. The human, not the solution. And he might be. Marcus is a good man.

"Don't worry," you say, lighter than you feel. "I'm not ruining the mission. It'll reach Baltimore intact. The doctor gets it exactly as promised."

"No— no, that's not what I—" Marcus fumbles, and the protest comes exactly one beat too late. "I was asking —"

"It's okay, Marcus." You wave it off before it can become a thing.

Marcus looks at his boots.

"…What I'm carrying is bigger than me," you finish instead. "That's the only reason any of us are in this mess."

He nods slowly, still not looking up. Somewhere a bird starts singing.

"But,… there's this thing with the device," you go on, because facts are easier. "It has a smart battery function. Lifespan control. When the heart rate spikes too high, it corrects just enough to keep it from failing completely. It won't waste charge smoothing out the discomfort. Made perfect sense when they implanted it. How often does a person's heart really redline on mundane life?" You give a dry laugh and gesture at the ruined world in general. "In the apocalypse, in the other way around..."

"And it happens often?"

"Thankfully, no. Yesterday was the fourth time in all these years." You count them off without meaning to. "Outbreak day. The day my uncle died. The day Lincoln betrayed us. And… yesterday."

Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, the way a man steps onto ice: "I'm sorry, but… doesn't that seem like it's being triggered by smaller things now? I mean, no offense, but… Lincoln’s deal, Lincoln you saw coming, let’s be honest. Can't compare with outbreak day and your uncle passing away. And then yesterday it was just that smuggler—"

"Well." You cut him off fast. Heat crawls up your neck, because he's right, and you know he's right.

"…I'm sure the doctor will have answers," you say. "For all of it."

Marcus looks at you. You look at Marcus. "Yeah," Marcus says. "Yeah. It'll all be fine."

He pats your shoulder, careful and warm, and it lands like hope and strength and farewell delivered at once. "Thanks for being this brave. Whatever happens there, I hope you know you're our—"

"It will all be fine, Marcus." You cut him off before the sentence can finish becoming whatever it was becoming. "I've survived one hundred percent of everything life has thrown at me so far. I’ll survive this one too."

"…Right." He huffs. "Right."

Boots in the grass behind you. Frank, scrubbing a hand through his hair, squinting at the light. "You two solvin' the world's problems before breakfast?"

"Something like that."

"Road looks good on the map. If the weather holds and that bridge at the county line is still standing, we're maybe a week out from Baltimore. Week and a half if it's not." He looks at you then. "How you feelin' about that, pumpkin?"

You glance at Marcus. Back at Frank. Two men who cares deeply for you, watching you like a held breath.

"I'm feeling we should move," you say.

And so you do.

You walk most of the day. It’s afternoon already and you walk between the two men. The formation feels wrong.

You keep glancing back occasionally, even knowing you’ll find nothing there. For weeks there was always something back there worth the glance, sometimes scowling, sometimes scanning the tree line, sometimes pretending so hard not to look at you that it was its own way of looking. Always Tommy, holding you in his attention a thousand small ways he thought you never noticed.

Marcus catches your fourth glance and gives you a kind, useless smile.

You spot a small river. The sun is warm and should settle soon, and you feel the pull of it in your skin before you've said a word. Water is the only thing left in the world that takes things off of you. Days, sins, hands, grief.

“Frank,” You nod to the river. "Ten minutes," you ask. "Please."

Frank and Marcus scan it. Sight lines, calm water. Birds behaving. Nothing but a calm afternoon.

"…Ok. There's a boathouse past the bend," Frank points. "We'll check it quickly for resources to give you privacy. Anything moves, you shout."

"Sure.”

You strip on the flat rock and walk into the river.

The cold grabs you. You duck under, come up gasping, and stand there with the water at your waist while the sun makes the surface look shattered and golden. You wash your arms, your neck, the back of your shoulders, and your own hands are careful and small and completely, uselessly wrong. You can’t stop yourself from wishing they felt differently. Rough. Calloused. Warm even in cold water, spread wide across your stomach. You touch the top of your scar and think of a thumb that traced it once like it was something holy instead of something broken.

The last river you stood in, those hands held you under it. And it’s sick and twisted but you'd give anything to have those hands on you again, gentle, silently asking forgiveness.

You allow yourself exactly three tears. They fall off and mix with the river water, and the river takes them like it takes everything from your back. Then you walk out.

You dress fast, skin still damp. Panties, trousers, boots. You're just secured your bra when a hand closes over your mouth.

"Isn't this our lucky day," a voice says against your ear.

Your whole body lurches, and the arm around you was ready for that, tightening you back against him. Your heart slams once, hard, and then begins to climb.

"Easy," the voice says. "Behave and you'll be fine."

Your eyes rake the bank. The bend. The boathouse. Frank. Marcus. Nothing.

A second man steps around into your field of view, unhurried, rifle slung, looking at you the way men evaluate horses. "Well, hell," he says. "They weren't lying. This will be the best batch we'll have had in years." He pulls a radio off his belt, keys it. "Damian, you copy?"

Ten seconds.

"Copy."

"We found the girl. Matches the description head to toe." His eyes travel down and stop, and something in his face does arithmetic. "Damn. She pretty as fuck. Got one flaw on her, though. Big ugly scar, right down the middle." He traces the line of it with his thumb, slow, proprietary, and the disgust and fear run equal parts through you. "Hope that don't knock the price. Some clients get particular about the packaging."

Damian's voice is flat and bored and absolutely in charge. "The men. You have them, Lucas?"

Lucas glances toward the bend, unbothered. "Two with her, armed, off down the bank. They’re not who we’re looking for, though. Don't match at all. It ain't the brothers, for sure."

A pause on the radio, long enough to hold a decision about whether Frank and Marcus live or die without ever meeting them.

"Then don't waste the time or ammunition."

“Damian. I think we should—”

“Lucas. We don’t kill men. Anyone is a potential client, sooner or later. Take the batch and head for the office. Quiet.”

"Copy, Damian."

“No, no, no, no, please no, please!” You say it muffled into the man’s hand.

They turn you away from the river, and your heart is climbing now, the fear and panic consuming you completely.

This can’t be happening. No. This can’t be. Can’t be. Think. Think.

Your fingers find the chain at your throat.

You snap it with one discrete pull and open your hand.

The firefly lands face-up in the grass. Your name. 00001. The first light, left laying behind you.

Because that's what people in love do, you learned it from him. They leave pieces of themselves along the road, bright enough to be found.

Please come for me, Frank.

The plea fires on its own, automatic, the way you'd reach for a railing while falling. Frank loves you. Frank will search until his body give out.

But the trees close around you, and your heartbeat throws itself against the device.

There was exactly one person in this world who would never have let this happen. One person built for men like these.

And you know the difference between the man who would die looking for you… and the man who would refuse to die until he found you.

…Please. Please. Find me, Tommy.

--- Tommy woke to the smell of coffee. Sarah was crouched at the fire.

"Well. You finally went down proper," she said. "Last stretch there you didn't move once. I checked twice to make sure you weren't dead."

"Sorry. Again. For the—"

"It's fine." She said, flat and done.

He sat up, worked the stiffness out of his neck, and his stomach announced itself with a long, loud sound

Sarah laughed. An actual laugh, short and surprised out of her. "Good Lord." She pointed the stick at a milk crate by the supply lean-to. "There's food in the box. Help yourself."

He crossed the space and dug through it, and then his hand stopped on a small cardboard box, dented but sealed, the print faded to pastel.

Cookie Dough Bites.

You have got to be kiddin' me.

He stood there holding it. Of course. Of course it was this. God couldn't even let a man eat breakfast.

"Lucky find, those," Sarah said, watching him. "Whole case in a flipped vending truck last spring. Taste amazing, I'm warnin' you now. Ruined me for regular jerky."

Tommy turned the box once in his hand. Then he slid it into his pack.

"Not eatin'?"

"Later," he said.

She poured coffee into a mug and held it out to him, then filled her own. They sat across the fire from each other and drank quietly.

"So," she said, in the tone of someone who already knows the answer and has decided to ask anyway. "The nightmares. Every night like that?"

He looked into his mug. "Most. Some worse than others." He shrugged one shoulder. "Who ain't got 'em, since outbreak."

"I don't."

He looked up.

"I sleep well."

He didn't mean to do it, but his eyes went the clouded blind eye with the scar run clean through it, the mapwork of marks in her neck disappearing under her collar, the left hand around the mug with its missing finger. The whole weight of what the world had inflicted to her, and his face must have asked the question, because she caught him at it and didn't flinch.

"You're wonderin' how somebody who looks like this sleeps fine," she said.

"…Sorry. Didn't mean to stare."

She turned her mug slowly, looking into the fire. "I'll tell you what changed it. Somewhere along the way I stopped puttin' my life first. Sounds backwards, I know. But the day my own survival dropped to second on the list, behind bein' of use to somebody, the nights went quiet." She shrugged. "There's nothin' left in this world for me to want, Tommy. Think about it. Things? Everything's free now and none of it's worth carryin'. Experiences? I've had all of 'em I'd wish on anyone. Knowledge, money, land. For what?" She shook her head slowly. "I've been mostly alone four years. And the only thing that still fills the tank, the only thing, is when somebody stumbles into this camp half-dead and walks out whole." She tipped her chin at him. "That's the entire economy I run on. Bein' useful. Everything else is decoration."

The fire popped. Tommy drank so he wouldn't have to answer.

"Only thing I ever grieved," she went on, quieter, "was Baltimore. The idea of it. Whole group of people organized around exactly that: bein' of use, at scale. Takin' whole cities back for regular folks." Her jaw shifted. "I was gonna be part of somethin'. And it burned down before I ever got to touch it."

Tommy sat very still.

"…If you knew they were still workin'," he said. "Still operatin', successful, somewhere else. Would you go?"

She thought about it properly. "Hm. Maybe. I've settled here. Every once in a while I get to be some use where I stand. So… maybe. Or not." Her good eye came up to him, narrowing. "Why?"

He was silent.

She leaned over and topped off his mug, unhurried, eyes never leaving his face. "You know something."

"I might." He sipped.

He tipped his head, a small, sideways acknowledgment.

"Say the name, then," she said. "If you know that much."

"You say it first."

"We say it at the same time."

They looked at each other like two card players evaluating the opponent.

"Fireflies?"

The word came out of both of them at once, and Sarah sat back slowly with her mug halfway to her mouth and did not drink.

"Boston QZ," Tommy said. "They're operatin' there. Organized." He watched her face do a thousand calculations in the spam of seconds "I’m heading there. You could come," he said. "Safer with two."

The sentence hung in the air in front of him, and he looked at it, and something in him asked, quiet and honest: Am I? Am I really going to Boston?

Sarah looked past him, at her camp. He watched her and recognized: hope arriving in a person who had carefully, methodically finished grieving it. It didn't look like joy. It looked like disturbance.

"That's… useful to know," she said finally, and her voice had gone somewhere careful. She turned the mug in her hands. "But… maybe later. Maybe when winter comes. For now I'm… I'm good here." A pause. "I'll think about it. Okay? Thank you. For tellin' me." Another pause, and the corner of her mouth moved. "Maybe we meet there."

"Maybe. Yeah."

They drank in silence. The air had gone thick, he could see her doing it, the thing he'd been doing for weeks since he met you: taking her whole settled life down off the shelf and turning it over.

He reached for something else.

"How'd you manage it, anyway? Alone, four years... I mean, it's hard enough with two. Most people don't last a season solo."

"Experience," she said simply. "I had a head start on the apocalypse. Army, before. Twelve years in."

Tommy went stiff.

No. Not this. Not one more. Goddamit, not one more.

He set his jaw and stared into the fire and something behind his ribs started to hurt in advance, because he already knew that whatever she said next was going to be precisely tailored to him at this point.

"All this damage you're lookin' at," she went on, and gestured roughly at herself . "I want you to understand somethin'. None of it was done to a victim. Every mark on me, I was standin' in front of somebody. Or somethin'." She flexed the four-fingered hand once, looked at it. "And I don't regret one square inch. That's the job. That's what a soldier is. You put your body between trouble and your country, and whatever trouble takes off you on the way through, that was the price and you knew it when you signed."

Tommy puts the mug down because his hand started shaking and had stopped being reliable.

"People look at me and see what the world took," Sarah said. "I look at me and see everything it didn't get. Because it had to come through me first." She drained her coffee.

Tommy was not well. It came up through him like floodwater. She was the road not taken sitting six feet away drinking coffee. She was what he'd told a younger Sarah he was going to be. She was the real hero, and not a coward that convinced himself years ago he could be.

He stood. Adjusted his jacket, got his pack, small mechanical motions, reassembling himself piece by piece in real time.

"I'm sorry— I'm too far behind already," he said. "I need to find a horse, a car, somethin' with more legs than I got."

She noticed the retreat for what it was, she let him have it.

"Oh. Ok. Horse, good luck. Car…" she considered. "There's a farm supply six, seven miles north, machine shed out back, might be somethin' with a battery worth pullin'. And the state route past that had a National Guard checkpoint. Some vehicles left standin' last I passed, most stripped, but most ain't all. Long odds either way."

"Long odds is my whole portfolio these days."

He gathered his things. She walked him to the edge of the camp, rifle slung, and he stopped and faced her.

"Thank you," he said. "And I'm sorry to run out on you like this, I know this is a hell of a way to repay hospitality”, he gestured at all of it, the pit, the mattress, the coffee, the stitches. "I mean, thank you. Profoundly. I owe you one I can't pay."

"You don't owe me nothin'. Told you how my economy works." The scarred face creased, almost warm. "Door's always open here, Tommy. You, anybody with a decent heart. They find me eventually."

He hesitated. He was already turned half away and he came back to it, because it was going to come out of him whether he permitted it or not.

"Thank you for bein' this good to the world, Sarah. Somebody ought to say it to you out loud once in a while. The world got mean," he said. "got mean 'cause people stopped helpin' each other. And you didn't have to, but you chose being good and nobody's watchin', and you do it anyway." His voice had gone rough at the edges.

Sarah looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled.

"You're no different than me."

His chest detonated quietly. Nothing moved in his face, but somewhere behind the sternum the whole structure went at once.

He smiled at her. Completely, silently disagreeing.

"Take care of yourself, Sarah."

"Avoid the central region goin' north, it’s full of infected." she said.

"And Tommy." He looked back. "Whoever the candy's for. They are welcome too, if needed."

He didn't answer that. There was no answering that. So he just walked.

He walked, and the camp fell away behind him, and the roads and the hours took him deep. And he walked. North, he told himself, north, the farm supply, the checkpoint, to Joel.

Because Sarah proved good people survive hell intact. It was always a possibility to stay good.

The message that was sent to him was clear now, brick by brick. What he did was a choice, not a necessity.  Which proves you were wrong about him. He's not a good man buried under bad acts, he's a man who chose the acts. Your love is a symptom. Of captivity, fear, of your own desperate thesis needing a proof.

I love you, Tommy Miller.

And I love you too, he heard his own voice saying back.

He felt it crush his chest: the sincere smile in your lips just for him, your hopes fully laid on him. The absurdity of repaying that with violence, with brutality, with bruises and broken fingers and abandoning.

In another life, he’d be the man who stands beside you. In this one, he is not the hero young Tommy thought he could be. This version of himself can only bring disappointment and pain.

The kindest thing I'll ever do is stay a stranger. He thinks.

The best possible thing I can do is acknowledging I’m no good for her before it’s too late.

And he was never more in love than in this very moment, where he really decided he had to leave.

And he walked, and walked, and walked.

The box of cookie dough bites rode in his pack anyway, untouched, waiting there.

-----

end notes:

Off to survive second day of music festival now. I'm exhausted, I'm too old for this omg. This chapter cost me sleep I'll never get back, so: did it hurt? Tell me it hurt! haha

Please flood me with love for all effort I put to write it in this chaotic week. Now I'm leaving to watch Ethel Cain (again) and The Cure <3

Tag list:

For most of the days, you stayed quiet. It wasn’t acceptance or collaboration at all. You knew better than poking them. It was simply calculation. You had already tested them enough in those first days. After picking a few other minor fights — enough to get shoved, yelled at, and threatened. Enough to map the territory you were stepping in.

If there were something you were really good at, was in observing the surroundings and using your findings in your favor. You always had been good at it: While other people panicked or begged, you watched, you listened. You look for the unspoken things. You waited for the cracks.

And there were cracks.

At first you thought Joel was the cold strategist and Tommy was the explosive hothead. But the longer you observed in silence, the more you realized you were wrong. Joel was ice — calculated, efficient, merciless. Tommy… Tommy had layers. Layers he was desperately trying to bury under sarcasm and violence. Layers that twitched every time Joel gave him an order. That could be useful.

So you decided to give them a little peace and remain in silence.

For now.

At night they found a decent spots — deep enough into the woods to stay hidden from people, but still exposed to whatever might crawl out of the dark. The weather was unpredictable this time of year, but tonight the air was just warm enough to sleep under the open sky without freezing. Not completely warm and comfortable, but yet.

You lay on your thin mat, wrists still cuffed, pretending to sleep.

They took turns to sleep. Joel barely moved once he was down. When it was Tommy turn, on the other hand, he couldn’t stay still for thirty minutes. He tossed, turned, muttered. And when he finally did fall into real sleep, nightmares came. Violent ones. He’d jerk awake sweating, breathing hard, eyes wide.

You watched it all through half-closed lids and pretended you didn’t notice all times it happened.

The following morning, the brothers sat near the small fire Joel had made. He brewed coffee and for one brief second you swore you saw something almost human flicker across Joel’s face when he took the first sip.

You decided to test the waters again.

“Hey,” you said, voice deceptively sweet. “That smells good. Can I have a sip?”

Tommy, without thinking, started to stretch his cup toward you.

Joel immediately kicked Tommy’s boot.

“No,” Joel said flatly. “Coffee’s scarce. We don’t waste it on cargo.”

“It’s my fucking coffee, Joel,” Tommy muttered. “She’s actually been quiet for once. Might as well give her that much.”

Joel doesn’t like it, give you both a look but proceed to focus on his own coffee.

“Thank you, Thomas” You say, and the corner of your mouth betrays you, showing the fun you are about to have by teasing him.

Tommy tilts his mouth and takes a deep breath, ready to ignore your provocation.

But Joel? Man’s eyes flare immediately. Not at you. At Tommy. His eyes slid slowly from his cup to his brother. His voice dropped, calm and low, but heavy with menace.

“You give her some manners, Tommy. You don’t let her treat you like that. You understand me?”

The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of absolute law. The tone that made it clear Joel expected to be obeyed without question.

Tommy’s jaw tightened. A flash of embarrassment crossed his face — being scolded like a kid in front of you clearly pissed him off — but he didn’t argue back.

Instead, he stood up sharply and slapped the cup away from your hand. The hot coffee spilled across the grass.

“Oh, come on!” you snapped. “That was completely unnecessary.”

Tommy stepped right into your space, towering over you. You instinctively raised your cuffed hands, bracing for a hit, but he didn’t strike. He simply pressed two fingers hard against your sternum, pushing you back a step.

“You sure you wanna keep being a brat?” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Because I’ve got no problem teaching you exactly what happens when you push me too far. Next time I won’t just spill your coffee. I’ll make sure you remember why you should keep that pretty mouth shut.”

Because you could read him like an open book, you saw it up close.

Those eyes that should’ve been warm and full of life were empty now. Not like Joel’s — Joel’s were dead in a way that felt final, like something inside him had been buried years ago and was never coming back. But Tommy’s… Tommy’s were different. They still had a faint spark somewhere deep down, trapped and screaming.

You realize now: This man was just as much a hostage as you were. The only difference was that he still believed he was here by choice.

You leaned in closer, close enough that your breath brushed against his lips, voice dropping to a taunting whisper.

“Next time, next time…” you murmured, slow and deliberate. “You’re just… all bark. Show me, Thomas. Show me how bad you really are.”

Tommy’s nostrils flared. His breathing grew heavier, jaw clenched tight, but he didn’t snap.

Instead, a slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, thick Texas accent dripping with sarcasm. “That’s what you want, sugar? Alright then… hold on.”

He turned away from you and walked over to the packs. Without a word, he grabbed his own heavy backpack and started stuffing a few more cans of food into it from Joel’s bag, making it even bulkier and heavier than before. Then he fished the cuff keys out of his pocket.

With a quick click, he unlocked one of your wrists, only to immediately swing his overloaded backpack onto your shoulders and snap the cuff back into place.

It took you a couple of seconds to register what he’d just done.

The weight hit you like a sack of bricks. His pack was easily three times heavier than your own.

Tommy casually picked up your much lighter pack and slung it over his own shoulder, adjusting the straps with a satisfied grin.

“Good luck carryin’ that all day long, smart ass,” he said, voice low and mocking, that Texas drawl making the words sound almost playful — if they weren’t so cruel. “Hope you still feel like runnin’ your mouth when your back’s screamin’ by noon.”

---

The three of you continued your journey walking.

The morning dragged into a long, tense afternoon.

Tommy’s backpack was a monster. The straps dug brutally into your shoulders, felling as it was cutting into the skin even through your clothes. Your back burned with a deep, constant ache that radiated down your spine and into your hips. The weight made your knees feel weak after only a couple of hours. Your legs trembled with every uneven patch of ground, and sweat was already soaking through your shirt despite the cool air.

You were exhausted. The cuffs around your wrists made it worse; you couldn’t adjust the straps or stretch. All you could do was grit your teeth and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

A few infected crossed their path — nothing major, just a couple of runners that had wandered too close. Joel and Tommy took them down quickly, but you could feel the stress rolling off both men. Joel moved with cold efficiency, while Tommy was a little too aggressive, swinging his knife harder than necessary.

“Behind you, Tommy,” Joel barked, voice low and commanding. “Don’t fuckin’ hesitate next time.”

Tommy wiped the blood from his blade on his pant leg and muttered, “I ain’t hesitatin’, Joel. I got it.”

You watched everything in silence.

You watched how Joel constantly bossed his younger brother around — short, sharp orders that left no room for discussion. You watched their routines: how they scanned the horizon every few minutes, how everytime Tommy needed to speak with Joel he would position himself on his left side and never on the right side, how Tommy would glance at Joel before making any decision, almost like he needed permission to breathe.

You noticed how Tommy pretended to be extra rough with you whenever Joel was watching. He’d shove your shoulder a little harder, snap at you with a meaner tone, trying to prove he was just as hard as his older brother.

You also started collecting things: Whenever they stopped for even a minute — to check the map, to piss, to argue about the route — you found ways to delay them. You “tripped” over roots, complained about your cuffs being too tight, the weight of the backpack, asked for water more often than necessary. And while they were distracted, you quietly gathered a handful of poisoning herbs you recognized from the undergrowth. Pale leaves with a faint bitter smell. You stuffed them deep into your pockets without either brother noticing.

At one point, when Tommy knelt to clean his gun during a short break, you saw the way his hands moved — slow, almost ritualistic. He only did that when he was ashamed or trying to calm himself down. You filed that away too.

You noticed other tells: Tommy said “ain’t” a lot more when he was nervous. Joel kept checking his watch every time the tension rose, like he needed to look at his broken watch just to ground himself for a while.

Little they knew you started your own quiet plan since you left Lincoln’s building.

You had kept a small piece of bright blue paper hidden in your pocket for days. It was part of an old strategy you used with your crew long before any of this. Hansel and Gretel style, but smarter.

While walking, you began tearing tiny pieces and dropping them discreetly behind you since the first day. The fragments were small enough to go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t actively looking for them, but the blue color caught the light just enough to sparkle if someone knew what to search for. A trail. A lifeline. A message for the ones coming after you shortly.

You made sure to drop them only when both brothers were focused ahead or arguing with each other.

Joel suddenly stopped and turned, eyes narrowing at you.

“Pick up the pace, girl,” Joel growled. “You’re draggin’ your feet on purpose.”

Tommy glanced back at you, trying to look tough. “Yeah. Quit slowin’ us down, little spitfire. Ain’t got all day.”

You didn’t stay quiet this time.

“This fucking backpack is what’s slowing me down, Thomas,” you snapped, voice tight with pain and anger. “It weighs a goddamn ton. You’re not punishing me — you’re just making yourself slower, you idiot.”

Tommy let out a low, sarcastic chuckle but didn’t reply.

A few minutes later they briefly stopped again. Joel muttered something about checking the trail ahead and moved off by himself, disappearing into the thicker trees.

The second he was out of sight, the crushing pressure on your shoulders suddenly eased.

You looked up, startled.

Tommy had stepped beside you and was holding the bottom of his heavy backpack with one hand, lifting it just enough to take most of the weight off your body. The relief was immediate and almost dizzying. Your burning shoulders and aching back finally got a moment of mercy.

For a few long seconds, the two of you just stared at each other in complete silence.

His warm eyes — the ones that still had something alive trapped inside — locked onto yours. No smirk this time. No sarcastic remark. Just quiet, heavy eye contact that felt far too intimate for two people who were supposed to be enemies. You could see the conflict flickering there, the same way you’d seen every time he was this close.

You didn’t thank him, but you didn’t look away either.

Then the sound of Joel’s boots crunching through leaves came closer.

Tommy dropped the pack instantly, letting the full brutal weight slam back onto your shoulders. The sudden shift made your knees buckle for a second.

Joel emerged from the trees, none the wiser.

“Path is free ahead,” he said flatly, barely sparing you a glance. “Let’s move.”

You straightened up slowly, breathing through the fresh wave of pain, another tiny blue paper slipping from your fingers onto the ground behind you.

At some point you reached what used to be a small city center. Most of the buildings were gutted or collapsed, but one store still had part of its glass front intact — an old music shop. A faded pink band t-shirt hung crookedly in the broken display, the logo still visible: Nirvana.

Tommy slowed down without thinking. His voice came out quiet, almost soft.

“She would’ve loved that…”

Joel stopped dead in his tracks. His whole body went rigid. “Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” he snarled, low and dangerous. The words cut through the air like a blade.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Tommy tried to lighten the mood, forcing a casual tone. “Hey… we’ve been walkin’ for hours. Why don’t we step inside real quick? See if there’s any guitars left. Feels like I ain’t played in forever. Could rest our feet, clear our heads a little. Some music, you know?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, still pissed. His Texas drawl came out clipped and mean.

“Sure. What store you wanna stop at next, Tommy? Lego? Wanna find a toy store so you can play with little cars too?”

The air grew even heavier. Nobody spoke. They started walking again in their usual formation: Joel in front, you in the middle, Tommy trailing behind. But something had shifted. Joel must have realized he’d gone too far, because after a few minutes he slowed his pace and started some small conversation, until Tommy was walking on his left side again.

Joel cleared his throat, voice gruffer than usual.

“Listen to some music would be nice indeed,” Joel admitted gruffly, his voice still carrying that edge. “Been cravin’ some Guy Clark lately. Old No. 1. That album always hit different.”

Tommy’s face brightened immediately, clearly relieved that his brother was willing to keep talking. He jumped into the conversation with genuine enthusiasm, his Texas drawl warming up.

“Yeah, man. That whole record is solid. ‘LA Freeway’ still gets me every time.” He paused for a second, then added with a small, almost nostalgic smile, “Though I’d die happy if I could just hear some Johnny Cash right now. ‘Folsom prison blues’ or ‘ring of Fire’… anything, really.”

The two brothers kept talking quietly as they walked, the conversation flowing easier than it had in days. Tommy looked almost relaxed for once.

You walked behind them in silence, mind racing.

Is Joel deaf in his right ear? Joel tilted his head slightly whenever Tommy spoke from the right. And who was this girl Tommy mentioned and apparently misses, the one Joel couldn’t even stand hearing about? And… why did Tommy accept this mean, unpleasant version of his own brother so easily? He let Joel talk down to him, snap at him, treat him like a child — and he took it without fighting back, almost like it was his duty. Like he owed it to Joel to swallow every bit of rudeness.

A few hours passed and the weight had become unbearable.

Your shoulders felt like they were on fire. Joel was way ahead, scouting the path, while Tommy had deliberately slowed his pace so he was walking right behind you.

“Thomas…” you rasped, voice strained. “I can’t anymore. Please… can we switch back our backpacks?”

Tommy didn’t even look at you at first.

“I don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.”

“Please, Thomas,” you said again, deliberately irritating him. You weren’t moving another inch. Not yet. This provocation had a purpose.

Tommy let out a slow breath, jaw tight. He stepped closer, towering over you.

“I could help you,” he drawled, voice low and mean, “if you weren’t such a fuckin’ brat. Ask nicely. Ask correctly, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

You swallowed your pride, but only halfway.

“Please,” you said through gritted teeth. “Please.”

“Please what?”

You couldn’t help yourself. The corner of your mouth twitched.

“Please… Thomas.”

Tommy cursed under his breath, a sharp “Goddamn it” slipping out in his thick Texas accent. He glanced quickly ahead to make sure Joel was still far enough away and not looking back. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he moved fast.

He opened it, and started transferring the cans and heavier items into his own pack. The relief was instant and overwhelming.

You exhaled shakily. “Thank you, Tommy.”

He froze for half a second at the sound of his real name, then shot you a warning look, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t push it,”

Later that day, you left the ruined city behind and moved back into the woods. A small river stood beside the cabin. The sky was still clear, but darkness would creep in fast. The brothers found a small, simple cabin tucked between the trees — perfect for the night.

But someone was already inside. Joel motioned for silence and crept up to the window. He peeked in, then pulled back.

“Raiders,” he said quietly.

Tommy leaned in to look too and saw two young men inside. “How do you know they’re raiders?”

“I just know,” Joel replied flatly. “We’re goin’ in. Quick and clean. Get ‘em out.”

Tommy nodded without argument. You stayed silent, watching everything from behind them.

Joel kicked the door open with brutal force, gun already raised. You watched from the outside as the two men inside spun around — they were much younger than the brothers. They weren’t stupid; their guns were already up and pointed straight at Joel and Tommy.

“Get the fuck out,” Joel growled.

“We ain’t movin’,” one of them answered, voice shaking but defiant.

That was your moment. You screamed from behind them, voice loud and desperate:

“They kidnapped me! Help me! Please, help me!”

You raised your cuffed hands high, shaking them so the metal caught their attention.

The distraction made both young men turn their heads toward you. In that split second, guns went off from both sides. Joel took a light graze to his arm and hissed in pain. Tommy moved fast — two clean shots, one to each man’s leg. They screamed and dropped to their knees. Joel lunged forward and ripped the guns from their hands before they could recover.

The situation was back under control. And all you did was help Joel and Tommy instead of being able to help yourself.

Both brothers turned to look at you at the same time. Their eyes were sharp, cold, and full of promise.

You’re gonna pay for that.

They quickly searched the two men’s packs and found a surprising amount of supplies — food, ammo, even some decent medical gear. Joel crouched in front of the wounded men, voice low and dangerous.

“Where’d you get all this?”

The young men stayed silent, breathing hard through the pain.

Joel gave Tommy a subtle nod — the kind of silent agreement they’d clearly used many times before. Tommy shifted uncomfortably. “Come on, Joel… they’re barely in their twenty five’s. It ain’t necessary.”

Joel ignored him completely.

He started his usual method: pressing the barrel of his gun against one man’s forehead and demanding he point on the map where they came from and where the rest of their group was. Then he’d ask the second man the same questions to check if the stories matched. Both insisted it was just the two of them.

Tommy tried once more to stop it, but when Joel didn’t back down, he helped restrain the second man.

The man whimpered but still refused to talk.

Tommy’s face hardened. He clearly hated this, but he wasn’t going to let Joel do it alone. He leaned in close to the second one, voice low and mean, that Texas drawl turning ugly. “You hear my brother? Start talkin’. Where’s the rest of your crew?”

When the man only sobbed and shook his head, Tommy’s patience snapped. He drove his knee hard into the fresh bullet wound on the kid’s thigh. The scream that tore out of the young man was raw and gut-wrenching.

“Answer him!” Tommy snarled, pressing harder. “You think we’re playin’? I’ll make this hurt a lot worse than a bullet if you keep lyin’.”

“Stop that!” you yell, horrified.

He twisted his knee, grinding it into the wound while keeping the boy pinned. Blood soaked through the man’s pants and onto Tommy’s jeans. The young man was crying now, babbling that it was only the two of them, that they’d found the supplies abandoned, that they didn’t have a group.

Joel proceed torturing the first one for answers, but when nothing useful came out and it became clear the two young men really had no valuable information, Joel made his decision.

You watched in horror as he raised his gun.

“Stop!” you screamed. “Please, stop!”

Joel didn’t even look at you. Two shots rang out. Clean. Final.

You stood frozen, staring at the bodies.

Joel and Tommy each grabbed one corpse by the arms and dragged them out of the cabin, deep into the woods where they wouldn’t be easily found.

When they came back, you were still standing in the same spot, pale and shaking.

“You’re monsters,” you whispered, voice cracking.

Joel wiped the blood from his hands on his pants and looked at you with cold indifference.

“Those two ‘angels’ you were so worried about?” he said flatly. “They already had blood on their clothes. We found an old man’s body right where we left theirs… freshly killed, throat slit. They probably did it just a few hours before we got here.”

He paused, then added with brutal finality:

“So next time you wanna scream for help… make sure you know who you’re screamin’ for.”

Tommy stayed quiet, avoiding your eyes.

You all stepped inside the cabin. The air still smelled faintly of blood, but at least it had four walls and a roof. It was small and too simple. A worn plaid sofa sat against one wall, its cushions faded and torn in a couple of places. In the corner stood a single bed with a dusty quilt thrown over it. A small wooden table and two mismatched chairs occupied the center of the room.

Against the wall leaned miraculously: an old acoustic guitar. The shelf had an old Bible, and what looked like a fishing guide. It would do for the night.

You were exhausted, filthy, and every muscle in your body ached from carrying that monstrous backpack all day.

You swallowed your pride and spoke up.

“I need to bathe… can I? In the river?” you said, voice rough. “There’s no shower here. I’m disgusting, I stink, and I’m in actual pain from walking with that weight all day. I’ve been cooperating so far. If you let me wash, I’ll keep cooperating.”

“Your screaming earlier wasn’t cooperation,” Joel said coldly.

You shot back immediately. “As far as I could tell, that screaming actually helped you.”

Joel’s eyes finally lifted to you, flat and unimpressed. “Your intentions weren’t to help us. So no.”

Before you could argue further, Tommy surprised you.

“You can do it.”

Both you and Joel turned to look at him.

Tommy was staring straight at his brother, jaw set, a rare spark of defiance in his eyes.

Joel twisted his mouth, giving Tommy a long, hard look that carried a clear warning. The silence stretched uncomfortably, but Joel didn’t argue. He just gave a small, irritated nod.

Tommy stepped forward and unlocked your cuffs.

The second the metal came off, you let out a soft, involuntary moan of relief, rolling your shoulders and stretching your aching arms. You dropped the heavy backpack right beside theirs with a heavy thud.

While the brothers turned their attention to sorting through the supplies the two dead men had left behind, you moved quickly. You pretended to look for something useful, and quietly fumbled inside Tommy’s pack.

Your fingers brushed against something smooth — a small photograph.

You pulled it out just enough to see: a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, standing between a much younger Joel and Tommy on a soccer field. All three of them were smiling, back when the world still made sense. That had to be her. The girl Tommy mentioned. The one Joel couldn’t bear to hear about.

You slipped the photo back, grabbed a few other stuff, and spotted a towel hanging nearby. You shoved everything inside the towel and stood up quickly, holding it against your chest.

“I’m ready,” you announced. “Can I go now?”

“You’re not goin’ alone,” Joel said flatly.

You scoffed. “What, you’re gonna sneak around and watch me shower? Are you that sick?”

Tommy rolled his eyes and gave you a firm push toward the door.

“No whinin’. Be quick.”

He steered you outside. Joel followed close behind, silent and watchful, as the three of you made your way down to the river.

“We’ll turn around,” Tommy said, voice rough. “You put your clothes right here by my feet. You behave. If you try to run…”

“Oh, yes,” you interrupted with heavy sarcasm, “because I would definitely run away completely naked.”

Tommy huffed, clearly irritated, but turned his back to you. Joel did the same, stepping a few paces away to check the tree line and give you some privacy.

You quickly stripped, the cool evening air raising goosebumps across your skin. You folded your dirty clothes and placed them neatly by Tommy’s feet, then picked up the towel and walked toward the river’s edge.

The water looked black and unforgiving under the fading light. You dipped a toe in and hissed — it was ice-cold. You hated the cold. Your body was far too sensitive to it. You stood there for a long moment, testing the water with your legs, hesitating, shivering as you tried to gather the courage to go deeper.

Behind you, Joel muttered to Tommy, “Keep an eye on her. I’m gonna check the perimeter.”

You heard Joel’s footsteps move away.

Tommy, assuming you were already in the water, turned around to watch you.

He froze.

For a few devastating seconds, his eyes dragged over your completely bare body — the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, the soft lines of your hips. You weren’t expecting it. You gasped, instinctively covering yourself with your arms.

“Look away, you fucker!” you screamed, voice sharp and embarrassed.

Tommy snapped his head to the side immediately, cheeks burning. “Shit— sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You finally forced yourself into the river, sucking in a sharp breath as the freezing water swallowed you up to your chest. The cold was brutal, but at least it hid you now.

Those few seconds had undone something in Tommy.

Of course he’d enjoyed the view — he was only a man, and it had been months since he’d been close to a woman, let alone seen one naked. And you were beautiful. Hot in a way that made his blood run hotter even now. But it wasn’t just lust that hit him.

It was the scar.

A long, pale line running down the center of your sternum — clearly from heart surgery too many years ago. In that brief, unguarded moment, he saw you completely: small, shivering, vulnerable… painfully human.

It crashed into him like a freight train.

He had spent so long surviving — killing, stealing, following Joel’s lead — that he was starting to forget what humanity even looked like. People had become threats, cargo, or obstacles. But you… standing there naked and shivering with that old scar on your chest… you looked like a real person. Someone who had once been a little girl who needed heart surgery. Someone who laughed and cried and felt pain way before the world ended.

Tommy swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the trees, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the dangerous crack forming in the armor he’d built around himself.

He can’t allow the armor to crack. Not when it’s the only thing preventing him from breaking into pieces.

Tommy stood with his back to the river for what felt like five or ten minutes, staring into the dark woods. His mind kept spinning — all the shit they were doing, all the lines they kept crossing. How the hell had this kind of life become normal?

Then Joel comes back, and his voice cut through the quiet, urgent.

“Where is she?”

Tommy spun around. The riverbank was empty.

A few meters away, deeper into the trees, you were running.

You had bathed in under thirty seconds — a frantic, freezing scrub — then dried yourself as fast as you could and pulled on the spare clothes you’d stolen from Tommy’s backpack. They were big on you, soft from wear, and they smelled unmistakably like him. Something warmer that belonged to the man he used to be. The scent hit you harder than you expected. For one stupid second, it almost made you hesitate.

But you ran anyway. Barefoot. That was the mistake.

You didn’t get far.

You heard them coming —their heavy boots crashing through the undergrowth. Tommy was sprinting, Joel right behind him. Your feet were cut and bleeding from the sharp branches and rocks, slowing you down with every step.

Tommy caught you first.

His hand fisted in the back of your hair, yanking you to a painful stop. You screamed in fury as he dragged you backward.

“You little bitch!”

“You can’t expect me to just accept this!” you shouted, voice raw with rage. “You can’t expect me to not try to survive! How the fuck am I supposed to just let you drag me across the country to my death and do nothing? You just killed two men back there, for God’s sake! How do you expect me not to run?!”

Tommy didn’t answer. He just kept dragging you by the hair, forcing you to stumble back toward the river. His grip was brutal.

When they reached the riverbank again, Joel turned on his brother, voice low and furious.

“This is what you get, Tommy. You keep showin’ her mercy instead of treatin’ her like what she is — cargo. This stops now. You put an end to this shit right fuckin’ now and show her who’s in charge… or I will.”

Tommy’s face was twisted with rage — at you for making him look weak, at Joel for being right again, and at himself for letting it happen. But he knew if Joel took over the punishment, it would be much worse.

You saw it in Tommy’s eyes: pure anger, but also hesitation. Disgust at what he was about to do.

That’s it, you thought. The worse he does, the more guilt he’ll carry. The more regret later. You need to push him to the bottom before he finally breaks, so you can bring him to your side.

You smiled — slow, devilish, and taunting. “Come on, Thomas,” you purred. “You do whatever he asks, huh? Come on… hurt me. Do your worst. You’re just like him, anyway.”

Something inside Tommy snapped.

He dropped to one knee, yanking you down with him by the hair.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” he growled, voice shaking with fury. “The audacity on you…”

He shoved your head forward and forced it under the freezing water.

You struggled violently, hands clawing at his wrist, legs kicking wildly as the cold water burned your nostrils. He held you there for long, terrifying seconds before finally yanking you back up.

You gasped desperately for air, coughing and sputtering.

Tommy’s breathing was ragged. His hand was still fisted tight in your wet hair, and you could feel how much he hated this — but he didn’t stop.

“Shower, huh?” he snarled. “That what you wanted?”

He shoved your head back under the water, holding you down longer this time. Your body thrashed harder, panic rising as your lungs screamed for oxygen. Just when black spots started dancing in your vision, he pulled you up again.

You coughed violently, water pouring from your mouth and nose. You see his eyes — and he hates it. You hate it too. You hate what he is doing.

But you cannot hate him.

“Are you done, Thomas?” you choked out, voice hoarse but still defiant.

His eyes darkened.

He slammed your head back under the water once more.

---

A few hours later, deep in the night, you woke up in the bed.

As if they had a shred of heavy conscience after what happened at the river, they had let you sleep in the actual bed — warm, fed, but still cuffed. The small luxury felt almost mocking after the violence of the evening.

Your back ached terribly from the heavy pack and long walk. The handcuffs made it impossible to stretch properly, and no matter how you turned, the metal dug into your wrists. You needed them off if you wanted any real rest.

Joel was passed out on the sofa, breathing deep and heavy — exhausted from the day. He wouldn’t wake easily.

You moved silently, careful not to make a sound. You slipped out of the cabin door and stepped onto the small wooden porch.

There, soaked in faint moonlight, sat Tommy.

He hadn’t heard you. He was playing the old guitar, fingers moving gently over the strings. His voice was low, warm, and surprisingly beautiful as he sang — nothing like the violent man who had shoved your head underwater earlier that evening.

He finished one song you didn’t recognize, then quietly started another. This one you knew… Johnny Cash.

I hurt myself today… To see if I still feel… I focus on the pain… The only thing that’s real…

Tommy’s voice was raw, worn, and intimate. There was a slight rasp in it, either from years of smoke, shouting, or not speaking his feelings out enough.

You leaned against the doorframe, staying perfectly still, just listening, admiring something beautiful at once for the last past days.

What have I become… My sweetest friend…?

Tommy’s voice cracked slightly on the last line.

He shakes his head and tries the same part again.

What have I become…

He stopped playing.

For a moment there was only the sound of crickets and the distant wind through the trees. Then a single tear slipped down his cheek. Another followed from the other eye. He didn’t wipe them away. He just sat there, broken and silent, shoulders slightly hunched over the guitar.

You watched him.

This man — this cruel, broken man — was just as much a victim as you were. Maybe even more.

And in that quiet, stolen moment, something inside you clicked into place.

You decided.

This man was going to be yours.

You were going to bring him to your side.

He was everything you had always looked for: Proof that a lost man could still be saved and his anger turned into something beautiful and useful.

His pain, his guilt, his nightmares — they weren’t weaknesses. It was his strength. Regret and pain would become the biggest purpose.

This handsome, mean, violent man was lost in the darkness.

And you… you happen to be just the perfect person to bring him to the light.

----

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If there were something you were really good at, was in observing the surroundings and using your findings in your favor. You always had been good at it: While other people panicked or begged, you watched, you listened. You look for the unspoken things. You waited for the cracks.

Competency kink!!!

“You sure you wanna keep being a brat?” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Because I’ve got no problem teaching you exactly what happens when you push me too far. Next time I won’t just spill your coffee. I’ll make sure you remember why you should keep that pretty mouth shut.”

Uhm, yeah 😏

His warm eyes — the ones that still had something alive trapped inside — locked onto yours. No smirk this time. No sarcastic remark. Just quiet, heavy eye contact that felt far too intimate for two people who were supposed to be enemies. You could see the conflict flickering there, the same way you’d seen every time he was this close.

OMG the tension, the want already lingering between them… I’m having goosebumps 🫠🫠🫠

“She would’ve loved that…”

😭😭😭

“Sure. What store you wanna stop at next, Tommy? Lego? Wanna find a toy store so you can play with little cars too?”

I’m sorry, I love this man with all my heart but he’s such an asshole sometimes 😑

“Please… Thomas.”

I’m dying 😂😂😂😂

A long, pale line running down the center of your sternum — clearly from heart surgery too many years ago. In that brief, unguarded moment, he saw you completely: small, shivering, vulnerable… painfully human.

Omg what happened to her 😨

He can’t allow the armor to crack. Not when it’s the only thing preventing him from breaking into pieces.

He’s so hurt, poor guy 😢

But you cannot hate him.

🥺

I hurt myself today… To see if I still feel… I focus on the pain… The only thing that’s real…

Oh I love this song so much ♥️ and I've always preferred Johnny Cash's version to the NIN original!

Everything happened very fast.

Joel should have been paying attention; he was always paying attention. Only this time he wasn’t.

The gunshot was loud, coming from somewhere in the woods behind him. It hit a spot on the tree, right above Juniper’s head. Her eyes went wide and Joel felt as if he had just swollen a block of ice. One inch lower and she would have been dead right in front of him.

— Drop your weapons now! — A man’s voice echoed.

Juniper dropped the knife she was holding. She had left her beretta in the cabin, thinking they were going to be out for only a moment before coming back.

Only then Joel realized he had forgotten riffle there too. They were supposed to go back quickly, the juniper tree was close to the cabin, and he had been so distracted by her that it didn’t even occur to him to bring it. He felt so embarrassed he couldn’t meet her eyes.

— You too, old man! — The voice shouted.

— I’m unarmed. — Joel said.

— We’ll see about that.

From a hiding spot in the woods, two men came. Juniper could guess they were younger than her and much too skinny, they were probably wandering through these mountains for a while now, lost and with nowhere to go until they found her and Joel by accident.

One of them was tall, his hair pitch black and dark shadows under his light eyes. He had an old pistol in his hands and a knife in the waistband of his jeans. He pointed it to Joel’s head as he raised his hands in surrender and the young man checked to see if he was truly unarmed.

The other one, who looked even younger and had blond, thin hair, came to Juniper’s direction. He was armed only with a knife.

With a gun pointed at Joel’s head, she could only stay still while the man went to stay behind her and put the knife to her throat.

— What do we have here? — The blond man said. — Must be our lucky day. Can’t remember the last time we had one this pretty.

Joel lifted his gaze for the first time, letting her see the rage in his eyes. She decided to speak before him.

— We have supplies. And horses too. — The last part was painful to say, she didn’t want to give up on Ivory and let her go with these awful men. — I’m sure we can negotiate.

The man with black hair laughed. Juniper didn’t miss the way his hands trembled every once in a while. She could tell none of them was much experienced in whatever this was. She figured they would hesitate when it counted, knowing Joel was probably arriving at the same conclusion.

— Negotiate? I gotta a better idea. Why don’t I kill your dad here and then we keep you, huh? I’m sure we can think of a few ways to put you to proper use; good pussy is a rare thing these days.

— Leave her out of it. — Joel spoke for the first time.

Juniper was suddenly aware that his whole demeanor had changed. This wasn’t her kind, caring Joel with sad eyes, the man who took her in his arms in the cabin moments ago. He sounded calm, serene even. But in his eyes, she recognized a mortal glare.

— And why would I do that, old man?

Joel didn’t answer right away.

— I asked you a question! — The man shouted, his hand trembling even more now. — I want you to kneel now!

With Joel’s lack of response, he gave him a push on the shoulder, lowering the gun only for a fraction of a second. It was enough.

Joel elbowed the man with full force and gave him a kick at the same time, making lose balance and fall with a grunt.

It was easy to figure out who was the one giving orders and who was the one obeying in this pair, and Juniper knew the one with the knife to her throat would face a moment of panic with no orders to follow.

So, she kicked him on the shin. The hand that held knife faltered and it was all she needed. In the span of half a second, her own hand tried to grab the knife from him.

The blade ended up getting in contact with her palm, leaving a cut, but Juniper didn’t let go of it. Before she was able to steal the man’s knife, Joel had overpowered his attacker and got the gun.

He shot the man without a second of overthinking, on the head.

— Release her. Now.

Joel’s simple order was enough to make the blond man stop fighting with her, letting the knife fall to the ground. Joel’s eyes went to her bleeding hand.

— Please, man, I… — He tried to reason with Joel. — I’ll just go; I’ll leave now. I didn’t mean to…

— I told you to leave her out of it.

The shot came at the end of the sentence, on the head again.

Joel still held a deathly glare as he approached her, looking at her injured hand.

— What were you thinking? — He asked. — I had it handled; you should have stayed put.

— And how do you know he wasn’t about to kill me if I didn’t do anything?

— I knew it! — He was furious. — I wasn’t going to let you get hurt. When we’re out here, you follow my rules, you shouldn’t have reacted like that.

— I can’t believe you’re scolding me for defending myself. We’re partners here and yet you treat me like a child. — She raised her voice without realizing it.

— Then maybe you should stop acting like a child and listen to me. Let me see your hand.

At first, Juniper didn’t move, not wanting to show him.

— Let me see it. I don’t have time for this.

She lifted her hand for him to see the deep cut.

— You’re gonna need stitches. You ride back with me; you can’t hold the reins with a hand like this.

— But we can’t leave Ivory here. — Juniper sounded worried.

— I’ll come back with Tommy to get her later.

The look she gave him made Joel aware that she wasn’t convinced.

— Hey. She’ll be alright. I’ll come back later today, I promise. Now I gotta take care of you.

Juniper was still reluctant to agree.

— Okay. — She ended up saying.

The short walk back to the cabin was silent. Joel made her stay by his side, glancing at her from time to time, as if he was worried she might disappear.

She felt simultaneously embarrassed and angry at this situation. What was she supposed to do, stay still and wait to see if the man was going to slit her throat while Joel was fighting with the other one? She was starting to feel incompetent, given the way he always seemed to have to save her from one thing or another, fearing she would soon become a burden.

When they reached the cabin, she went straight to Joel’s chestnut horse, intending to mount on it. But he held her by the arm, making her stop.

— I don’t want you to put pressure on this hand.

And with those words, he lifted Juniper with care and put her on the horse’s saddle. He proceeded to climb to sit behind her, his arms encircling her body and getting her even closer to him.

There was no way to run from it, to run from him. Juniper had to sat with the discomfort of wanting him so much and the feeling of inadequacy that came with it.

Joel didn’t say a word on the whole way back to Jackson. He felt deeply ashamed, truth be told. How could he forget his rifle and then fail to realize they weren’t alone in the woods? This wasn’t like him. He remembered the shot on the tree trunk, right above her head, and felt a shiver to his spine. He could’ve lost her. He knew he wouldn’t survive this.

He held her tight, pressing her back against his front, more out of instinct than conscious thought. He shouldn’t have taken her to patrol or to any run in the first place, should have told Tommy she wasn’t cut out for it. But his immensely selfish desire to spend more time with her made him ask to be paired with her at all times. He had put her in harm’s way.

When they arrived in Jackson, Tommy was waiting for them by the gates, coming in their direction as soon as Joel helped her dismount.

— What the hell happened to you two? — Tommy asked right away. — I was ready to send a search party; you were supposed to come back yesterday.

— I got… A bit overwhelmed because I was back at my old cabin, it was snowing and Joel suggested we could stay the night. — Juniper was quick to lie. — And then today we encountered two men and… They wanted… Well, they wanted me. Joel killed them both, but one of them left me with a cut on the hand.

She lifted her left hand for Tommy to see.

— Jesus.

— I’ll take her to the infirmary now. — Joel intervened before his brother couldn’t come up with more questions. — I’ll see you later.

Juniper followed Joel to the infirmary, wishing she hadn’t had to lie to Tommy’s face. She didn’t understand why this relationship, if she could even call it that, had to be hidden from others. All she knew was this unspoken agreement that bound them to secrecy.

Joel stayed by her side the whole time, watching the doctor stitch Juniper’s hand as her face contorted in pain, even though he could tell she was trying to put on a brave façade for him to see.

He realized with a sigh and a painful ache in the heart that he was no good for this girl.

(...)

When Juniper heard a knock at the door next morning, she could only assume it was Joel.

He accompanied her to get stitches and took her home afterwards, but she felt something in him had changed.

She knew he was angry at her for reacting at the same time he did, and she could understand his reasoning, up to a point, even though she didn’t think the matter was this serious. She had had closer encounters with death than this one. Why couldn’t he just move on from it?

She assumed this was what was about to happen. Joel came to see her to apologize.

She was very surprised to open the door and find Tommy, standing on her porch.

— Mornin’. — He said almost apologetically, sensing her troubled expression. — Hope I’m not interruptin’ anything, I have something I gotta talk to you about.

— No, not at all. — She controlled herself. — I just woke up. I was about to make some hot cocoa. You can come in.

Tommy followed her to the kitchen, his eyes scanning through the decoration. The pink front door, a bookshelf half full, a vase with wildflowers on the table. It was all undeniably her, even him could tell.

He took a seat, watching her make the hot cocoa in a bit of a clumsy way, not able to use her left hand, covered in bandages.

— Do you want some? — She asked.

— No, thank you. Already had breakfast.

She grabbed the mug and sat at his side.

— So, what did you want to talk about?

— I’ll be pulling you out of patrols for a week or so, ‘til your hand is healed.

— It’s alright, I imagined it. — She took a sip of the hot cocoa. — It’d be difficult to shoot anyway, since I’m left-handed. Will I be back at the watchtower?

— Yeah, if you don’t prefer to do something else.

— No, no, the watchtower is fine. Eleanor will be happy to have my company again.

Tommy watched her drink for a moment, with a slightly puzzled look, as if he was trying to decipher her. Juniper avoided his gaze.

— I had another thing to ask you. — He finally said.

— Go on.

— Did anything happen out there? Between you and Joel?

Oh the definitive question. What happened between you and Joel?

— It was like I told you when we arrived. We were attacked and… — Her words trailed off.

— This part I know. He recounted the same story to me. I’m asking if something else has happened. — His tone got a bit more serious, but still kind. — Did you two had any kind of fight?

— Fight? What did he say exactly?

— Not much. That’s why I’m asking you.

It wasn’t difficult for him to notice that she was tense.

— He got angry with me ‘cause I reacted and got my hand injured. Said it was his job to handle it, that I should’ve stayed put.

— Yeah, sounds like my brother. And this was all?

For a fleeting moment, Juniper wondered if she should tell him the truth and ask for advice, try to get an insight from Joel’s mind, his brother surely would be able to explain at least some of it, knowing him better than she did. But she didn’t have enough courage to do it.

— Yes, that was all.

Tommy let out a deep breath, a sudden look of exhaustion on his face.

— He asked me to take you out of patrols for good. I thought you were going to tell me why he would do that.

— What? — The anger in her voice was palpable.

— He said you weren’t ready for it.

— And what was your response?

— That I’d think about it.

— Think about it? — Juniper spit the words. — I thought I passed your shooting test with flying colors.

— Look, you’re right, you did. But he was very worried and…

— If Joel doesn’t want to be my patrol partner anymore, you can just pair me up with someone else. But I want to go back once my hand is healed. And I’m not asking his permission to do it, he’s not in charge to decide it. I’m asking yours.

If Joel wanted to end things with her, he could at least have come to say it to her face instead of being a coward.

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