Fuck, you can’t keep staying here, motionless in Jackson. You need to get back on the road, find a way to escape the sins of your past that followed you here. But you can’t leave, either. Your ribs are on fire, the muscles knitting themselves together across ruined bone are angry at you for your current position. God, you’re so royally fucked.

There’s a little window lining the ceiling of the wall, not enough for anyone to see in, but just enough for you to see out. You rest your cheek on the toilet seat, waiting for the next wave of nausea to hit, and stare out at the moon overhead. It’s a crescent, but you can’t remember how to identify whether it’s waxing or waning. Does the moon grow to the left or the right?

You haven’t really given yourself the space to think like a scientist in a long time, and you’re starting to think that may have been a mistake. A lot of the details are fuzzy when you try to drag them from the cesspool that is your mind. You can remember the broad strokes, the theories behind how things work, but when it comes to the small details, you can’t seem to get them right anymore.

You’d tried to challenge yourself earlier while you did your daily sit-and-stare-at-the-wall-for-hours routine, drawing on the basic pathways you’d once known like the back of your hand. The Krebs Cycle was too hard. You could remember the general structures involved, what went in and what came out, but the individual steps are lost to time. Glycolysis was easier, though you couldn’t quite remember how many NADs were produced at each step. You didn’t bother with anything else after that.

It's hard, realizing you’ve lost something so fundamental to who you used to be, and you find yourself mourning the version of you that you buried long ago. What would she think of you now? Of the things you’ve done to survive?

Nausea wells up again, and you tilt your head back into the bowl of the toilet. What does it fucking matter what your dead self would think? She’s dead, and you’re not. C’est la vie, or whatever the French used to fucking say.

Hours pass and you stay on the floor of the bathroom, alternating between emptying your guts and resting your damp face on the cold tile floor. After a while, the moon dips below the edge of the window, as the last of the horrible memories slips from the forefront of your mind. The nausea passes soon after, and you’re able to stand on shaky legs. When you reach your bedroom, you collapse into your bed, and when you fall asleep, the dreams don’t return.

You’ve slept too long.

The angle of the sun shining through your windows is wrong, hitting you square in the face. Wait, the sun’s up? Shit, you haven’t just slept too long, you’ve slept way too fucking long. You sit up, scrambling for your clothes. Maybe you can still beat the breakfast rush, avoid the crowd. You dress quickly, throwing whatever you grab on haphazardly, and slip your feet into your boots, lacing them tight. You don’t bother brushing your teeth, you just throw back a mouthful of mouthwash, running for the front door. Running onto your porch, you spit the mouthwash over the railing into the grass below.

Any hopes of beating the morning breakfast crowd are dashed when you see the sheer number of people wandering the streets, all moving in the same direction. You hesitate, one foot hanging over the top step, ready to carry you along with them. The sun shines down on you, warming you despite the winter cold. It’s a far cry from your usual ass-crack-of-dawn walk, where the moon still hangs low overhead and the last of the stars twinkle low in the sky.

You stomach growls. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. The ease of Jackson, with its readily available food and cushioned mattresses and running water, it’s making you soft, like a hard-won callous peeling away from the skin. You lean against the beam supporting the porch overhang, crossing your arms. How badly do you need food?

Badly, unfortunately. Your stomach aches from a night spent upending itself, and against your will, your feet move, carrying you into the street. You tell yourself it’s your survival instincts, the hunter-gatherer part of your mind trying to provide for you, but deep down, you know it’s because Jackson is slowly eroding your self-control.

 Ugh, how are you supposed to survive on patrols if you can’t handle going a little hungry for a few hours? Joel will get a kick out of your weakness, you’re sure. You can imagine him now, telling Maria and Elllie all about how much your stomach whined and complained the whole trip. How it grumbled so loud, it caught the attention of infected in the area, drawing them after y’all—

You cut the thought off. You’re not scared of infected. If anything, you’re looking forward to the chance to practice your shooting, and infected make damn good targets. It was your single solace in the mess that would be New Girl and Uncle Grumpy’s first patrol together.

You’d finally mustered up the courage yesterday to ask Maria to switch you to a different patrol partner.

“Sorry,” she’d said, bouncing Benji on her hip. “We match partners based on skill level, and set pairs on appropriate runs accordingly.”

You’d try to argue that there was no way Joel and you were matched. You hadn’t seen the man shoot, but even if he was at the same level as you, you still didn’t know what the fuck you were doing on their patrol routes. You know FEDRA’s protocols, not Jackson’s. You didn’t mention that part, though. No need to bring FEDRA into a place like this.

“That’s exactly why we need you with Joel.” Maria’s shoulders were tight, and you wondered how long it would be until Tommy came back. She wasn’t going to relax until then, you were pretty sure. “You’re good with a gun, and he knows the rules. You’re a good match, whether you like it or not.”

You’d given her a look. “You know damn well that’s not true.”

She’d half-laughed, half-sighed. “It’s not, but I really don’t have much choice. You two are the only ones with the marksmanship to handle West River, if Joel’s assessment of you is to be believed.”

And damn it, but you weren’t going to sell yourself short. If being a good shot was the whole reason you’d gotten stuck with Joel, well… there wasn’t anything you could do about it. You weren’t going to pretend to suck, because pretending to suck would get you pulled from the good patrol routes. Maybe in a few weeks, when Tommy got back with the other patrollers, Maria would find you a new partner. Then, you’d get a good run and a non-asshole to spend the trip with.

You’ve been thinking like that a lot this week, you realize as you walk. Planning for the future. Looking forward to the good patrol routes and—hopefully—a new partner at some point. You shouldn’t be letting yourself pretend. It’s only going to make leaving harder. But you find a bit of solace in the fantasy. Of staying here, settling in.

You’ve been imagining what your house would look like if you actually treated it like a home. You’d indulged yesterday, imagining a patrol trip where you managed to scavenge some knick-knacks and tchotchkes in the old abandoned houses outside of Jackson. You would hang a shelf on the wall by the TV and set your prizes on it, arranging them by color, then size, then shape, before finally settling on color again.

You’d join one of the activities Maria keeps trying to shove down your throat. Maybe paint a portrait, though you’ve never been the best artist. It would be fun to hang it on the wall. Maybe you’d ask Ellie to draw something for your bedroom. You’ve seen her doodling in her journal and know she’s talented.

You’d go to the Tipsy Bison for parties, attend the Holiday Dances that Maria is so insistent you should be going to. You’d make friends with the other Jackson residents. You’d be part of the community.

You climb the staircase in front of the dining hall, and someone jostles your elbow as they pass by you. You flinch, and the fantasy slips away, replaced by the reality of where you are and where you should be going. February. You have to hold on to February. You can’t let yourself get suckered into staying here. You won’t.

The dining hall is absolutely packed, and people mill about with trays of food in their hands, searching for empty spots to sit. You join the serving line, filling your plate high. When you reach the end of the line, you steel yourself, preparing to delve into the throng of people to find a seat.

It’s not easy. Most of the tables are completely full, and some people have taken to splitting chairs or sitting in each other’s laps. It’s homey, even for a large room, and the crowd makes the space seem closer—cozier, in a weird way. You scan the tables, finally spotting an empty chair next to a brown-haired woman reading a book. It’s tucked in the back corner of the room, away from the denser areas, and you send up a quick little prayer of thanks to the universe before making your way back to the table.

“This seat taken?” God, you’re awkward. Your voice is hoarse from sleep still, and you don’t even want to try and guess how insane your bedhead probably looks.

Thankfully, she doesn’t look up, absorbed in the story in front of her. She shakes her head, though, and you take that as permission to sit. You start tearing into the food on your tray, much to your angry stomach’s delight.

“You’re here late.”

You pause, mouth full of pancake, as you realize the woman is talking to you. Swallowing, you wince when the mostly-unchewed pancake goes down hard. “Uh, I don’t—”

She folds the corner of the book’s page and shuts it, laying it down on the table. The Odyssey. Interesting choice. “I just mean,” she says, looking up at you. “I’ve seen you around. You’re usually here before the line opens, right?”

How the fuck does she know that? You eye her, searching for any sign of danger in her face. She’s a striking woman, with olive brown skin, and eyes the color of grass. A constellation of freckles dusts her cheekbones, interrupted only by a pale, white scar that cuts from her eye to the corner of her lip.

She seems to recognize your apprehension, because she smiles, a little sheepish. “Sorry, that’s an insane way to start a conversation. I’m not stalking you or anything, I swear. We ran into each other the day you had your little…” she trails off awkwardly before clearing her throat and continuing. “Anyway, I work the serving line sometimes, and I’ve noticed you’re always the first one in, first one out.”

Vague memories of a woman with a brown braid tug at your mind. She was on the porch of the dining hall, and you… you bumped into her, right before Ellie found you. You’re not sure how you feel about being noticed. You stare at her, waiting for the right words to come to you. You’re sure there’s something you’re supposed to say, but you’re so fucking out of practice with being a human being, your mind is empty.

Her smile fades, eyes dropping back to her book. “I… Sorry, I’ll leave you alo—”

“It’s okay.” Jesus, you’re bad at this. “Sorry, I’m…” You’re what? Barely human most days? Bad at conversation? Suspicious of every living creature around you? You settle on the truth. “Yes, I’m usually here early.”

“Oh.” There’s a shyness to her, a fragility you’re not used to seeing anymore. “Decided to make a change today?”

Decided implies you made a choice. Making a choice implies agency. Agency implies you’re not completely and totally fucked in the head. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” Her smile is back. It’s subtle, barely a tilt of the corner of her mouth, but her eyes shine like stars at twilight. “I’m Rebecca, by the way. Well, Beck, if you want.” There’s a silver chain hanging around her neck, and it disappears into the front of her shirt.

“I’m…” you trail off. You don’t give your name out. Haven’t in years. “I’m the new girl, I guess.”

Beck, to her credit, doesn’t push. Instead, she tugs her book back to her and flips it open, smile still dimpling her cheek. “Nice to meet you, new girl. Welcome to Jackson.”

“Last chance to put me on a different run.” You lean back in the chair. You’re set to leave first thing in the morning, and you’re hoping against hope that Maria will finally see the light and spare you the trouble.

You’re in her office, scanning a map of the lands outside of Jackson. Maria sits in a solid, wooden chair behind her desk, reading over supply lists. She’s got a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, and every so often, she pushes them up with a finger. The sun has disappeared, the windows an inky black. Maria’s turned on the electric lights, and for once, you find you’re not terrified of the light spilling into the streets. Something about having another person around is reassuring, and you’re trying to ignore how uncomfortable that makes you.

She shakes her head absently. “I need Joel on this run, and you’re the only person who’s shooting he’s ever said anything remotely positive about—Tommy excluded.”

“Have you considered,” you muse, tracing the route points with a finger, “he said I’m a good shot because he wanted to patrol alone and didn’t think you’d pair him with Jackson’s greenest recruit.”

“Yes.” She drags her pen across the paper, scratching something out. “And I don’t care. He knows the rules.”

She’d told them to you earlier. Don’t go alone. Always stick together. Watch each other’s back. Get each other home safe. If your partner gets bit, shoot them. You don’t love the idea that she’s using you to keep Joel in order, that you’re some sort of line in the sand that neither of them is willing to cross. Joel, using you to get Maria to back off, and Maria, using you to make Joel fall in line. Still, if it means putting Joel in his place, you find you can’t blame Maria for sticking to her guns, even if it means you don’t get a say in it. Your grudge against him seems to outweigh any and all self-respect you know you should have.

“What if he actually thinks I’m a terrible shot and lied to you just to screw with you?”

She looks at you over the top of her glasses. “Are you a bad shot?”

“No, I’m just saying—”

“You’re going with Joel.” God, if she hadn’t spent the past month doing her damndest to convince you to fall in love with Jackson, you’d be convinced she was partnering you with Joel just to push you out. You’re pretty sure alone time with the man would be enough to send any sane person running for the hills. Not that you’re sane. You’re actually pretty far from sane, most days. “Besides, the West River run is pretty.”

It's also, according to her, the area with the highest levels of infected activity this time of year, which is why she wants you and Joel on it. She’d gone on some long, rambling lecture about infected migration patterns and hibernation seasons. You’d been a strange mix of horrified and fascinated. On the one hand, the fact that Jackson had survived long enough to identify and track yearly migration patterns was fucking incredible. On the other hand, there’s something chilling about infected moving through the land like animals, searching out the most hospitable areas for survival. It reminds you of chemotaxis, the way certain living cells will generally move in the direction of relevant chemical factors. You’ve never dabbled in ecology, but you wonder if animals have a similar sense, using temperature instead of opsonins. Thermotaxis, or something to that effect. Is that even a word? You’ll have to try and track down literature, see if you can find something.

God, you miss the library. And computers. And the Nature journal. What you wouldn’t give for a day with internet, to search for every question you’ve had in the last twenty years. You’d settle for a good paper on mycology, at this point. Hell, you’d even take just an abstract. Something—anything—to remind you of who you used to be.

You don’t know what it is about this town that makes you miss your old self so much. It’s been years since you’d even thought about the life you’d left behind. You remember nights spent studying for exams, how excited you’d been when your senior thesis had been approved, the feeling of accomplishment when you solved a particularly tricky problem.

You think that’s what you miss the most about science—the problem solving. There was something so satisfying about facing a complicated problem, and creating an elegantly simple solution to handle it. You can’t remember the name of the experiment, but there’s an old story buried somewhere deep in your mind of a group of scientists who proved the hypothesis of semi-conservative DNA replication, using nothing more than some radioactive nitrogen to make the DNA heavier. Using some statistics and expected weight ratios of the predicted molecules, they were able to split the DNA in a manner that could be seen with the naked eye, proving their hypothesis unequivocally. Clean, elegant, straightforward. Just the way you like it.

You trace your finger across the trail drawn on the map, imagining it’s a strand of nucleic acid snaking away under your fingers. You wonder, if you asked Maria, would she help you find some textbooks? You wish you could force yourself to trust her, to believe that she would be willing to help you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you pivot, focusing on tomorrow’s run. “Anythin’ else I should know about the trip? Aside from it bein’ pretty, I mean.”

She chews her inner lip, thinking. “We think there might be a storm rolling in, but it’s a fifty-fifty shot right now. West River run is prone to flooding in the spring, and in the winter, snowstorms can make it difficult to traverse.”

Great. Fucking wonderful. “And you’re sure you want me on this run?” Please change you mind, for the love of god, please. The last thing you want is to get snowed down with Joel, far beyond where anyone from Jackson could intervene. If his default setting is curmudgeon-y asshole on a good day, you don’t want to imagine what he looks like when the weather turns for the worse.

Maria levels you with a look you know you’ve given Ellie before. It’s a look that says you’re being the world’s biggest baby, and I’m begging you to suck it up. “You’re going to be fine. Besides, I think you’re just about the only person in Jackson—family notwithstanding—who’s not scared to tell him to fuck off.”

Well, shit. You can hear a note of admiration in her tone, buried deep under the suck it up. You don’t consider yourself brave, not even close, but you know you’ve got a temper, and Joel’s got a special talent for setting it off. You just hope Maria isn’t confusing hotheadedness for courage.

The small cuckoo clock over her door chimes, and you check it. Ten o’clock.

Maria shuffles her papers into a pile with a sigh. “Go to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

You fold the map in your hands and tuck it into the pocket of your button-down, dreading sleep. The sooner you sleep, the sooner you going to wake up, and the sooner you’re going to get quality time with your least favorite person in Jackson. Fucking ugh. You just hope Maria doesn’t stick the two of you together permanently.

You rise before the sun from a blessedly dreamless sleep. You go to check the window, to see if the stars are still out or the moon still high, but you can’t see beyond a thick haze of clouds. This day just keeps getting better and better, huh?

You dress, putting on the clothing you’d laid out the night before. You opted for lighter-colored clothing, hoping to blend in better with the snowy surroundings. Growing up in Texas, camouflage had always been a sandy, olive-green blur. You don’t have much experience with what’s passes for invisible in the snow, though. You just have to hope you’re making the right call.

Maria had given you a pair of long johns, and you pull them on. You’re lucky to have a sports bra that fits—lord knows an underwire would just piss you off today—and you pull it over your head. A white, long-sleeve thermal covers your arms, and the sleeves are long enough to tug down over your hands. Maria’s hunting kit she’d given you came with a faded pair of coveralls, and you hope the soft beige color will blend well into to the snow. A pair of thick woolen socks comes next, and you make sure to pull them up over the cuffs at your ankles, a weak attempt to keep your skin covered throughout the day’s expected activities. Your boots slip on easily over the top, and your tie them neatly, tucking the loose ends of the laces away.

You check yourself in the mirror as you brush your teeth, pleased to find you appear almost competent. It takes you back to hunting with your Daddy as a kid, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was excitement in your eyes. You braid your hair back, tucking the tail into your shirt. You look… good, almost. Post-apocalyptic good, but good. Your cheeks have started to fill out over the past few weeks, and the sunken hollowness is gone from your eyes. The split lip you entered Jackson with disappeared weeks ago, and the last bits of the bruise across your cheek are almost entirely gone.

You test a smile, and the sensation is foreign but not entirely unwelcome. It’s been a long time since you willingly chose to smile. The girl looking back in the mirror… you could almost be convinced she’s happy. A far cry from the wild animal you’d first encountered there, all those weeks ago.

You pull yourself away from the mirror, and wander down the hallway, retrieving your pack from the kitchen counter. You’d stuffed it with necessities the night before—ammo, water, some trail snacks, anything that might make the day a little easier. There’s also a little green kit, a gift from Doc during your last checkup with her.

She’d shoved the pouch into your hands with a gruff heard you might need that. You’d pulled the snap, frowning in confusion. What could you possibly need?

A first aid kit, as it turned out. A fucking good one, at that. It held the standard gauze and medical tape, alcohol wipes, saline drops, and a shit ton of other basic medical supplies, all neatly organized in dedicated pockets and tabs. But when you flipped it open, a plastic bag full of extra supplies slipped out, and you barely managed to catch it. Inspecting it, you’d realized Doc had given you some definitely-not-standards supplies, shoved into a kit they were not meant to fit in. Latex gloves, suture packs, a travel-sized bottle with the words sterile water written on it sideways in sharpie—hell, she’d even thrown in a pair of suture clamps.

You’d stared at the supplies in your hands, mouth gaping open. It was so… it was… Doc… Tears had welled, and you’d blinked them back. A kit like this… it was the difference between life and death.

“Merry early Christmas.” Doc’s voice was stern. “Don’t die.” Then she’d shoo’ed you out of the clinic, like she hadn’t just given you the nicest gift you’d ever received.

You touch the green kit now, reminding yourself that it’s real, that you actually own it. With a sniffle, you zip your pack up, and grab the thigh holsters Maria lent you. You strap them on, one on each leg. You slip your sidearm into the one on your dominant side, glad to have a fully loaded gun on you. Maria had returned your mag last night, along with a handful of other weapons to take with you.

You tuck her revolver into the other thigh holster. The shotgun gets strapped to the side of your pack, and a switchblade is tucked into your back pocket. You throw on your coat, a set of leather gloves, and a thick, knit cap. Swinging your pack onto your shoulder, you pick up Maria’s rifle. Alright. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be. Might as well get the show on the road.

The stars are still hidden behind dark, gray clouds above, and Jackson is quiet. The porch light above you glows, orange light flooding the space. In a few months, when the snow melts, you imagine moths will flutter around the bulb. For now, though, you’re alone with your thoughts.

It’s painfully cold, even with your layers, and you curse your Texan sensibilities internally. God, you wish you could handle the winter weather the way everyone else does, instead of having to suffer through it. The moisture in your breath seems to stick to your skin as you walk, little clouds of vapor turning to icy needles against your face. You tug your scarf over your nose and mouth, trying to cut through the cold. It’s a short jaunt to the stables, though, and before you know it, you’re ducking into the squat, wooden building.

You can feel the flush in your cheeks, the smile threatening to crack across your face. The smell of hay is strong in here, and you let yourself enjoy the sounds of life stirring as the morning dawns. The barn reminds you of a home you’ll never see again in this life, but for once, the memories don’t fill you with sadness, with that god-awful longing. You imagine your Daddy would like it here, feel at home surrounded by wood and animals. You wander past stalls, petting the horses who stick their muzzles out as you walk by. You’re so lost in thought, you almost miss the lone figure standing at the end of the walkway, petting a beautiful chestnut filly with a white stripe stretching from her eyes to her nose.

Joel is so relaxed, so open as he pets the horse. You can hear his deep voice murmuring to her, too low for you to catch the words but the tone… it’s all warmth and comfort. He’s gentle with her, kind in a way you can’t comprehend. It’s so entirely opposite of the version of him you’ve come to know.

You close your eyes, trying to muster up the energy to break the spell cast by the early morning. This is the calm before the storm, and you’re tempted to stretch the moment out, to linger in the quiet. But you’ve got a job to do, and the sooner you do it, the sooner you can get home. Besides, from the looks of those clouds outside, you’re racing against a fucking monster of a snowstorm.

You clear your throat, opening your eyes. The change in Joel is instant. His posture stiffens, his hand snapping to his side, caught in the mortifying crime of… having human fucking emotions, you guess. Good Lord. He turns around, expression guarded as he catches sight of you.

You spy his gear off to the side of the walkway, neatly organized. Of course, he’s a neat freak. You wouldn’t expect anything less. “C’mon. Sooner we leave, sooner we get back.” Sooner he’s not your fucking problem anymore.

And the sooner you can get the fuck away from his shitty attitude. God, today’s gonna be a long, miserable day.

And for the love of all that’s holy, he’s still not opening his fucking mouth when he stops in front of the stall of a dark brown horse, setting the saddle on top of the half door. You want to cross your arms, but you’ve got the rifle in your hands. Instead, you stand there, awkwardly staring at him, waiting for him to tell you which fucking horse you’re supposed to take. From across the stable, you watch him hold his hand out to his horse, murmuring to it, before you decide fuck this and put your shit on the ground.

You stride to the horse’s stall, and put your hands on your hips. “Which one’s mine?”

“Not my problem.” Great start, Joel. Great fuckin’ start.

You tap your foot on the floor, waiting for him to… you don’t know, grow some manners or something. Pass whatever emotional stone is leaving him so verbally constipated. He doesn’t budge. You refuse to beg. So, the two of you stand at an impasse, waiting for the other to break.

The horse in the next stall over sticks her head over the door, watching you. She’s a beauty—an appaloosa, you’re pretty sure. You think you remember her coat pattern is called red roan, but it’s been while since you’ve seen her breed and it’s difficult to be certain. Red legs, red face, with a white body dotted with splotches of copper. She leans her head toward you, snuffling your shoulder. You reach to pet her, holding your hand out for her to inspect first. She sniffs, then butts her nose into your hand, her breath warm and sweet.

“Hey, pretty girl.” You’re whispering, stepping closer to her stall and away from Joel. “How’s your morning goin’?”

She chuffs, as if to say it’s going. You can’t help it. A smile splits your face in two.

“What happened to ‘sooner we leave, sooner we get back’?” And there Joel goes, killing your good mood twice in one morning. You glare over your shoulder. “I’d love to. Sure would be nice if my patrol partner would tell me which fuckin’ horse I’m allowed to take.”

He gives you one of his long, unreadable looks before scoffing and striding to the tack rack. He throws two sets of bridles and reins over his shoulder before grabbing another blanket and saddle, and coming back to the appaloosa’s stall, where he stops short, staring at you. This time, his expression is clear. Move.

You sigh, stepping away from the mare.

“C’mere, Gracie girl,” he murmurs, low enough that you’re sure he doesn’t intend for you to hear. He opens the stall, and sets the saddle down on the door. With an unexpected grace, he swings the blanket over Gracie’s back, smoothing it down with a firm hand. Taking one of the bridles off of his shoulder, he tosses it to you. His throw is a little on the rough side, and you barely manage to snag it in the air. “Hurry up.”

You genuinely don’t know how to feel in this moment. You’re simultaneously pissed the fuck off at Joel, ready to punch him, and also overjoyed at the chance to ride again, especially when your mount is as pretty as Gracie. You choose happiness, for now. There’ll be plenty of time for anger later.

It’s funny, the things you never forget. God forbid, you remember the steps of the biochemical pathways you spent years of your life studying. No, you remember horses, how you used to prep them for ranch work as a kid. How to saddle a horse. How to get the bridle over her head. How to earn her trust. She’s got beautiful, big brown eyes, and you can see that she’s got fire in her. God, you can’t wait to take her out.

She’s got a surprising amount of attitude, too, nipping and nudging at you when you deviate from whatever plan she’s got. You laugh when she manages to catch your braid with her teeth. She doesn’t pull enough to hurt you, just enough to grab your attention. You remember the word Tommy called you that first day you’d arrived in Jackson. Spitfire. It suits Gracie—certainly more than it suits you.

When you’ve got her tacked up, you retrieve your pack and rifle, and swing up into the saddle. You can feel the fire in Gracie’s muscle, the tension begging to be sprung. She’s a spitfire, alright. You scratch the side of her neck, smoothing her mane, and grab the reins.

Joel’s one step ahead of you, nudging his horse forward into the walkway. You follow, clicking your tongue and squeezing your heels in.

“Don’t click at her.” Joel’s words are a quiet snap.

Why the fuck—

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. It’s way too early to be getting upset over nothing. You need to chill the fuck out, or you’re gonna spend the whole day absolutely fucking miserable. “Why not?”

“I’m sure you can figure that one out yourself.”

You pull a nasty face at his back, shooting him the finger where he can’t see. It doesn’t occur to you until you pull Gracie to a stop in front of the fence gate, watching Joel call up to the guard, that… fuck, he has a point.

Click commands were commonplace where you’d learned to ride, but of course, you’d learned to ride before the outbreak. In a world of monsters that identify prey by fucking clicking, it would be a pretty stupid idea to train your horses to respond to anything close to that sound. God, you don’t want to give him any credit for anything ever, but damn it, he’s right about this.

The gate slides open, and Joel nudges his horse forward. You keep close, following him into the open world. A breeze kicks up, blowing strands of hair Gracie had knocked from your braid. Out here, the land is blanketed in snow, undisturbed by footsteps or shovels. Even in the dim twilight, you have to admit, it’s beautiful.

You haven’t taken much time to admire the area you’ve found yourself stuck in, but you do now, following Joel as he heads west. The land is flanked on both sides by dark forests, and a sharp mountain range splits the two, peaks reaching up to meet the horizon. Hazy grayness hugs the world, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a refraction effect off of the snow or if a fog is settling in, but you find it comforting either way. It’s like someone took a layer of frosted glass and placed it over everything, softening it. The snow dampens the sound of horse hoofs—another comfort. Everything around you feels pleasantly distant, like you’re looking at a painting of a landscape rather than riding through one.

What was this place like before the outbreak? There are no signs of prior humans in the immediate area, no structures or signs or burnt out buildings. Just wilderness. You can’t imagine it looked all that different before the infected wrecked the world. It’s a relief, almost, the idea that the outbreak wasn’t all consuming. Sure, the odd infected stumbles through here occasionally—you’ve seen that yourself—but it’s not like the urban areas. The environment here feels untouched, unblemished.

Your thoughts wander as you ride, and you let the peaceful feeling carry you as Joel leads you into the forest west of Jackson. The snow is sparser here, blocked from reaching the ground by the foliage, but occasionally, you come across drifts that appear to have slipped from boughs above. You don’t catch the sounds of any critters scampering through the brush, but that doesn’t surprise you. It’s still twilight, and you’d only expect to see deer this time of day.

Joel straightens up in his saddle and motions to you without looking back. You watch as he points into the dense thicket of trees, and spy a skinny river cutting across the land. That must be your route.

Joel doesn’t look back to see if you’d paid attention. Instead, he drops his hand back to rest on his thigh, his posture ramrod straight. He rides like a cowboy, you realize with a jolt. Stiff spine, loose hips, one hand on the reins and the other on his thigh. The few times you’ve seen horses since you left Texas, they’ve been FEDRA property, ridden by FEDRA soldiers. For whatever fucking reason, FEDRA training seemed to lean more toward the formal, almost dressage style. It never made sense to you; you’d always thought western riding suited warfare more than polo did. But Joel rides western, like you do. It’s comforting, in a weird way.

Comforting? What the actual fuck?

Nothing about Joel is comforting. He’s terse, and rude, and he makes you want to stab him. Or yourself. You haven’t actually figured out which option would make your misery end the fastest. Either way, Joel is a lot of things, and comforting sure as hell ain’t one of them.

His horse thwips its tail as it jumps down a small overhang, and Gracie snorts. You lean over to pet her, whispering “I know, right? So rude.”

You reach the riverbank just after Joel does and check your six, trailing your gaze along the path of hoofprints you’re leaving in your wake. If it weren’t so fucking cold, you’d walk Gracie through the water, hide your tracks better, but as it stands, you’re not subjecting her to that. It doesn’t help that the river opens up into a set of small rapids, and droplets of water and spraying onto your leg as you ride by, freezing onto your pants. It’s fucking cold outside—colder than it’s been since you arrived in Jackson—and even though the sun is beginning to cut through the grayness of twilight, it seems like it’s getting colder. The breeze that had greeted you upon exiting the fence is picking up, and you can feel the moisture in the air building. Fuck, it’s totally going to snow. You just have to hope y’all can beat the storm back to Jackson.

It's about a half hour ride before you reach a point where the river snakes around a bend, and you catch the shape of a stone building tucked into it, hidden behind a tree. The first checkpoint. Joel confirms this as the two of you move closer by sliding off of his saddle and leading his horse to the porch. You follow his example, jumping down and grabbing Gracie’s lead. When she’s tied up next to Joel’s horse, you join him on the porch, politely ignoring the way he’s cursing under his breath as you move to stand next to him.

He's got one glove off, and with his bare hand, he’s jiggling the knob of the front door, aggressively trying to… Jesus, what the fuck is he trying to do?

“Need help with that?”

“No.”

Alrighty, then. Not even a nope, it’s a full-blown no. You’re starting to build a Joel Mood-Meter in your brain, and you add the no as a tier, one step below nope. “What are you doing?”

“My job.”

“Clearly.” It looks like the knob is stuck. You cross your arms over your chest, letting your breath fog in the air, the moisture stabbing your skin. Fog. Moisture. Fuck, the handle’s probably frozen. If that’s the case, Joel’s wasting his time trying to manhandle the door open. You know a trick, but you let him struggle for a few more seconds, just enjoying watching him suffer. Finally, he gives up with a curse, his hand red as he yanks it away.

“Find a window.” He slips his hand back into his glove. “I’ll boost you.”

“Better idea—got any alcohol?” You sound smug, and you know it. You’re enjoying every second of this.

His permanent frown deepens. “This ain’t a party.”

For him, maybe. For you, getting to one-up him is practically heaven on earth. “I can get the handle open.” You hold your hand out, expectantly. If you’re gonna help him, you’re not gonna waste your first aid supplies to do it. Besides, he’s a smuggler. His type always carries a flask. It’s practically a stereotype.

The two of you hold that stand-off for an eternity before he finally cracks. With an irritated huff and a sideways look that says this better be fuckin’ worth it, he pulls a silver flask from his back pocket. You take it with a sunny smile, unscrewing the cap, giving it a sniff. Whiskey. Strong whiskey. Goddamn. The proof is definitely high enough to drop the freezing point.

Carefully, you pour a little bit of the alcohol out onto the handle, aiming for the seam of metal where the knob meets the door. With your free hand, you twist gently, putting pressure on the icy metal. You’re tempted to dump the whole flask out right there, use every last drop as a small fuck you to Joel, but even your pettiness can’t override your pragmatism. It only takes an ounce or two, but the moment the ice melts, your careful pressure is enough to twist the handle, and you pull the door open.

“Work smarter.” You recap the flask, tossing it to Joel, who barely manages to catch it. Ha. Asshole. “Not harder.”

Oh, he’s pissed. Honestly, you didn’t need to waste alcohol to open the door, his glare alone could’ve melted the ice. As he pockets the flask, you head into the building, smiling wide. The room is nothing special, just an old cabin, with a rack of basic supplies off to one side, and a desk pushed against the wall. There’s an old, stone fireplace, but no ashes in it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s lit a fire in here. You hope that’s a good sign, that no one has recently had to hunker down along this trail, but you know better than to get your hopes up. On the desk, you see what you assume is a log book. Flipping it open confirms your suspicion—pages upon pages of dates, names, and status updates greet you. There’s a pen clipped to the cover, and by the time Joel joins you in the little room, you’ve already filled in today’s update.

“Done.” You turn to Joel, still smiling. It feels fucking fantastic to be a step ahead of him, and you’re not gonna waste a single moment of this high. He steps beside you, reading over your work with a baleful expression, as if he’s searching for any reason to bitch at you. He doesn’t find one, though. It’s not like log books are fucking rocket science. Or medical science. Or any science, for that matter.

Except… it is, in a way. Dates, observers, and observations. Weird. It’s data tracking, for the modern un-modern era. You mull that over while Joel tries to find some excuse to pick a fight.

When he clearly doesn’t find one, he snaps the book shut, tossing it back on the desk. “Let’s go.”

You win this round, and it feels fucking fantastic.

Each checkpoint follows a similar pattern. You and Joel reach the outpost, tie up the horses, and go inside. Each stop, you fill out the log book. At an abandoned gas station, Joel notes that the next supply run needs to top off some items. Snow starts falling after you leave. In an old watch tower, you note that you saw a handful of broken branches outside, with no identifiable cause. The snow comes down heavier, not enough to disrupt visibility, but enough to remind you that you’re running low on time before the storm hits.

At a run-down house, both of you note the damage along the outer wooden wall. Scratches, deep ones, gouge into the slats, as though something had tried to claw its way in.

“Could’ve been a bear.” You don’t feel confident as you say it, but you’re hoping it’s true. Better a bear than a bloater.

Joel hmms under his breath, non-committal. It’s almost as if he’s too distracted to argue. That doesn’t bode well, in your humble opinion. The earlier joys of the day are slipping away, replaced by the grim reality that, despite the few moments of entertainment, you’re still very much surrounded by a world that will chew you up and spit you out if given the chance. Literally, if an infected gets ahold of you.

You head inside and retrieve the log book, documenting the damage to the exterior, making sure to also note the damage you’d seen at the other location. It’ll make cross-referencing easier, if someone needs to review the log books later. When you finish and return the book, you head outside to find Joel still kneeling next to the scratches, tracing them with a bare hand. He pulls his fingers to his face, and sniffs them.

You kneel next to him, reinspecting the damage. There’s clumps of dirt and grime caught in the destroyed wood fibers, but also something clotted and black. You copy Joel, taking off your glove and picking up a clot and testing the texture. It’s sticky and wet, even in the frozen winter air, which means it’s fresh. If it weren’t the color of pitch, you’d swear it was a fibrin clot. A black fibrin clot… Fuck, it’s—

“Infected.” You drop it like it’s on fire and wipe your hand on your jacket. God, you miss hand sanitizer. “Must’ve nicked itself or something.”

Joel nods, pulling the whiskey from his pocket. “Here.” His tone isn’t confrontational, and you appreciate it. At least he knows how to stow his shit when it’s time to focus.

You take the flask and pour a bit on your fingers, scrubbing them on your coat to clean them thoroughly. “It’s gotta be close still. Blood’s clotted but not frozen.” You hand him the flask back.

Joel stands. “Let’s go. Next checkpoint’s just past the ridge.”

“Let me update the log.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods and heads to the horses. You notice he keeps his hand on his revolver, and the sight sends a bolt of anxiety through your stomach. Good. Your nerves will keep you alive out here.

You head back inside and retrieve the log book, adding the blood observations to the line you’d written earlier. You’re just finishing, closing the book and clipping the pen, when you hear a loud thud followed by a single gunshot.

You drop the log book and sprint for the door, throwing it open. Joel’s standing there, calm as a fucking cucumber, gun holstered. At his feet, there’s a body. It’s thin—horrifyingly so—with the beginnings of spiny projections branching away from its face like antlers. There’s a pool of dark blood seeping into the snow around its head, and snowflakes catch there, dotting it like stars.

You groan. “Fuckin’ hate stalkers.” Because of fucking course, it had to be stalkers. Honestly, with your luck, you should be glad it’s not a bloater. Still, it’s not a good sign. “Think it was alone?”

“Doubt it.”

You know he’s right, but damn, would it kill the man to pretend to be an optimist for a few minutes? Stalkers don’t move alone, they move smart. Which means you’re probably being followed right now. You scan over your shoulder, trying to spot any movement, but you know it’s pointless. With their spindly limbs and spiny fungal projections, stalkers have built in forest camouflage. It’s almost impossible to separate them out from branches swaying in the breeze until they lunge for you, teeth bared to rip out your throat.

You appraise Joel sideways. “Did it get you?”

He gives you a look that very, very clearly says does it look like I got fuckin’ bit, dumbass, and you let the issue drop. You’ll have no problem shooting him later, if it turns out he’s hiding something.

Except, fuck, no, you will have an issue with it because Ellie will have an issue with it. Even if you hate Joel, you kinda like the damn kid, and you don’t wanna see her hurt. You shake your head. It’s the rule. If he’s hiding a bite, you have a responsibility to shoot him. It’s not your fault. Ellie can blame the protocol. You try to ignore the way guilt tugs at your heart. There’s no point in feeling guilty over something you haven’t done yet. But the thought of Ellie’s heartbroken face still threatens to tear you in two.

“We’ll walk.” Joel takes his horse’s lead. “Stow them in the garage.”

Well, if him holding his gun was a bad sign, him wanting to walk is a flashing, neon DANGER HERE light. The only reason he’d want to walk is to keep the horses safe. Great. Just great.

You don’t have much time left before the storm rolls through. Snow is pouring down now, flurries catching in your lashes and your hair. The wind is god awful, too, ripping through your quilted coat, raking over your skin. You’ve only got one checkpoint left to hit—the one past the ridge he’d mentioned—and you try to remember the map. If you’re remembering correctly, you should be able to make it there and back with enough time to retrieve the horses and ride back to Jackson. It’ll be cutting it close, but Joel’s right—you don’t want to risk losing the horses. If push comes to shove, spending a night out in the wilderness alone with Joel is a slightly less hellish option than getting stranded in the middle of the wilderness with Joel and two dead horses for god knows how long.

“Alright.” You let him take the horses’ leads, taking up the rear while he stows them in the garage. Hesitating, you make the choice to stow your rifle, hooking the strap onto the side of your pack opposite your shotgun, and draw your sidearm. Stalkers prefer ambushing, and you need the flexibility of a handgun, not the power of a rifle. You scan the forest while Joel lifts the door, watching for any signs of life. Un-life. Whatever. The sound of the garage door shutting slams into your gut as your instincts to shy away from loud noises, from danger, kick into high gear.

He doesn’t say anything as he heads back your way, just motions with his hands. Follow me. It’s a FEDRA hand signal. What the fuck? It would make sense that he’d know them, smuggler’s survival skills, but still. The fact that he assumed you’d know them… is it because he really has pegged you as FEDRA, or does he just not care if you can figure out what he’s trying to say? Hm. Smart asshole, or reckless asshole?

The two of you move slowly around the house, heading back down to follow the river. You’re on high alert, watching for any sign of movement, any indication that a swaying branch or rustling twig is actually a stalker, ready to jump out at you. The wind is strong, and every whistle singes your nerves, electric shocks in time with your pulse. Your heart pounds in your throat, your tense muscles ready to spring at any second. You feel fucking alive and damn it, you’re not going to let some infected get the best of you.

When y’all make it to the river, Joel points ahead. “The ridge.” His voice is impossibly quiet, almost silent under the howling of the wind. You follow his finger, eyes tracing down the river to where it curves. You realize you can’t see the land beyond that point. Oh, you’re on top of the ridge. Got it. The land must drop off beyond that point.

You nod, and signal to him to keep moving forward. He turns, and starts moving again, scanning the woods in front of him. Motion catches the corner of your peripheral vision, and you turn to investigate. It’s nothing, just a branch, but… you squint. Something’s off. There’s—

“Three o’clock.” You hope he can see the damaged tree.

He pulls back the hammer of his revolver. You physically feel its click in your spine. You’re a bundle of tightly wound nerves, and you know if hell breaks loose, you’re going to explode. You’re almost to the ridge now, and the roof of a building is just barely visible, tucked underneath the trees down there.

Joel moves again and you keep close, your sidearm raised. You’ve got eight bullets in it. Six in your revolver. Two in your shotgun. One in your rifle. You’re practically dripping in ammo. You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be—

Something slams into your side, knocking you to the ground. Blinding pain lances through your shoulder when you hit the snow with a thud, and the wind is knocked out of you. There’s snapping near your ear—fuck, teeth. You hear a shout—Joel—but you can’t see him. All you can see, all you can hear, is the infected on top of you as it growls and strains, trying to get to your throat. The thing manages to roll you just right, pinning your shooting arm under its weight, and you’re using all of the strength in your free arm to hold it back, to keep it from tearing your throat out. On instinct, you manage to jam your knee up between its chest and yours. Using it as a wedge, you push the infected back enough to lift your other leg and get a foot squarely on its chest. With a heave, you kick it back, sending it sprawling, and scramble to your feet. One second later, you’ve got your gun against its temple, and you pull the trigger, spraying black clots of blood across the white snow.

Adrenaline is coursing through you now, and you spin, searching for your partner. Where the fuck is he, why the fuck didn’t he help you, does he hate you that fucking badly—

He’s right on the edge of the ridge, with three stalkers on him. Motherfucker.

You raise your sidearm, aim, shoot. The first bullet finds its home in one stalker’s skull, and its body hits the dirt with a thud. Joel takes down the next one with a shot to the gut, and it collapses under its own weight, it’s body landing in the perfect spot to catch Joel’s ankle and send both him and the third stalker tumbling over the edge of the ridge.

You don’t hesitate, sprinting forward and throwing yourself over the edge without checking the height. It’s about a fifteen-foot drop, and you land hard, stumbling to your knees. You keep your hold on your gun, though, and when you pick yourself up, you see the stalker leaning over Joel’s prone body. You lift your gun, ignoring the screaming pain ripping through your shoulder, and shoot. The stalker crumples, and you stand up fully.

And wobble. Your shoulder… whatever your landed on, you fucked it up good. Still, you press on. You have no idea how many more infected are still out there, and with the wind and snow, there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to know they’re coming. And Joel’s prone on the ground, not moving. Fuck. You can’t let him die, you can’t face Ellie knowing it’s your fault. You can’t be the one to tell her—

You stumble to Joel, and shove the stalker’s body off of him with your foot. Leaning down, you take a glove off and check his neck for a pulse, letting out an embarrassing sigh of relief when you find one. He’s alive, at least. And frowning. Oh, thank fuck. You never thought you’d be happy to see him frowning at you, but right now, it’s proof he’s conscious.

He groans, eyes fluttering open, and you ignore the flood of relief you feel at the sight. “I’m fine.”

You don’t argue. You don’t make a nasty remark. You hold your hand out. “C’mon. We gotta get outta here.”

He takes your hand and you pull him to his feet. There’s blood on his coat, bright red. Shit. He’s injured. That’s an inside-and-safe problem, you tell yourself. Not an outside, actively being hunted problem. The checkpoint building looms in front of you, promising safety and warmth and most importantly—no fucking infected.

Joel’s swaying. Shit. He is so not allowed to die. Not when you need him to watch your back. Not when Ellie’s waiting for him back home. Goddamnit, when did you turn into Joel’s keeper?

 So, you grit your teeth and slide an arm around his waist, tugging his arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get inside.”

To his credit, he doesn’t fight you. He simply leans his weight onto you, letting you lead him inside.

And if he ever tells anyone about this, you’re gonna whoop his ass.