#foncewrites

My new zombie apocalypse fic.

The world ended on a Tuesday.

Not with fire, or screams, or some dramatic countdown, but with a government-issued broadcast and a polite suggestion to "remain indoors."

Keith had beed driving for hours when the radio crackled to life again as it had a few times throughout the weeks he'd been traveling. The same robotic voice looping through the static.

"This is a countrywide broadcast. A global state of emergency has been issued until further notice,"

"The CDC has confirmed that the pathogen—designated H-V5—has reached pandemic levels symptoms include fever, disorientation, and violent aggression in most cases."

"If you or someone you know begins to exibit these signs, isolate immediately. Do NOT engage. Do NOT attempt to help. Further instructions will be relayed as we garner more information."

Then silence. No further information came. Not for the ten months that he had been on the road, searching. Keith turned off the radio. He didn't need to hear it over and over again.

He got to see it for himself, pale pasty skin, bloody teeth, animalistic tendencies. Things he'd never thought he would see in real life. Movies, TV, and video games maybe. But not this.

The old pickup hid acquired had treated him well these past months. Old Red rattled beneath him, times humming against the cracked asphault. The wilderness stretched out on either side of him, dead and sun bleached, dotted with the husks of cars and the Occasional black smudge that most likely was once a human being.

Keith didn't dare look too closely anymore. He didn't have the heart for it.

His fingers flexed on the steering wheel as he passed by, heading further into the city. He needed to be careful, needed to be cautious, the katana—his mother's—rested on the passenger seat beside him, glinting in the dappled sunshine that came through the windshield, its hilt worn smooth from use. He'd cleaned the blade last night, wiping away the blood with an old t-shirt turned into makeshift cloth.

Keith also hadn't spoken to any other living being since the pandemic began ten months ago. His brother Takashi was out there somewhere. The last message came through before his cell phone shut off.

"Heading west toward pop's old ranch in Texahoma. Meet me there if you can."

That was a month ago. Keith had been scavenging and gathering supplies for the trip since then. He managed to siphon just enough gas for the journey, or at least that was the hope anyway.

Keith wasn't able to respond. He didn't even know if his brother was still alive. All he could do was drive, and hope. Hope and prayer driving him ultimately toward his destination.

He siphoned gas when he could from the abandoned cars along the freeway, raided boarded up gas stations for food and water, and slept in empty houses, his katana laid over his chest, usually leaving before dawn and before anyone or anything noticed him leaving. He continued west, following road signs for Oklahoma.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The city rose like a mirage on the horizon before him. Glass, steel, and smoke. Keith slowed down as he approached, eyes scanning for any movement, undead or otherwise. He'd encountered Raiders before and he wasn't exactly keen on running into them again.

Most of the infected didn't linger in the open anymore, no. They seemed to hunt in packs of three or more. Any more than ten and Keith knew he wouldn't be able to handle it. They were called all kinds of things. Infected, undead, wraiths, zombies... the list went on and on. They were always hostile and almost always attracted to sound or even the smell of blood. They were most often blind so it was better to just keep quiet if you wanted tostay safe.

He was about to just bypass the city when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, weaving through the traffic. He turned his head and noticed that it was a boy about his age, maybe younger.

He was tall, lean. And dressed in city clothing. A white Nasa shirt, black jeans, designer sneakers, and a blue denim jacket. His clothes looked pristine, as if he'd just come outside and saw all of this mess. He looked like he didn’t belong there—in the chaos of it all—like he'd stepped out of a magazine and stumbled into this world and wound up in this one by accident.

Keith cursed under his breath, weighing his options. He should keep driving. He knew he should, but he didnt. No. He stopped the damn truck.

It idled, the engine rumbling as though it protested the stop. Keith's hand hovered over the gear shift before he kicked it into neutral and pulled up the parking brake. His hand didn't leave the round handle, torn between instinct and humanity.

He'd learned early on that hesitation got people killed. The first week of the outbreak taught him that much.

He'd been walking home from his graveyard shift at the local 7-Eleven. The sky was dark and cloudy, which was normal for that time of year at six in the morning. He heard groaning and saw an old homeless man heading right for him. He took a step back and they advanced, even tried to bite him of all things. Keith being the kind of person he was, reared back and punched the son of a bitch in the nose, sending them stumbling backwards.

A scream alerted him to a woman being torn apart by two others and his eyes widened in fear. "Oh hell no!" He broke into a sprint and ran the rest of the way to his apartment. He should have taken the bike, but no, of course he didn't.

He shook off the memory, the first night of the outbreak, and then let out a heavy sigh as he made up his mind. Normally the rules dictated: You didnt stop for strangers, you didnt risk yourself for anyone who wasn't family. And yet—

He watched as the boy stumbled again, tripping over what appeared to be a fallen pedestrian crossing sign—oh the irony there—. He caught himself on the hood of an abandoned car and climbed on top of it, chest heaving, eyes darting around like a cornered animal.

Keith cursed under his breath, hitting the steering wheel once before he was climbing out if the truck, his mother's katana in hand. He pulled it free of the scabbard and brandished it as he approached. The feeling of it in his hand was familiar, grounding.

The air outside was stale, acrid, heavy with the stench of rot and sweet fluids from the cars scattered about. Heat simmered off the pavement in waves, carrying the buzz of flies. Keith scanned the street, shadows in broken windows, he could hear the faint scrape of something moving from a couple blocks down, too far away to be an immediate threat. For now, anyway.

Keith moved quickly, his boots crunching over broken glass from the broken car windows.

The boy saw him and froze, blue eyes wide with a mix of apprehension and determination. "S-stay back!" He rasped out, voice raw, "I—I dont need your help."

Keith stopped a few feet away, katana lowered but ready to strike if needed. Up close, Keith could definitely see that the boy was around his age, possibly a college student. He was trembling, sweating, but unbitten. Lucky bastard. A sound to his right had keith raising his sword, "well, you're unarmed and you're about to need my help."

The boy turned as two figures lurched into view from the alleyway, movements completely wrong, jerky with broken limbs and gnashing teeth. Clearly infected. The boy's face drained of color and he swallowed thickly looking at Keith and then watching the figures. "Two... where's your buddy...?" Keith wondered out loud. The infected always traveled in groups no smaller than three.

They lunged toward the sound of his voice and shrieked out as they charged at the two of them "hijo de puta" The boy cursed under his breath "meirda... what is that thing!?"

Keith wasted no time, stepping forward, his blade gleaming in the sunlight. The first infected lunged at him and he wasted no time in severing its head from its body, slamming his shoulder into the second one, plunging his katana into it and then taking its head off as well.

He looked around, but didnt see and other undead around. He yanked his blade free and wiped it off on the shirt rag he kept in his back pocket. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his face stayed unreadable.

The boy just stared at him like he'd just watched a ghost appear from a nightmare. "You're welcome..." Keith muttered as he slid the katana back into its scabbard.

The boy stared for a moment, before letting out a shaky laugh that sounded more like disbelief than humor. "You— But— I... thanks, I guess."

Keith turned back to the truck and started walking before looking back, "if you want to live, come on... otherwise, nice knowing you." He said and then smirked as he heard the boy slide off the car and hurry to catch up with him. Keith opened the driver’s door and climbed in, waiting for the boy to do the same.

The city boy slid into the passenger seat as though he’d been running for his life, which, judging by the sweat plastering his shirt to his back, he had. He slammed the door shut and pressed his forehead against the dash, his lean chest heaving.

Keith started the engine. The truck turned over, sputtered, and then roared back to life. He pulled onto the road without a word. A bit of blood splattered his cheek from where he'd dispatched the undead. He always felt a little more hollow each time he took another life of the undead. Sure they were already dead, the virus ended their life and turned them into... that, however it still felt wrong to him.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

For a while, the only sound was the hum of the tires, his companion's ragged breathing, and the rattling of the creaking metal frame.

Finally, the other male cleared his throat and broke the silence. “So... you always greet people like that, or am I just one of the lucky ones?”

Keith’s grip tightened on the wheel, not meeting the other boy's eyes, instead his eyes remained on the road, “you’d be dead if I hadn’t.”

“Yeah, well—” He shifted in his seat, trying to sit taller, like he wasn’t still shaking. “I had it under control.”

Keith shot him a look. “Sure.”

The boy scowled, but his bravado cracked when his stomach growled loud enough to fill the cab. He crossed his arms, muttering something under his breath. Spanish, if Keith's memory served him right, but it was quiet enough that he hadn't caught it, unlike before when he clearly caught the curse words on his breath during the attack.

Keith ignored him, eyes scanning the horizon, best not to get friendly. Friends ended in casualties. Casualties caused heartache. Keith wasn't very keen on losing anyone else, he still needed to find Shiro. The city disappeared in the rear view mirror, but the danger wasn’t gone. It never was. He knew that from experience. These undead infected were everywhere that people once were. Sticking to rural areas was a better idea.

After a few minutes, the male next to him spoke again, quieter this time. “So… where are you headed?”

Keith tensed slightly at his question, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “West.”

“That’s vague.”

Keith didn’t answer, instead he just shrugged.

The stranger huffed, leaning back against the seat. “Fine. Be mysterious. I’m just saying, if we’re stuck in this tin can together, maybe we should, I don’t know, talk? Share names, goals, tragic backstories? That kind of thing.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. He didn’t owe this stranger anything. But something about the way Lance’s voice wavered beneath the sarcasm made him hesitate.

“Keith,” he said finally.

The boy blinked, then smirked. “Keith. Huh... strong, broody name. Figures.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “And you?” he asked, surprising himself.

“Lance,” the boy said, with a little flourish of his hand, like he was introducing himself on stage. “Lance McClain. Future astronaut, sharpshooter, and apparently, apocalypse survivor.”

Keith didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it.

The road stretched on, empty and endless. For the first time in weeks, Keith wasn’t alone. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Keith gave a small sigh, relaxing a little bit, "Kogane... Keith Kogane." He said, "that's pretty much it..."

By dawn, Keith was fading.

The fever had set in sometime late night, burning through him in waves. His head throbbed, his vision blurred, and every breath felt heavier than the last. He kept one hand pressed against his side, but the bandage was soaked through, sticky and hot.

Lance kept glancing at him from the driver’s seat, worry etched deep into his face. “You’re not okay,” he muttered. “You’re seriously not okay.”

Keith didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Katie leaned forward from the backseat, her voice sharp. “He needs a clean bandage. Antibiotics, if we can find them. If we don’t stop soon—”

Matt cut her off, pointing ahead. “There. Look.”

On the horizon, a squat, gray building rose above the trees. The faded letters across its facade read: Sherman County Hospital.

Lance’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Oh, thank god.”

Keith forced his eyes open, squinting at the building. The windows were dark, some shattered, ivy crawling up the walls. From the outside, it looked abandoned. Dead.

But Keith had learned not to trust appearances.

Old Red rolled to a stop in the cracked parking lot. The silence pressed in, broken only by the caw of distant crows.

Katie checked her pistol. “We go in quiet. If it’s empty, we scavenge. If it’s not…” Her eyes flicked to Keith. “We don’t have a choice.”

Lance helped Keith out of the truck, slinging his arm over his shoulder. Keith hated the weakness, hated leaning on him, but his legs shook with every step.

The hospital doors groaned as Matt pushed them open. The air inside was stale, heavy with dust and disinfectant. The halls stretched long and empty, wheelchairs overturned, papers scattered like snow.

“Creepy,” Lance muttered.

They moved cautiously, their footsteps echoing. Every shadow felt alive, every creak of the building a threat.

Then a voice rang out.

“Don’t move.”

They froze.

From the shadows of the corridor, two figures emerged. The first was broad‑shouldered, carrying a wrench like it weighed nothing. The second was tall and slender, with long white blonde hair and eyes that missed nothing.

Keith’s hand twitched toward his katana, but Lance’s gasp stopped him.

“Hunk?”

The big man blinked, lowering the wrench slightly. “Lance?”

Lance broke into a grin, disbelief and relief flooding his face. “No way. No freaking way. Hunk Garrett? My old roommate?!”

Hunk’s face split into a smile, warm and incredulous. “Lance McClain. I thought you were dead, man!”

They collided in a hug, laughing, the sound startling in the dead halls.

The blonde‑haired woman, Romelle, Hunk introduced her as, watched warily, her hand still on the knife at her belt. But her gaze softened when she saw Keith stumble, pale and sweating.

“He’s burning up,” she said as she put a hand to his forehead. “We need to get him to the infirmary. Now.”

Hunk nodded, slipping under Keith’s other arm with practiced ease. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ve got you.”

Keith wanted to protest, to say he didn’t need help. But the fever dragged him down, heavy and relentless. His vision blurred, the world tilting.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Lance’s face, relieved, but scared. His only fear was not waking up again.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

When Keith woke, the world was quiet.

The ceiling above him was concrete, painted a dull white, the kind of sterile surface that belonged to hospitals. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal, a sharp contrast to the dust and gasoline he’d grown used to.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Or maybe he was back in the real world and the zombie apocalypse never happened.

Then the pain in his side flared, sharp and real.

He shifted, wincing, and realized he was lying on a cot in a small, windowless room. The walls were solid concrete, the door heavy steel with a sliding lock. Not a prison. At least, not exactly. More like a bunker, or a compound.

The sound of voices drifted in from the hall. Familiar ones, Lance’s laugh, Matt’s steady tone, Katie’s sharp retorts, and others he didn’t recognize.

The door creaked open.

A woman stepped inside, tall and poised, her white hair pulled back, dark roots visible, her eyes ice blue and sharp but kind, skin dark. She wore a clean uniform, patched and worn but well‑kept, and carried herself with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

“I see our patient is awake,” she said, her voice smooth, accented.

Behind her came an older man with a shock of orange hair and a mustache that curled at the ends. His eyes twinkled with warmth, but his posture was alert, ready.

“I told you he’d pull through,” the man said cheerfully. “Stubborn ones always do.”

Keith blinked, disoriented. They were definitely new faces. New faces often meant trouble, but by their attire, he realized they were there to help. Doctors, maybe?

The woman smiled faintly. “I’m Allura. This is Coran. You’re safe here.”

Safe. The word felt foreign. He hadn't known safety since this ago began ten months ago...or had it been longer?

“Allura runs this place,” Coran added, gesturing broadly. “An old hospital we've made our home. Concrete walls, reinforced doors, backup generators, water filtration. Not much to look at, but it’s kept us alive.”

Keith pushed himself up slowly, ignoring the protest of his ribs. “This… hospital?”

“A stronghold now,” Allura corrected. “We’ve secured the lower floors, sealed the entrances. The infected can’t get in, and raiders don’t bother with us once they see the defenses. It’s not perfect, but it’s home.”

Keith’s gaze flicked to the door. “And my team?”

“They’re fine,” Allura said. “Your friend with the big mouth hasn’t stopped talking since you arrived.”

As if on cue, Lance’s voice rang out from the hall. “I’m telling you, Hunk, you’ve never seen anyone drive like me. I was basically Vin Diesel out there.”

Hunk’s laugh boomed in response.

Keith let out a slow breath, tension easing from his shoulders.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t fighting. He could breathe. For now.

As he looked at Allura and Coran, at the steel door and the concrete walls. A nagging feeling passed through him as he remembered. Strongholds didn’t last forever. He knew that from many hours watching "The Walking Dead" or playing "Resident Evil."

》═══════~◈~═══════《

By the time Keith could stand without the world tilting, Lance was already dragging him out of the infirmary for “fresh air.” Fresh air, in this case, meant the wide, echoing halls of Sherman County Hospital. The hospital had been gutted and rebuilt into something else entirely.

Concrete walls reinforced with steel plating. Heavy metal doors bolted into place. Windows sealed with welded bars. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, powered by a generator Keith could hear rumbling somewhere deep in the building.

No, it wasn’t a hospital anymore. It was a fortress.

Allura walked beside them, her stride purposeful. “We’ve secured three floors,” she explained. “The basement holds the generators and water filtration. The first floor is storage and defenses. The second and third are living quarters. Or... the barracks."

Coran trailed behind, gesturing animatedly. “We’ve even got a hydroponics setup in the old ICU. Lettuce, beans, a few tomatoes if you don’t mind them a bit lopsided. Not much, but it keeps us from starving.”

Keith’s eyes flicked to the walls. Every corner had been fortified, every hallway patrolled by survivors with makeshift weapons. The air smelled faintly of bleach and smoke, but it was cleaner than anywhere he’d been in weeks.

Lance whistled low. “Okay, I’ll admit it. This is… impressive. Like, apocalypse‑proof impressive.”

Allura’s expression softened, but her voice stayed firm. “Nothing is apocalypse‑proof. But we’ve lasted this long.”

They passed through the cafeteria, now a mess hall. Survivors sat at long tables, eating from mismatched bowls, their voices low but steady. Children darted between the benches, laughter echoing faintly. Keith’s chest tightened. It felt wrong, almost, to see something so normal.

Matt and Katie caught up with them, both wide‑eyed. Katie’s sharp gaze catalogued every detail, every weakness in the defenses. Matt, on the other hand, was already chatting with a pair of survivors about the generator system, his hands moving as he sketched ideas in the air.

And then there was Hunk.

He was in the kitchen, of course, sleeves rolled up, stirring a massive pot that smelled like beans and rice. When he spotted them, his face lit up.

“Lance!” he boomed, waving a ladle. “You’ve gotta try this. Best apocalypse stew you’ll ever eat.”

Lance grinned, bounding over. “Man, I can’t believe it. My old roommate, running the kitchen in the end of the world. This is fate.”

Romelle leaned against the counter nearby, her pale hair catching the light. She watched the group with wary eyes, but there was a quiet strength in her posture.

Keith hung back, leaning against the wall. His side still ached, his fever not fully gone, but he forced himself to stay upright.

Allura’s gaze lingered on him. “You’ll need time to heal. You’re safe here, for now. But safety is fragile. Remember that.”

Keith met her eyes, unflinching. “I know.”

And he did. Because even behind concrete walls and steel doors, the world outside was still burning.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

By evening, the hospital felt less like a ruin and more like a hive.

The mess hall buzzed with voices, the clatter of bowls, the scrape of chairs. Survivors moved with practiced rhythm. Some serving food, others cleaning weapons, a few tending to children who darted between tables. It was the most life Keith had seen in one place since the world fell apart.

Lance sat with Hunk, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his stew. “You’re telling me you actually built a smoker out of an old MRI machine?”

Hunk grinned sheepishly. “Hey, it worked. Best ribs you’ve ever tasted, if you don’t mind a little radiation risk.”

Romelle rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, her posture relaxed for the first time since they’d met.

Matt was deep in conversation with Coran, gesturing animatedly as they discussed generator maintenance. Katie sat nearby, notebook open, scribbling diagrams of the hospital’s defenses.

Keith sat at the edge of the table, bowl untouched. His side still ached, the fever not fully gone, but that wasn’t what kept him quiet.

It was the walls. Concrete. Steel. Reinforced doors.

Safe, Allura had said. But Keith knew better. No place was safe forever. As if sensing his thoughts, Allura approached. She moved with quiet authority, her presence commanding without effort.

“We hold meetings every night,” she said, her voice low. “Updates, concerns, plans. You and your group are welcome to attend.”

Keith nodded, though he didn’t move.

Allura studied him for a moment. “You don’t trust this place.”

Keith met her gaze. “Strongholds fall. I’ve seen it.”

Her expression didn’t waver. “Perhaps. But until they do, they give people hope. And hope is as important as food or water.”

Keith didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he believed in hope anymore.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

Later, when the mess hall quieted and the survivors drifted to their quarters, Keith found himself unable to sleep. He wandered the halls, the hum of the generator a constant undercurrent.

He passed the infirmary, where a nurse dozed in a chair. The hydroponics room, where rows of green leaves glowed under artificial light. The barricaded front doors, where two guards kept watch, their eyes sharp.

It was impressive. Organized. Strong.

And yet, Keith’s gut twisted, because he knew the world outside. He knew how quickly safety could shatter. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that this sanctuary was only temporary.

The meeting was held in what used to be the hospital’s conference room. The long table was scarred and mismatched chairs had been dragged in from every corner of the building. A map of the county was pinned to the wall, dotted with colored markers and notes scrawled in thick black ink.

Allura stood at the head of the table, posture straight, eyes sharp. Coran hovered nearby, shuffling papers and nodding encouragingly. Around the table sat a dozen survivors—men and women of varying ages, all armed, all watchful.

Keith, Lance, Matt, Katie, Hunk, and Romelle slipped into seats near the back.

“All right,” Allura began, her voice carrying easily. “First, the day’s patrols. No breaches, no sightings near the perimeter. The horde that passed south two nights ago hasn’t circled back.”

A murmur of relief rippled through the room.

“Second,” she continued, “supplies. We’re holding steady on food and water. Hydroponics is producing enough greens to supplement rations. Medical stores are low, but stable.”

Coran cleared his throat. “And thanks to our new arrivals, we’ve added one more skilled pair of hands to the generator team.” He nodded toward Matt, who flushed under the attention.

Katie smirked. “He’s not that skilled.”

Matt elbowed her, grinning.

Lance leaned toward Keith, whispering, “See? They like us already.”

Keith ignored him, eyes fixed on Allura.

Her expression hardened. “Now, the rules. For those of you who are new.” Her gaze swept over Keith’s group. “We survive because we are disciplined. Everyone contributes. Everyone follows the same code. No hoarding. No violence inside these walls. And no one leaves the hospital perimeter without clearance.”

Lance raised a hand. “Wait—no one leaves? Like, ever?”

Allura’s eyes narrowed. “Not without reason. The world outside is chaos. We don’t risk lives for curiosity.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. “What if someone has to find someone?”

The room went quiet.

Allura studied him. “You’re looking for your brother.. Yes I was told.”

Keith didn’t answer, but his silence was enough.

Her voice softened, but only slightly. “I understand. But you won’t survive long alone. And if you leave, you put everyone here at risk. We can’t afford recklessness.”

Keith’s fists clenched under the table. He hated the logic in her words. Hated that she was right.

Lance, sensing the tension, jumped in. “Hey, look, we’re not here to cause trouble. We’ll pull our weight. Right, Keith?”

Keith didn’t respond.

Allura let the silence linger before moving on. “Good. Then we’ll see where you fit best. For now, rest. Heal. Tomorrow, we’ll assign duties.”

The meeting broke up, survivors drifting back to their posts.

Keith stayed seated, staring at the map on the wall. Texahoma was marked in faded ink, a smudge on the edge of the county line.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The room they were given was small but clean. Four cots lined the walls, thin blankets folded neatly at the foot of each. The concrete walls were bare, the only light a single bulb humming overhead.

Lance flopped onto a cot with a dramatic sigh. “Beds. Actual beds. I could cry.”

Hunk chuckled from the doorway. “Don’t get too comfortable. They squeak like crazy.”

Matt was already scribbling notes in his journal, diagrams of the generator system and the hydroponics setup. Katie sat cross‑legged on her cot, flipping through her notebook, eyes sharp as she catalogued every weakness she’d noticed in the hospital’s defenses.

Keith sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. His side throbbed, the fever still simmering under his skin, but it wasn’t the pain that kept him tense. It was the walls. The locks. The sense of being contained.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was trapped.

Later, when the others had drifted into sleep, Lance snoring softly, Matt mumbling in his dreams, Katie curled tight under her blanket, Keith slipped out.

The halls were quiet, lit by dim emergency lights. The hum of the generator echoed faintly through the concrete.

He wandered, restless. Past the infirmary, where a nurse dozed in a chair. Past the mess hall, now dark and empty. Past the barricaded front doors, where two guards sat alert, rifles across their laps.

He paused near the stairwell, voices drifting up from below.

“…can’t keep this up forever,” one voice muttered. Male, weary.

“We don’t have a choice,” another replied—Allura’s, calm but firm. “If we falter, even for a moment, everything we’ve built collapses.”

Keith leaned against the wall, listening.

“The generator’s failing,” the man said. “We’ve patched it, but it won’t last. And food—hydroponics isn’t enough. We’ll need to send scavenging teams farther out.”

Allura’s voice dropped, almost too soft to hear. “And if the horde circles back?”

Silence.

Keith’s stomach twisted.

The stronghold wasn’t invincible. It wasn’t permanent. It was just another fragile shelter in a world that devoured them.

He turned away, heading back to the room.

When he slipped inside, Lance stirred, blinking blearily. “Keith? Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Keith muttered, lowering himself onto the cot.

Lance squinted at him, then sighed. “You’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you don’t let yourself rest. Just… for once, trust that someone else has it handled.”

Keith didn’t answer. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the generator echoing in his ears.

He wanted to believe Lance. He wanted to believe in this place.

But deep down, he knew.

Strongholds always fell.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The next morning, the hospital was alive with movement. Survivors bustled through the halls, trading supplies, sharpening weapons, preparing for the day’s work.

Keith sat on the edge of his cot, pulling his jacket carefully over his bandaged side. He hated the weakness, hated the way his body betrayed him.

Allura appeared in the doorway, her expression calm but firm. “You’re not cleared for duty. Your wound needs time to heal.”

“I can still fight,” Keith said, jaw tight.

“You can barely stand without wincing,” she countered. “You’ll stay here. The others will join today’s scavenging run.”

Keith’s stomach twisted. “The others?”

“All of them,” Allura said. “Lance, Matt, Katie. They’ll be back before nightfall.”

Keith wanted to argue, but the steel in her gaze left no room. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to nod.

Minutes later, he watched from the window as Lance, Matt, and Katie climbed into a battered van with Hunk and Romelle. Lance caught his eye, offering a crooked grin and a thumbs‑up before the vehicle rumbled out of the lot.

Keith turned away, the silence of the hospital pressing in.

Hours passed. He wandered the halls, restless, ignoring the ache in his side. He ended up near the main entrance, where guards stood watch. The heavy doors groaned suddenly, the sound echoing through the lobby.

“Open up!” a voice shouted from outside.

The guards exchanged a look, then hauled the doors open.

Three figures staggered in. Two of them half‑carried the third between them.

Keith froze.

The man they carried was tall, broad‑shouldered, his uniform torn and bloodied. A military jacket clung to him, the insignia faded but unmistakable. His head lolled, unconscious, but Keith saw the streak of white cutting through his dark hair.

His breath caught.

It couldn’t be.

But it looked like him.

Shiro.

Keith’s heart slammed against his ribs. He took a step forward before one of the guards blocked him.

“Not for you,” the guard said. “Allura will handle it.”

Keith’s fists clenched. “Who is he?”

“New arrivals,” the guard said curtly. “That’s all you need to know.”

The doors slammed shut again, leaving Keith staring at the empty lobby. His mind raced. His chest ached. He told himself it was impossible. That his eyes were playing tricks on him. But deep down, hope flared.

Dangerous. Fragile.

Hope.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The hours dragged.

The scavenging party still hadn’t returned, and the silence of the hospital pressed in heavier with every passing minute. Keith paced the narrow room until he couldn’t stand it anymore. His side ached, his fever simmered, but the image of the man being carried in, broad shoulders, military jacket, that streak of white hair, burned behind his eyes.

He had to know.

Keith slipped into the hall, moving quietly, his boots barely scuffing the concrete. The guards at the main entrance had been doubled since the new arrivals came in, their rifles slung across their chests. He kept to the shadows, hugging the wall, listening for footsteps.

The survivors had been taken deeper into the hospital, past the infirmary and into one of the sealed wards. Keith knew the layout now, he’d memorized it during his restless wandering. If he cut through the stairwell and looped around, he might get close enough to see.

His breath echoed in the stairwell, too loud, too sharp. He forced himself to slow down, to move carefully.

At the end of the hall, he found it: a heavy steel door, guarded by two survivors. A faint light glowed from the crack beneath it. Voices drifted through, muffled, indistinct.

Keith pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear.

“…stable for now,” a woman’s voice said, Allura. “But he’s weak. He needs rest.”

Another voice, male, unfamiliar. “We wouldn’t have made it without him. He kept us alive out there.”

Keith’s pulse hammered.

He shifted, trying to angle for a glimpse through the narrow window in the door. The glass was fogged, scratched, but he caught a blur of movement inside. A figure lying on a cot, chest rising and falling shallowly.

The streak of white hair caught the light.

Keith’s breath caught in his throat.

It was him. It had to be.

“Shiro…” he whispered, so soft it barely left his lips.

The guard nearest the door turned suddenly, eyes narrowing. “Hey. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Keith froze.

The guard stepped forward, hand on his weapon. “Back to your quarters. Now.”

Keith’s fists clenched at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to push past, to see for himself. But his body was weak, his side throbbing, and he knew he wouldn’t win.

Reluctantly, he stepped back, his eyes locked on the door.

The guard watched him until he turned the corner, disappearing into the stairwell.

Keith leaned against the wall, his breath ragged. He didn’t know if it was real. If his fever was twisting his vision, if hope was playing tricks on him. But he’d seen him. And Keith felt something he hadn’t dared to feel in a long time.

Not just hope.

Determination.

If Shiro was here, alive, then nothing would stop him from finding out the truth.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The day dragged on, each hour heavier than the last. The scavenging party still wasn’t back. It was night fall. Keith sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the concrete floor, his leg bouncing restlessly. Every sound in the hall made him flinch, footsteps, doors creaking, voices carrying. None of them were Lance’s laugh, Matt’s chatter, or Katie’s sharp tone.

He told himself they were fine. That Hunk and Romelle knew what they were doing. That Allura wouldn’t have sent them out if it wasn’t safe. But he’d seen too much to believe in safe. His side throbbed, the fever simmering again, but it wasn’t the wound that kept him awake. It was the image burned into his mind: the man carried in between two survivors, his uniform torn, his head lolling, the streak of white in his dark hair.

Shiro.

It had to be Shiro.

Keith pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to force the thought away. It could’ve been anyone. A trick of the light. His fever twisting his vision. But the hope wouldn’t die.

He remembered Shiro’s voice, steady and calm even in chaos. “You’ve got this, Keith. Trust yourself. Patience yields focus...”

He remembered the way Shiro had always been there, the anchor when everything else fell apart. And now he might be there, just beyond a locked door, alive.

Keith stood abruptly, pacing the small room. The walls felt too close, the air too heavy. He couldn’t sit still. What if it wasn’t him? What if it was? And what if, while he was stuck here, Lance and the others didn’t come back at all? Keith’s chest tightened. He hated this. Waiting, powerless, trapped behind concrete and steel while the people he cared about were out there.

He pressed a hand against his side, wincing at the pain, but it didn’t stop him from moving toward the door. He needed answers. About the scavenging party. About the man in the uniform. About everything. Because if he was right, if that man really was Shiro, Then nothing Allura or anyone else said would keep him from finding out.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

Two days.

The scavenging party still hadn’t returned.

Every hour that passed tightened the knot in Keith’s chest. He paced the halls until the guards started snapping at him to sit down. He tried to rest, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lance’s grin fading into silence, Matt’s easy chatter cut short, Katie’s sharp voice swallowed by the dark. He hated waiting. Hated being trapped behind concrete walls while his friends were out there, maybe fighting for their lives. And through it all, the image of the wounded man haunted him. The streak of white hair, the military jacket. Shiro, or someone who looked too much like him to ignore.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

On the third morning, Allura summoned him.

“They’re awake,” she said simply, leading him down the hall.

Keith’s pulse quickened as he threw his blanket off and rushed after her.

The steel door he’d been barred from before now stood open. Inside, the ward smelled of antiseptic and sweat. Two men sat at the edge of a cot, both gaunt from travel but alert. The third, the one Keith couldn’t stop thinking about, still lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling shallowly. The first man stood as Keith entered. He was tall, with close‑cropped hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. “James Griffin,” he said, offering a hand.

Keith didn’t take it. His gaze flicked to the cot.

The second man stepped forward, more relaxed, his dark hair tied back, his expression cautious but not unfriendly. “Ryan Kinkade. We owe you people for letting us in.”

Keith’s voice was rough. “Who is he?”

James and Ryan exchanged a glance.

“He’s the reason we made it this far,” Ryan said carefully. “Kept us alive when we should’ve been dead ten times over.”

Keith’s fists clenched. “What’s his name?”

James studied him, his expression unreadable. “Takashi Shirogane. Captain. Military.”

The world tilted.

Keith’s breath caught, his chest tightening. He’d told himself it was impossible, that his fever had tricked him, that hope was dangerous.

But it wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t a dream.

It was Shiro.

Alive.

Keith staggered back a step, gripping the doorframe to steady himself. His throat felt tight, his vision swimming.

Ryan’s voice softened. “You know him.”

Keith swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “He’s my brother.”

The room went silent. James’s sharp gaze flicked between Keith and the unconscious man on the cot. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Keith didn’t leave the ward. Not right away.

He sat in the chair beside the cot, his eyes fixed on Shiro’s face. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow but steady, each breath a fragile tether holding him here.

James and Ryan spoke quietly in the corner, their words a blur. Keith barely heard them.

All he could think was: He’s alive.

The door creaked open. Allura stepped inside, her expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving him.”

“You’re still recovering yourself,” she said evenly. “And he needs rest, not someone hovering over him.”

Keith’s fists clenched. “He’s my brother.”

For a moment, something softened in her eyes. Then it was gone. “I understand. But rules exist for a reason. You’ll see him again when he’s stronger.”

Two guards appeared in the doorway. Keith’s pulse spiked, but he forced himself to stand. His legs trembled, his side burned, but he didn’t fight. Not yet.

As they led him back to his quarters, James’s voice followed him. “Don’t worry. We’ll watch him.”

Keith didn’t answer.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

Back in the small room, the silence was unbearable. Lance’s cot was empty, Matt’s notebook abandoned on the floor, Katie’s blanket folded neatly. The absence of them pressed down on him harder than the concrete walls.

Two days. No word. No sign.

Keith sat on his cot, staring at the door. His chest ached with two truths that refused to let him rest.

His friends were still out there, and they might not be coming back.

And Shiro, was here, alive, but locked behind walls and rules Keith couldn’t break.

The weight of both pressed down until he could barely breathe.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, whispering into the empty room.

“I’ll get to you, Shiro. And I’ll bring them back. I swear it.”

》═══════~◈~═══════《

Four days.

The scavenging party still hadn’t returned.

Keith’s nerves were frayed raw. He prowled the halls like a caged animal, ignoring the ache in his side, ignoring the guards’ sharp looks. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lance’s grin fading into silence, Matt’s easy chatter cut short, Katie’s sharp voice swallowed by the dark.

But it was Lance who came to mind first. Always Lance. Keith hated that he noticed it. Hated that every time his chest tightened, it was Lance’s laugh he missed most. The way he filled silence with noise, the way he made even the end of the world feel less heavy.

He told himself it was just because Lance was loud, impossible to ignore. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the truth.

And that terrified him more than the silence.

That night, restless, Keith wandered again. The hospital was quiet, the halls dimly lit. He passed the hydroponics ward, the faint glow of grow‑lights spilling into the corridor.

Voices drifted from inside. Soft, low, intimate.

Keith paused, glancing through the doorway.

Romelle and Allura stood close together among the rows of green. Allura’s hand brushed Romelle’s arm, lingering. Romelle leaned into her touch, her pale hair catching the light. Their voices were quiet, but their closeness said everything.

Keith froze, watching.

Not because he was surprised, but because of the opposite. Because it felt… normal. Natural.

And in that moment, something shifted.

He realized he didn’t have to hide. Not here. Not anymore. The weight he’d carried for so long—the silence, the denial, the fear of being seen, suddenly felt lighter. He thought of Lance again. The way his eyes lit up when he laughed, the way he’d defended Keith even when they fought, the way he’d looked at him in the truck that night, worried and stubborn and alive.

Keith’s chest tightened.

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t know what to do with it. But he couldn’t deny it anymore. He wanted Lance to come back. Not just because he was part of the team. Not just because he was loud and impossible to ignore.

But because Keith missed him.

Because he mattered.

Keith turned away from the hydroponics room, his heart pounding. For the first time, he wasn’t just waiting for his friends to return.

He was waiting for Lance.

The sun was sinking by the time Keith spotted shelter. It wasn't more than just an abandon two‑story house set back from the road, windows dark, garage door left open. They would definitely have to make sure it was secure, no walkers lurking inside, before hunkering down for the night.

The neighborhood was silent, houses empty with broken windows and doors left wide open. This two-story haven was one of the homes left in better conceit than the rest. Almost untouched.

Keith slowly lifted his foot off the pedal, searching the horizon and surroundings for any movement. Nothing. No shadows in the windows, no telltale shuffle of the infected. "We'll stop here for the night." He said and let out a soft sigh.

“Here?” Lance asked, breaking the silence. His voice was lighter than before, but Keith could hear the edge beneath it. He didnt like the idea of staying in someone else's house, it was kind of obvious. But, Keith had slept in weirder places.

“It’ll do,” Keith muttered.

He pulled into the driveway, easing the truck into the garage. The door groaned as he forced it down, the sound echoing too loud in the stillness. Keith’s shoulders tensed until the latch clicked shut. For the first time in days, the truck was hidden from sight. Inside, the air smelled of dust and mildew. A child’s bicycle lay on its side near the workbench, its tires flat. Tools were scattered across the floor, as if someone had dropped everything mid‑repair and never come back.

Keith killed the engine and grabbed his katana. “Stay here.” he said as he got out of the truck.

“Uh, no way,” Lance shot back, already climbing out. “You think I’m just gonna sit in the murder‑garage while you play hero? Not happening.”

Keith glared at him, but Lance only raised his chin stubbornly. With a sigh, Keith shined his light around the garage, "looks like there garage is clear... lets keep moving..." He pushed open the main door, surprised it wasn't locked, "keep an eye out, stick close."

The living room was a time capsule. Family photos were left on the walls, a blanket was draped over the couch, and a TV left on with nothing but static. Dust coated everything, muting the colors. Keith’s boots left prints on the carpet as he moved through the house, trying not to sneeze.

Lance trailed behind, quieter now. His eyes lingered on the photos: a smiling couple, two kids in soccer uniforms. He swallowed hard.

“Think they made it out?” he asked softly.

Keith didn’t answer. He’d learned not to ask questions like that. It was more likely than not, that the family made it out, but ended up stranded in the side of the road as zombie chow. He didn't like thinking of it.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

They moved room by room, clearing the house. Upstairs, Keith found a bedroom closet with a half‑empty duffel bag. Clothes, an extra flashlight, a box of protein bars inside. He tossed the bag onto the bed.

“Score,” Lance said, rifling through it. He tore open a bar and bit into it like he hadn’t eaten in days. Honestly, he hadn’t. Neither had Keith, but he wasn't focused on food right now. He was focused on finding supplies, maybe even some water.

Fresh water was one of those commodities that became near-impossible to find out here. So when you did, you held onto that for as long as you could. Another rule, don't drink the tap water. That shit was absolutely contaminated. It didn't matter where you went either. Unless it was filtered or bottled, you didnt touch it.

Keith checked the windows, making sure the curtains were drawn. The house was quiet, safe enough for one night. Hopefully.

Back downstairs, Lance had claimed the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. “Not bad. Beats sleeping in a truck, right?”

Keith made his way down, checking light switches. He headed into the kitchen and looked under the sink, sighing in relief as he saw the filtration system hooked up. He filled a cup and used the test straps he kept in his pocket to test the water. Once proven clean, he filled as many empty container as he could find in that kitchen, making sure nothing leaked, and then carried it all out to the truck.

He kept two water bottles and passed one to Lance, before he took a sip of his own and then sat in the armchair across from him, katana resting against his knee. He didn’t answer, but his body eased just slightly into the cushions.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t empty this time—it was heavy, but not unbearable. They both were a lot more thirsty than they'd realized. Clean water. Thank god for rich people that could afford the filtration system.

Lance broke it first. “So… west, huh? You got someone waiting for you?” he asked as he sat up a bit, setting his bottle on the floor beside the couch.

Keith’s throat tightened. He stared at the blade in his lap, the faint scratches along its edge. “Yeah. Got someone waiting.”

Lance nodded slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Then I guess we’re both looking for someone.”

Keith glanced up, surprised. Lance’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were tired in a way Keith recognized. He tapped his fingers on the bottle in his lap and let out a soft sigh. "We should sleep while we can..."

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The house creaked around them, settling into the night. Outside, the world was still burning. Distant groans could be heard over the quiet of the little suburb, but, Keith couldn't help but worry that they might come to close and smell them, or hear them.

The house groaned as night settled in, wood and drywall shifting. Keith sat in the armchair, katana balanced across his knees, listening. Every creak made his muscles coil tighter. He was worried. Of course he was, he had every reason to be. The World was burning around them, so to speak.

Lance had dozed off on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, the other clutching the half‑eaten protein bar like it was treasure. His breathing was uneven, shallow. Keith wondered how long it had been since he’d slept somewhere with a roof. He closed his eyes and almost let himself relax.

Almost.

The quiet didn’t last.

A sound drifted in from outside. A low, dragging, rhythmic and unmistakable sound. Keith’s head snapped up. "Shit." Keith's eyes snapped open. He knew that sound. The shuffle of feet that didn’t belong to the living. Groaning and growling.

He was on his feet in an instant, blade in hand. He crossed to the window, careful not to disturb the curtain. A shadow moved across the street, then another. The groaning and moaning grew louder just outside the front door.

Not a horde. Not yet. But a few was enough.

“Lance,” Keith hissed.

Lance jerked awake, blinking blearily. “What—? Did you seriously wake me up for—”

"Shh!" Keith put a finger to his lips and gestured to the window—.

The first thud rattled the garage door.

Keith froze, katana still in his hand. Another impact followed, metal groaning in its frame. The infected had found them.

Lance sat bolt upright on the couch, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s them, isn’t it?”

Keith didn’t answer. He was already moving, checking the windows. Shadows shifted outside, more than he’d counted before. Too many.

The garage door shuddered again, harder this time. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.

“They’ll break through,” Keith said flatly.

Lance scrambled to his feet. “So what’s the plan, fearless leader? Because unless you’ve got a secret tunnel, we’re screwed.”

Keith’s gaze flicked to the garage. The truck. Old Red. He wasn’t leaving it behind. “Grab the duffle bag,” he ordered. “We’re driving out.”

Lance blinked. “Through them?”

Keith was already moving, katana in one hand, the garage door release in the other. “If that's what it takes..." he then raised a brow, "unless you'd rather to stay here.”

The door screeched as it rolled up, moonlight spilling into the garage. Figures lurched into view, their movements jerky, their eyes catching the light like animals.

“Go!” Keith barked.

They sprinted for the truck. Lance fumbled with the passenger door, nearly dropping the duffel in his panic. Keith shoved him inside, then swung into the driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life, loud enough to draw every infected in earshot. Shadows converged, clawing at the edges of the garage.

Keith slammed the gearshift into reverse and floored it. The truck shot backward, smashing through the half‑open door with a shriek of metal scratching against metal. Infected scattered, some bouncing off the body of the truck with sickening thuds.

Lance yelped, bracing himself against the dash. “You’re insane!”

Keith didn’t answer. He spun the wheel, tires screaming as Old Red fishtailed onto the street. More figures staggered into the headlights, arms reaching. Keith gunned the accelerator, plowing through the gap before it could close.

The truck barreled down the empty road, engine growling, the night air rushing in through the cracked windows. In the rearview mirror, the house shrank into darkness, the infected swarming where they’d been minutes before.

Lance slumped back in his seat, clutching the duffel like a lifeline. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright with adrenaline. “Okay,” he panted. “Okay. I take it back. You’re not insane. You’re—well, maybe a little insane—but that was… wow.”

Keith kept his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the wheel. His heart was still hammering, but he forced his voice steady. “Told you. We don’t leave the truck.”

Lance let out a shaky laugh, half‑relief, half‑disbelief. “Guess not. This thing's got guts.”

Keith didn’t smile, but something in his chest eased. The road stretched out ahead, endless and uncertain. But Old Red was still running.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The road stretched on through the night, endless black ribbon under Old Red’s tires. The headlights carved tunnels through the dark, catching the occasional glint of broken glass or the pale flash of something moving in the fields. Keith kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel.

Beside him, Lance fidgeted. He shifted, sighed, muttered under his breath. Finally, he broke the silence.

“You always this chatty on road trips?”

Keith didn’t answer.

Lance groaned. “Figures. I get rescued by the strong, silent type. Great.”

But after a while, his voice softened. “Thanks, though. For not leaving me back there.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from the road. “Don’t make me regret it.”

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The hours bled together. The sky lightened from black to gray, then to the pale wash of dawn. Keith’s eyes burned, but he didn’t stop. Not until the green glow of a familiar sign flickered on the horizon.

7‑Eleven.

The building sat crooked at the edge of a small town, its windows cracked, its parking lot littered with debris. But the sign still hummed faintly, powered by a backup generator. Assuming it wasn't running on the current power grid.

Keith pulled Old Red into the lot, scanning for movement. Nothing stirred.

“Seriously?” Lance said, staring at the storefront. “We’re risking our lives for a Slurpee?”

Keith ignored him, parking by the pumps. He slid out of the truck, katana in hand, and crossed to the side door. The lock was broken. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint tang of gasoline.

Keith moved with purpose, heading straight for the back office. His fingers found the breaker panel by memory, flipping the right switches. The hum of machinery stirred to life, faint but steady.

Lance leaned in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “Okay, not gonna lie, that was hot. How do you even know how to do that?”

Keith shot him a look. “I work here... not here, here... but you get it.”

Lance blinked, then grinned. “Wait—you? Behind a counter? Selling Big Gulps and scratch‑offs? Oh, I need to see this mental image.”

Keith ignored him, moving to the register. The screen flickered, sluggish but alive, connecting to the satellite backup. He keyed in the override, and the pumps outside clicked on.

“Unbelievable,” Lance muttered, shaking his head. “The world ends, and you’re still clocking in.”

Keith didn’t rise to the bait. He rushed outside, grabbed a nozzle, filled the truck’s tank, then siphoned extra into a pair of red cans he found by the wall inside. Every drop mattered.

Inside, Lance had raided the shelves, emerging with an armful of snacks. “Breakfast of champions,” he said, tossing a bag of chips onto the dash.

Keith slid behind the wheel, starting the engine. The tank was full, the road waiting.

“So,” Lance said, crunching loudly, “where to now, fearless leader?”

Keith adjusted the mirror, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. “Texahoma”

Lance raised a brow. “Texahoma? What’s in Texahoma?”

“My brother.”

The words hung in the cab, heavy and certain. Lance studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“Southwest it is.”

Old Red rumbled back onto the highway, the rising sun painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold. Behind them, the 7‑Eleven faded into the distance. Ahead, the road stretched wide and uncertain.

For the first time since the world ended, Keith wasn’t driving toward nothing.

He was driving toward hope, and hopefully Shiro.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The tank was full, the sun was climbing, and the highway stretched out like a scar across the land. Old Red hummed beneath them, steady and stubborn, the only constant in a world that had fallen apart.

Keith kept his eyes on the road, scanning for movement. The fields on either side were overgrown, fences sagging, houses collapsed into themselves. Every so often, they passed a car abandoned on the shoulder, doors hanging open, belongings scattered like breadcrumbs.

Lance had his feet propped on the dash, a bag of chips balanced on his knees. He crunched loudly, deliberately, like he was trying to fill the silence.

“So,” Lance said around a mouthful, “Texahoma. You got a plan once we get there, or are we just gonna drive around until we hit a barn?”

Keith didn’t answer right away. He shifted gears, eyes narrowing at a shape in the distance just a billboard, peeling and sun‑bleached.

“My brother told me to meet him there at my pop's old ranch...” he said finally.

Lance tilted his head. “Older brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ve got siblings too. Big family. Loud. Annoying. But, you know… I’d give anything to hear them yelling at me again.”

Keith glanced at him, just for a second. Lance’s smile was crooked, but his eyes were far away.

The road dipped, carrying them past a cluster of houses. Windows shattered, doors hanging open. A swing set creaked in the wind, its chains rusted. Keith’s grip tightened on the wheel.

Lance shifted, lowering his feet. “You ever think about how fast it all went down? Like… one day it’s school and work and Netflix, and the next it’s—” He gestured vaguely at the empty world outside. “This.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. “Thinking about it doesn’t change anything.”

“Yeah, but ignoring it doesn’t either.”

Keith didn’t reply. He pressed harder on the gas.

For a while, the only sound was the engine and the crunch of Lance finishing his chips. Then Lance leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.

“You know,” he said, “for a guy who saved my life, you’re not exactly Mr. Sunshine. Do you ever smile?”

Keith shot him a look.

Lance grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

The banter was grating, but Keith couldn’t deny the way it cut through the silence. The road didn’t feel quite as endless with someone else in the cab. It almost reminded him of the impromptu trips he'd take with Shiro and his friends to McDonald's at 2am. Shiro's friends were talkative too.

They drove until the sun was high, the heat pressing down through the windshield. Keith’s eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he kept going. He couldn’t stop. Not yet.

Lance must have noticed. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “You can’t drive forever. Even broody samurai guys need rest.”

Keith didn’t answer, but his hands ached on the wheel. He knew Lance was right. He just didn’t know how to stop moving. He couldn't sleep yet. Not yet. Just a few hundred more miles. He'd done worse.

The old highway stretched south, cracked and sun‑bleached, lined with the skeletons of billboards and the husks of cars that would never move again. Old Red rumbled steadily beneath them, her engine a low growl that filled the silence.

Keith’s eyes burned from fatigue, but he kept them fixed on the road. Every mile mattered. Every mile brought him closer to Shiro.

Beside him, Lance had finally stopped talking. He leaned against the window, arms folded, his reflection ghosting in the glass. His breathing was even, but Keith doubted he was asleep.

The silence was almost worse than the chatter.

They passed through the remnants of a small town. Many storefronts were boarded up, windows shattered, a church steeple leaning precariously. A dog darted across the street, ribs showing, tail tucked. Keith slowed instinctively, but the animal vanished into the brush before he could get a better look.

“Guess it’s not just us,” Lance murmured, startling him.

Keith glanced at him. Lance’s eyes were open now, fixed on the spot where the dog had disappeared.

“Animals,” Lance said. “They’re surviving. Adapting. Meanwhile, we’re…” He gestured vaguely at the empty world outside. “Not so much.”

Keith didn’t answer. He pressed harder on the gas.

By late afternoon, the heat was suffocating. The cab stank of sweat and gasoline. Keith’s hands ached from gripping the wheel. His eyelids felt heavy, his vision blurring at the edges.

“You’re gonna crash us if you don’t stop,” Lance said suddenly.

Keith’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re about two seconds from face‑planting into the steering wheel. Pull over.”

Keith ignored him.

Lance leaned forward, voice sharper. “Keith. Pull. Over.”

The command in his tone startled him. Against his better judgment, Keith eased Old Red onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine, the sudden silence ringing in his ears.

Lance exhaled, slumping back. “Finally. I thought I was gonna have to wrestle you for the wheel.”

Keith shot him a glare, but his body betrayed him. The moment he let go of the wheel, exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. His muscles ached, his head throbbed.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

He didn’t remember closing his eyes.

When he woke, the sky was streaked with purple and gold. The air was cooler, the cicadas loud in the grass. Old Red sat quiet, her hood warm beneath the fading sun.

Keith blinked, disoriented. Then he noticed the blanket draped over his shoulders.

Lance sat on the hood, legs dangling, a half‑empty water bottle in his hand. He glanced down when Keith stirred.

“About time,” he said. “You snore, by the way.”

Keith shoved the blanket off, scowling. “I don’t.”

“You do. Like a chainsaw. I was this close to stuffing a sock in your mouth.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but his chest felt lighter than it had in weeks.

Lance took the wheel this time, and drove on into the evening, the stars emerging one by one. The road signs grew fewer, the towns smaller. The world felt emptier with every mile.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

By nightfall, they found another abandoned house—a single‑story ranch with a garage just big enough for Old Red. Keith parked inside, shutting the door behind them. The house smelled of dust and mold, but it was shelter.

They scavenged what they could: a few cans of food, a pack of bottled water, a box of matches. Lance found a deck of cards and grinned like he’d struck gold.

“Ever play poker?” he asked, shuffling clumsily.

Keith shook his head.

“Perfect. I’ll teach you. And when I win, you owe me the good snacks.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You mean the ones you already stole?”

Lance smirked. “Details.”

They sat on the floor, the flicker of a candle casting shadows on the walls. Outside, the night pressed close, the world groaning with distant echoes. But inside, for the first time, there was laughter.

It was quiet, tentative, but real.

Keith didn’t let himself smile. Not fully. But as he watched Lance deal another crooked hand, he felt something he hadn’t in weeks.

Not safety. Not yet.

But maybe the beginning of it.

Or— maybe not...

The candle burned low, wax pooling on the floor between them. Lance was mid‑rant about how Keith had “no poker face whatsoever” when the sound came.

A thud. Distant, but heavy.

Keith froze, cards slipping from his hand.

Lance blinked. “What was—”

“Shh.”

They both held still. The house creaked, the wind rattled the shutters. Then another thud, closer this time. Followed by the unmistakable scrape of something dragging across the driveway.

Keith was on his feet instantly, katana in hand. He crossed to the window, careful not to disturb the curtain.

The street outside was dark, but the moonlight caught movement. Figures. More than just a few. More than a dozen. Shit.

His stomach dropped.

Not just stragglers. A group.

A horde.

Lance crept up behind him, peering over his shoulder. His breath hitched. “Oh, no. Nope. Nope. That’s too many. That’s—how many is that? Ten? Twenty!?”

“Twenty too many,” Keith said flatly.

The figures shuffled closer, drawn by the faint glow of the candle, by the sound of voices, by the scent of life.

Keith’s mind raced. The garage door was shut, Old Red hidden inside. But if the horde surrounded the house, they’d be trapped.

“We have to move,” he said.

Lance’s eyes widened. “Now? As in now, now?”

Keith blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. “Get the bag. Quietly.”

Lance scrambled, stuffing the cards back into the duffel like they mattered. His hands shook, but he didn’t argue.

The thuds grew louder. Closer. Something slammed against the front door, rattling it in its frame.

Keith’s pulse hammered. He motioned for Lance to follow, leading him through the kitchen to the garage. The air was thick with dust and gasoline. Old Red loomed in the shadows, their only way out.

Keith slid into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, loud as a gunshot in the silence.

The infected reacted instantly. The front door splintered, wood cracking under the weight of bodies.

“Go, go, go!” Lance shouted, clutching the duffel to his chest.

Keith slammed the garage door opener. The metal screeched as it rolled up, revealing the street—and the horde closing in.

He floored the accelerator. Old Red shot forward, through the half‑open door. The truck plowed into the street, headlights cutting through the swarm. Bodies thudded against the hood, rolled off the sides.

Lance yelped, bracing himself against the dash. “You’re insane!”

Keith didn’t answer. He spun the wheel, tires screaming, carving a path through the mass of bodies. The truck fishtailed, then straightened, barreling down the road.

In the rearview mirror, the house vanished into darkness, swallowed by the horde. That could have easily been them.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

Keith’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his heart pounding. Beside him, Lance was pale, wide‑eyed, but alive.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Finally, Lance let out a shaky laugh. “Okay. That was… horrifying. But also kind of badass. Remind me never to doubt you again.”

Keith didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the road, the horizon stretching south.

But inside, he knew one thing for certain.

This wasn’t random. The infected were moving in larger groups now. Organized.

And if they didn’t find Shiro soon, they might not survive long enough to.

Old Red’s headlights cut through the dark, beams bouncing off cracked asphalt and the occasional glint of broken glass. The world outside was silent, but Keith’s pulse still thundered in his ears. He kept his hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward.

Beside him, Lance sat stiff, duffel clutched in his lap. His face was pale, but his mouth wouldn’t stay shut.

“That was—” He broke off, shaking his head. “That was insane. Like, movie insane. You just—just drove through them like it was nothing.”

Keith didn’t answer.

Lance huffed, leaning back against the seat. “Okay, fine. Be stoic. But admit it—you’re kind of a badass.”

Keith’s grip tightened. He didn’t feel like a badass. He felt like someone who’d barely kept them alive. One false move and they would have both been torn up and devoured between at least twenty of the undead.

The silence stretched. The hum of the engine, the rattle of loose tools in the back, the faint whistle of wind through the cracked window.

Finally, Lance spoke again, softer this time. “They’re moving in groups now. You noticed that, right?”

Keith’s stomach twisted. He had noticed. He just didn’t want to say it out loud.

“They’re changing,” Lance continued. “Getting smarter. Or hungrier. Or both.”

Keith pressed harder on the gas. “Doesn’t matter. We keep moving.”

Lance studied him for a moment, then sighed. “You really don’t do pep talks, do you?”

Keith didn’t respond.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

Hours passed. The sky began to pale, streaks of gray bleeding into the horizon. Keith’s eyes burned, his body heavy with exhaustion. He forced himself to stay alert, scanning the road for movement.

That’s when he saw it.

A shape in the distance.

At first, he thought it was another abandoned car. But as they drew closer, the details sharpened: a pickup truck, newer than Old Red, parked sideways across the road. Its doors hung open, belongings scattered across the asphalt.

Keith slowed, instincts screaming.

“Roadblock?” Lance asked, sitting up straighter.

“Maybe.”

Keith eased Old Red to a stop a few yards away. The air was still. Too still. He scanned the scene. No bodies. No blood. Just silence.

Lance shifted uneasily. “I don’t like this.”

Neither did Keith. Against his better judgment, he killed the engine, the sudden quiet pressing in. His hand went to the katana, the weight of it grounding him.

“Stay here,” he said.

Lance bristled. “Like hell. You think I’m just gonna sit in the truck while you—”

“Stay. Here.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment, Lance looked ready to argue. Then he slumped back, muttering under his breath.

Keith stepped out, boots crunching on gravel. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint smell of oil and something metallic. He moved slowly, scanning the truck.

The driver’s seat was empty. The backseat, too. A backpack lay on the ground, half‑unzipped, clothes spilling out.

Keith crouched, fingers brushing the fabric. Still warm.

His stomach dropped.

This wasn’t abandoned.

Someone had been here. Recently.

And then he heard it.

A click. Sharp. Metallic.

Keith froze.

From the treeline, a voice rang out. Low. Steady. Dangerous. “Step away from the truck.”

Two figures emerged from the treeline. The taller one carried the rifle with practiced ease, his face gaunt but steady. The smaller one moved like a shadow at his side, sharp eyes flicking over every detail, a pistol gripped tight in their hands.

Keith’s breath caught. He knew that face. Sharp angles, ginger hair, intense eyes that woukd normally be crinkled at the edges telling some stupid joke.

“Matt?”

The taller figure stiffened, lowering the rifle just slightly. “Keith?” His voice cracked with disbelief.

Lance’s head popped out of the truck window, eyes wide. “Wait—you know these people?”

Keith’s grip on the katana eased, but only a fraction. “I know him. Through Shiro.”

Matt’s expression shifted—relief, recognition, something almost like hope. “Holy shit, Keith!” He chuckled in disbelief.

The smaller figure narrowed their eyes, stepping forward. “And who the hell are you?”

Keith blinked. He didn’t recognize her. Short, messy hair, glasses smudged, a scowl that could cut glass. She moved with the same sharpness as Matt, but there was no familiarity in her gaze.

Matt glanced at her. “Katie, it’s okay. He’s… he’s Shiro's brother.”

Katie—Pidge, Keith realized belatedly—didn’t lower her weapon. “That doesn’t mean we can trust him.”

Lance scoffed from the truck. “Wow, thanks for the warm welcome. Really feeling the love here.”

Katie’s glare snapped to him. “And who are you?”

“Lance,” he said, puffing his chest out despite the tension. “Survivor. Sharpshooter. Keith’s partner in not dying horribly.”

Keith groaned under his breath.

Matt finally lowered the rifle, though his shoulders stayed tense. “We’ve been tracking the hordes. They’re moving south, faster than before. And there are… other groups out here. Not all of them friendly.”

Katie’s eyes flicked between Keith and Lance, suspicion still sharp. “If you’re really tied to Shiro, then maybe we can work together. But if you’re lying…” She let the threat hang in the air.

Keith met her gaze, unflinching. “I’m not.”

The silence stretched, heavy with distrust and possibility.

For the first time since the outbreak began, Keith wasn’t staring down the road alone. But whether these new faces were allies or just another danger—that remained to be seen.

Once the weapons were lowered and the tension bled out of the air, the four of them stood awkwardly in the middle of the road. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

Then Matt broke it.

“Man, I can’t believe this. Keith, Shiro’s brother. Jesus. We used to hang out like all the time. You were always so stubborn. No wonder you're still kicking after all this.”

Keith shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do with the sudden flood of words.

Before he could respond, Lance jumped in. “Oh, thank god. Finally, someone else who talks. Do you know how long I’ve been stuck with Mr. Broody Samurai here? I was starting to think I’d lose my voice from lack of use.”

Matt laughed, the sound startling in the dead world. “Yeah, I can see that. You’re a talker, huh?”

“Talker? Please. I’m a conversationalist. A raconteur. A bringer of joy in these dark times.” Lance gestured dramatically, nearly smacking Keith in the shoulder.

Keith swatted his hand away with a scowl.

Katie—Katie, not Pidge, Keith reminded himself—crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Or you’re just annoying.”

Lance gasped, clutching his chest. “Rude. And here I thought we were bonding.”

Matt grinned. “Don’t mind her. Katie’s got a sharp tongue, but she’s good people.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Don’t speak for me.”

Keith almost smirked. Almost.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

They decided to move together, at least for now. Old Red had the space, and Matt and Katie had supplies. It made sense.

The truck rumbled back onto the highway, the four of them crammed into the cab. Keith drove, jaw tight, eyes on the road. Katie sat beside him, arms folded, gaze sharp and suspicious.

In the backseat, Matt and Lance had already launched into a full‑blown conversation.

“So, what’s your story?” Matt asked.

“Oh, you know,” Lance said, leaning back like he was on a road trip instead of the end of the world. “City boy, tragically handsome, surviving on charm and wit. Then Keith here swoops in with his sword and his broody silence, and bam—we’re a team.”

Matt chuckled. “Sounds like a hell of a meet‑cute.”

“Right? I keep telling him that, but he doesn’t appreciate the narrative.”

Keith’s grip on the wheel tightened. “I can hear you.”

“Good!” Lance shot back. “Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate my genius.”

Katie groaned under her breath. “Do they ever shut up?”

Keith shook his head. “Not so far.”

The banter rolled on, filling the cab. Lance told exaggerated stories about their escape from the city, embellishing every detail until Matt was laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. Matt countered with tales of scavenging runs gone wrong, of near‑misses and narrow escapes, his voice animated, his hands painting pictures in the air.

Katie muttered corrections under her breath whenever Matt exaggerated, which only made Lance egg him on more.

Keith kept driving, jaw tight, but he couldn’t deny the effect. The chatter filled the silence, pushed back the weight of the empty world. For the first time in weeks, the road didn’t feel endless.

Still, he caught Katie watching him from the corner of her eye, suspicion sharp. She didn’t trust him. Not yet.

The truck felt smaller with four people crammed inside. Old Red’s suspension groaned under the weight, the cab thick with the smell of sweat, gasoline, and the faint sweetness of the candy bars Lance had insisted on hoarding.

Matt and Lance had hit it off instantly.

“…and then he just swung that sword, like—shhk!” Lance mimed a dramatic slash, nearly elbowing Matt in the ribs. “Zombie down. I swear, it was like watching a samurai movie in real life.”

Matt laughed, shaking his head. “That tracks. Shiro always said his brother had a flair for the dramatic.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah, and you’re proving my point,” Matt shot back, grinning.

Lance leaned forward between the seats, eyes sparkling with mischief. “See? He’s broody, but in a cool way. Like Batman. If Batman drove a beat‑up pickup and glared at everyone instead of, you know, fighting crime.”

Katie groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you two ever shut up?”

“Not if we can help it,” Lance said cheerfully.

Matt smirked. “It’s called morale, Katie. You should try it sometime.”

Keith caught the faintest twitch of her mouth, like she was fighting a smile. But her eyes stayed sharp, flicking to him every so often, measuring, weighing.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The road stretched on, the sun dipping lower. Shadows lengthened across the cracked asphalt. The chatter in the backseat blurred into background noise, but Keith’s focus stayed on the horizon.

Something felt wrong.

The towns they passed were too quiet. No stray dogs, no birds, no distant groans of the infected. Just silence.

Katie noticed it too. She leaned closer, her voice low. “You feel that?”

Keith nodded once.

“What?” Lance asked, immediately alert.

“Nothing,” Keith said. “That’s the problem.”

The laughter in the cab died. Matt shifted, his hand brushing the rifle at his side.

The truck rolled past a gas station, its windows shattered, its sign hanging by a single bolt. The lot was empty. Too empty.

Keith’s grip tightened on the wheel. His instincts screamed at him to keep moving.

And then, just as the last light of day bled into night, they saw it.

Smoke. Rising in the distance. Thick, black, curling into the sky.

Matt leaned forward, his voice grim. “That’s not an accident. Someone’s out there.”

The cab fell silent.

Keith pressed harder on the gas, Old Red growling as the road carried them south.

The world wasn’t just full of the dead anymore.

It was full of the living.

And that was worse.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The smoke didn’t fade. If anything, it thickened as they drove, curling into the sky like a signal fire. Keith kept Old Red steady on the cracked highway, every instinct screaming at him to turn back. But south was the only direction that mattered. South meant Shiro.

In the backseat, Matt and Lance were still talking.

“…so there I was, cornered in a laundromat with nothing but a broom handle and a bottle of detergent,” Matt was saying, his hands painting the scene in the air. “And I swear, I thought that was it. But then—bam!—I knock the thing back, detergent spills everywhere, and the floor turns into an ice rink. Zombies slipping all over the place. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lance wheezed with laughter, nearly choking on the candy bar he’d been nursing. “That’s genius! Why didn’t I think of that? Keith, did you hear this? We’ve been doing it all wrong. Forget swords, we need soap.”

Keith’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Soap won’t save you when they’re tearing through your door.”

“Wow,” Lance muttered. “Way to kill the mood.”

Katie, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, smirked faintly. “He’s not wrong, though.”

Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the seatbacks. “Hey, don’t listen to them, Lance. You and me? We’re the idea guys. The talkers. The ones who keep morale up.”

“Exactly!” Lance said, pointing at him like they’d just solved the apocalypse. “Finally, someone gets it.”

Keith exhaled through his nose, forcing his eyes back to the road. The chatter filled the cab, relentless, but he couldn’t deny the way it pushed back the silence.

Still, the smoke loomed closer.

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and reds, they were close enough to smell it. Acrid, bitter, clinging to the back of the throat.

Katie leaned forward, her voice low. “That’s not just a fire. That’s buildings. Houses, maybe.”

Matt’s smile faded. “Or a camp.”

Lance shifted uneasily. “Camp as in… survivors?”

“Or raiders,” Katie said flatly.

The cab went quiet. Even Lance had no comeback for that.

Keith slowed Old Red, scanning the horizon. The smoke rose from beyond a ridge, the glow of flames flickering faintly against the darkening sky.

His stomach twisted. He’d seen this before—towns burned to the ground, not by the infected, but by the living.

He pulled the truck onto the shoulder, killing the engine. The sudden silence pressed in, broken only by the crackle of fire carried on the wind.

Matt leaned forward. “What’s the plan?”

Keith’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have one. Not yet.

Katie’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. “If we drive straight into that, we’re dead. We need to scout it first.”

Lance groaned. “Scout? As in, get out of the truck? With the zombies and the raiders and the—”

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith muttered.

The four of them sat in the dark cab, the glow of fire on the horizon painting their faces in flickering orange.

For the first time since they’d met, the chatter died completely.

From the cab, Keith could see the glow of fire licking at the horizon—too controlled to be an accident, too deliberate to be anything but human.

“Camp,” Matt muttered grimly.

Katie’s eyes narrowed. “Or a trap.”

Keith started the truck again, scanning the road. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, but before he could decide, movement flickered in the corner of his vision.

Too late.

Figures burst from the treeline, shadows with weapons raised. A pipe clanged against the truck’s hood, another figure lunging for the passenger door.

“Raiders!” Katie shouted.

Keith slammed the accelerator, Old Red lurching forward. The truck barreled through the first wave, scattering them, but one raider clung to the side mirror, snarling.

Lance yelped, fumbling for the duffel. “They’re everywhere!”

Keith swerved hard, trying to shake the man loose. The raider swung a knife, slashing at the window. Glass shattered, shards spraying across the cab.

“Keith!” Lance shouted.

Keith didn’t think—he acted. He leaned across, shoving Lance down just as the knife arced through the window. The blade missed Lance’s throat by inches—

and buried itself in Keith’s side.

White‑hot pain exploded through him.

He gritted his teeth, forcing the wheel steady with one hand. The raider snarled, trying to climb inside, but Katie’s pistol cracked, the shot ringing in the cab. The man tumbled away, disappearing under Old Red’s tires.

“Keith!” Lance’s voice was panicked, too close. “You’re bleeding—oh god, you’re bleeding—”

“I'm fine. We gotta keep moving!,” Keith growled, shoving the accelerator down.

Matt twisted in the backseat, rifle raised, firing into the treeline as more figures appeared. Bullets sparked against the asphalt, but Old Red roared forward, outpacing the ambush.

The road opened up again, the firelight fading behind them. The raiders’ shouts grew distant, swallowed by the night.

Only then did Keith ease off the gas, his vision swimming. His hand pressed against his side, warm and wet.

Lance was already leaning over him, frantic. “You’re hit. You saved me and—dammit, Keith, why would you—”

Keith’s jaw clenched. “Because you’d be dead.”

Katie’s eyes flicked to him, sharp but not unkind. “We need to stop. Patch him up before he bleeds out.”

Matt nodded, already digging through the duffel. “There’s a first‑aid kit in here. We’ll make it work.”

Keith forced his eyes back to the road, refusing to let them close. Old Red rumbled beneath him, steady and stubborn, carrying them south.

The road blurred. Every bump in the asphalt sent a jolt of fire through Keith’s side. He kept one hand clamped over the wound, the other locked on the wheel.

“Keith, you’re bleeding out!” Lance’s voice cracked, panicked. He leaned across the cab, trying to press a rag against the wound. “Pull over, let me—”

“I said I’m fine,” Keith growled, though his vision swam.

Katie’s sharp voice cut through. “You’re not fine. If you keep driving, you’ll pass out and kill us all. Pull over. Now.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. He hated that she was right. With a grunt, he eased Old Red onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. The truck idled, engine rumbling like a heartbeat.

Matt was already moving, hauling the duffel into his lap. “First‑aid kit. Got it. Katie, light.”

Katie flicked on a flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark cab. Her face was pale but steady, her hands sure as she tore open gauze.

Lance hovered, frantic. “He saved me. He—he took the knife instead of me. If he—”

“Lance,” Matt said firmly, “breathe. He’s not dying on my watch.”

Keith hissed as Matt pressed gauze to the wound. The pain was sharp, hot, but he forced himself not to flinch.

“Through and through,” Matt muttered, inspecting the wound. “Clean stab. Missed anything vital, thank god. You’ll live, but it’s gonna hurt like hell.”

“Already does,” Keith rasped.

Katie tied the bandage tight, her movements efficient. “That’ll hold for now. But you need rest. And antibiotics, if we can find them.”

Keith shook his head. “We keep moving.”

Katie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not invincible. Push too hard, and you’ll slow us all down.”

Lance bristled. “Hey, back off. He just saved my life.”

Katie shot him a glare. “And if he collapses behind the wheel, we all die. You want to thank him? Make sure he doesn’t get us killed.”

The cab went quiet. The only sound was Keith’s ragged breathing and the steady hum of Old Red’s engine.

Finally, Matt broke the silence, his voice lighter, almost forced. “Well… guess that makes us even more of a team now, huh? Four against the world.”

Lance let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. The apocalypse dream team. Broody swordsman, genius siblings, and me—the comic relief.”

Keith closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat. He wanted to tell them to shut up, to let him focus on the pain. But the chatter—annoying, relentless—kept him anchored. Kept him awake.

Outside, the night pressed close. The smoke still curled on the horizon, a reminder of what waited for them.

Keith tightened his grip on the wheel. He wasn’t done. Not yet.

They had to keep moving. Toward Texas. Toward Shiro.

》═══════~◈~═══════《

The road hummed beneath Old Red’s tires, steady and relentless. The headlights carved narrow tunnels through the dark, the world beyond swallowed in shadow.

Keith sat slumped in the passenger seat, one hand pressed against the bandage at his side. Every bump sent a jolt of pain through him, but he kept his jaw tight, refusing to let it show.

In the backseat, Matt and Katie had finally dozed off, exhaustion dragging them under. Matt’s head lolled against the window, Katie curled up with her arms folded tight, pistol still within reach.

Lance was at the wheel.

He gripped it tighter than Keith ever did, knuckles white, shoulders tense. His eyes flicked constantly between the road and the mirrors, like he expected raiders to burst from the dark at any second.

For a long time, the only sound was the engine and the faint rattle of loose tools in the bed.

Then Lance spoke.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Keith turned his head, frowning. “Do what?”

“You know what.” Lance’s voice was low, tight. “Back there. You shoved me down. Took the knife instead. You could’ve let me take the hit.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “You’d be dead.”

“Yeah, well—so could you.” Lance’s grip tightened on the wheel. “And you didn’t even hesitate. Why?”

Keith looked out the window, the night rushing past in streaks of shadow. He didn’t answer right away.

Finally, he said, “Because I’ve already lost too many people.”

Lance blinked, startled. He glanced at Keith, but Keith’s gaze stayed fixed on the dark horizon.

“I couldn’t stop it before,” Keith continued, voice rough. “Couldn’t save them. But I could save you. So I did.”

The words hung heavy in the cab.

Lance swallowed, his throat tight. He’d expected Keith to brush him off, to say something cold or sarcastic. Not this. Not raw honesty.

For once, Lance didn’t have a comeback.

He just drove, the silence between them no longer empty, but full of something unspoken.

Keith shifted, wincing as the pain flared. He closed his eyes, letting the hum of the engine lull him.

Lance glanced at him again, softer this time. “You’re not as heartless as you pretend, you know.”

Keith didn’t answer. But for the first time in a long time, he let himself drift, trusting someone else to keep the truck moving forward.

The road stretched on, endless and dark. Old Red’s headlights carved narrow tunnels through the night, the world beyond swallowed in shadow.

Keith shifted in the passenger seat, biting back a hiss as pain flared in his side. The bandage was tight, but every bump in the road reminded him of the knife. He kept his hand pressed against it, refusing to let Lance see how bad it hurt.

Lance’s hands gripped the wheel like a lifeline. His knuckles were white, his jaw tight, but his eyes stayed fixed on the road. For once, he wasn’t filling the silence with chatter.

It was almost worse.

Then Lance broke the silence, clearly still focused on the fact that Keith had saved his life. “You could’ve let me take the hit. You didn’t even hesitate.”

Keith was quiet for a long time. The hum of the engine filled the silence, steady and relentless.

Finally, he said, “I already told you, I couldn’t watch it happen again.”

Lance blinked, startled. “Again?”

Keith’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at him. “I’ve lost people. People I should’ve protected. People I should’ve saved. And I didn’t. I couldn’t. But this time…” He exhaled, the words rough. “This time, I could.”

The cab went quiet.

Lance swallowed hard, his throat tight. He’d expected Keith to brush him off, to say something cold or sarcastic. Not this. Not raw honesty.

“You think it’s your job to save everyone,” Lance said softly.

Keith finally turned his head, meeting his eyes. “No. Just the ones I can.”

The words hit Lance harder than he expected. He looked back at the road, blinking fast.

For once, he didn’t have a comeback.

They drove in silence for a while, the weight of the conversation settling between them. In the backseat, Matt shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. Katie stirred but didn’t wake, her head resting against the window.

Lance cleared his throat, his voice lighter now, almost forced. “You know, for a guy who pretends he doesn’t care, you’re really bad at hiding it.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.

Lance caught it and grinned. “Ha. I saw that. That was almost a smile.”

Keith shook his head, leaning back against the seat. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure I am,” Lance said, smug.

The road stretched on, the night pressing close. But for the first time since the world ended, the silence between them didn’t feel empty.

Feel free to check it out if you want.

And of course with the grainy noise you get from old cameras.