The military units kept coming.
More helicopters than Zayne had seen since the outbreak started—transport choppers, gunships, supply carriers—all converging on Linkon like the outside world had finally decided this city was worth saving. Soldiers rappelled down in coordinated strikes, clearing buildings, fighting creatures, guiding survivors toward evacuation zones with professional efficiency.
It should have been a relief.
It was a relief, watching people get out. Watching the helicopters lift off with human cargo, disappearing into the smoke-filled sky toward safety.
But Nana and Zayne still fought alone.
The survivors kept their distance—too afraid of Nana's enhanced abilities, too terrified of what she represented. So she did what she could do: killed creatures. Protected evacuation routes. Drew threats away from civilians who wouldn't even look her in the eye.
Today, that meant riding her stolen motorcycle straight into a horde of hybrids that were converging on the plaza, leading them away with engine noise and gunfire, creating a deadly parade that followed her through the ruined streets.
Zayne followed in his car, ice bow ready, watching her weave through debris and corpses with reckless skill.
She was magnificent. Fierce and fast and fearless, drawing dozens of creatures away from vulnerable survivors. Shooting over her shoulder while steering one-handed. Laughing when a hybrid got too close and she had to swerve around an overturned bus.
And then her luck ran out.
A pack of demons lunged from a collapsed apartment building—coordinated attack, planned ambush, *intelligent* in a way that made Zayne's blood run cold. They hit the motorcycle mid-turn, claws scraping metal, bodies slamming into Nana from three directions.
The bike jerked violently. Lost traction. Went down hard.
Nana hit the concrete and rolled, momentum carrying her away from the crash even as demons and hybrids converged on her position. They fought each other first—territorial instinct, food competition—giving her precious seconds to get her bearings.
She came up firing, gun in each hand, taking down two hybrids before they could reach her.
But there were too many. A demon grabbed for her leg—she rolled just in time, its claws scraping pavement where she'd been a heartbeat before. Another lunged from above—she shot it point-blank, kept moving, kept surviving.
Zayne's panic manifested as ice.
Everything froze.
He didn't think, didn't aim, didn't calculate. Just let his ice evol explode outward in pure protective instinct—wave after wave of crystalline power that flash-froze every creature within thirty feet of Nana.
Demons mid-lunge. Hybrids mid-strike. All of them locked in ice solid enough to shatter stone.
Nana stood in the center of the frozen tableau, guns still raised, breathing hard. She turned slowly, taking in the circle of ice statues surrounding her, and her eyes found Zayne.
He was standing twenty feet away, long bow manifested in his hands, a dozen ice arrows already forming in the air around him. His hazel eyes were wild with fear-turned-fury, ice evol humming so strongly his breath came out in visible clouds despite the summer heat.
Their gazes locked.
Then Zayne moved.
The ice arrows launched in perfect synchronization—twelve precise shots at twelve different targets. Each arrow hit a frozen creature dead center. Each impact shattered the ice completely, exploding the demons and hybrids into glittering fragments that rained down on the street like deadly snow.
It was beautiful.
It was impressive.
It was the most protective, powerful thing Nana had ever seen.
She ran to him—didn't walk, didn't hesitate—just ran and launched herself at him like a koala, arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist.
Zayne caught her automatically, staggering slightly under the sudden weight but holding steady. His ice bow dissolved as his arms came around her, holding her close, breathing hard into her hair.
"You scared me," he said, voice rough.
"You saved me," Nana replied, pulling back just enough to look at his face. "You were amazing."
"You almost died—"
"But I didn't." She pressed her forehead to his. "Because you always have my back. My hero."
Zayne laughed—shaky and relieved and still half-terrified—but he laughed. "Your hero. Right. The doctor who panicked and froze everything."
"The doctor who turned into a badass ice archer and exploded a dozen creatures to save his girlfriend," Nana corrected. "That's my hero."
She kissed him then—quick and fierce and full of adrenaline and gratitude and love—before sliding down and taking his hand.
"Come on," she said, lacing their fingers together. "Let's keep going."
They walked hand in hand through the ruins, stepping over shattered ice and creature corpses. Fighting together. Killing together. Surviving together.
Always together.
The next wave of helicopters came an hour later.
But these weren't evacuation transports. These were supply drops.
Nana and Zayne watched from three blocks away as crates fell from the sky—parachutes deployed, cargo hitting the ground with heavy thuds. Food. Water. Ammunition. Medical supplies. Weapons. Everything survivors would need to hold out longer if they couldn't be evacuated immediately.
It was smart. Strategic. The military providing resources to keep people alive until they could mount a full-scale rescue operation.
Nana started toward the drop zone automatically—more supplies meant they could help more people, could extend their own survival, could—
She froze when she saw the crowd.
Skeleton people.
Hundreds of them.
Avalon survivors who'd come through the portals recently, so thin their bones showed through translucent skin, eyes sunken and wild with starvation. They descended on the supply crates like locusts—tearing through packaging, fighting each other, shoving food into their mouths so fast some of them choked.
Blood splattered as fights broke out. Someone bit another person's arm to steal their ration pack. A woman was trampled, screaming, while others ignored her and kept grabbing supplies.
They looked *feral*. Desperate. Dangerous in the way that starving animals were dangerous—no logic, no restraint, just base survival instinct.
Nana took a step back.
Zayne's hand tightened on hers. "We should go."
She nodded mutely, still staring at the chaos.
These people had probably been normal once. Had probably had families, jobs, lives. But weeks in Avalon without food—dying and rebirthing but staying *hungry*, always hungry—had stripped away humanity and left only desperation.
Even the hybrids were avoiding them. Too much risk for too little reward. These survivors were so thin there was barely any meat on their bones.
But to each other? To the supplies in those crates?
They were dangerous.
Nana and Zayne backed away slowly, then turned and headed for the apartment building. Their sanctuary. The only safe place left in a city that kept getting worse.
The journey back was nightmare fuel.
Bodies were everywhere—more than yesterday, more than this morning. Some fresh from recent kills. Some days old, bloated and rotting. Some reduced to bones and scraps because creatures had been fighting over the remains.
The smell was unbearable.
Zayne pressed his sleeve over his nose and mouth, trying not to gag. Nana's enhanced metabolism meant she processed the scent differently—registered it as threat indicator rather than pure nausea—but even she looked pale.
They climbed the emergency stairs to the seventh floor, stepping over corpses in the stairwell. The neighbor from 4B. The elderly couple from 6A. The young mother with two kids who'd been too scared to run when the evacuation order came.
All dead now.
All part of Linkon's growing graveyard.
Zayne unlocked the three deadbolts with shaking hands and they stumbled inside.
He locked the door immediately. Dragged the heavy bookshelf in front of it for extra barricade. Then formed ice walls—thick, solid, permanent—covering the door frame and windows with crystalline barriers that would stop anything short of a giant.
Only then did he let himself breathe.
Nana collapsed onto the couch, guns still in hand, eyes staring at nothing.
"We killed a lot today," she said quietly.
Zayne sat beside her, equally exhausted. "More than fifty, I think."
"Sixty-three. I counted."
Of course she had. Specimen 21 tracked kill counts automatically, mission efficiency hardwired into her brain.
"More people evacuated too," Zayne added, trying to find the silver lining. "I saw at least thirty get on helicopters. Maybe more."
Nana nodded. Didn't look convinced.
They sat in silence for a long moment, just existing in the relative safety of four walls and ice barriers and locked doors.
Outside, the city continued dying. Creatures hunted. Survivors fled or hid or starved. Supply drops attracted desperate crowds that turned violent. Military forces fought losing battles against endless hordes.
But inside—for now—they were safe.
Zayne reached for Nana's hand again, same as always. Anchoring each other. Reminding each other they weren't alone.
"If this keeps up," he said eventually, "if the military keeps coming, if they keep evacuating people and dropping supplies... maybe things will turn back to normal. Eventually."
He didn't believe it. Not really. But he needed to say it anyway. Needed to voice the hope even if it was hollow.
Nana looked at him with those ancient green eyes that had seen too much. "Do you really think that?"
Zayne hesitated. Then: "I think we have to try. Have to believe there's an end to this. Otherwise..."
Otherwise we give up. Otherwise we stop fighting. Otherwise we become like those skeleton survivors—feral and desperate and barely human.
Nana squeezed his hand. "Okay. Then we'll keep trying."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes, letting her aether core recharge while the blue glow pulsed steadily in her chest.
Zayne watched the ice barriers shimmer in the fading daylight, watched the city burn through the gaps in his fortifications, watched the helicopters circle like distant birds.
And he prayed—to whatever god might still be listening—that this nightmare would end before they lost themselves completely.
Sixty-three creatures dead.
Dozens of survivors evacuated.
Two people still holding on.
Still fighting.
Still hoping.
No matter how long it takes.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued.