(STEPHANIE POV)
The van sat where she'd left it, tires shot out, windows spiderwebbed, the driver's door hanging open. Three bikes idled nearby. Four men in leather vests—Ashford's patch on the back—stood around it, kicking the panels, laughing. One of them held her rifle.
Stephanie's blood went cold.
The M24. Her names. Seventeen carved, twelve crossed. Her life in wood and steel.
She crouched behind a collapsed wall, Reilo beside her. Her hand found the Colt on her hip. Six rounds. The pipe wrench was gone, left in the van. She had the karambit in her boot and the tactical knife on her belt. Not enough.
"How many?" Reilo whispered.
"Four outside. The one with the rifle is mine."
He glanced at the bikes. "There's more inside the tunnel. We take these fast, we take the bikes, we go."
Stephanie shook her head. "I'm not leaving Breadbox."
"It's dead. Look at it."
She looked. The tires were shredded, the engine block probably cracked from the impact. But the rifle. Her rifle. She couldn't leave it.
"Cover me."
Before he could stop her, she moved.
Stephanie slipped along the wall, low and fast, using the shadows of the overpass. The men were busy, one pissing against a pillar, the others laughing about something she couldn't hear. The one with her rifle—big guy, shaved head, the stock tucked under his arm like a trophy—leaned against the van.
Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
Her boot crunched on glass.
The pissing guy turned. She was already moving. The karambit came out, blade curving, and she drove it into his throat. He gurgled, hands clawing, and she yanked the blade sideways, pulling him down as she went.
The big guy heard. He spun, raising the rifle.
Too slow.
Stephanie closed the distance, the karambit already wet, and buried it in his forearm. He screamed, dropped the rifle, and she caught it with her left hand—pain exploding up the burned nerves, but she held. The stock hit her chest, she wrapped her right hand around the grip, and fired from the hip.
The bullet caught the third man in the chest. He flew back, hit the wall, didn't move.
The fourth was reaching for his sidearm when Reilo appeared behind him. The metal hook—when the hell did he get that on?—slammed into the man's skull. Bone crunched. The man dropped.
Silence. Then shouting from the tunnel. More men coming.
Stephanie grabbed the rifle, checked the action. Still good. Her names. Seventeen. Twelve crossed. She slung it over her shoulder, turned to the bikes.
"Can you ride?"
Reilo already had his hook through the handle of one bike, the other hand gripping the throttle. "Learned when I was twelve."
"Then move."
She swung onto the second bike, kicked it to life. The engine screamed. Reilo took the lead, and they shot out of the station just as three more Ashford men spilled from the tunnel, guns raised. Bullets cracked past, one punching through her saddlebag, but they were already gone, tearing down the highway.
The wind ripped at her face. Her left arm screamed, but she held on. Ahead, Reilo's form was a blur, too fast, unnatural. The black veins on his neck pulsed in the dawn light.
She followed him into the ruins of the city.
---
They stopped two hours later, deep in the bones of a dead suburb. Houses with collapsed roofs, cars rusted into the asphalt, the silence of a place that had been dead for years.
Stephanie killed the engine. Her whole body ached. Her left hand was trembling, the burns throbbing, but the rifle was across her back. She touched the stock. The names. She didn't need to look. She knew them by feel.
Reilo parked beside her, killed his engine, and sat for a moment, breathing hard. The veins on his neck were darker. She saw him press a hand to his chest, wincing.
"You okay?"
"No." He got off the bike, walked a few steps, and vomited. Black bile. It hit the cracked road, steaming.
Stephanie dismounted, moved toward him, but he held up a hand. "Don't."
"You're dying."
"I know."
She watched him straighten, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gray eyes looked emptier than before. The rot was eating him. She'd seen it before, on soldiers who'd been exposed. They got faster, stronger, right up until the end. Then they turned.
"You said you had eight months," she said. "That was eight months ago. How long do you actually have?"
Reilo didn't answer. He walked to a gutted house, sat on the front steps, and stared at nothing.
Stephanie followed. She sat beside him, close enough to see the veins crawling up his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand.
"Days," he finally said. "Maybe a week. If I don't push."
"And if you do?"
"Hours."
She looked at the rifle across her knees. Seventeen names. Ashford first. She'd been hunting him for two years. And now she had a partner with a week to live.
"This brother of yours," she said. "Where is he?"
"North. Last I heard. Ashford took him after the injection. They used him for experiments."
"He's still alive?"
"I don't know." Reilo's voice cracked. "But if there's a chance, I have to—"
"You'll die before you get there."
"Then I die."
Stephanie stood. She couldn't sit still. The anger was building again, the familiar fire in her chest. She'd spent two years chasing Ashford, watching people die, watching herself become something she didn't recognize. And now this man—this dying, half-turned monster—was asking her to help him find a brother who was probably already dead.
"You're a fucking idiot," she said.
Reilo looked up. "Probably."
"You're going to kill yourself for nothing."
"Maybe." He stood, meeting her eyes. "But you're not going to stop me."
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scream. Instead, she laughed. It came out bitter, hollow.
"Fine. We go north. But we need supplies. Weapons. And we need to know what Ashford's doing out here. He doesn't send bikers this far west unless he's looking for something."
Reilo nodded slowly. "There's a hospital two miles east. Still standing, from what I heard. Might have meds, fuel."
"Meds for you?"
He shook his head. "Meds for trade. We need information. There's a survivor market near the hospital. We can find out what Ashford wants."
Stephanie checked her rifle. Seventeen names. She ran her finger over the first one, felt the wood grain under her touch.
"Fine. Hospital first. Then we find out what the fuck is going on."
She offered him her hand. He took it, his grip cold, and she pulled him up.
They mounted the bikes, and Stephanie led this time, east toward the hospital, toward answers, toward whatever came next. In her head, she was already carving names. Ashford's. Maybe her own.
The road stretched ahead, empty and dead. But somewhere out there, something was waiting.