A kid runs across a rooftop, bare feet slapping dust, something clutched in his hand. I track him, muscles coiled—But he vanishes. Like smoke.
My stomach knots.
“Kingston?” Mason’s voice should be here. But it’s not. He’s still chained to a machine, and all I’ve got is the echo of his laugh in my head, the memory of him shoving a protein bar in my hand and saying, Eat, asshole, before you keel over.
Now it’s just me. And the waiting. Always the fucking waiting.
The truck jolts over a rut. My head slams against the wall, rattling teeth, but I keep my rifle raised, muzzle kissing the slit in the armour, eyes searching the ruins outside.Sweat drips into my eyes. Stings. Blurs.
Every brick looks like it’s breathing. Every shadow looks armed. The guy next to me crosses himself. Fast. Quiet. Like he doesn’t want us to see.
“Five out,” Leo calls from the lead. His voice is a rasp over comms. “Stay sharp.”
Five minutes.
Could be the last five minutes of any of us.
The heat presses in, thick, suffocating. My tongue feels like leather. My heartbeat matches the engine. My lungs squeeze like they know something I don’t.
I catch my reflection in the cracked glass—hollow eyes, jaw tight, bloodshot. The face of a man who doesn’t sleep, doesn’t pray, doesn’t fucking want to live unless she’s there.
Cassandra.
My Butterfly.
And fuck me, she’s here. Somewhere in this desert. Maybe patching up some kid’s leg. Maybe writing my name on a chart she’ll burn later. Maybe bleeding.
The thought is a bullet to the brain.
I swallow hard, adjust the rifle again. My finger taps the trigger guard in rhythm.
One. Two. Three. Four.
A mantra.
A countdown.
A heartbeat away from the end.
The truck slows. The air changes and my gut knows. Something’s about to break.
The convoy crawls, engines down to a hum, every gear shift sounding too loud, like a fucking announcement: here we are, come kill us.
The road is nothing but dust and broken stone. Villagers used to line this strip, selling fruit, bootleg cigarettes, anything to keep breathing. Now it’s empty. Doors shut. Curtains drawn. Windows hollowed.
That’s the worst sign of all because out here, quiet means somebody already knows what’s coming.
“Nothing on the north ridge,” Leo says, voice tight over comms. “But I don’t like it.”
No one likes it.
Reese spits into a bottle at his feet, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His knee bounces, metal tapping. Mason used to smack his helmet when he did that. You’re giving me a fucking seizure, calm down.
No Mason now. Just the sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My teeth grind.
