"I'll make breakfast," I say, changing the subject. "Then we need to check your truck, see if there's anything worth salvaging before the snow buries it completely."
"In this storm?"
"We won't go far. Quarter mile at most. But if there are supplies worth recovering, we should get them now."
"Makes sense." She stands, wincing slightly. "God, I'm sore."
"Rolling a truck will do that."
By the time we've eaten and geared up, the storm has eased slightly—still dangerous, but survivable for a short trek. I hand Ruby her weapons back.
"Don't make me regret this," I say.
"Don't give me a reason to regret it either."
We head out into the white chaos, following the direction she came from yesterday. The cold is brutal, but my winter gear is quality, built for this kind of weather. Ruby's gear is decent too—her convoy knew what they were doing, at least when it came to equipment.
We find the truck about where she estimated, nose-down in a ravine, already half-buried in snow. It's a miracle she walked away from this crash at all.
"Dave," she says softly, looking at the driver's side. "He had kids back at the settlement. Two boys."
"I'm sorry."
"He was teaching me to drive stick shift. Said every survivor should know how in case we found working vehicles." She swipes at her eyes, then straightens her shoulders. The time for mourning is brief in our world now. "Let's see what we can salvage."
We work quickly, pulling out supplies before the storm worsens again. Extra ammunition, medical supplies, food stores,another rifle, tools. Ruby knows exactly what's worth taking and what to leave behind—she's not just randomly grabbing, she's prioritizing based on weight-to-value ratio.
That's when I hear it.
A crack of breaking brush, too deliberate to be wind or animals. Ruby hears it too, her hand going to her pistol in one smooth motion.
"Company?" she whispers.
"Maybe."
Three figures emerge from the trees, all armed, all moving with the purposeful aggression of people who've found easy prey. Raiders. The ones who've been trailing her convoy.
"Well, well," the lead raider calls out, a man in his forties with a scarred face and a cruel smile. "Little bird got separated from her flock."
"Keep walking," Ruby says, her voice steady despite the odds. Three against two isn't terrible, but it's not good either. "We've got nothing you want."
"See, that's where you're wrong. We've been watching your convoy for days, and you've got plenty we want. Food, weapons, whatever's in those packs."
"And a woman all alone," one of the others adds, leering and licking his lips like an animal. "That's a valuable commodity these days."
Ruby's grip on her pistol tightens, but before anyone can make a move, a sound cuts through the storm that freezes everyone in place.
Moans. Multiple. Close.
"Fuck," the lead raider swears, his bravado evaporating. "Zombies."
The dead shuffle into view, drawn by our voices. Seven, maybe eight of them, moving with that terrible, relentless purpose.The storm must have driven them down from higher elevations, same as the raiders.
Everything happens fast after that.
The raiders scatter, more concerned with the immediate threat than with us. Smart. Ruby and I move in perfect sync, falling back toward the cabin, weapons up, covering each other's blind spots. One zombie gets close enough that I can smell it, but Ruby puts it down with a clean headshot before it reaches me.
"Move!" I shout, and we run.
