I close my eyes. The ground is cold beneath me, seeping through my clothes. Maybe this is how it ends. Maybe this is what I deserve—dying alone on a road to nowhere, carrying supplies for ghosts.
Then I hear engines.
My eyes snap open. Multiple vehicles, coming fast from the south. The rumble grows louder, and through my fever-haze I see shapes emerging around the bend. ATVs, four of them,loaded with supplies strapped to every surface. Not raiders. Raiders don't travel this heavy, this organized.
A convoy.
I try to push myself up, try to wave, but my arms won't cooperate. The lead ATV slows, stops. Boots hit gravel.
A man crouches beside me. Dark hair, careful eyes, maybe thirty. He presses two fingers to my throat, checking my pulse, and his hands are steady and warm against my clammy skin. There's something calm about him, something centered, like he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
"We've got a survivor." His voice carries easy authority, the kind that comes from people actually listening. "Jess, medical kit. Now."
More boots. A woman's face appears above me with sharp features, blond hair pulled back, already unzipping a bag.
"Fever's high," she says, pulling my eyelid up to check my pupils. "Infected wound, looks like it's been festering about a day. She's been pushing hard."
The man is examining the supply packs still strapped to my chest. His expression shifts when he sees the medical markings and he furrows his brow. He understands what this means. Understands that somewhere, people are waiting for these supplies. Understands that the people who were supposed to deliver them are gone.
"These yours?"
I try to answer, but my voice comes out cracked, barely audible. "Delivery. Old Pines. Families waiting."
"Old Pines is three days northeast."
"I know." I grab his wrist with what strength I have left, needing him to understand. Someone to understand. "Please. Have to finish. They're waiting for us to come home."
His eyes meet mine, and I see a stubbornness that mirrors his own.
"Get her stabilized," he tells the woman. "We're taking her with us."
"Travis?"
"We're taking her with us, Jess."
The woman, Jess, doesn't argue again. She's already cutting away my makeshift bandage, cleaning the wound, and god, it hurts worse than getting shot in the first place. But she's good at this. Professional in a way that tells me she's done this a hundred times.
"What's your name?" the man asks. Travis, she called him.
"Hazel. Hazel Cooper."
"Hazel, I'm Travis Kind. We're going to help you finish your delivery." He squeezes my hand once before standing. "Rest now. You're safe."
Safe.
I want to laugh. Or cry. I'm not sure which. Safety feels like a foreign concept, something from before, something I don't deserve anymore.
The last thing I see before unconsciousness takes me is the blue sky, impossibly blue, and Reggy's voice in my head:Don't waste good weather feeling sorry for yourself.
I'm sorry, Reggy. I'm so sorry.
two
Travis
Theattacksitetellsa story I've seen before.
I walk the perimeter of the massacre. This was a coordinated attack. The vehicles were disabled first—tires shot out, engine blocks hit with precision rounds that speak to training, to planning, to someone who knows exactly where to aim. Then, systematic elimination of the crew, working from the outside in, cutting off escape routes before moving to close quarters.
