“I call them wolves.” The man turns back to us, rifle pointed safely at the ground. “First saw them two days ago. They hunt inpacks, seem smarter than the regular dead ones. Quick thinking with the fire. Saved our asses.”
“How many of you are there?” Julien asks.
“Just three. Me, my sister, and her kid.” He gestures toward the cabin that the wolves were attacking. “Ramirez. Used to be park ranger here.”
Julien nods once. “Julien. This is Dakota.”
I manage a weak smile. Wolf zombies. Evolved dead that hunt in packs. As if regular zombies weren’t bad enough.
“You two planning on staying here?” Ramirez asks.
“For now,” Julien says. “We’re waiting for the rest of our group.”
Ramirez’s eyes flick between us, assessing. “More of you coming?”
I step closer to Julien, suddenly wary of this stranger’s interest. “Yes. They should be here already, actually.”
“Haven’t seen anyone else.” Ramirez shifts his rifle to his other shoulder. “But?—”
From the cabin across the clearing, a door opens. A woman peers out, a small figure clutched against her. “Is it safe?”
“For now,” Ramirez calls back. “Got some help.”
The woman steps back inside, closing the door firmly.
“Should get back to them,” Ramirez says. “Kid’s pretty shaken up. But we will talk tomorrow. Reinforce the gate. Those things—” he nods toward the forest “—they’ll be back.”
With that, he turns and jogs back toward his cabin, leaving Julien and me standing in the clearing with our torch burning lower by the minute.
Julien’s hand finds the small of my back. “Let’s get inside before anything else decides to pay us a visit.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.” He picks me up without a word, holding me close, and I let him. “Me too.”
I can’t shake the image of those creatures communicating with each other, retreating as a unit. And somewhere out in those woods, my sister and the others might still be trying to reach us.
TWENTY-FIVE
JULIEN
Ramirez’s cabin smells like pine sap and gun oil. Familiar scents that remind me of my father’s workshop before he died.
I sit on a wooden chair that creaks under my weight, Dakota perched beside me on a bench that’s seen better decades. Across from us, Ramirez leans against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed, while his sister—Maya, maybe thirty with tired eyes—hovers near the back bedroom where her kid disappeared the moment we walked in. The rifle from last night rests within Ramirez’s reach, propped against the wall. Not pointed at us, but not exactly friendly either.
“Coffee?” Ramirez gestures to a pot sitting on a camping stove.
“Thanks.” I accept the chipped mug he offers.
Dakota takes her mug with both hands, warming her fingers against the ceramic. “Thank you for letting us stay.”
“You saved our asses last night,” Ramirez says.
“We heard you arrive yesterday afternoon.” Maya shifts, wrapping her arms around herself. Her son, seven or eight, peeks through the crack in the bedroom door before she shooshim back inside with a sharp gesture. “Leo wanted to say hello, but I…” She glances at her brother. “Wasn’t sure if you were safe.”
“You did the right thing,” I say.
Ramirez pushes off the counter, moving to the small table between us. He grabs a chair, spins it backward, and straddles it. “I fucked up with the gate. That’s on me.” No bullshit, straight to the point. I like him already.
