“What happened?” I ask.
He scrubs a hand over his beard. “Been using this place as a base since the outbreak started. Know every trail, every cabin. Thought we were safe. I left two days back to scout the main road. See if there was a way through to the next town. That’s when I first saw them.”
“The zombies,” I say.
“Five of them, moving through the trees like they were tracking something. Not shambling. Hunting. I watched them corner a deer and take it down in under a minute. Coordinated. One drove it toward the others, they flanked, brought it down.” He meets my gaze. “They fed on it. Tore it apart.”
Beside me, Dakota goes still.
“Regular zombies don’t hunt animals,” I say slowly. “They only go after the living.”
“These ones do both,” Ramirez says. “Yesterday I went checking for snares. Took me longer, and they just… appeared. Followed me. I thought I got them off my scent, but then right before camp, I heard them again. I ran and didn’t have time to secure the gate properly.“
Maya moves closer, standing behind her brother’s chair. “We’re sorry. If we’d known you weren’t a threat?—”
“It’s okay,” Dakota says. “We understand. Really.”
The tension in her shoulders eases fractionally.
“What else do you know about those…” I trail off, not sure if we should call them wolves. They’re clearly more than that.
“Wolf Zombies,” Ramirez says. “They only come out after dark, and that first time I saw them. Soon as the sky started lighting, they scattered. Haven’t seen one during daylight hours.”
“Nocturnal,” I say, filing that away. “Like actual wolves.”
“Or vampires,” Leo whispers, then ducks his head when we all look at him.
“Not a bad comparison, kid.” I find myself almost smiling. “Useful to know their weaknesses.”
“They’re smart,” Ramirez says. “They communicate. Didn’t you hear them last night? Those clicking sounds?”
I did. The leader giving orders, the pack responding. The coordinated retreat.
“And they felt pain,” Dakota says. “When Julien cut one, it flinched. Pulled back.”
“Shot one,” Ramirez says. “Clipped its shoulder. It screamed. Actual sound, not just a moan. Then it ran. Didn’t stick around to fight.”
“So they can be hurt,” Dakota says. “Driven off.”
“Fire works best,” Ramirez confirms. “But yeah. Pain response. Fear response. They’re more alive than dead, if that makes sense. They’re not mindless, which makes them dangerous. Regular zombies, you can predict their movements. These things adapt.”
The implications settle heavy in my gut. We can fortify against shambling corpses. Set up basic defenses, make noise to draw them away. But intelligent predators that hunt in packs? That’s a different threat entirely.
Ramirez sets his mug down. “Look, we’ve got supplies for a week. How many are you?”
“Eight,” Dakota says. “They should’ve been here by now.”
I straighten, transitioning to the topic that’s been gnawing at me since we arrived. “My brother Cameron, looks like me but younger. My grandmother Rosa, small Hispanic woman, about seventy. A blonde woman named Sienna, athletic build. And—” I pause, glancing at Dakota, whose fingers have found that familiar circular pattern on her wrist. “Dakota’s sister Amelia, she’s ill. And their parents, Nicklas and Carmen.”
Ramirez shakes his head slowly. “Haven’t seen anyone. Just you two.”
Where the hell are they? If something’s happened to Cameron or Rosa…
“They had vehicles,” Dakota adds, voice smaller than before. “A minivan and a pickup truck.”
“Roads are bad,” Maya says. “Maybe they had to find another route.”
“Maybe.” But every hour they don’t arrive shrinks the odds. I’ve seen how quickly things go wrong out there.
