“Is it—” I can barely form the words, scrambling back against Sienna, who hugs me from behind.
“Dead.” Cameron retrieves my knife and hands it back to me.
Outside, another wolf zombie circles the cabin, pausing at the broken window. It peers inside, head cocked at that impossible angle, assessing the bodies of his friends with a small howl. Its gaze meets mine for one heart-stopping moment before it withdraws just as Ramirez fires another shot, melting back into the darkness.
He moves to the window, clutching at his side where blood paints his fingers. “They’re scared?”
A howl rises. The sound resonates in my chest, primal fear crawling up my spine.
“We killed three of them,” Sienna looks at the bodies around us, then spots the blood on Ramirez. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just a scratch.” He straightens. “We were lucky they faced us alone.”
“Julien,” I say. “He’s still out there.”
The three of them exchange glances.
“He was checking the north fence,” Cameron says. “Last I saw him.”
My heart stutters. “We have to find him.”
“He knows how to handle himself.” Ramirez peers through a gap outside. “Better than most.”
Cameron rests a hand on my shoulder. “We will.”
Shadows shift, draw closer. More of them are gathering.
Somewhere, Julien is fighting. Or bleeding. Or already?—
I tighten my grip on the knife until my knuckles go white.
He has to be alive. He has to be. Because I can’t lose him, too.
THIRTY-THREE
JULIEN
The wolf zombie’s jaws snap inches from my arm, and I twist, driving my knee into its distorted ribcage.
It’s stronger than the regular dead—faster, smarter.
But I’m angrier.
And right now, that makes me more dangerous. I slam the machete up under its jaw, feel the resistance as the blade punches through flesh and bone, into the brain.
Blood sprays on my clothes.
The creature convulses, its body going rigid before collapsing, and my breath comes in harsh pants, adrenaline singing through my veins. That’s two I’ve killed tonight. Because normal zombies would be too easy, right?
A woman’s scream slices through the night. Then a man’s voice. I pivot toward the sound, already moving before I register whose voice it is.
Nicklas. He can die for all I care, but the woman.
I sprint between cabins, boots crunching on gravel, machete ready. More screams. Snarls. The wet sound of tearing flesh.
The scene unfolds in the narrow space between two cabins. Nicklas tumbles out the door, wrestling with a wolf zombie twice his size. His shirt is torn, soaked with dark patches that can only be blood. In the doorway, Amelia appears, face bone-white in the moonlight and a knife in her hand.
“Get back inside!” I shout at her.
