“We need to figure out what we’re dealing with.”
A voice rises from the corner, thin and wavering. The reverend, clutching his Bible. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
His intrusion catches attention from around the room—most of them weren’t sleeping after all. Rosa sits up, adjusting her shawl. Sienna and Dakota lean forward, muscles tense, ready to move. The Levines shift on their makeshift beds. Only Amelia seems to still sleep.
Everyone waits for my answer. Waiting for reassurance, I’d love but can’t honestly give.
Cameron straightens, addressing the room. “We don’t know what’s happening exactly, but we’ll do whatever it takes to survive.”
“What’s the plan?” Nicklas demands. “Stay here until we’re eaten? What about food? Water? We can’t hide forever.”
Carmen places a restraining hand on his arm, but her eyes hold the same questions. He’s right, but his tone still makes me want to punch him.
Cameron opens his mouth.
“The church has enough supplies for a few days and is secluded,” I say. “We’ve secured the perimeter. For now, we stay put, assess the situation, and plan our next move. Rushing out unprepared will get us killed.”
“And when the supplies run out?” Nicklas asks.
“We find more.” I hold his gaze. “Or we leave for somewhere more defensible.”
“Where? The whole city’s probably overrun.”
Do I trust him or not? “We need to find a place. Maybe north. There’s less population due to the mountains.”
“And who put you in charge?” Nicklas asks. “I’m not risking my family on some?—”
After everything HE did to US, he has the fucking audacity to question MY trustworthiness?
“Dad, please,” Dakota says. “They’re trying to?—”
“Be quiet,” Carmen snaps. “You’ve done enough damage.”
Dakota flinches, then her eyes drop to her hands, thumb circling her inner wrist.
“Mom?” Amelia stirs, eyelids fluttering open. “What’s happening?”
Immediately, Carmen is at her side, hovering over their elder daughter, adjusting her pillows, and checking her temperature.
“What time is it?” Amelia asks.
“Early, sweetheart.” Carmen strokes her daughter’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”
“Water?” Amelia’s gaze drifts to Dakota, who’s already reaching for a bottle.
The groaning grows louder, more persistent. No longer random sounds in the distance, but a chorus building in intensity.
I stand, machete gripped tight, and motion Cameron to follow me. “Something’s wrong.”
We cross to the opposite side of the church, boots silent on the carpet. The groans grow clearer with each step. I part the dusty curtain?—
“Fuck.”
Down the street, shuffling between abandoned cars and overturned trash cans, a herd of them moves toward us. Thirty, maybe forty strong. Some missing limbs, others with faces half-torn away, all moving with single-minded purpose toward the church.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Cameron breathes beside me, face paling.
“The Silverwood Barn.”
