“I will.” I release him, turning to Sienna. “Keep him in line.”
She nods once, face grim. “We’ll wait for you at the lodge.”
“Go.” I shove them toward the truck. “Now.”
Cameron slides into the driver’s seat, Sienna taking shotgun. The pickup’s engine growls to life.
I cross to Rosa’s window. “Abuela, I’ll see you soon.”
“Don’t you die on me, mijo.” Her papery hand cups my cheek, the familiar scent of her lavender perfume cutting through the stench of death. “I’ve lost too many already. You find Dakota, and you both come back to me. Entiendes?”
“Sí, Abuela.”
She smiles, though her eyes glisten. “Take care.”
I step back as Cameron starts the engine. The pickup rolls forward, followed by the minivan through the gate and to the right. Through the back window, I see Rosa’s hand flat againstthe glass, her lips moving. Three zombies change direction, following the sound and movement.
Small mercies. Every one that follows them is one less for us to deal with.
I sprint across the yard and up the steps, shoving through the heavy doors. The silence inside hits like a physical force after the chaos outside.
“Dakota!” My voice echoes through the empty hallway. “DAKOTA!”
Nothing.
I move quickly through the corridor toward our makeshift camp, scanning for movement.
“Dakota?”
No response.
I crouch near where Amelia slept, finding a dark stain on the blanket.
Fresh. Blood.
My stomach tightens.
Could be Dakota’s.
I touch the stain. Still damp. Recent. My eyes follow the floor, picking up faint smudges.
Drag marks.
That sanctimonious piece of shit.
I follow the trail, moving silently, machete raised. The marks lead toward where everything began.
The chapel.
The heavy oak doors stand partially open. Through the gap, flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the stone floor. I ease closer, straining to hear.
A voice, low and sonorous, chanting. Latin. The words mean nothing to me, but the tone sends ice down my spine. Religious fervor and madness are a dangerous combination.
I edge the door open another inch.
The scene freezes my blood.
Dakota lies sprawled across the altar, arms and legs secured with what looks like strips torn from clerical robes. Her head lolls to one side, eyes closed, face pale, a dark stain matting her hair, while blood trickles down the white marble from cuts on her arm.
