She climbs on the bike behind me, awkward and stiff, clearly unfamiliar with motorcycles. When her arms wrap around my waist, I force myself not to react to the contact. The warmth of another body pressed against mine. The way her hands grip my jacket like I'm the only solid thing in her world right now.
It's been years since anyone touched me who wasn't trying to kill me.
The engine roars to life. We pull out of the settlement heading southeast, and I feel the weight of what I've agreed to settle into my bones.
The first hour is smooth. Clear roads, minimal zombie activity. The settlements have cleared most of the major routes this close to their walls, and we make good time through the empty highways. Iris holds tight but doesn't panic when we pass scattered clusters of undead—three here, five there, attractedby the engine noise but too slow to catch us. Her grip is firm, steady. Competent.
I notice, against my will, the way her body learns to move with mine. The way she leans into the curves instead of fighting them. A quick study.
"Why did you agree?" she shouts over the engine. "You don't know me. Don't owe me anything."
I don't answer at first. The truth is too raw, too personal. A wound I've kept bandaged for three years, and she wants me to tear it open for a stranger.
But she's risking her life based on my word. Maybe she deserves some honesty.
"Because I've seen parents lose kids to infection. And I wasn't fast enough to save the last one."
She doesn't ask for details. Maybe she hears what I'm not saying. Maybe she's smart enough not to push.
We ride in silence after that, the engine's rumble filling the space between us. Mile after mile of empty highway, abandoned cars rusting where their owners left them, buildings that used to mean something to someone. All of it quiet now. Dead or dying.
I shouldn't have taken this job. Every minute she's with me, she's in danger.
But now, all I can see is Sabrina's face. Eight years old and burning with fever, asking me why it hurt so much. Asking me to make it stop.
I couldn't save my daughter. Maybe I can save someone else's.
three
Iris
Eighthoursonamotorcycle through the apocalypse, and every muscle in my body is screaming.
My thighs ache from gripping the seat. My arms have been locked around Stephan's waist so long I've lost feeling in my fingers. The constant vibration has rattled my teeth until my jaw throbs. Wind has chapped my lips raw despite the helmet he gave me.
But we've covered ground that would have taken days on foot. Two hundred miles of dangerous territory, and we're more than halfway there.
Stephan handles the bike like it's part of his body—weaving through abandoned wrecks, jumping curbs, taking shortcuts through collapsed buildings I never would have spotted. Every move is precise, instinctive. The muscle memory of someone who's been outrunning death for years.
And somewhere in those eight hours, pressed against his back, I've become aware of him in ways I didn't expect. The breadthof his shoulders. The heat of his body through the leather jacket. The way his muscles flex and shift with every turn, every decision. He smells like engine oil and woodsmoke and sweat.
Stop it, I tell myself. Allie is dying. This isn't the time.
But my body doesn't listen to logic. It just knows that I'm alive, and he's alive, and the world is trying to kill us both.
When we stop at an abandoned gas station to siphon fuel from rusted cars, I finally ask the question that's been eating at me since we left.
"Why did you leave the Wolves?"
He freezes, hand on the fuel pump. Then continues working without looking at me.
"Not your business."
"You're risking your life for my daughter. I think I have a right to know who you are."
"I'm the guy getting you to that hospital. That's all you need to know."
"The Iron Wolves destroyed Clearwater Settlement. Killed families in their sleep." I watch his face, looking for a reaction. Some sign of guilt or defiance. "Were you part of that?"
