A zombie lurches directly into our path. I swerve hard, clipping its shoulder, feeling the impact shudder through the frame. Another reaches for Iris's leg, and she kicks it away with a grunt of effort and a vicious curse.
Gore splatters everything—the bike, my jacket, our exposed skin. The smell is overwhelming. I hear Iris gagging behind me, but she doesn't let go.
It takes less than a minute, but it feels like a lifetime. I gun the engine, leaving the zombies in a cloud of dust, their minds unable to comprehend what just happened.
Then we're through. Clear road stretches ahead, nothing but empty highway and the distant shape of Fort Nelson on the horizon.
"You're insane!" Iris yells, her voice raw.
"You're welcome!"
And despite everything—the fear, the death behind us, the impossible odds ahead—she laughs. It's the sound of survival and terror and trust.
I'm in trouble. Real trouble. The kind that has nothing to do with zombies or the Wolves.
The kind that ends with me caring whether I live or die.
five
Iris
FortNelsonGeneralHospitalrises from the overgrown parking lot as a monument to everything we lost.
Twelve floors of shattered windows and darkness. Zombies cluster around the main entrance, dozens of them, drawn by some sound or smell I can't identify. The building seems to breathe with menace, alive in the worst possible way.
"Pharmacy should be easy enough to find if we can get in," I say.
Stephan circles the building slowly on the bike, scanning. "Back entrance. Emergency exit. Fewer of them."
He parks in an alley and covers the bike with a scavenged tarp. Then he hands me a knife and takes out his machete.
"We go quiet. No guns unless absolutely necessary. The sound attracts more of them than we can handle."
I nod, gripping the knife until my knuckles ache.
Inside, the hospital is worse than the exterior promised. Bodies everywhere, some still twitching weakly against the floor.We navigate by flashlight, every shadow a potential threat, every distant moan a reminder that we're never alone.
Stephan moves through the halls like a predator. Silent, aware, lethal. When three zombies stumble from a supply closet, he handles them with brutal efficiency—machete through skull, step back, repeat. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" I whisper as we climb the emergency stairs.
"Army, first. Then the Wolves." His jaw tightens. "They were good teachers. Before they became monsters."
The pharmacy door is locked. Heavy security, just like Dr. Nowak predicted. I kneel and pull out my lockpicks, a skill learned in year two, when locked doors meant the difference between medicine and slow death.
"Medic, lockpick. What else can you do?" Stephan asks, covering the hallway.
"I make a mean squirrel stew."
He almost smiles.
The lock clicks open. Inside is paradise. Shelves of medications, mostly intact. The heavy security kept the looters out and the zombies in, judging by the three corpses in lab coats slumped against the far wall.
I find ceftriaxone first, then meropenem—exactly what Allie needs. I grab multiples of each, plus anything else useful. This is a treasure trove and I’m going to grab everything I can carry. My bag is over half full when I hear it.
Footsteps. Human footsteps. Heavy boots, multiple sets, moving with purpose.
Stephan's face goes hard. "Wolves."
