one
Kate
Thewoodsaregoingto kill me before the cold does.
I recognize this fact the way I have everything for the past four years—objectively, scientifically, with the detachment of a researcher observing data points that happen to include her own death. Four years, two months, and six days since the outbreak turned the world quiet. I've counted every one. My ankle screams with every step, swollen to twice its normal size inside my boot. The cold has seeped past my jacket, past my skin, settling into bones that ache with every movement. Three days since the raiders hit our camp. Three days of running on nothing but adrenaline and the protein bars I shoved in my pack before everything went to hell.
Ben and Liam are dead.
The thought surfaces despite my efforts to suppress it. Ben, who called our zombie tracking "the world's worst nature documentary." Who made me laugh when tracking throughinfested territory. Who died with a joke on his lips, trying to keep Liam and me calm as the raiders closed in.
Run, Kate. We've got this. Consider it our final peer review.
Liam, who could read animal tracks like most people read newspapers. Who first noticed the migration patterns weren't random. Who shoved the data drives into my hands and pushed me toward the trees while he drew the raiders away.
The research matters more than any of us. Make it count.
I push the grief down and focus on what I can. Current temperature: below freezing. Visibility: poor and worsening. Physical condition: hypothermic, malnourished, running on fumes and spite. Probability of survival without shelter: near zero.
The data drives in my pack feel heavier than their real weight. Six months of research. Migration patterns that prove zombie herds aren't random—they're being directed somehow, following routes that mirror the ancient caribou migrations Liam first identified. Data that could save thousands of lives if I can get it to the network.
If I can stay alive long enough to matter.
The trap catches me mid-step.
One second I'm examining what looks like a rabbit snare, thinking maybe I can catch food. The next, metal teeth close around my already-injured ankle and I'm face-first in snow, screaming loud enough to bring every zombie in the Rockies down on my head.
Stupid. Careless. Ben would be laughing his ass off.Kate finally forgot she's not the only predator out here.
I try to reach the mechanism, but the angle is wrong, my knife just out of reach. Every movement sends fire up my leg. The cold seeps through my clothes, stealing what little warmth I have left. Hypothermia will set in within hours at this temperature.
So this is how it ends. Not raiders, not the dead, but a trap meant for rabbits.
At least the data's in my pack. Someone might find it. Might figure out what it means.
A man appears without sound.
One moment I'm alone with my morbid calculations. The next there's a figure at the edge of my vision—massive, bearded, moving through the trees like he was born in them. I think I'm hallucinating. The cold playing tricks. My oxygen-starved brain conjuring rescue where none exists.
Even half-frozen and dying, some distant part of my brain registers: objectively handsome in a rugged, untamed way. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw beneath the beard. Dark eyes that assess everything with unnerving intensity. The kind of man who probably never needed civilization and definitely doesn't need it now.
Then he speaks, and his voice is flat and precise.
"You're in my trap."
I blink snow from my eyes, try to focus. Dark eyes, expression completely neutral beneath a beard that's probably never seen a razor. Built like a man who's never needed civilization and wouldn't want it if offered.
"I noticed," I manage through chattering teeth.
"Most people would apologize for trespassing before they steal from my lines."
"Sorry for not dying more politely."
He doesn’t smile. He crouches beside the trap with mechanical efficiency and releases the mechanism before I can brace myself. Blood flows back into my foot with a vengeance.
"Can you walk?"
"Probably not."
