Page 3 of When the Living Fall

“You’re psychotic,” Nathan seethes in between grunts and heavy breathing.

“Oh, dear brother. I’m so much more than that thanks to you.” Max pulls out another dagger, his dead eyes sullen.

“Fine, fine, I’ll tell you.” Nathan groans, writhing under my grip, trying to ease some pressure—but I don’t give up. His eyes flicker with resignation, and he spills out the location of her colony.

Satisfied, I shove him hard against the car, feeling a grim satisfaction when he slumps to the ground, blood dripping out from around the dagger. Nathan’s hand raises, but Max grabs the handle before he can touch it, and yanks it out of his brother’s shoulder, spraying blood through the air with the force of the retrieval.

“Let’s move.” Griffin yanks open the driver’s side door. He rummages around inside, then slams his fists against the horn when he doesn’t find the key.

A rotter stumbles toward us, the flashing lights from the car with the alarm sounding. Griffin runs straight after it, his dagger gleaming before he drives it through the rotter’s skull. When it collapses, he crouches down, checking its pockets. A small, victorious grin forms when he pulls out a set of keys and presses a button. A car a few yards away beeps in response. “We’re in luck. Get in or be left behind.”

I open my mouth to ask about what to do with Nathan when I realize he’s vanished. I decide he’s not worth the trouble and follow Griffin.

3

EMILY

Acold, wet nose nudges my arm. A faint whine. Nails scratching behind my head.

My eyes flick open and all I see is darkness. Panic claws at me, but then it all rushes back: leaving the guys, the crash, the vials—the vials. Ignoring the shards of glass digging into my skin, I fumble around until my fingers brush against the familiar strap of my bag. I tug, but it doesn’t budge.

I press my palm to the window by my head, trying to lift myself up, but my seatbelt snaps me back into place. I jab my thumb onto the release button, but it does nothing other than hold me stranded in place. A wonderful safety feature—except for times like this. The maker of this car didn’t account for ways to escape during a crash with rotters.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I realize the car is on its side, with the driver’s side smashed into the ground. Flashes of the rotter I’d hit flare up in my mind, and a fresh wave of panic kicks in. Moonlight streaming in through the cracked windshield inches from my face reveals a pair of bloodied, crooked teeth gnashing at the glass. Buddy growls at the two rotters scratching at the fractured window, holding his ground over me, guarding me.

I don’t know how much time I have before they break through.

Heart hammering, I reach down my shirt and pull out the necklace with the tiny blade Max gave me. I use it to cut the seatbelt on one clean swipe. Once I’m free, I scramble to my feet and struggle to catch my balance. The first thing I grab is the bag with the vials, swinging it over my head and shoulder so it rests across my body.

Next, I gather what few supplies I can carry. A bag of food with matches and a lighter, and any extra weapons within my reach, including a machete, an extra knife, and a gun with a hip holster. I hate leaving so many useful supplies behind, but I don’t have any other choice. There isn’t enough time to grab everything.

The cracked glass groans under the increasing weight of the rotters, and Buddy’s growling intensifies. I reach above my head and push the passenger door open. It swings closed. With a frustrated growl to rival Buddy’s, I push it again, harder this time, and it sticks open. I give a little celebratory fist pump into the air.

“Alright, Buddy, up you go.” He whimpers when I pick him up, which isn’t an easy feat. Somehow, I manage to lift his weight—using the sideways seats as leverage—and he climbs over me, clambering out of the car. I lose my balance and drop back against the seat right as the windshield cracks again.

“Dammit.”

The windshield gives way to more cracks. Then one rotter jerks backward, dragging its broken body across the ground. Its leg separates mid-pull, and Buddy trots around in the dim moonlight with a corpse leg dangling from his mouth like he’s found his new favorite toy. What a good boy.

More rotters stumble out from the trees, but I waste no time. I grip the doorframe, pull myself up, and scramblethrough the passenger door before sliding down the side of the car. A few rotters get close, but a couple of quick swings with my machete take them down with ease. Once I have a moment, I look around and try to figure out which way is forward. The car is sideways across the road, so it’s a fifty-fifty shot.

“Well, Buddy. Looks like we have to pick a direction and hope it’s the right one.”

The thought of turning around and unintentionally going back to the guys crosses my mind, and I force it away with a shudder. I can’t imagine that right now, not after how we left things. I’m angry. They didn’t even give me a moment to explain. All they did was stare at me like I’d betrayed them all. I knew the truth would hurt, but I never expected it to play out in this way.

The hurt from the evening is still raw but hope nudges it aside when moonlight illuminates faint tire marks in the road. A grin splits my face. I’m not lost after all.

Fastening the bags around my body so they’re secure, I turn to Buddy, who’s still strutting around with the severed leg. “Alright, drop it,” I laugh, chasing him in a quick circle. Once he drops the leg, we walk along the abandoned road with the moon to guide us.

What a beautiful night to find our way home.

4

MAX

Griffin lets out a string of curses and I unbuckle myself, leaning forward between the two seats in front of me to see what’s got him so worked up. “What is it?”

“Rotters,” William mutters, his tone dry and unhelpful as ever.

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