Page 18 of Glass Rose
I steer the car around to the back of the supermarket, where a delivery van sits with its rear doors hanging open. Perfect. The loading dock’s metal door is fully raised. Means we’re not the first ones here, but maybe we’re not too late either.
I reluctantly leave the warmth of Sofia’s hand to cut the engine. There’s a pounding. Consistent. “Stay here. I’ll check if it’s clear.”
“Alone?” she asks. “That’s?—”
“Smart,” I finish for her. “I’m immune, remember? And these days, I’m hard to kill.”
“We don’t know that yet.” Her eyes map the scars on my face.
“Close enough.” I fish out the knife I took from the dead security guard. The weight feels good in my palm. Familiar. “If I’m not back in five minutes, drive away.”
“Gavin—”
“Five minutes.” I lock eyes with Alex in the rearview. “Keep them safe.”
He nods, and I catch something in his eyes. Always weighing odds, that one. I’ve met his type before. Survival at any cost. Even if the price is someone else’s. I don’t like leaving her alone with him, but taking her inside with me?
Fuck that. Too risky.
I’ve seen what happens to civilians in hot zones. They freeze. Make noise. Get themselves killed. Better she stays put, where at least the car offers some protection.
“I’ll be right back.” I slip out, knife gripped in my right hand.
The night air hits my face, carrying the smells of distant smoke, car exhaust, and underneath it all—the faint copper-rot stench of the Infected.
I walk up to the metal roll-up, scanning the inside of the storage room. Stacked cardboard boxes in the middle. Pallets of water bottles. Cases of energy drinks. Toilet paper, shampoo,…
No blood spatter. No signs of struggle. Just abandoned inventory waiting to be shelved. Nothing rotting. Nothing dead.
Here.
I move between the towers of boxes, knife ready. My hearing picks up that steady thumping again—rhythmic, insistent.
A swinging door separates the storage area from the rest of the store, and I press my ear against it, listening for breathing, heartbeats, anything human.
Nothing close. Just that damn thumping, louder.
I tap the wood and enter a short hallway with rooms on either side. The left one is marked ‘Restroom.’ Right one ‘Office.’ That’s where the thumping’s coming from.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I take it, using my weight against the cheap wood. It gives with a crack. The thing inside staggers back—skinny male,blue uniform with a logo patch, name tag reading ‘DOUG.’ Delivery guy. Now, just another walking corpse with cloudy eyes and that unmistakable stench.
His head jerks, jaw working silently. Blood drips from his chin where he’s been chewing on something—his own tongue, from the looks of it. Fuck. That explains the lack of moaning.
He stumbles past, drawn to the open door and whatever primal instinct drives these things. The shoulder of his uniform is torn open, revealing a nasty bite mark that’s gone black around the edges.
He doesn’t even register me standing there. Just keeps walking, bumping into the doorframe before finding his way out.
“Still invisible, huh?” I mutter.
Some quirk in my biochemistry renders me a ghost to their senses. Useful, but fucking creepy every time.
Doug shuffles three more steps before I drive my knife into the back of his skull. His body goes instantly limp, dropping to the floor.
A soft scraping sound draws my attention back to the office. Another Infected—this one female, older—is wedged between a metal desk and the wall, arms flailing uselessly. Her jaw snaps at nothing, teeth clicking together. On the desk, an empty prescription bottle has rolled on its side, caught by a stack of papers before it could fall off the edge.
“Sorry about this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure why I bother.
