Page 81 of Glass Rose
I want to argue, want to demand another option, but deep down I know we don’t have another. We’re committed now. The island is our best hope, perhaps our only hope, for long-term survival.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s the plan?”
“We gather everything essential,” Gavin says. “Weapons, medical supplies, water. Travel light but prepared. Move in a tight formation. Me on point, Sofia in the middle, John covering our rear.”
“I can take point,” John offers.
“No offense, but you can barely stand,” I tell him. “You’re in the middle. I’ll cover the rear.”
They both regard me with surprise.
“What?” I shrug. “I’ve killed infected before. I can do it again.” And I will do it again. We’re doing this together.
“Alright. Stay close.” He throws the rifle around his shoulder and carries the machete in one hand, exiting the vehicle. “If we get separated, head for the marina. Look for a blue boathouse with white trim. It has a keypad, but there’s also a key hidden in the right rain barrel.”
And then figure out how to ride a boat. Easy. “Let’s do this.”
The smell of decay, stagnation, and bodies left too long in metal coffins under the sun hits me as I plant my feet on the street. Up close, the scale of the blockage is even more intimidating.
A metal maze populated by the dead.
Gavin leads us to the edge of the jam. “We follow the right shoulder as far as we can. Move only when I signal. Stop when I stop. Don’t speak unless necessary.”
John and I nod our understanding.
With a final glimpse back at the SUV, our last connection to the relative safety we’ve enjoyed since escaping the warehouse, we slip between the first abandoned vehicles and into the gauntlet. I breathe through my mouth, focusing on placing each foot silently, keeping low and alert.
The first infected we encounter is trapped in the driver’s seat, seat belt fastened across its chest. It thrashes at our approach, arms reaching through the open window, fingers grasping at air inches from John’s passing shoulder.
Gavin signals us to freeze as another infected staggers into view ahead, this one wearing the tattered remains of a police uniform, gun still holstered at its side. It pauses, head cocked as if listening, then continues its aimless wandering, disappearing behind a delivery truck.
We proceed step by step, using the vehicles as cover. Twenty yards become fifty. Fifty become a hundred. My legs ache from the constant crouching, from expecting an attack from any direction at any moment.
John’s breathing grows labored in front of?—
Suddenly, an infected lunges from between two cars, its mouth gaping in a silent snarl as it reaches for me. Gavin slices through the air with his machete in a clean arc that separateshead from shoulders. The body crumples, but the damage is done.
The sound, slight as it was, attracted attention.
Heads turn throughout. Empty eyes seeking. Hungry mouths opening.
Our luck has officially run out.
The Infected begin swarming our position, drawn by the promise of fresh meat.
“Run,” Gavin orders, abandoning stealth for speed.
NINETEEN
SOFIA
I shove my knife back into its sheath, darting for John’s arm, and yank it over my shoulder, muscles straining as I lock my other arm around his waist. His weight sags against me while we zigzag between abandoned cars.
Behind us, hungry moans echo closer, accompanied by the scrape of dragging feet. Ahead, Gavin’s blade flashes in the sunlight as he clears anything that blocks our route.
“There!” He points to a city bus, its door standing open. “Inside, now!”
We sprint the final distance, John stumbling, and I catch him, half-dragging the last few steps as Gavin provides cover, picking off the closest infected. Mercifully, the bus interior is empty.
