Page 27 of Glitter Rose
“No fucking kidding I’m right. There’s a goddamn cheese knife on the floor.”
The storage room door is ajar. If they decide to explore, they’ll find me in seconds. My hand drifts to the katana strapped across my back. The weight feels reassuring, but taking on two men would be risky.
Please don’t come back here. Please don’t come back here. Please don’t?—
“Hold up,” Alex calls. “I think I switched it up. It should be a street further. Lexington and Third.”
“You serious right now? We’ve been driving around for three hours because you can’t read a fucking map?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault everything looks the same in this shithole city.”
More crunching glass. A third voice calls from outside: “Yo! What’s taking so long? We’re burning daylight!”
“Nothing here,” Gravelly shouts back. “Alex fucked up the directions. Again.”
“Did not. The map?—”
“Save it. Let’s go and keep your eyes open.”
Footsteps retreat, glass crunching a final staccato as they exit. Car doors slam. The engine roars to life, then fades as they drive away.
I remain frozen for a full minute, counting heartbeats, before I dare move. My legs tremble as I stand, pins and needles prickling from crouching too long.
“Well, that was fun.” I wipe cold sweat from my forehead. “Really fucking fun.”
I finish stuffing noodles into my backpack, hands steadier now that the danger has passed.
It’s funny, sad funny, not ha-ha funny, how I can stroll past zombies without them noticing, but humans? Humans will always be the real threat.
I don’t know which would be a bigger concern.
No. Scratch that.
Men.
I sling my overstuffed backpack over my shoulders and peek out of the storage room, scanning the shop’s interior. Clear. At the broken window, I pause to check the street. They should be gone.
The trek back to the penthouse passes in a blur of a few zombies and bone-deep weariness. My mind ping-pongs between worrying about Knox discovering I left and what I’ll say when he inevitably asks where I’ve been. I’m not used to having someone monitor my comings and goings.
I slide my key into the lock and turn it as quietly as I possibly can. The door swings open—and everything inside me freezes.
Knox thrashes violently on the sofa, his head whipping from side to side, limbs flailing against invisible enemies, while sweat slicks his face, his borrowed t-shirt clinging to his heaving chest, and his jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding from across the room.
“Fuck!” I drop my backpack with my katana and race toward him, the door closing shut behind me. “Knox!”
His eyes remain shut, unseeing, lost in whatever nightmare has him in its grip. He throws a punch at nothing, nearly toppling off the couch.
“Sarah! Sarah!” His voice is raw, desperate. “Get out—get?—”
I hover near him, hands outstretched but not touching.My brother used to have night terrors when I was little. Mom said never wake someone suddenly during one.
“Knox,” I try again, softer. “It’s just a dream. Wake?—”
He jerks violently, a wounded sound escaping his throat. “No! Please?—”
“Knox.” I risk touching his shoulder. “Wake up.”
His hand snaps up, fingers clutching my wrist with bruising force. His eyes fly open. For a terrifying moment, they remind me of zombie eyes, present but unseeing. Then awareness floods in, pupils contracting as he orients himself.
