Page 6 of My Apocalypse Mountain Man
She's right, though I don't like admitting it.
We spend the next few hours inventorying my supplies, testing equipment, sketching out plans for the radio distraction. She knows her stuff—not just radios but electronics in general, improvising solutions with limited resources.
"You weren't kidding about maintaining the network," I observe, watching her splice wires with steady hands despite the cold.
"It was important. Keeping people connected, maintaining hope." She doesn't look up from her work. "Some days, knowing there were other voices out there was all that kept people going."
"Including you?"
"Especially me." She does look up then. "Your morning reports were usually the first transmission I'd receive. 'North Ridge reporting clear skies and no movement.' Reliable. Consistent. It helped."
"Just doing my part."
"No, it was more than that. You gave detailed weather reports when no one asked for them. You relayed messages between settlements that couldn't reach each other. You participated even while staying separate."
She's seen through me more in one conversation than anyone managed in three years.
"Isolation doesn't mean abandonment," I say quietly.
"No, it doesn't." She connects two wires, and a small LED flickers to life. "There. That's one speaker unit. How many more can we build?"
"With what we have? Maybe three."
"Four points of sound. We can work with that."
Dawn is breaking by the time we've assembled our makeshift system. The storm has lessened slightly, though snow still falls steadily. Sierra's exhausted but trying not to show it, her hands shaking slightly as she makes final adjustments.
"You need rest," I tell her.
"We both do."
"I'm used to not sleeping."
"Nobody's used to not sleeping. They just get better at functioning through exhaustion."
She's right again. An irritating habit she's developing.
"Two hours," I compromise. "We both rest for two hours, then position the speakers before the herd arrives."
"Together?"
"Can't position four speakers alone."
"That's not what I meant."
I know what she meant. She's asking if I trust her enough to sleep at the same time, to be vulnerable in the same space.
I sigh. "If we're going to face two hundred zombies together, we should probably get used to being in close proximity."
"Practical."
"Always."
We settle on opposite ends of the couch, a carefully maintained distance between us. But as exhaustion takes over, that distance shrinks. By the time I drift off, her feet are tucked against my thigh, and somehow that small point of contact is more intimate than anything I've experienced in three years.
I wake to find her curled against my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest. My arm has somehow ended up around her, holding her close. We both freeze as awareness returns, but neither pulls away immediately.
She sits up slowly, and I immediately miss the warmth. Not just physical—though that too—but the warmth of human contact I've denied myself for so long.
