It's been months since he'd seen a woman. Years since he touched one. The apocalypse took everything except the dead.
Now, one was fighting a zombie — right there, in front of him. Clumsy, reckless, and sexy.
She moved clumsily. She ducked low and shoved a blade into the dead thing's skull.
Her black pants clung to toned legs. Her tank top was nearly spotless and too clean for someone who'd been living out here in the dead zones. Her skin, pale and smooth, stood out in the grime and dust coating everything around them.
But that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the strange contrast of how she didn't belong out here. Like she came straight from the clean zones and had no idea how things worked.
She was no wanderer. Not with that kind of posture. Not with those clothes.
He didn't have time for this.
He'd meant to scout the building, maybe find something useful left behind in the wiped-out pharmacy below. But it didn't have shit, and now, with the sun dipping low and his leg throbbing, he needed to find somewhere to stay the night.
Instead, he was staring at a girl too clean to be out here and too stupid to stay quiet.
Another zombie crept up behind her.
Malcolm moved on instinct. Silent and precise. Blade buried deep in the base of the skull.
The zombie dropped. She spun around, startled, staring at him like she didn't know whether to run or thank him. Her eyes locked with his, but he didn't give her anything.
Then he turned, silent, and walked away like none of it had happened.
"Hey!"
Her voice chased him. So did her footsteps.
"You saved my life."
"You're welcome," he said, voice flat. He didn't even know what pushed him to do it. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was stupidity.
"I'm Iyisha," she said. "Can you help me?"
He stopped. Half-turned.
"You with someone?" he asked, tone sharp, cautious.
She paused, weighing if admitting she was alone would only make her a bigger target. Then she shook her head. "No." At least she had a brain cell left — enough to know caution mattered.
Her voice was low, controlled and he liked it more than he should've. Something about the way she sounded hit a nerve, pulled at something raw he hadn't felt in years. It made him want to hear more, which pissed him off even more.
"It's dangerous here," he muttered. "Go back to your camp."
She didn't move.
"How did you know?" she asked.
He looked her over again. "You look too clean."
She glanced down at herself, as if only now realizing what she looked like.
"What's your name? My name is Iyisha—"
Before she could continue, he was already walking. Names made it personal. That got you killed. She was going to die early out here if she kept drawing attention like this.
Still, she followed him.
Tried to be quiet but her footsteps were clumsy, too loud. Her breathing was tight, anxious. It distracted him with something he hadn't dealt with in a long time.
She kept following him.
Stupid girl.
Was she interested? Want sex?
He hated the thought, but it still came, ugly and hot. Out here, a woman alone meant one of two things: bait, or trade. Sometimes both. And now she was walking behind him, tempting him.
He clenched his jaw. Not now. Not with this heat in his blood. Not with the smell of rot still in the air.
He turned. Scanned her again, slower this time.
She was skinny, but not in a way that hid her figure. Her hips, her chest, her thighs — all in the right places. It messed with his head.
"What do you want?"
She flinched, caught off guard.
"Where are you going?"
"None of your business."
She didn't flinch. Just looked at him like she was measuring something. It made him tense.
He turned and kept walking. But the tension in his gut didn't fade.
Was this a trap?
He spun, grabbed her arm, pinned it behind her back. He pressed a hand over her mouth.
"Why are you following me? Trap ahead?"
Her eyes went wide. She shook her head.
He kept her pinned, breathing hard.
Something didn't add up. He dragged her into cover behind a rusted sedan, crouching low, eyes on the path ahead.
"If you shout, I'll twist your head off. You understand?" he whispered, mouth near her ear.
She smelled clean. Too clean in this rotting world. His mouth watered. His eyes dropped to her heaving chest before he forced himself to look away.
She nodded slowly, terrified.
He felt himself harden and cursed under his breath.
"Why are you following me?" he asked again, voice low, dangerous.
She swallowed, hard. "Because I have no one else."
His grip didn't loosen.
"Redridge kicked me out," she whispered. "I was a doctor there. And if you can help me reach Halstead. My sister's in there."
He stared at her, unreadable.
""I'm not trying to trick you," she added, voice trembling but firm. "I just need direction. That's all I wanted."
He didn't blink. "People lie when they're scared."
"I'm not lying. I don't have the luxury to."
A long silence passed. Then he let go.
He stared at her.
"Please, I'm not planning on doing anything," she mumbled.
He yanked her arm tighter, making her wince.
"How many of you are there?"
"I swear, it's just me," she said quickly.
Her arm was still twisted behind her back as she looked down and slowly pulled up her sleeve with difficulty. A burn mark was seared into her skin,— raw, angry, and recent. Malcolm recognized it immediately.
A banishment brand.
"They marked me," she said, voice cracking. "I wasn't lying. If I had someone with me, do you think I'd be begging like this?"
He pulled her with him, not bothering to reply .
Whatever she was, wherever she came from, or if she was with someone, it was safer to change course than keep heading toward the spot he originally planned.
"If you want to get out of here alive, walk slowly and don't make a sound."
Before she could speak, he reached down and took the dagger from her hip.
She walked beside him, quiet and trembling. She kept glancing back. He checked the shadows ahead, eyes flicking between buildings, doors, rooftops. But his focus never left her.
Then he saw them, walkers. At least ten. Maybe more. Shuffling forward with vacant eyes and slack jaws.
Their groans were low and wet, like lungs filling with mud. They weren't fast but numbers made them dangerous.
"Down," he said.
Iyisha yelped. The walkers stopped. Heads turned in jerky unison, ears catching the sound.
"Damn it," he muttered. "You just woke the whole block."
"Sorry," she breathed.
"Run."
They broke cover and sprinted across the street. Turned a corner. More dead ahead.
They were being surrounded. Outrunning one or two was easy. Hell, even five wasn't much of a problem if you stayed sharp. But once they closed in from multiple sides, numbers stopped being manageable. Cornered with more than you could handle? That's how people died fast.
He scanned the buildings. A ladder. Fire escape.
"Climb!"
He shoved her upward. She scrambled up the rusted ladder, metal groaning under their combined weight. As he climbed after her, pain shot through his left leg with every rung, sharp and blinding, and below them, the zombies began to gather, clawing at the base.
Below, the zombies were gathering at the base of the ladder, reaching, clawing. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up.
"Are you trying to get us killed?"
"I was startled, I didn't mean to—"
"Inside. Now."
The stupid woman didn't even check and just crawled through the open window like a damn rookie.
Luckily, it led to an empty hallway.
She kicked something again. The clatter echoed down the hallway.
Fucking amateur.
Malcolm gritted his teeth. She moved like someone who'd only read about survival in books — loud, blind, and confident in all the wrong ways.
"Damn it," he hissed. Beyond the corridors, groaning sounded once again.
He grabbed door handles, twisting one after another until one finally clicked open.
The room looked like an old apartment unit. The air hit him first — thick with mildew and something sharper, like spoiled meat and moldy furniture.
The wallpaper had peeled in long strips, sagging like old skin. A broken couch sat against one wall, half-covered in ash and rat droppings. Children's drawings were still stuck to the fridge, faded and curling at the edges.
He swept the room quickly — eyes scanning the corners, under the beds, behind the broken closet door. No movement. No breathing. Just dust and silence.
Only then did he motion her inside.
She stumbled in, still shaken. He rounded on her and shoved her hard against the wall. Her back hit cracked plaster. Dust rained down from above. She winced as his hand came up to her throat, not squeezing yet, but firm.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"