(Iyisha's POV)
Gunshot rang out.
Iyisha jolted upright. Malcolm was already crouched by the window.
He didn't say anything — just gestured sharply: Go. Now.
They packed fast.
Iyisha grabbed the med roll and jammed it to her bag.
Malcolm pulled on his shirt and winced as he moved.
They slipped into an alley, moving slow, pushing the bike with hands tight on the grips. Every step was silent, measured. When the next block stayed quiet, Malcolm gave the signal. They kept going. Back to the highway.
Iyisha breathed a quiet sigh of relief. They were far enough now — away from that town, away from whatever happened there. It would stay a mystery, and she didn't want to solve it.
But a part of her, the part trained to heal, still buzzed under the surface. If someone was injured back there... no. She pushed the thought away.
The road was empty but heavy with heat. Asphalt softened under the sun. Car husks gleamed like bones. The sun burned her skin where the scratches were worst, sweat stinging her eyes.
"What's that gunshot?" she asked as she pedaled. It was easier on the highway — smoother, even gave her legs a chance to rest.
"I don't know," Malcolm said. "And I don't really care."
She nodded.
"Where are you from?" she asked, her tone lighter this time — a shift, like she was trying to pull them out of the quiet. Maybe learn something about the man who kept so much locked behind his eyes.
Malcolm didn't answer at first.
"Nowhere good," he said.
"Everyone's from somewhere."
"North. Past Halstead."
She watched him from the corner of her eye. Waiting.
"Is that where you're going?"
He shifted in the sidecar, scanning ahead. "Eventually."
"Hometown?"
"Used to be."
"You think it's still there?"
"Doesn't matter."
She stopped asking after that. But she thought about it — the way he didn't answer, how it felt louder than anything he could've said.
They rode through an open stretch of highway. Dried plants cracked through the center line. Long rows of cars sat where they'd been left — some stripped, some untouched. The silence was unnatural.
They passed a collapsed sign. The letters were almost unreadable, but one word clung to the board in flaking paint: Willow Ridge.
Malcolm glanced at it. Said nothing.
"What are you looking for?" she asked softly.
He took too long to answer.
"I'll know when I find it."
She didn't say anything else. Just kept pedaling.
Her legs shook. Her hands blistered.
Up ahead, something caught the light — metal glinting faintly in the heat haze.
At first she thought it was just a rusted-out lamp post.
But as they rolled closer, she saw the faded green casing, the pipework, the tall curved panel.
A solar pump. She stopped in front of it, trying to hide her heavy breathe but failing miserably.
GOV PROPERTY / DO NOT TAMPER sign was still bolted to the side, half scratched through. Someone had drawn a charcoal arrow underneath and scrawled one word: DRINK.
Malcolm got down and just scanned the treeline, hand resting on the strap of his rifle.
She walked toward the basin. The water wasn't full, but it was clean. A makeshift cloth filter was tied around the faucet. She turned the tap.
Water trickled out — slow but steady.
She cupped her hands and drank. It was warm, but fresh.
"This still works," she said quietly.
Malcolm didn't answer right away. He was still watching the trees.
"This means someone's been here."
"Or someone's watching," he replied.
She frowned. "They'd have used it already."
He glanced at her. "You think anyone generous enough to leave a working pump isn't keeping tabs on it?"
She didn't respond. Just filled their bottles in silence.
At the edge of the pump's basin was a low drainage ditch — cracked, but not dry. She poured water over her arms, wiped her neck and face, her fingers trembling as she cursed under her breath. Her hands and feet were still shaking.
She hated how weak she felt. A half-rinse, but it helped. Malcolm kept watch a few steps away, turning slightly so she had some space.
She traced a fingertip across the sign again. Emergency Resource Grid. Active and clean. This wasn't rogue. This was government maintained.
"If this is still online," she said, "there's got to be a checkpoint. Or a settlement."
Malcolm finally looked at the pump itself. Studied the pipework. The filtration system.
"They don't service these unless they've got people nearby."
Her heart skipped. "We could stay there tonight."
He was about to say no but then his eyes dropped to the clear water and the smooth piping that led away from the pump, disappearing straight down the highway.
"Not every settlement is safe," he muttered.
She pointed to the pipe. "If the government's maintaining this, they have to be close. And if they're accepting support from the grid, they can't turn away wanderers. It's against policy."
He didn't respond at first. Just studied her face.
"At least you can recover," she added. "Get that leg checked before we're back on the road."
He looked at her. Her body was still trembling from exhaustion, skin glistening with leftover sweat from the ride.
He exhaled, low. "Okay," he said. "Let's find it."
She followed the line with her eyes. "If we keep following the pipe, it'll take us somewhere."