The next morning, Iyisha woke as light crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, slanting across the floor in pale ribbons.
Her body ached. Her ribs throbbed with every breath. She didn't move at first. Just lay there, staring at the dusty ceiling. She felt like she couldn't face him, not after last night.
"Iyisha—" he began, startling her. He stopped himself then without a word, he stood up and stepped outside.
Iyisha was left staring at the wall, biting her lip. The silence between them pressed too heavy on her chest.
They couldn't keep acting like this. They had a long way to go, and right now, they only had each other. Or maybe, if she was honest, she only had him.
He didn't need her the same way she needs him. So this, whatever last night was, needed to stay buried.
She forced herself up and followed. When she stepped outside, the sunlight hit her eyes.
He didn't look at her much that morning. Just kept his gaze ahead, shoulders stiff, like too many thoughts were fighting for space in his head. Her heart thudded painfully, but she greeted him anyway, trying to sound normal.
"Morning."
Malcolm looked at her intently. She felt the heat rush to her face.
He then gave a small nod, then turned his gaze toward the forest. "We need to find supplies," he muttered.
Iyisha walked back to the bike and checked the gallon containers tied to the frame. One was missing — maybe it fell during the escape. One was bone dry. Only the third had any weight to it. She lifted it and gave a tight sigh, clutching it to her chest.
"We got one left," she said quietly.
Malcolm came up behind her. They exchanged a glance, then moved to search the small cabin. Together they rummaged through every crevice beneath loose floorboards, inside splintered crates but found nothing.
"How long do you think we can last like this?" Iyisha's voice was hoarse.
"With no food, no water, no ammo? Not long." He glanced at the empty corners of the room. "At the very least, we need to find water."
They wheeled the bike outside and pushed it deeper into the brush just in case someone comes while they are gone. Malcolm checked the area before kneeling and pulling weeds over it.
"Fresh rabbit tracks," he said, pointing toward a patch of trampled grass where she saw nothing. "This early in the morning, that usually mean one thing, they went to drink. Water's got to be nearby."
They followed the trail downhill. The slope was steep and slick with dead leaves. Malcolm reached back and took Iyisha's hand to help guide her down.
They moved slowly, carefully, their boots slipping now and then on the loose soil. A sudden rustle came from the nearby brush.
With a sharp snap of branches, a head lunged from the brush — pale, snarling, dead. Its jaw cracked open mid-lunge, eyes rolling wildly, inches from Iyisha's legs.
The sudden jolt made her shriek and throw herself toward Malcolm without thinking.
They lost balance and slid, tumbling hard down the incline.
"Shit!" Malcolm cursed as he caught her, his arms wrapping around her just before they hit the slope. Dirt and leaves whipped past as gravity yanked them downward.
Malcolm twisted mid-fall, throwing out an arm and catching a thick root that jutted from the earth. Their bodies jerked to a stop, mud caked across their clothes and leaves tangled in their hair.
They stood slowly, Iyisha wobbling on shaky legs. Her chest still heaved from the scare. If Malcolm hadn't been there, she would have likely died, the jagged stones below looked unforgiving.
Malcolm's eyes snapped to the hanging walker. He looked back at her, ready to speak, tension tightening his shoulders.
"What the hell were—" He stopped.
She looked up at him, and something in her eyes made him swallow the anger. He exhaled, jaw loosening. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Be careful."
Then they saw it.
A zombie was hanging crooked from a tree branch.
Its neck was bent at an unnatural angle, one leg twisted, the other dangling. Its eyes were white and wide, mouth snapping in short, violent jerks. The rope around its middle had half-frayed, likely from a fall.
The body was fresh. It wore hiking boots and a small backpack.
"It's got a bag," she whispered.
Malcolm stepped forward, watching the walker carefully. Its mouth twitched, teeth gnashing in short, rabid jerks. Without a word, he drew his knife and plunged the blade into the base of the skull. The twitching stopped instantly.
He held the grip a moment longer, then stepped back to let the body swing limp.
Inside the bag are an empty canteen, a clean but old pistol, a compass, and a folded paper map.
Malcolm checked the pistol. "Wrong ammo." He holstered it anyway. "Better than nothing."
At the base of the hill, the ground grew damp and mossy. Malcolm knelt and started digging with his dagger.
She grimaced as brown water started pooling on the bottom. Malcolm started filling the gallon with it.
She sat down and opened the map they got — a local map of Kansas. Two nearby towns were crossed out in red and written next to them are DEAD ZONES.
"What's dead zones?" she asked.
"Means overrun." He walked to her leaving the hole to fill again.
The hand-drawn route traced the same path they had taken — maybe the dead man had been following it too.
And on the edge, scribbled in different handwriting: VULTURE.
Iyisha stared at the word and felt a cold shiver creep up her spine.
"It's them," Malcolm said quietly.
Her mouth went dry. She felt fear twist in her gut.
He pointed to a narrow offshoot on the map. "If we take this road, we might avoid them but it'll lead us straight into town. We don't know how overrun it is with dead."
She blinked at the route. "Would they really be better?" she asked softly, almost to herself. Her voice trembled, not from uncertainty — but from the fear she couldn't name.
His jaw ticked.
"We'll take our chances in town," Malcolm muttered.
They didn't have weapons. And the way forward was only getting more dangerous.
Back at the cabin, they pushed the bike out of hiding.
They mounted the bike. The dirt path stretched ahead, connecting to the broken highway.
The sun was rising as heat shimmered over the cracked road.
Dust danced on the painted yellow line.
And the map rustled in her lap, thin and fragile like their chances.