(STEPHANIE POV)
Blood dripped from Stephanie's nose. She wiped it on her sleeve, the fabric hard as sandpaper, stained with sweat and now copper-red. Fucking Rust Sense. Always left her leaking.
She spat. Phlegm mixed with blood hit the cracked concrete.
In front of her, Breadbox sat—the old delivery van, blue paint half peeled, its bakery logo a faded ghost. Home. The only home she had left. Stephanie popped the hood and listened. Not the sound other people heard. The inside sound: metal tired, bolts loosening, pressure building. She needed fuel. Two cans at least, or the engine died on the road and she died in the middle of nowhere.
Her gaze drifted west. The gas station squatted half a kilometer away, pumps rusted, roof collapsed, darkness pooling inside. Something moved in there. She felt it—the familiar rust spreading through her bones, the ache that told her ten, maybe twelve Shamblers shuffled in the shadows. Slow type. Safe as long as she didn't make noise. But no fuel today meant walking tomorrow. Walking meant dead.
"Fine."
Stephanie grabbed the pipe wrench from her belt, the weight familiar, and slung two empty jerry cans over her shoulder. She locked Breadbox and started walking. Slow steps. Quiet. She knew this ground. Three days she'd waited, watching the Shamblers thin out from fourteen to twelve to now ten. Something was hunting them. Or they'd moved. She didn't like uncertainty.
At the station edge, the chemical stench of dried fuel burned her nose. Good. It masked her scent. She slipped along the wall, left arm—wrapped, scarred, useless—pressed against her chest, right hand gripping the wrench.
At the pump, she filled the first can. Fuel gurgled into plastic. Too loud.
She held her breath.
A Shambler stopped. Its head turned slow, white milk eyes, jaw hanging slack. It sniffed.
Don't. Don't. Don't.
The can filled. She cut the flow. Silence. The thing turned, shuffled away.
Stephanie exhaled. One more can.
But before she started, Rust Sense fired. Not from the Shamblers. From the east. Something moving fast. Her hand dropped the can, wrench up, ready.
What came wasn't a thing.
A man. Tall, messy brown hair, gray eyes empty as a blade. He ran—not normal running, speed that didn't make sense—and in two seconds he stood in front of her pump. Behind him, twelve Runners.
"Fuck!" Stephanie's grip tightened.
He raised a hand, telling her to shut up. His eyes flicked to the Runners, then to the fuel puddle at his feet. He grabbed a lighter from his belt and flicked it.
Flames raced across the ground. The explosion was small but enough—Runners caught fire, screaming like cats skinned alive. But from the store, Shamblers stumbled out. Four from the back. More.
"Smart move," Stephanie snapped. "You just woke up the whole station."
The man didn't answer. He pulled a machete, and in one swing sent a Shambler's head bouncing across the concrete. Stephanie had no choice. She swung the pipe wrench, cracking another skull like rotten fruit. Rotten smell flooded her nose.
They fought side by side—not teamwork, two predators sharing the same prey. The man moved too fast, inhuman speed, cutting down three Shamblers in the time she killed one. Machine. Something was wrong with him.
But then the last Shambler dropped, and the station fell silent except for the distant crackle of fire. Stephanie stood, chest heaving, blood from her nose running down her chin. Rust Sense overuse. Always paid.
The man looked at her. Didn't blink.
"You." She spat the word. "You just made a big fucking problem."
"Wasn't my intention." His voice was deep, rough, like someone who rarely spoke.
"Yeah, shit." She wiped her mouth. "You wanted to die?"
He glanced east. "What chased me is worse than this."
From the distance, engines roared. Motorcycles. Many. Stephanie looked toward the road—dust clouds, headlights appearing.
"Ashford's biker gang." Her voice dropped. "They don't stop until they get what they want. And you brought them here."
The man stood still. "I need a vehicle."
"I got a vehicle. Not for you."
He stepped closer. She stepped back, pipe wrench ready. "I'm not asking. I'm offering. I have something you need."
"What?"
"Information about Ashford."
Stephanie froze. That name—carved into her rifle stock, first among seventeen. Twelve crossed out. Ashford waited.
"You know Ashford?"
"I do." His gray eyes held hers. "I'm heading east too. To kill him."
She stared. His eyes didn't lie. Or he was a damn good liar.
The engines got closer. Two minutes, maybe less.
"We deal later." She turned toward Breadbox. "Now we run."
He followed. She unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat. He took the passenger side. The engine roared. She floored it, and Breadbox shot forward, leaving the station, the fire, the bodies.
In the mirror, bikes entered the station. One pointed toward her. They'd chase.
"You." Stephanie drove like a madwoman, swerving around debris. "What's your name?"
"Reilo."
Reilo. She didn't know it. "I'm Stephanie. If you brought bigger shit than you said, I swear to fucking God, I'll throw you out of this van in the middle of the road."
He was quiet a moment. Then: "Fair enough."
Behind them, lights appeared in the mirror.