The convoy had been rolling for hours. Dust trailed behind them like smoke from a dead fire. The road was cracked, uneven, lined with skeletal trees and rusted signs pointing to towns that weren't there anymore.
The van jerked, coughed, then died on the shoulder. Derek climbed out, wiped sweat from his brow. "That's it," he said.
The rest of the convoy slowed behind him. Dylan eased the SilentHawk to a stop, boots crunching gravel. Yve stayed on, holding his waist, eyes scanning the horizon.
David cut the engine on the first truck. Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, hand tight on his briefcase.
Lucas got out of the second truck, Taylor and Elena still inside. "What now?" he asked.
Derek nodded toward the van. "Outta gas. Gauge hit empty before the last bend. I coasted this far."
Lucas exhaled. "Can we siphon from the trucks?"
"Maybe," Derek said. "Even if we do, we won't get far. Sun's dropping."
Maurice slid out of the third truck, Lara and Joan close behind. "Then what?"
Dylan swung off the bike, jaw tight. "Walls and a roof. I'm not sleeping under the stars with shriekers sniffing around."
David stepped forward. "Military base, fifteen miles east. If it's intact, fuel, shelter, maybe supplies."
Maurice snorted. "And if it's not? Overrun? Collapsed like VIRA? Then we waste fuel and walk straight into a trap."
David's jaw tightened. "So what? Sit here in the open? Wait for night and hope the shriekers don't find us?"
"I don't want to gamble with everyone's lives," Maurice snapped. "You're reckless."
"I'm being realistic," David shot back. "We need shelter. Fuel. That base is our best shot."
Maurice squared his shoulders. "Or our last mistake."
The tension thickened. Joan and Lara exchanged glances. Jenkins stayed silent, watching. Dylan leaned against the SilentHawk, arms crossed, eyes narrow—ready if it got physical.
Then Elena's voice cut through. "Stop it!"
All eyes turned.
"We've lost enough," she said, raw and steady. "We don't have a base. We don't have a home. What we've got left is each other—and those kids." She pointed at the van. Tyler and Lily were watching from inside. "They come first. Make sure they're safe before we start tearing each other apart."
The silence was heavier than any argument. Maurice looked down. "You're right," he muttered. "Sorry."
David rubbed the back of his neck. "Me too. I just… I want what's best for everyone."
From the side of the road, Ethan squinted ahead. "Hey," he said, pointing. "That sign. Look."
The group turned toward Ethan's gesture. A rusted, crooked sign leaned near the bush. Faded paint, but the words were clear:
HILLSVIEW TOWN – 3.2 KM
"Could be worth checking out," Ethan said. "Might be abandoned. Might be something."
Lucas stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "It's close. We've got enough fuel to make it."
Lara crossed her arms. "Might be our only shot. We can't just sit here hoping."
The group exchanged looks. One by one, they nodded.
"All right," Lucas said. "We check it out."
David and Maurice moved quickly, siphoning fuel from the trucks, topping off Derek's van. No one spoke, the quiet stretching tight—just enough.
Once fueled, they climbed back into their vehicles. Engines hummed, headlights cut through dust, and the convoy turned onto the cracked road to Hillsview Town.
The road curved, and the town appeared like a curtain lifting.
Hillsview Town. A small settlement in a shallow valley. Peaks rose jagged against the horizon, shadows long even with the sun still high.
The convoy slowed, then stopped a safe distance from the edge. Engines cut. Doors creaked open. The air was heavy and still.
Lucas stepped out first, scanning the empty streets. "We check it first. Make sure it's clear."
Lara slung her rifle. Ethan checked his sidearm. David cracked his knuckles. Dylan swung off the SilentHawk, eyes sharp. Yve followed, careful and deliberate.
The six of them—Lucas, Lara, Ethan, David, Dylan, and Yve—moved into town, weapons ready, feet soft on gravel. Behind them, the others stayed with the vehicles, keeping a perimeter and watching the kids.
The town was quiet. Still. They checked buildings one by one—storefronts with shattered windows, houses with doors ajar, a diner with overturned chairs and faded menus taped to the glass. No movement. No sound but the wind.
Lucas, Dylan, and Yve drifted deeper, past a rusted playground and a half-collapsed pharmacy. Gravel crunched underfoot.
"What if this place isn't safe?" Dylan muttered. "Backup plan?"
Lucas didn't answer immediately, eyes scanning rooftops. "Then we move on. Again."
Dylan exhaled through his nose. "We're running out of 'again.'"
Yve stayed silent, walking a few paces ahead, eyes flicking from building to building, breath shallow. Then she froze.
A body. A shrieker, long dead, slumped against the curb. Chest torn open, ribs exposed, dried blood crusted around its mouth. But it wasn't the corpse that caught her attention—it was the water bottle lying beside it.
Still sealed. The cap intact. A miracle. Yve crouched, checking the label. No cracks, no punctures. She brushed off dust and blood, then glanced back toward the convoy. Maybe the kids could use it.
Lucas and Dylan swept the area, moving slow, checking alleyways and doorways. Lucas's eyes never stopped scanning rooftops. "If this place is clear, we might hold it a few days."
Dylan grunted. "If."
Then—screams.
Sharp. Human. Desperate.
Both men froze.
Another scream—closer, followed by the staccato of gunfire.
Weapons up, boots pounding pavement, they sprinted toward the noise, Yve close behind. They rounded the corner of the old bank building—and stopped.
A man lay on the ground, shriekers tearing into him, blood spreading fast. Across the street, a woman fired shot after shot, her back pressed to a crumbling wall as more shriekers closed in. Her clip was nearly empty, the rhythm panicked and uneven.
Another girl, younger, sprinted down the street, shriekers snapping at her heels.
Lucas raised his rifle. "We've got to move!"
Dylan turned to Yve. "Stay behind me. Raise your gun if they get close."
Lucas charged, firing at the shriekers swarming the woman. Her hands shook as she reloaded.
Dylan stepped forward to cover him—then froze.
Yve hadn't raised her gun. She stared at it. Slowly, she shook her head. "No," she whispered.
She reached into her pack and pulled out the water bottle—the one she'd picked up earlier.
Dylan glanced back, confused. "What are you doing?"
Yve didn't answer. She uncapped it and, with unnerving calm, tossed the water into the air.
Droplets scattered like tiny stars, catching the light. She moved her hand in a fluid arc, catching the falling liquid.
Then—a sword appeared. Glowing. Silent. Real.
Yve didn't speak. Didn't look at Dylan. Didn't hesitate. She surged forward, steps light, strikes precise. The blade shimmered with every arc, slicing through shriekers like silk. Heads rolled. Limbs dropped. Blood sprayed in wide, crimson fans.
Dylan froze for half a second, mouth parted. "What the hell…"
Lucas caught the motion from the corner of his eye, rifle half-raised. Three shriekers fell in a single sweep. His breath caught. "What—"
No time.
Another shrieker lunged at him. He fired point-blank, the creature's skull snapping back as it crumpled. Survival first; questions later.
Dylan snapped out of it. Jaw clenched, tomahawk in hand. He swung wide, driving one end into a shrieker's neck, yanking it free, spinning to catch another across the jaw. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. Brutal, efficient, deadly.
The woman against the wall finished reloading, firing again. Two shriekers went down, clean. One broke through, snarling, too close.
Thunk.
Yve's sword flew like lightning, spinning once before embedding in the shrieker's skull. The creature dropped mid-lunge.
She walked forward, calm, unshaken. Gripped the hilt and pulled the blade free with a wet, metallic sound. No words. Just motion.
And then she was moving again—slicing, spinning, cutting down the last of them with terrifying precision.
Lucas fired his final round, lowering his rifle. Street was clear.
Dylan panted over two fallen shriekers, tomahawk dripping.
Yve stood in the center of the carnage, sword in hand, blood on her face, expression unreadable. She didn't pause.
The moment the last shrieker fell, she sprinted toward the distant screams echoing down the street. The girl. Still alive.
Dylan cursed under his breath. "Yve—dammit—wait!" He took off after her.
Lucas hesitated, still processing, then chambered a fresh round and followed.
The woman they'd just saved didn't think twice. She fell in behind, adrenaline pushing her forward.
Ahead, the girl ran full tilt, breath ragged, voice hoarse from screaming. Four shriekers trailed, relentless. She stumbled but kept going. "Help! Somebody!"
Yve surged forward, movements fluid, every step precise. She closed the distance in seconds.
One shrieker leapt, claws out, jaws wide.
Yve didn't break stride. She threw her sword.
It arced through the air, striking the shrieker square in the chest mid-leap. It crashed to the pavement with a shriek, off-balance but alive.
The girl screamed again, but didn't stop. The gap widened.
Lucas raised his rifle—one, two, three shots. Two shriekers dropped, bodies sliding across cracked asphalt.
The last one lunged.
The woman behind them fired, but the bullet pinged off a rusted mailbox. "Dammit," she hissed.
Dylan pushed forward, tomahawk ready, eyes locked on the final shrieker.
Yve was already sprinting back toward her fallen sword.
The chase wasn't over. The last shrieker lunged, jaws wide, inches from the girl's back—
BANG!
The last shrieker dropped mid-stride, a clean shot through the skull.
Ethan stepped out from the doorway of a nearby house, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the barrel. "Bullseye," he called.
Lara and David emerged behind him, weapons raised, eyes wide.
The girl stumbled to a stop, chest heaving, legs trembling. She dropped to her knees on the pavement, hands braced against the ground. Yve stood a few feet away, sword in hand, blood streaked across her cheek. Breathing calm, eyes locked on the girl.
Dylan came up behind her, tomahawk in hand, gaze flicking between Yve and the girl. Tight-lipped, he said nothing.
Lucas slowed, rifle lowered, scanning the street. Nothing moved.
Then—
"Emily!" The woman they'd saved earlier sprinted forward, voice cracking with relief. She dropped to her knees, pulling the girl into a tight embrace. "Emily, are you okay? Talk to me!"
Emily nodded weakly. "I—I'm okay. I think…"
Dylan's eyes moved from Yve's sword to her face and back. He stepped closer. "You alright?" he asked, patting her shoulder.
Yve gave a small nod. "Yeah. I'm fine."
The others closed in, eyes bouncing between the bloodied street, the two girls, and the gleaming sword.
Lara narrowed her eyes. "Where'd you get that sword?"
Yve hesitated, just for a second. Dylan cut in. "Found it on the road. One of the shriekers had it. Figured it'd be better in her hands than rotting with the dead."
Lucas turned sharply, voice edged with disbelief. "For God's sake, Dylan—stop answering for her."
Dylan's jaw tightened. "I ain't answering for her. I'm telling you what happened."
"No," Lucas said, stepping forward, voice rising. "You're covering for her. That sword didn't come off a corpse."
"She saved our asses," Dylan snapped. "Or did you miss that while you were busy playing hero?"
Lucas's eyes flared. "You don't know what she is."
"And you do?" Dylan squared up. "You wanna start pointing fingers, do it somewhere else. She's with us."
"She's hiding something," Lucas growled. "And I know you're in it too."
Dylan took a step forward, fists clenched. "Say that again."
"Alright, that's enough!" David barked, stepping between them. "You two wanna beat the hell outta each other, do it after we're not surrounded by corpses."
Yve grabbed Dylan's arm, holding him back. "Don't," she said quietly.
Lara moved in beside Lucas, hand on his shoulder. "Back off. We've got bigger problems."
Ethan stayed nearby, frown tight. "Maybe save the civil war for after we're not standing in a bloodbath?"
Lucas stepped closer to Dylan, boots crunching on the pavement. His eyes were on Yve. "We're not done yet," he said, low but firm.
Dylan didn't respond. Jaw flexed, stance solid.
A few feet away, Ethan crouched beside Emily. "Easy," he said gently. "You good?"
Emily nodded, still catching her breath. "Yeah… I think so." She stood, wobbly, hand in his. "Thank you."
She gestured to the woman who had been firing. "This is my sister. Ava."
Ava stepped forward, brushing a streak of blood from her cheek. "Thanks. All of you. We wouldn't have made it without you."
Ethan gave a small smile. "We've all been there."
Yve said nothing. A brief nod, then she turned and walked down the street. Lucas watched her, eyes sharp, calculating.
Dylan fell into step behind her, boots echoing hers.
Lucas finally tore his gaze away from them, turning to the two girls. "What were you two doing here? You live in this town?"
Ava shook her head. "No. We were scavenging—food, water, anything we could use."
Lucas nodded slowly. "The man back there… was he with you?"
Emily's face fell. Voice barely above a whisper: "Yeah. That was our uncle."
Ava looked down, jaw tight. "He was trying to hold them off so we could run."
No one spoke. The weight of it hung over them like fog.
Lucas gave a small nod, voice low. "I'm sorry."
Emily didn't answer. She stared at the ground, hands clenched.
Ethan stepped forward, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a folded handkerchief—worn but clean—and held it out to Ava. "You've got some blood on your cheek."
Ava blinked, touched her face, fingers coming away red. "Oh… right." She took the handkerchief with a quiet, "Thanks," and wiped at the streaks.
David, standing a few feet back, muttered under his breath, "Smooth," and grinned at Ethan.
Lara, arms crossed, rubbed her temples. "Seriously?"
Ethan shrugged. "What? It's just a handkerchief."
Lara shook her head, muttering something about priorities, and moved on.
The group made their way back toward the convoy, boots crunching over gravel and broken glass.
Ethan glanced at Ava. "You two could come with us. We've got gear, food, some medical supplies… no place to stay yet, but we're not leaving anyone behind."
Ava looked at Emily, then back at him. "You sure?"
He nodded. "Yeah. We don't leave people behind."
Ava gave a small, grateful smile and took Emily's hand, squeezing it tight. Emily's eyes were still wide, but calmer now.
As they reached the convoy, Derek stepped out from the van, wiping his hands on a rag. "How'd it go?"
Lucas's voice was even. "Found two survivors. Brought them back."
Derek's eyes flicked to Ava and Emily, then nodded. "Glad you did."
Lucas scanned the area, brow furrowed. "Where's Yve and Dylan?"
Derek raised an eyebrow. "Weren't they with you?"
Lucas's jaw tightened. "They walked off. I need to talk to her."
Derek watched Lucas disappear down the road, then shrugged at the others. "They'll be back. Best we just wait."
The group settled near the vehicles, some sitting, others standing guard. The tension hadn't fully lifted, but for now, it held.
A few blocks away, in the quiet corner of Hillsview Town, Yve sat on a rusted swing, legs dangling above the overgrown grass. Her sword was planted in the earth before her, silent and still like a sentinel. She stared at it, hands resting in her lap, expression unreadable.
Dylan stepped closer, boots crunching over gravel and weeds. He didn't speak at first. Just watched. Then, softly, "What's wrong?"
Yve didn't look at him. Her voice was barely audible. "I don't think I can keep hiding. Or lying."
When she finally met his gaze, her eyes were heavy with guilt. "Because of me, you keep getting into fights. Especially with Lucas. You're always defending me… and I'm the reason things keep getting worse."
Dylan frowned, taking a step closer. "Yve—" She looked away, fingers tightening on the swing chain.
He crouched in front of her, arms resting on his knees, voice low and steady. "If you're ready to tell 'em," he said, "I won't stop you."
Yve hesitated. "I'm still scared," she admitted. "What if I scare them? What if they look at me like I'm… something else?"
Dylan shrugged, a corner of his mouth twitching. "Then screw 'em. We'll walk. Just you and me. I'll take you on a world tour."
Her eyes widened. "A world tour?"
"Yeah," he said, dry humor in his tone. "Grand Canyon. Niagara Falls. Maybe Yosemite if it ain't burned to the ground. Hell, we'll chase the northern lights if we gotta hike to Canada."
A soft laugh escaped her, the first in days. "That… actually sounds nice… But what about your family?"
Dylan's smile faded, replaced by something harder, more honest. "If they can't accept the person who's been feedin' them when we were starvin'… maybe they ain't worth callin' family."
Yve looked down, fingers brushing the edge of the swing. Dylan stood, offering his hand. "Whatever you decide," he said, "I'm with you."
From the edge of the playground, Lucas spotted them. Yve on the swing, Dylan close, protective. He hadn't heard their words, but he could read it in their posture: Yve looked dimmed, not broken, and Dylan—he was doing something Lucas rarely saw. Comforting someone.
Lucas stopped a few paces away, torn. The leader in him demanded answers. The man in him, scarred by losses, just wanted to keep everyone safe. But how could he, if someone in the group was still hiding something? He took a deep breath and called out, gently, "Hey."
Both Yve and Dylan turned.
Yve's eyes met his. "Lucas."
Dylan didn't say anything. He looked away, jaw tight, the tension from earlier still coiled in his shoulders.
Lucas stepped closer, his voice softer now. "Can we talk?"
Dylan glanced at Yve. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then she gave him a small nod—steady, reassuring. It's okay.
Dylan exhaled through his nose and stepped back, folding his arms. He stayed close enough to intervene if things went sideways.
Yve stood slowly, brushing her hands against her jeans. "Sure," she said. "What is it?"
Lucas stopped a few feet away. The wind tugged at his jacket as he took a measured breath, grounding himself before he spoke.
"I know you're a good person," he said, voice low but firm. "I've seen it."
Yve held his gaze, guarded but listening.
"You've started to become one of us," he continued. "Part of this family. And I don't say that lightly." His eyes flicked toward the distant convoy—toward the kids, the others, the fragile thing they were all trying to keep alive. "But I'm not just a friend out here. I'm the one who has to keep this group safe. That means making hard calls. That means knowing what I'm dealing with."
He stepped closer, not threatening—just honest.
"I'm not asking so I can judge you," he said. "I'm asking because I have to. For the group. For the kids."
For a brief moment, the weight of everything he'd lost—and everything he was still trying to protect—was written plainly across his face.
"Please, Yve," he said quietly. "Whatever it is you're hiding… just tell me."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was full of choice.
Yve stood still, eyes locked on his. Then she let out a long, heavy breath. Her shoulders dropped, as if she'd been carrying something far older than this broken world—and was finally setting it down.
"How about I just show you," she said.
Lucas frowned. "Show me—?"
Before he could finish, Yve stepped forward and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword. She closed her eyes for a single breath, then angled the blade downward.
The metal shimmered.
Softened.
And began to melt.
Not burn. Not corrode.
Liquefy.
The blade collapsed into a flowing stream, clear and luminous. Not blood. Not oil.
Water.
Pure, living water.
It poured from the hilt in glistening rivulets, soaking into the dirt. The grass beneath it darkened, drank it in, straightened—alive. Within seconds, there was nothing left of the sword.
Just damp earth.
Lucas stumbled back a step, eyes wide. "W—what just—" The words failed him.
Yve met his gaze, her voice calm, unwavering. "I'm not human, Lucas."
He stared at her, stunned, trying—and failing—to fit what he'd just seen into the rules of the world he knew.
"I'm a siren," she said. "Born from the ocean. I've lived beneath the waves longer than I can explain." Her eyes drifted, distant now, touched by something ancient. "But I always wondered what it was like up here. On land. Among people."
She took a breath.
"And then I found Dylan. He helped me. Protected me. Got me this far."
Her gaze returned to Lucas, steady but tight with emotion. "So don't be mad at him," she said. "He didn't lie to you."
"I did."
Lucas stood frozen, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on Yve. Part of him wanted to back away, terrified of what she was. Another part couldn't look away, drawn in despite himself. His mind tried to grasp it—her movements, the way she seemed to bend the world around her—but it didn't make sense.
The little moments came rushing back. The spilled coffee she caught midair, the way she dumped salt into the soup without a flinch, the way she seemed to know things she couldn't possibly know. And Dylan… Dylan had been quietly keeping her alive, always calm, always capable, without ever explaining how.
Lucas's chest tightened. "…Jesus," he muttered, voice barely audible, a mix of disbelief and awe. He thought he understood a little, then realized he didn't understand anything.
Then Yve gasped sharply, her hand clutching her chest. Her knees buckled.
Lucas's brain stalled. What—? Fear and confusion shot through him like ice. She was… vulnerable? After everything he'd just witnessed? He felt the ground shift under his feet, like nothing made sense anymore.
"Yve?" Dylan's voice cracked, panicked. He caught her before she hit the ground. Lucas stepped forward, heart racing, torn between wanting to help and still trying to process what he had just seen. The power she'd displayed, the strange beauty of it—it was gone in an instant, replaced by fragility.
"She needs water," Dylan barked, lifting her into his arms with urgency.
Lucas's throat tightened. He couldn't reconcile the two halves of her—the force he had just witnessed, and the fragile girl in Dylan's arms. His thoughts were a jumble, sharp and frantic, and yet he followed, unable to tear his eyes away.
Lucas burst into the clearing where the convoy waited. "Start the vehicles—now!"
David shot up. "What's going on?"
Lucas pointed behind him. Dylan was barreling toward them, Yve limp in his arms. "She needs water. An ocean, a lake, a river—anything!"
Ava's eyes widened. "We have water. At home."
Lucas didn't hesitate. "Where's home?"
"Seven minutes north—past the old train yard," she said, voice tight.
Dylan's shout cut through the air, raw and furious. "Then why the hell are we still standing here?! Start the damn vehicles!"
Lara yanked open the van's side door. Dylan laid Yve gently across the back seat. Her skin was clammy, her breath shallow, a fragile flutter against the quiet hum of the town.
Elena pressed two fingers to her wrist, hands trembling. "She's burning up… what's happening?"
Ava's voice was tight, urgent. "Maybe a heart issue… our dad—he's a doctor. He might help."
Engines roared to life. Derek slammed the van into gear, the others scrambling into their vehicles. Ava guided them from the passenger seat. "Go straight, then left at the broken billboard!"
The convoy tore out of Hillsview Town, tires kicking up dust and gravel.
Lucas's heart skipped. He looked back at the van, at Yve, at the dust-choked horizon.
Time—was running out.