(REILO POV)
The van smelled like blood, old sweat, and the faint sweetness of rot. Reilo sat in the passenger seat, his left hand pressed against the dashboard to steady himself as the woman—Stephanie—whipped the wheel, sending them careening around a rusted-out sedan. Headlights flickered in the side mirror. Three bikes. Closing fast.
She drove like she wanted to die. Or she didn't care if she did.
Reilo watched her from the corner of his eye. Black hair in a messy ponytail, scar on her cheek, left arm wrapped in dirty bandages. She held the wheel with her right hand, knuckles white, jaw tight. The pipe wrench she'd used to bash a Shambler's skull sat on the floor by her feet, still wet.
His veins throbbed. The black ones, crawling up his neck, pulsing with every beat of his heart. A warning. He'd pushed too hard back at the station. The speed, the machete work, the fire—it all fed the rot. He could feel it spreading, a cold numbness creeping up his jaw.
"You see that?" Stephanie's voice cut through.
He looked. Ahead, the road split. Left went toward a collapsed overpass, right into a dark tunnel. She was already angling right.
"Tunnel," he said. "They'll have night vision."
"I know." She didn't slow.
Reilo reached into his jacket, fingers finding the Glock. He checked the magazine by feel. Fifteen rounds. Spare in his pocket. He didn't have the hook on—it was in the van's back, wrapped in a rag. Stupid. He should've worn it.
The tunnel swallowed them. Darkness, thick and absolute. Stephanie killed the headlights.
"What the fuck—" he started.
"Trust me."
He didn't. But he didn't have a choice.
She yanked the wheel hard left. The van skidded, metal screeching against concrete, and slammed into something—a parked car, a barrier, he couldn't see. The impact threw him forward. His forehead cracked against the dashboard. Stars burst behind his eyes.
The bikes entered the tunnel behind them, headlights cutting twin white paths.
Stephanie was already moving. She threw her door open, grabbed his collar, and dragged him out. "Move."
He stumbled, legs unsteady, but followed. She pulled him behind a concrete pillar as the first bike roared past. The second followed. The third stopped.
Reilo's hand found the Glock. He raised it, sighting on the rider's helmet, but Stephanie's palm slammed it down.
"Not yet."
The rider dismounted, heavy boots crunching on broken glass. A flashlight beam swept the van. "Empty," the rider called out. "They bailed."
"Find them," another voice echoed from ahead. "The boss wants the runner alive. The woman is expendable."
Reilo's jaw tightened. The boss. Ashford.
The first rider came back, flashlight dancing. It swept past their pillar. Paused. Kept moving.
Reilo's heart hammered. The black veins throbbed harder.
Stephanie's hand found his wrist. Her grip was stronger than he expected. She pulled him deeper into the tunnel, toward a service door half-hidden in the shadows. The lock was rusted. She braced her foot against the wall and yanked. The door groaned open.
They slipped through.
Behind them, a voice: "Check that door."
Reilo didn't look back. They ran through darkness, his boots splashing in stagnant water, Stephanie's breathing ragged beside him. The tunnel sloped downward, walls slick with mold. A dead end loomed ahead—a metal grate blocking a drainage pipe.
"Fuck," Stephanie hissed. She shoved at the grate. It didn't move.
Reilo stepped past her. His fingers found the bolts. Four of them, rusted but solid. He didn't have time for finesse. He grabbed the top bar of the grate, planted his feet, and pulled.
The rot screamed in his veins. His vision blurred. But the metal groaned, the bolts snapped, and the grate swung open.
"Go."
She didn't argue. She dropped into the pipe, and he followed.
The pipe was tight, barely wide enough for his shoulders. Water ran ankle-deep, cold and foul. They crawled, elbows scraping concrete, the sounds of the tunnel fading behind them. Stephanie led, her ragged breaths echoing. Reilo focused on moving. One arm. The stump of his right arm banged against the wall, sending jolts of pain up his shoulder.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. He lost track.
Then light. A faint gray glow ahead.
Stephanie stopped. "Street," she whispered. "Looks clear."
She pulled herself out first, then reached back for him. He took her hand, and she hauled him onto a narrow alley. Garbage, dead rats, the smell of decay. Dawn was breaking, weak light filtering through collapsed buildings.
They sat against the wall, breathing. Reilo's chest felt like it was caving in. The black veins had spread. He could see them now, crawling up past his jaw, toward his ear.
Stephanie stared at them. "What the fuck is that?"
He didn't answer.
"The speed," she said slowly. "At the station. No one moves like that. Not without… something."
"Something," he echoed. His voice came out rough.
She pulled a canteen from her jacket, drank, then handed it to him. He took it. The water was warm, tasted like metal, but it helped.
"You said you had information about Ashford." Her eyes were on him, hard and sharp. "Start talking."
Reilo capped the canteen, handed it back. "He's not just a warlord. He's building something. An army. Not of people. Of… things."
"Things?"
"The Doctor's work. The one who made the virus. Ashford has his research. He's been experimenting on people. Turning them into soldiers that don't feel pain, don't stop."
Stephanie's expression didn't change, but her hand went to the knife on her belt. "How do you know?"
"I was one of them."
The silence stretched. Dawn light crept higher, painting her face in gray and gold.
"The injection," she said. "Military?"
He nodded. "They told us it was a booster. Reflexes, strength. They didn't tell us it had N-7 in it. My whole squad got it. I was the only one who didn't turn."
"So now you're… what?"
"Dying." He touched his neck, the skin hot under his fingers. "The rot spreads every time I push myself. They gave me six months. That was eight months ago."
Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "So why Ashford? Why not find a cure?"
"Because Ashford ordered the injection. And because…" He stopped. The words stuck in his throat. He thought about his brother. About the day they took him, the last time he saw his face. "He has someone I need to find."
"Who?"
"My brother."
Stephanie didn't push. She sat back, running a hand through her tangled hair. "The bikers. They'll keep looking."
"They will."
"So we move. You help me get to Ashford, I help you find your brother. Then we both put a bullet in his head."
Reilo looked at her. The scar on her face, the burn scars on her arm, the weight of seventeen names on a rifle stock somewhere in her van. She was a hunter. A killer. And she was offering him a deal.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I have a name carved on my rifle. First one. It's been there two years. I'm tired of waiting."
She stood, offering her hand. He took it, and she pulled him up.
"We need to get back to the van," she said. "They might have left it."
"Or they're waiting for us."
"Then we kill them and take their bikes." She shrugged. "Either way, we're going east."
Reilo nodded. The rot pulsed in his veins, but he pushed it down. East. His brother. Ashford.
One way or another, it ended.
They stepped out of the alley into the gray dawn, two predators moving toward the sound of engines.