When Liam finally woke, the sun was already high. He'd gotten used to the undead noise long ago. Even in broad daylight, when the horde below stirred and groaned with more volume, it no longer pulled him from sleep unless something was seriously wrong.
He came to with a strange softness under his cheek. His eyes blinked open slowly. His head was resting on Manila's chest—right on the left side, where the plush curve was gently flattened beneath the weight of him. Soft. Real. He knew. He'd tested it once with his hand, not in lust but curiosity, and Manila hadn't flinched. Real breasts lay flat when a woman's lying down. Implants didn't. Hers were real, and impossibly soft.
"What time is it?" Liam mumbled, lifting his head groggily. Around them, everyone else was already up, spread out across the rooftop in that kind of bored quiet that came from having absolutely nothing to do.
Manila smirked, sat up a bit, and pulled his wrist up to show him his own watch. "You've gone dumb from sleep? You've got a watch, genius."
Eleven-thirty. Liam frowned, swung himself upright, rubbed at his head. A dull throb sat behind his eyes. "Why didn't anyone wake me? Nothing happened?"
"Nope. That's why no one did." Manila dragged her pack closer, pulled out a pack of crackers and a bottle of water, handed them to him. She smiled a little as he took them and stood.
"You okay? You look off," she said, watching him closely.
"Didn't sleep till late," Liam muttered. He walked to the northern edge of the rooftop, leaned over the rusted railing, cracked the seal on the crackers and started chewing. The stench drifting up from below was awful, but it didn't faze him. In a crisis, eating came first. You needed fuel before you did anything else.
"Hey," came a soft voice behind him.
He turned and saw Christine approaching, walking slowly, a little awkwardly, but upright. "Hey," he greeted with a smile, holding out the crackers. "You want some?"
"Thanks. I already ate." She waved it off, her expression unreadable, like something was on her mind. After yesterday, he couldn't blame her. It had been more than embarrassing. But she seemed a little steadier today.
"How're you feeling?" he asked.
"It hurts when I move, but it's okay," she said, brushing a hand lightly behind her, motioning to where she was injured.
Liam nodded. "Good."
He looked back down at the street. A few zombies caught sight of him and began reaching, howling toward the sky like he was something divine just out of reach.
"I didn't get a chance to say this yesterday… but thank you," Christine said suddenly, her voice a little hesitant.
"You don't need to thank me." He turned back toward her with a small smile, but then his brow furrowed slightly. "Did you change the dressing?"
"What?" Christine blinked, confused for a moment, then blushed. "Change it?"
He knew what that meant—she hadn't. And in a place like this, not changing the bandage could mean infection or worse. Tetanus could kill you out here.
"Manila!" Liam called.
When she came over, he pulled her aside and quickly explained how to handle the dressing. It wasn't complicated, just needed a little care.
"You're not doing it yourself?" Manila teased, raising an eyebrow, glancing back at Christine.
"Don't start," Liam muttered, giving her backside a light smack. "Go. Don't let this wait."
Manila grinned and led Christine toward the tanks. Christine looked back twice. Liam was still turned toward the edge, his back to her. For some reason, that made her heart sink a little.
He had already counted the food. Even with rationing, they'd stretch it no more than three days—and that was only because Strong, stubborn as he was, refused to eat more than he absolutely had to. He and his daughter had been saved by Liam's group, and now they were eating their supplies. He took only what he had to. The man could've burned through the food on his own in three days if he wanted to. His daughter, on the other hand, barely touched her meals. Quiet. Withdrawn. She hadn't spoken a word to anyone except her father since joining them.
Liam had talked to Strong. Just as he'd guessed, the man was a general. Retired right before the outbreak. He lived in Manhattan with his wife and daughter. He used to have two sons—one died in combat, the other was still enlisted when the world ended. They lost contact after the collapse. His daughter, Kayleeti, had still been in high school.
His wife didn't make it. She turned. Neighbors died. Friends disappeared. Strong and his daughter fled until they fell in with Brook's group. At first, there were more than thirty survivors. Brook killed more than half of them—those who resisted his authority, or refused to participate in the abuses he and his men carried out. Rape, human bait tactics, cruelty for control. Strong had opposed him and paid the price. Bound and thrown aside. Brook hadn't killed him only because of their bloodline. Same with Kayleeti. If she hadn't been Brook's cousin, she'd have been brutalized like the others.
Even now, when Strong talked about Brook, his voice would rise in fury. Liam had to shush him more than once to keep the noise from drawing zombies. But Strong had made his vow—if he ever saw Brook again, he'd kill him. He said Brook had stained their bloodline.
"You come up with anything yet?" Strong's voice pulled Liam back from the edge. He stood beside him, also staring down.
"…Yeah," Liam answered after a pause. He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and took a sip, then added, "But it's risky. Really risky. We wait. Only if there's no other choice."
Strong's eyes narrowed. "What kind of plan?"
"It's not really a plan. It's simple. Too simple." Liam glanced toward the others. "I can't say it now. Some of them might act on impulse."
Strong raised his brows, but didn't push. He understood. This wasn't the time to get people worked up on a maybe.
But a few moments later, Liam heard Strong shouting. He didn't have to turn to know what had happened. It was Jason. Again.
"I told you—stay away from my daughter. She's not well. Leave her be!"
Same scene, third time. Jason kept trying to talk to Kayleeti. No harm in it, no bad intentions. He just wanted to make her smile, make her talk. She hadn't said a word. But Strong was a wall, immovable, unyielding.
"Sorry, I just… I wanted to talk to her. She's been so quiet…" Jason stammered, his voice carrying over the rooftop. No one moved to stop the scolding. Even Laura stayed quiet, despite being Jason's aunt. Strong was older, his authority clear. He never hit Jason, but he made his point.
Jason wandered back to Liam's side, slouched and sulking, then picked up a piece of brick and tossed it off the roof. He mumbled something under his breath.
"You like her?" Liam asked, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Jason hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. "Yeah."
Liam looked out at the dead below. "Liking someone in times like this… Good, you still have hope in your heart."
…
Two days passed. Noon. The rooftop.
The food was gone. People were either restless or utterly silent.
No food meant death. It was that simple.
Liam stood at the railing, eyes locked on the endless tide of the undead below. Waiting. Watching. Hoping for that one right moment where risk might be worth the price.