Day 4
Marga knelt on the gym floor like a general packing for war. Canned goods clinked dully as they hit the bottom of a worn nylon duffel. A roll of bandages. Half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. A kitchen knife wrapped in an old T-shirt bearing a faded high school mascot. It looked like it once said "Go Cougars," but now it just read "Goug."
Fitting.
"Don't forget the batteries," Xenia called from above, her voice echoing down like a god with trust issues.
"Already got 'em," Marga barked back without looking. Her tone said, This ain't my first apocalypse, sweetheart.
Xenia crouched on the gym rooftop, elbows digging into rough concrete as she scanned the horizon. Her flashlight lay beside her like a gun she didn't know how to shoot. In her hands was a makeshift map—drawn in charcoal on the back of a flattened cereal box. Captain Crunch never looked so tactical.
She had sketched every intersection they'd crossed, marked alleyways with collapsed roofs, and labeled zombie hotspots with a charming little skull-and-bones.
It wasn't accurate. It wasn't even straight.
But it was hers.
And right now, that made it gospel.
She squinted past the distant rooftops, beyond fences and overgrown streets, toward the glittering silver-blue line of the sea. It shimmered like a trap. Like something pretending to be calm.
But then she saw them.
Boats.
Two… maybe three.
Bobbing on the tide like lazy ghosts. Untouched. Waiting.
She blinked, leaned closer. Still there.
Her stomach tightened like someone had twisted a belt around her spine.
Water didn't rot.
Water didn't crawl.
Water didn't bite.
And more importantly: water didn't have stairs, and the infected hated anything that involved balance.
Her pulse picked up, hope mixing dangerously with logic. The boats were a chance. A stupid, reckless chance—but maybe better than dying in a gym next to a vending machine that only had trail mix left.
Still, she didn't call out.
Not yet.
She wasn't sure the group had the strength to pivot from wheels to sails.
From shelter to voyage.
From surviving to escaping.
She tucked the map into her back pocket and climbed down the rooftop hatch, boots thudding softly against the steel ladder. As she descended, the light from above flickered and disappeared—like the sky was closing its eye.
---
Downstairs, Nestor stood at the front of the gym, face pressed between two slats of boarded-up glass. His pistol rested on a crate beside him, lonely and probably out of ammo, but it made him feel better.
"You okay?" he asked without looking at her.
"I saw boats," she said, voice quiet like a confession.
He turned, his usually bored eyes sharpening.
"Boats?"
She nodded. "By the marina. Floating. No lights. No movement. Could be something. Could be nothing."
He scratched the side of his jaw, then muttered, "I can't swim."
She raised a brow, half amused. "I'll teach you. You won't be good at it, but you'll be wet and moving."
"Gee. Comforting."
"You want warm or honest?"
"I want dry."
She patted him on the shoulder, then turned. "Don't worry. If we take a boat, I'll make sure to keep you above sea level. Mostly."
---
Three Blocks Away
Meanwhile, in the land of stupid ideas and worse timing…
Rafe and Officer Tenorio crouched behind the rusted hulk of an old delivery truck. Their backs pressed against cold metal, breaths shallow, eyes locked on the shadows ahead.
"I swear," Rafe whispered, "if I die crouching behind this tetanus trap, I want someone to put that on my grave."
Tenorio didn't look at him. "You always this chatty on scavenging runs?"
"Only when I'm about to die."
The air smelled like mildew and burnt rubber—probably because a storefront nearby had tried to torch itself a week ago. Or maybe that was just the smell of modern history.
Tenorio motioned down the block. "Delivery depot's a hundred yards. Used to be a van parked there. If it's got gas and rubber, we're golden."
Rafe gripped his crowbar tighter. "I hate relying on luck. Luck owes me money."
Tenorio smirked, but it faded quickly as a low groan echoed from the alley across the street.
Three infected staggered into view. One was missing half a face and had a noticeable limp. Another dragged a rusted shovel still tied to its wrist like a grim accessory. The third—smaller—stood still. Unmoving. Child-sized. Its head twitched side to side like a broken metronome.
Tenorio grabbed a pebble and lobbed it toward a dumpster.
Clink.
The child-sized one snapped toward the noise. Then it sprinted.
The other two followed, shambling fast.
Tenorio and Rafe didn't wait.
They darted across the road and ducked into the side door of the depot, kicking past broken crates and discarded promo banners for frozen pizza. The air was thick with mold and memory.
"There," Rafe hissed.
A delivery van. White. Ugly. Dented like it had opinions.
All four tires were intact. A miracle.
"Check the tank."
Tenorio nodded, popped the driver's door, and yanked the fuel release. They crept to the side, peeled the cover open.
Tenorio slid in a zip-tied straw, pulled it out.
"Wet," he whispered. "Quarter full. It'll run."
"You hotwire?" Rafe asked, cocking a brow.
Tenorio just grinned.
He dropped into the seat, ripped open the panel, and started connecting wires like he was defusing a bomb. Xenia didn't know this, but Tenorio's badge had a few questionable chapters in its past. Jail time teaches you things. So does being a dirty cop with clean regrets.
Spark.
The engine coughed once.
Twice.
Then roared.
"Let's go!"
Rafe leapt in. Tenorio slammed the gearshift and punched it. The depot's roll-up gate snapped open with a rusty wail, chains slapping the floor as the van burst through like a rhino on Red Bull.
The three infected from earlier turned with jerky screeches.
But more followed.
Six. Seven. Twelve.
Rafe looked back. "Oh, great. We've started a parade."
"Keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times," Tenorio barked as the van fishtailed on broken concrete, then surged forward. "We're not stopping."
As they tore down the cracked boulevard, weaving past debris and the occasional flaming trash pile, Rafe grinned through the terror.
"You think this bucket'll make it back to the gym?"
Tenorio shrugged. "We're already running on luck. Let's see how far it takes us."
Back at the gym
Xenia heard the van before she saw it—the rumble of an engine, the screech of brakes, then the unmistakable sound of hope knocking on plywood.
"It's them," she breathed, peeking through a gap.
Rafe was pounding on the side door like an overenthusiastic pizza guy.
"We've got a van!" he hollered.
Motion exploded.
Marga snatched the duffels. Nestor grabbed his pistol. Xenia folded her map, her flashlight, and the one little photo she kept hidden in her pocket: her mom, pre-apocalypse, holding a fresh diploma and laughing.
---
Every pack had been prepped with military precision. Three days' worth of food, give or take. Water bottles muffled in gym towels to keep the clink down. One duffel even had half a birthday cake candle. Marga said it was for morale. No one questioned it.
Weapons were—creative.
Nestor carried a metal pipe weighted like Thor's little cousin. Marga had her sharpened broomstick. Xenia had taped a broken dumbbell to a belt loop and tied hand wraps tight across her forearms. Rafe wielded a kettlebell in one hand and a chunk of locker door as a shield. Tenorio? Still had his pistol. One clip. No miracles.