The sun was sinking by the time Keith spotted shelter. It wasn't more than just an abandon two‑story house set back from the road, windows dark, garage door left open. They would definitely have to make sure it was secure, no walkers lurking inside, before hunkering down for the night.
The neighborhood was silent, houses empty with broken windows and doors left wide open. This two-story haven was one of the homes left in better conceit than the rest. Almost untouched.
Keith slowly lifted his foot off the pedal, searching the horizon and surroundings for any movement. Nothing. No shadows in the windows, no telltale shuffle of the infected. "We'll stop here for the night." He said and let out a soft sigh.
“Here?” Lance asked, breaking the silence. His voice was lighter than before, but Keith could hear the edge beneath it. He didnt like the idea of staying in someone else's house, it was kind of obvious. But, Keith had slept in weirder places.
“It’ll do,” Keith muttered.
He pulled into the driveway, easing the truck into the garage. The door groaned as he forced it down, the sound echoing too loud in the stillness. Keith’s shoulders tensed until the latch clicked shut. For the first time in days, the truck was hidden from sight. Inside, the air smelled of dust and mildew. A child’s bicycle lay on its side near the workbench, its tires flat. Tools were scattered across the floor, as if someone had dropped everything mid‑repair and never come back.
Keith killed the engine and grabbed his katana. “Stay here.” he said as he got out of the truck.
“Uh, no way,” Lance shot back, already climbing out. “You think I’m just gonna sit in the murder‑garage while you play hero? Not happening.”
Keith glared at him, but Lance only raised his chin stubbornly. With a sigh, Keith shined his light around the garage, "looks like there garage is clear... lets keep moving..." He pushed open the main door, surprised it wasn't locked, "keep an eye out, stick close."
The living room was a time capsule. Family photos were left on the walls, a blanket was draped over the couch, and a TV left on with nothing but static. Dust coated everything, muting the colors. Keith’s boots left prints on the carpet as he moved through the house, trying not to sneeze.
Lance trailed behind, quieter now. His eyes lingered on the photos: a smiling couple, two kids in soccer uniforms. He swallowed hard.
“Think they made it out?” he asked softly.
Keith didn’t answer. He’d learned not to ask questions like that. It was more likely than not, that the family made it out, but ended up stranded in the side of the road as zombie chow. He didn't like thinking of it.
They moved room by room, clearing the house. Upstairs, Keith found a bedroom closet with a half‑empty duffel bag. Clothes, an extra flashlight, a box of protein bars inside. He tossed the bag onto the bed.
“Score,” Lance said, rifling through it. He tore open a bar and bit into it like he hadn’t eaten in days. Honestly, he hadn’t. Neither had Keith, but he wasn't focused on food right now. He was focused on finding supplies, maybe even some water.
Fresh water was one of those commodities that became near-impossible to find out here. So when you did, you held onto that for as long as you could. Another rule, don't drink the tap water. That shit was absolutely contaminated. It didn't matter where you went either. Unless it was filtered or bottled, you didnt touch it.
Keith checked the windows, making sure the curtains were drawn. The house was quiet, safe enough for one night. Hopefully.
Back downstairs, Lance had claimed the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. “Not bad. Beats sleeping in a truck, right?”
Keith made his way down, checking light switches. He headed into the kitchen and looked under the sink, sighing in relief as he saw the filtration system hooked up. He filled a cup and used the test straps he kept in his pocket to test the water. Once proven clean, he filled as many empty container as he could find in that kitchen, making sure nothing leaked, and then carried it all out to the truck.
He kept two water bottles and passed one to Lance, before he took a sip of his own and then sat in the armchair across from him, katana resting against his knee. He didn’t answer, but his body eased just slightly into the cushions.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t empty this time—it was heavy, but not unbearable. They both were a lot more thirsty than they'd realized. Clean water. Thank god for rich people that could afford the filtration system.
Lance broke it first. “So… west, huh? You got someone waiting for you?” he asked as he sat up a bit, setting his bottle on the floor beside the couch.
Keith’s throat tightened. He stared at the blade in his lap, the faint scratches along its edge. “Yeah. Got someone waiting.”
Lance nodded slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Then I guess we’re both looking for someone.”
Keith glanced up, surprised. Lance’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were tired in a way Keith recognized. He tapped his fingers on the bottle in his lap and let out a soft sigh. "We should sleep while we can..."
The house creaked around them, settling into the night. Outside, the world was still burning. Distant groans could be heard over the quiet of the little suburb, but, Keith couldn't help but worry that they might come to close and smell them, or hear them.
The house groaned as night settled in, wood and drywall shifting. Keith sat in the armchair, katana balanced across his knees, listening. Every creak made his muscles coil tighter. He was worried. Of course he was, he had every reason to be. The World was burning around them, so to speak.
Lance had dozed off on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, the other clutching the half‑eaten protein bar like it was treasure. His breathing was uneven, shallow. Keith wondered how long it had been since he’d slept somewhere with a roof. He closed his eyes and almost let himself relax.
A sound drifted in from outside. A low, dragging, rhythmic and unmistakable sound. Keith’s head snapped up. "Shit." Keith's eyes snapped open. He knew that sound. The shuffle of feet that didn’t belong to the living. Groaning and growling.
He was on his feet in an instant, blade in hand. He crossed to the window, careful not to disturb the curtain. A shadow moved across the street, then another. The groaning and moaning grew louder just outside the front door.
Not a horde. Not yet. But a few was enough.
Lance jerked awake, blinking blearily. “What—? Did you seriously wake me up for—”
"Shh!" Keith put a finger to his lips and gestured to the window—.
The first thud rattled the garage door.
Keith froze, katana still in his hand. Another impact followed, metal groaning in its frame. The infected had found them.
Lance sat bolt upright on the couch, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s them, isn’t it?”
Keith didn’t answer. He was already moving, checking the windows. Shadows shifted outside, more than he’d counted before. Too many.
The garage door shuddered again, harder this time. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.
“They’ll break through,” Keith said flatly.
Lance scrambled to his feet. “So what’s the plan, fearless leader? Because unless you’ve got a secret tunnel, we’re screwed.”
Keith’s gaze flicked to the garage. The truck. Old Red. He wasn’t leaving it behind. “Grab the duffle bag,” he ordered. “We’re driving out.”
Lance blinked. “Through them?”
Keith was already moving, katana in one hand, the garage door release in the other. “If that's what it takes..." he then raised a brow, "unless you'd rather to stay here.”
The door screeched as it rolled up, moonlight spilling into the garage. Figures lurched into view, their movements jerky, their eyes catching the light like animals.
They sprinted for the truck. Lance fumbled with the passenger door, nearly dropping the duffel in his panic. Keith shoved him inside, then swung into the driver’s seat.
The engine roared to life, loud enough to draw every infected in earshot. Shadows converged, clawing at the edges of the garage.
Keith slammed the gearshift into reverse and floored it. The truck shot backward, smashing through the half‑open door with a shriek of metal scratching against metal. Infected scattered, some bouncing off the body of the truck with sickening thuds.
Lance yelped, bracing himself against the dash. “You’re insane!”
Keith didn’t answer. He spun the wheel, tires screaming as Old Red fishtailed onto the street. More figures staggered into the headlights, arms reaching. Keith gunned the accelerator, plowing through the gap before it could close.
The truck barreled down the empty road, engine growling, the night air rushing in through the cracked windows. In the rearview mirror, the house shrank into darkness, the infected swarming where they’d been minutes before.
Lance slumped back in his seat, clutching the duffel like a lifeline. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright with adrenaline. “Okay,” he panted. “Okay. I take it back. You’re not insane. You’re—well, maybe a little insane—but that was… wow.”
Keith kept his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the wheel. His heart was still hammering, but he forced his voice steady. “Told you. We don’t leave the truck.”
Lance let out a shaky laugh, half‑relief, half‑disbelief. “Guess not. This thing's got guts.”
Keith didn’t smile, but something in his chest eased. The road stretched out ahead, endless and uncertain. But Old Red was still running.
The road stretched on through the night, endless black ribbon under Old Red’s tires. The headlights carved tunnels through the dark, catching the occasional glint of broken glass or the pale flash of something moving in the fields. Keith kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel.
Beside him, Lance fidgeted. He shifted, sighed, muttered under his breath. Finally, he broke the silence.
“You always this chatty on road trips?”
Lance groaned. “Figures. I get rescued by the strong, silent type. Great.”
But after a while, his voice softened. “Thanks, though. For not leaving me back there.”
Keith’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from the road. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The hours bled together. The sky lightened from black to gray, then to the pale wash of dawn. Keith’s eyes burned, but he didn’t stop. Not until the green glow of a familiar sign flickered on the horizon.
The building sat crooked at the edge of a small town, its windows cracked, its parking lot littered with debris. But the sign still hummed faintly, powered by a backup generator. Assuming it wasn't running on the current power grid.
Keith pulled Old Red into the lot, scanning for movement. Nothing stirred.
“Seriously?” Lance said, staring at the storefront. “We’re risking our lives for a Slurpee?”
Keith ignored him, parking by the pumps. He slid out of the truck, katana in hand, and crossed to the side door. The lock was broken. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint tang of gasoline.
Keith moved with purpose, heading straight for the back office. His fingers found the breaker panel by memory, flipping the right switches. The hum of machinery stirred to life, faint but steady.
Lance leaned in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “Okay, not gonna lie, that was hot. How do you even know how to do that?”
Keith shot him a look. “I work here... not here, here... but you get it.”
Lance blinked, then grinned. “Wait—you? Behind a counter? Selling Big Gulps and scratch‑offs? Oh, I need to see this mental image.”
Keith ignored him, moving to the register. The screen flickered, sluggish but alive, connecting to the satellite backup. He keyed in the override, and the pumps outside clicked on.
“Unbelievable,” Lance muttered, shaking his head. “The world ends, and you’re still clocking in.”
Keith didn’t rise to the bait. He rushed outside, grabbed a nozzle, filled the truck’s tank, then siphoned extra into a pair of red cans he found by the wall inside. Every drop mattered.
Inside, Lance had raided the shelves, emerging with an armful of snacks. “Breakfast of champions,” he said, tossing a bag of chips onto the dash.
Keith slid behind the wheel, starting the engine. The tank was full, the road waiting.
“So,” Lance said, crunching loudly, “where to now, fearless leader?”
Keith adjusted the mirror, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. “Texahoma”
Lance raised a brow. “Texahoma? What’s in Texahoma?”
The words hung in the cab, heavy and certain. Lance studied him for a moment, then nodded.
Old Red rumbled back onto the highway, the rising sun painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold. Behind them, the 7‑Eleven faded into the distance. Ahead, the road stretched wide and uncertain.
For the first time since the world ended, Keith wasn’t driving toward nothing.
He was driving toward hope, and hopefully Shiro.
The tank was full, the sun was climbing, and the highway stretched out like a scar across the land. Old Red hummed beneath them, steady and stubborn, the only constant in a world that had fallen apart.
Keith kept his eyes on the road, scanning for movement. The fields on either side were overgrown, fences sagging, houses collapsed into themselves. Every so often, they passed a car abandoned on the shoulder, doors hanging open, belongings scattered like breadcrumbs.
Lance had his feet propped on the dash, a bag of chips balanced on his knees. He crunched loudly, deliberately, like he was trying to fill the silence.
“So,” Lance said around a mouthful, “Texahoma. You got a plan once we get there, or are we just gonna drive around until we hit a barn?”
Keith didn’t answer right away. He shifted gears, eyes narrowing at a shape in the distance just a billboard, peeling and sun‑bleached.
“My brother told me to meet him there at my pop's old ranch...” he said finally.
Lance tilted his head. “Older brother?”
“Cool. I’ve got siblings too. Big family. Loud. Annoying. But, you know… I’d give anything to hear them yelling at me again.”
Keith glanced at him, just for a second. Lance’s smile was crooked, but his eyes were far away.
The road dipped, carrying them past a cluster of houses. Windows shattered, doors hanging open. A swing set creaked in the wind, its chains rusted. Keith’s grip tightened on the wheel.
Lance shifted, lowering his feet. “You ever think about how fast it all went down? Like… one day it’s school and work and Netflix, and the next it’s—” He gestured vaguely at the empty world outside. “This.”
Keith’s jaw clenched. “Thinking about it doesn’t change anything.”
“Yeah, but ignoring it doesn’t either.”
Keith didn’t reply. He pressed harder on the gas.
For a while, the only sound was the engine and the crunch of Lance finishing his chips. Then Lance leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.
“You know,” he said, “for a guy who saved my life, you’re not exactly Mr. Sunshine. Do you ever smile?”
Lance grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
The banter was grating, but Keith couldn’t deny the way it cut through the silence. The road didn’t feel quite as endless with someone else in the cab. It almost reminded him of the impromptu trips he'd take with Shiro and his friends to McDonald's at 2am. Shiro's friends were talkative too.
They drove until the sun was high, the heat pressing down through the windshield. Keith’s eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he kept going. He couldn’t stop. Not yet.
Lance must have noticed. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “You can’t drive forever. Even broody samurai guys need rest.”
Keith didn’t answer, but his hands ached on the wheel. He knew Lance was right. He just didn’t know how to stop moving. He couldn't sleep yet. Not yet. Just a few hundred more miles. He'd done worse.
The old highway stretched south, cracked and sun‑bleached, lined with the skeletons of billboards and the husks of cars that would never move again. Old Red rumbled steadily beneath them, her engine a low growl that filled the silence.
Keith’s eyes burned from fatigue, but he kept them fixed on the road. Every mile mattered. Every mile brought him closer to Shiro.
Beside him, Lance had finally stopped talking. He leaned against the window, arms folded, his reflection ghosting in the glass. His breathing was even, but Keith doubted he was asleep.
The silence was almost worse than the chatter.
They passed through the remnants of a small town. Many storefronts were boarded up, windows shattered, a church steeple leaning precariously. A dog darted across the street, ribs showing, tail tucked. Keith slowed instinctively, but the animal vanished into the brush before he could get a better look.
“Guess it’s not just us,” Lance murmured, startling him.
Keith glanced at him. Lance’s eyes were open now, fixed on the spot where the dog had disappeared.
“Animals,” Lance said. “They’re surviving. Adapting. Meanwhile, we’re…” He gestured vaguely at the empty world outside. “Not so much.”
Keith didn’t answer. He pressed harder on the gas.
By late afternoon, the heat was suffocating. The cab stank of sweat and gasoline. Keith’s hands ached from gripping the wheel. His eyelids felt heavy, his vision blurring at the edges.
“You’re gonna crash us if you don’t stop,” Lance said suddenly.
Keith’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re about two seconds from face‑planting into the steering wheel. Pull over.”
Lance leaned forward, voice sharper. “Keith. Pull. Over.”
The command in his tone startled him. Against his better judgment, Keith eased Old Red onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine, the sudden silence ringing in his ears.
Lance exhaled, slumping back. “Finally. I thought I was gonna have to wrestle you for the wheel.”
Keith shot him a glare, but his body betrayed him. The moment he let go of the wheel, exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. His muscles ached, his head throbbed.
He didn’t remember closing his eyes.
When he woke, the sky was streaked with purple and gold. The air was cooler, the cicadas loud in the grass. Old Red sat quiet, her hood warm beneath the fading sun.
Keith blinked, disoriented. Then he noticed the blanket draped over his shoulders.
Lance sat on the hood, legs dangling, a half‑empty water bottle in his hand. He glanced down when Keith stirred.
“About time,” he said. “You snore, by the way.”
Keith shoved the blanket off, scowling. “I don’t.”
“You do. Like a chainsaw. I was this close to stuffing a sock in your mouth.”
Keith rolled his eyes, but his chest felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Lance took the wheel this time, and drove on into the evening, the stars emerging one by one. The road signs grew fewer, the towns smaller. The world felt emptier with every mile.
By nightfall, they found another abandoned house—a single‑story ranch with a garage just big enough for Old Red. Keith parked inside, shutting the door behind them. The house smelled of dust and mold, but it was shelter.
They scavenged what they could: a few cans of food, a pack of bottled water, a box of matches. Lance found a deck of cards and grinned like he’d struck gold.
“Ever play poker?” he asked, shuffling clumsily.
“Perfect. I’ll teach you. And when I win, you owe me the good snacks.”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “You mean the ones you already stole?”
Lance smirked. “Details.”
They sat on the floor, the flicker of a candle casting shadows on the walls. Outside, the night pressed close, the world groaning with distant echoes. But inside, for the first time, there was laughter.
It was quiet, tentative, but real.
Keith didn’t let himself smile. Not fully. But as he watched Lance deal another crooked hand, he felt something he hadn’t in weeks.
But maybe the beginning of it.
The candle burned low, wax pooling on the floor between them. Lance was mid‑rant about how Keith had “no poker face whatsoever” when the sound came.
A thud. Distant, but heavy.
Keith froze, cards slipping from his hand.
Lance blinked. “What was—”
They both held still. The house creaked, the wind rattled the shutters. Then another thud, closer this time. Followed by the unmistakable scrape of something dragging across the driveway.
Keith was on his feet instantly, katana in hand. He crossed to the window, careful not to disturb the curtain.
The street outside was dark, but the moonlight caught movement. Figures. More than just a few. More than a dozen. Shit.
Not just stragglers. A group.
Lance crept up behind him, peering over his shoulder. His breath hitched. “Oh, no. Nope. Nope. That’s too many. That’s—how many is that? Ten? Twenty!?”
“Twenty too many,” Keith said flatly.
The figures shuffled closer, drawn by the faint glow of the candle, by the sound of voices, by the scent of life.
Keith’s mind raced. The garage door was shut, Old Red hidden inside. But if the horde surrounded the house, they’d be trapped.
“We have to move,” he said.
Lance’s eyes widened. “Now? As in now, now?”
Keith blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. “Get the bag. Quietly.”
Lance scrambled, stuffing the cards back into the duffel like they mattered. His hands shook, but he didn’t argue.
The thuds grew louder. Closer. Something slammed against the front door, rattling it in its frame.
Keith’s pulse hammered. He motioned for Lance to follow, leading him through the kitchen to the garage. The air was thick with dust and gasoline. Old Red loomed in the shadows, their only way out.
Keith slid into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, loud as a gunshot in the silence.
The infected reacted instantly. The front door splintered, wood cracking under the weight of bodies.
“Go, go, go!” Lance shouted, clutching the duffel to his chest.
Keith slammed the garage door opener. The metal screeched as it rolled up, revealing the street—and the horde closing in.
He floored the accelerator. Old Red shot forward, through the half‑open door. The truck plowed into the street, headlights cutting through the swarm. Bodies thudded against the hood, rolled off the sides.
Lance yelped, bracing himself against the dash. “You’re insane!”
Keith didn’t answer. He spun the wheel, tires screaming, carving a path through the mass of bodies. The truck fishtailed, then straightened, barreling down the road.
In the rearview mirror, the house vanished into darkness, swallowed by the horde. That could have easily been them.
Keith’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his heart pounding. Beside him, Lance was pale, wide‑eyed, but alive.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Finally, Lance let out a shaky laugh. “Okay. That was… horrifying. But also kind of badass. Remind me never to doubt you again.”
Keith didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the road, the horizon stretching south.
But inside, he knew one thing for certain.
This wasn’t random. The infected were moving in larger groups now. Organized.
And if they didn’t find Shiro soon, they might not survive long enough to.
Old Red’s headlights cut through the dark, beams bouncing off cracked asphalt and the occasional glint of broken glass. The world outside was silent, but Keith’s pulse still thundered in his ears. He kept his hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward.
Beside him, Lance sat stiff, duffel clutched in his lap. His face was pale, but his mouth wouldn’t stay shut.
“That was—” He broke off, shaking his head. “That was insane. Like, movie insane. You just—just drove through them like it was nothing.”
Lance huffed, leaning back against the seat. “Okay, fine. Be stoic. But admit it—you’re kind of a badass.”
Keith’s grip tightened. He didn’t feel like a badass. He felt like someone who’d barely kept them alive. One false move and they would have both been torn up and devoured between at least twenty of the undead.
The silence stretched. The hum of the engine, the rattle of loose tools in the back, the faint whistle of wind through the cracked window.
Finally, Lance spoke again, softer this time. “They’re moving in groups now. You noticed that, right?”
Keith’s stomach twisted. He had noticed. He just didn’t want to say it out loud.
“They’re changing,” Lance continued. “Getting smarter. Or hungrier. Or both.”
Keith pressed harder on the gas. “Doesn’t matter. We keep moving.”
Lance studied him for a moment, then sighed. “You really don’t do pep talks, do you?”
Hours passed. The sky began to pale, streaks of gray bleeding into the horizon. Keith’s eyes burned, his body heavy with exhaustion. He forced himself to stay alert, scanning the road for movement.
At first, he thought it was another abandoned car. But as they drew closer, the details sharpened: a pickup truck, newer than Old Red, parked sideways across the road. Its doors hung open, belongings scattered across the asphalt.
Keith slowed, instincts screaming.
“Roadblock?” Lance asked, sitting up straighter.
Keith eased Old Red to a stop a few yards away. The air was still. Too still. He scanned the scene. No bodies. No blood. Just silence.
Lance shifted uneasily. “I don’t like this.”
Neither did Keith. Against his better judgment, he killed the engine, the sudden quiet pressing in. His hand went to the katana, the weight of it grounding him.
Lance bristled. “Like hell. You think I’m just gonna sit in the truck while you—”
Their eyes locked. For a moment, Lance looked ready to argue. Then he slumped back, muttering under his breath.
Keith stepped out, boots crunching on gravel. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint smell of oil and something metallic. He moved slowly, scanning the truck.
The driver’s seat was empty. The backseat, too. A backpack lay on the ground, half‑unzipped, clothes spilling out.
Keith crouched, fingers brushing the fabric. Still warm.
Someone had been here. Recently.
A click. Sharp. Metallic.
From the treeline, a voice rang out. Low. Steady. Dangerous. “Step away from the truck.”
Two figures emerged from the treeline. The taller one carried the rifle with practiced ease, his face gaunt but steady. The smaller one moved like a shadow at his side, sharp eyes flicking over every detail, a pistol gripped tight in their hands.
Keith’s breath caught. He knew that face. Sharp angles, ginger hair, intense eyes that woukd normally be crinkled at the edges telling some stupid joke.
The taller figure stiffened, lowering the rifle just slightly. “Keith?” His voice cracked with disbelief.
Lance’s head popped out of the truck window, eyes wide. “Wait—you know these people?”
Keith’s grip on the katana eased, but only a fraction. “I know him. Through Shiro.”
Matt’s expression shifted—relief, recognition, something almost like hope. “Holy shit, Keith!” He chuckled in disbelief.
The smaller figure narrowed their eyes, stepping forward. “And who the hell are you?”
Keith blinked. He didn’t recognize her. Short, messy hair, glasses smudged, a scowl that could cut glass. She moved with the same sharpness as Matt, but there was no familiarity in her gaze.
Matt glanced at her. “Katie, it’s okay. He’s… he’s Shiro's brother.”
Katie—Pidge, Keith realized belatedly—didn’t lower her weapon. “That doesn’t mean we can trust him.”
Lance scoffed from the truck. “Wow, thanks for the warm welcome. Really feeling the love here.”
Katie’s glare snapped to him. “And who are you?”
“Lance,” he said, puffing his chest out despite the tension. “Survivor. Sharpshooter. Keith’s partner in not dying horribly.”
Keith groaned under his breath.
Matt finally lowered the rifle, though his shoulders stayed tense. “We’ve been tracking the hordes. They’re moving south, faster than before. And there are… other groups out here. Not all of them friendly.”
Katie’s eyes flicked between Keith and Lance, suspicion still sharp. “If you’re really tied to Shiro, then maybe we can work together. But if you’re lying…” She let the threat hang in the air.
Keith met her gaze, unflinching. “I’m not.”
The silence stretched, heavy with distrust and possibility.
For the first time since the outbreak began, Keith wasn’t staring down the road alone. But whether these new faces were allies or just another danger—that remained to be seen.
Once the weapons were lowered and the tension bled out of the air, the four of them stood awkwardly in the middle of the road. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
“Man, I can’t believe this. Keith, Shiro’s brother. Jesus. We used to hang out like all the time. You were always so stubborn. No wonder you're still kicking after all this.”
Keith shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do with the sudden flood of words.
Before he could respond, Lance jumped in. “Oh, thank god. Finally, someone else who talks. Do you know how long I’ve been stuck with Mr. Broody Samurai here? I was starting to think I’d lose my voice from lack of use.”
Matt laughed, the sound startling in the dead world. “Yeah, I can see that. You’re a talker, huh?”
“Talker? Please. I’m a conversationalist. A raconteur. A bringer of joy in these dark times.” Lance gestured dramatically, nearly smacking Keith in the shoulder.
Keith swatted his hand away with a scowl.
Katie—Katie, not Pidge, Keith reminded himself—crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Or you’re just annoying.”
Lance gasped, clutching his chest. “Rude. And here I thought we were bonding.”
Matt grinned. “Don’t mind her. Katie’s got a sharp tongue, but she’s good people.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Don’t speak for me.”
Keith almost smirked. Almost.
They decided to move together, at least for now. Old Red had the space, and Matt and Katie had supplies. It made sense.
The truck rumbled back onto the highway, the four of them crammed into the cab. Keith drove, jaw tight, eyes on the road. Katie sat beside him, arms folded, gaze sharp and suspicious.
In the backseat, Matt and Lance had already launched into a full‑blown conversation.
“So, what’s your story?” Matt asked.
“Oh, you know,” Lance said, leaning back like he was on a road trip instead of the end of the world. “City boy, tragically handsome, surviving on charm and wit. Then Keith here swoops in with his sword and his broody silence, and bam—we’re a team.”
Matt chuckled. “Sounds like a hell of a meet‑cute.”
“Right? I keep telling him that, but he doesn’t appreciate the narrative.”
Keith’s grip on the wheel tightened. “I can hear you.”
“Good!” Lance shot back. “Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate my genius.”
Katie groaned under her breath. “Do they ever shut up?”
Keith shook his head. “Not so far.”
The banter rolled on, filling the cab. Lance told exaggerated stories about their escape from the city, embellishing every detail until Matt was laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. Matt countered with tales of scavenging runs gone wrong, of near‑misses and narrow escapes, his voice animated, his hands painting pictures in the air.
Katie muttered corrections under her breath whenever Matt exaggerated, which only made Lance egg him on more.
Keith kept driving, jaw tight, but he couldn’t deny the effect. The chatter filled the silence, pushed back the weight of the empty world. For the first time in weeks, the road didn’t feel endless.
Still, he caught Katie watching him from the corner of her eye, suspicion sharp. She didn’t trust him. Not yet.
The truck felt smaller with four people crammed inside. Old Red’s suspension groaned under the weight, the cab thick with the smell of sweat, gasoline, and the faint sweetness of the candy bars Lance had insisted on hoarding.
Matt and Lance had hit it off instantly.
“…and then he just swung that sword, like—shhk!” Lance mimed a dramatic slash, nearly elbowing Matt in the ribs. “Zombie down. I swear, it was like watching a samurai movie in real life.”
Matt laughed, shaking his head. “That tracks. Shiro always said his brother had a flair for the dramatic.”
Keith’s jaw tightened. “I’m right here.”
“Yeah, and you’re proving my point,” Matt shot back, grinning.
Lance leaned forward between the seats, eyes sparkling with mischief. “See? He’s broody, but in a cool way. Like Batman. If Batman drove a beat‑up pickup and glared at everyone instead of, you know, fighting crime.”
Katie groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you two ever shut up?”
“Not if we can help it,” Lance said cheerfully.
Matt smirked. “It’s called morale, Katie. You should try it sometime.”
Keith caught the faintest twitch of her mouth, like she was fighting a smile. But her eyes stayed sharp, flicking to him every so often, measuring, weighing.
The road stretched on, the sun dipping lower. Shadows lengthened across the cracked asphalt. The chatter in the backseat blurred into background noise, but Keith’s focus stayed on the horizon.
The towns they passed were too quiet. No stray dogs, no birds, no distant groans of the infected. Just silence.
Katie noticed it too. She leaned closer, her voice low. “You feel that?”
“What?” Lance asked, immediately alert.
“Nothing,” Keith said. “That’s the problem.”
The laughter in the cab died. Matt shifted, his hand brushing the rifle at his side.
The truck rolled past a gas station, its windows shattered, its sign hanging by a single bolt. The lot was empty. Too empty.
Keith’s grip tightened on the wheel. His instincts screamed at him to keep moving.
And then, just as the last light of day bled into night, they saw it.
Smoke. Rising in the distance. Thick, black, curling into the sky.
Matt leaned forward, his voice grim. “That’s not an accident. Someone’s out there.”
Keith pressed harder on the gas, Old Red growling as the road carried them south.
The world wasn’t just full of the dead anymore.
It was full of the living.
The smoke didn’t fade. If anything, it thickened as they drove, curling into the sky like a signal fire. Keith kept Old Red steady on the cracked highway, every instinct screaming at him to turn back. But south was the only direction that mattered. South meant Shiro.
In the backseat, Matt and Lance were still talking.
“…so there I was, cornered in a laundromat with nothing but a broom handle and a bottle of detergent,” Matt was saying, his hands painting the scene in the air. “And I swear, I thought that was it. But then—bam!—I knock the thing back, detergent spills everywhere, and the floor turns into an ice rink. Zombies slipping all over the place. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Lance wheezed with laughter, nearly choking on the candy bar he’d been nursing. “That’s genius! Why didn’t I think of that? Keith, did you hear this? We’ve been doing it all wrong. Forget swords, we need soap.”
Keith’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Soap won’t save you when they’re tearing through your door.”
“Wow,” Lance muttered. “Way to kill the mood.”
Katie, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, smirked faintly. “He’s not wrong, though.”
Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the seatbacks. “Hey, don’t listen to them, Lance. You and me? We’re the idea guys. The talkers. The ones who keep morale up.”
“Exactly!” Lance said, pointing at him like they’d just solved the apocalypse. “Finally, someone gets it.”
Keith exhaled through his nose, forcing his eyes back to the road. The chatter filled the cab, relentless, but he couldn’t deny the way it pushed back the silence.
Still, the smoke loomed closer.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and reds, they were close enough to smell it. Acrid, bitter, clinging to the back of the throat.
Katie leaned forward, her voice low. “That’s not just a fire. That’s buildings. Houses, maybe.”
Matt’s smile faded. “Or a camp.”
Lance shifted uneasily. “Camp as in… survivors?”
“Or raiders,” Katie said flatly.
The cab went quiet. Even Lance had no comeback for that.
Keith slowed Old Red, scanning the horizon. The smoke rose from beyond a ridge, the glow of flames flickering faintly against the darkening sky.
His stomach twisted. He’d seen this before—towns burned to the ground, not by the infected, but by the living.
He pulled the truck onto the shoulder, killing the engine. The sudden silence pressed in, broken only by the crackle of fire carried on the wind.
Matt leaned forward. “What’s the plan?”
Keith’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have one. Not yet.
Katie’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. “If we drive straight into that, we’re dead. We need to scout it first.”
Lance groaned. “Scout? As in, get out of the truck? With the zombies and the raiders and the—”
“Shut up, Lance,” Keith muttered.
The four of them sat in the dark cab, the glow of fire on the horizon painting their faces in flickering orange.
For the first time since they’d met, the chatter died completely.
From the cab, Keith could see the glow of fire licking at the horizon—too controlled to be an accident, too deliberate to be anything but human.
“Camp,” Matt muttered grimly.
Katie’s eyes narrowed. “Or a trap.”
Keith started the truck again, scanning the road. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, but before he could decide, movement flickered in the corner of his vision.
Figures burst from the treeline, shadows with weapons raised. A pipe clanged against the truck’s hood, another figure lunging for the passenger door.
“Raiders!” Katie shouted.
Keith slammed the accelerator, Old Red lurching forward. The truck barreled through the first wave, scattering them, but one raider clung to the side mirror, snarling.
Lance yelped, fumbling for the duffel. “They’re everywhere!”
Keith swerved hard, trying to shake the man loose. The raider swung a knife, slashing at the window. Glass shattered, shards spraying across the cab.
Keith didn’t think—he acted. He leaned across, shoving Lance down just as the knife arced through the window. The blade missed Lance’s throat by inches—
and buried itself in Keith’s side.
White‑hot pain exploded through him.
He gritted his teeth, forcing the wheel steady with one hand. The raider snarled, trying to climb inside, but Katie’s pistol cracked, the shot ringing in the cab. The man tumbled away, disappearing under Old Red’s tires.
“Keith!” Lance’s voice was panicked, too close. “You’re bleeding—oh god, you’re bleeding—”
“I'm fine. We gotta keep moving!,” Keith growled, shoving the accelerator down.
Matt twisted in the backseat, rifle raised, firing into the treeline as more figures appeared. Bullets sparked against the asphalt, but Old Red roared forward, outpacing the ambush.
The road opened up again, the firelight fading behind them. The raiders’ shouts grew distant, swallowed by the night.
Only then did Keith ease off the gas, his vision swimming. His hand pressed against his side, warm and wet.
Lance was already leaning over him, frantic. “You’re hit. You saved me and—dammit, Keith, why would you—”
Keith’s jaw clenched. “Because you’d be dead.”
Katie’s eyes flicked to him, sharp but not unkind. “We need to stop. Patch him up before he bleeds out.”
Matt nodded, already digging through the duffel. “There’s a first‑aid kit in here. We’ll make it work.”
Keith forced his eyes back to the road, refusing to let them close. Old Red rumbled beneath him, steady and stubborn, carrying them south.
The road blurred. Every bump in the asphalt sent a jolt of fire through Keith’s side. He kept one hand clamped over the wound, the other locked on the wheel.
“Keith, you’re bleeding out!” Lance’s voice cracked, panicked. He leaned across the cab, trying to press a rag against the wound. “Pull over, let me—”
“I said I’m fine,” Keith growled, though his vision swam.
Katie’s sharp voice cut through. “You’re not fine. If you keep driving, you’ll pass out and kill us all. Pull over. Now.”
Keith’s jaw clenched. He hated that she was right. With a grunt, he eased Old Red onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. The truck idled, engine rumbling like a heartbeat.
Matt was already moving, hauling the duffel into his lap. “First‑aid kit. Got it. Katie, light.”
Katie flicked on a flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark cab. Her face was pale but steady, her hands sure as she tore open gauze.
Lance hovered, frantic. “He saved me. He—he took the knife instead of me. If he—”
“Lance,” Matt said firmly, “breathe. He’s not dying on my watch.”
Keith hissed as Matt pressed gauze to the wound. The pain was sharp, hot, but he forced himself not to flinch.
“Through and through,” Matt muttered, inspecting the wound. “Clean stab. Missed anything vital, thank god. You’ll live, but it’s gonna hurt like hell.”
“Already does,” Keith rasped.
Katie tied the bandage tight, her movements efficient. “That’ll hold for now. But you need rest. And antibiotics, if we can find them.”
Keith shook his head. “We keep moving.”
Katie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not invincible. Push too hard, and you’ll slow us all down.”
Lance bristled. “Hey, back off. He just saved my life.”
Katie shot him a glare. “And if he collapses behind the wheel, we all die. You want to thank him? Make sure he doesn’t get us killed.”
The cab went quiet. The only sound was Keith’s ragged breathing and the steady hum of Old Red’s engine.
Finally, Matt broke the silence, his voice lighter, almost forced. “Well… guess that makes us even more of a team now, huh? Four against the world.”
Lance let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. The apocalypse dream team. Broody swordsman, genius siblings, and me—the comic relief.”
Keith closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat. He wanted to tell them to shut up, to let him focus on the pain. But the chatter—annoying, relentless—kept him anchored. Kept him awake.
Outside, the night pressed close. The smoke still curled on the horizon, a reminder of what waited for them.
Keith tightened his grip on the wheel. He wasn’t done. Not yet.
They had to keep moving. Toward Texas. Toward Shiro.
The road hummed beneath Old Red’s tires, steady and relentless. The headlights carved narrow tunnels through the dark, the world beyond swallowed in shadow.
Keith sat slumped in the passenger seat, one hand pressed against the bandage at his side. Every bump sent a jolt of pain through him, but he kept his jaw tight, refusing to let it show.
In the backseat, Matt and Katie had finally dozed off, exhaustion dragging them under. Matt’s head lolled against the window, Katie curled up with her arms folded tight, pistol still within reach.
He gripped it tighter than Keith ever did, knuckles white, shoulders tense. His eyes flicked constantly between the road and the mirrors, like he expected raiders to burst from the dark at any second.
For a long time, the only sound was the engine and the faint rattle of loose tools in the bed.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Keith turned his head, frowning. “Do what?”
“You know what.” Lance’s voice was low, tight. “Back there. You shoved me down. Took the knife instead. You could’ve let me take the hit.”
Keith’s eyes narrowed. “You’d be dead.”
“Yeah, well—so could you.” Lance’s grip tightened on the wheel. “And you didn’t even hesitate. Why?”
Keith looked out the window, the night rushing past in streaks of shadow. He didn’t answer right away.
Finally, he said, “Because I’ve already lost too many people.”
Lance blinked, startled. He glanced at Keith, but Keith’s gaze stayed fixed on the dark horizon.
“I couldn’t stop it before,” Keith continued, voice rough. “Couldn’t save them. But I could save you. So I did.”
The words hung heavy in the cab.
Lance swallowed, his throat tight. He’d expected Keith to brush him off, to say something cold or sarcastic. Not this. Not raw honesty.
For once, Lance didn’t have a comeback.
He just drove, the silence between them no longer empty, but full of something unspoken.
Keith shifted, wincing as the pain flared. He closed his eyes, letting the hum of the engine lull him.
Lance glanced at him again, softer this time. “You’re not as heartless as you pretend, you know.”
Keith didn’t answer. But for the first time in a long time, he let himself drift, trusting someone else to keep the truck moving forward.
The road stretched on, endless and dark. Old Red’s headlights carved narrow tunnels through the night, the world beyond swallowed in shadow.
Keith shifted in the passenger seat, biting back a hiss as pain flared in his side. The bandage was tight, but every bump in the road reminded him of the knife. He kept his hand pressed against it, refusing to let Lance see how bad it hurt.
Lance’s hands gripped the wheel like a lifeline. His knuckles were white, his jaw tight, but his eyes stayed fixed on the road. For once, he wasn’t filling the silence with chatter.
Then Lance broke the silence, clearly still focused on the fact that Keith had saved his life. “You could’ve let me take the hit. You didn’t even hesitate.”
Keith was quiet for a long time. The hum of the engine filled the silence, steady and relentless.
Finally, he said, “I already told you, I couldn’t watch it happen again.”
Lance blinked, startled. “Again?”
Keith’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at him. “I’ve lost people. People I should’ve protected. People I should’ve saved. And I didn’t. I couldn’t. But this time…” He exhaled, the words rough. “This time, I could.”
Lance swallowed hard, his throat tight. He’d expected Keith to brush him off, to say something cold or sarcastic. Not this. Not raw honesty.
“You think it’s your job to save everyone,” Lance said softly.
Keith finally turned his head, meeting his eyes. “No. Just the ones I can.”
The words hit Lance harder than he expected. He looked back at the road, blinking fast.
For once, he didn’t have a comeback.
They drove in silence for a while, the weight of the conversation settling between them. In the backseat, Matt shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. Katie stirred but didn’t wake, her head resting against the window.
Lance cleared his throat, his voice lighter now, almost forced. “You know, for a guy who pretends he doesn’t care, you’re really bad at hiding it.”
Keith rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.
Lance caught it and grinned. “Ha. I saw that. That was almost a smile.”
Keith shook his head, leaning back against the seat. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure I am,” Lance said, smug.
The road stretched on, the night pressing close. But for the first time since the world ended, the silence between them didn’t feel empty.
