Page 56 of Romancing in Rot

HELLO, PEACHES.

LEON

Don’t freak out.

You’re cool.

Calm.

You are not losing it because Clair read a letter this morning that exposed years of pining, raw emotion, and the fact that you apparently remember her ninth-grade sundress in alarming detail.

Great fucking balls of fire.

I have been trying not to look at her since I got back from my watch hour.

Which means I’ve looked at her roughly every eleven seconds.

When I’m not looking at her, the city drags my attention over the tree line. The towers look like broken teeth from here, black against the low clouds. Smoke stains the horizon in old streaks, and the wind drags the city toward us in pieces.

Death coats my tongue before we even head into the city. Not one corpse. Not a few. Thousands. Rot layered over rot, thick enough to stick in the back of my throat.

The engines cut one by one. Fuel gauges hover on empty. Doors open. Boots hit pavement. Movement stays tight and controlled because everyone feels it. This is it. All the training. Planning. Prepping. Every lesson. Every ammo count. Every argument over routes. It all leads here.

Our last chance to make it to Montana.

Earl, Edith, Barbara, and Poppy stay back with the vehicles tucked off the road behind a collapsed service station and a line of dead trees. They’ll guard the cars and keep the exit clean. No one likes leaving them behind. No one likes taking them closer either.

Poppy stands beside Barbara with her small bow in hand, mouth pressed into a hard line. Clair crouches in front of her, brushing Poppy’s hair out of her face. I can’t hear what she says, but Poppy nods once, fierce and scared. Clair presses a kiss to her forehead and stands quickly, shouldering her rifle.

The rest of us gear up. Weapons. Med bag. Enough knives on Lyla to make the rest of us feel underprepared. Clair checks her rifle and crowbar, hands steady, shoulders too tight.

Lyla crosses to her and holds out a spare magazine.

Clair pauses before taking it.

“You’re on overwatch with Joanie,” Lyla says, low enough that only Clair and I can hear. “Distance when we have it. Clean shots. If it turns close, you fall back to me or Leon.”

Clair’s fingers close around the magazine. “Understood.”

Lyla studies her for one more second, sharp and unreadable. “I wouldn’t put you there if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

Clair goes still.

So do I.

Clair tucks the magazine away, her shoulders still tight but steadier than before. “Then I’ll handle it.”

Lyla’s mouth tilts. “Guess Leon wasn’t wrong.”

She turns away before either of us can answer, heading back to the rest of the group.

My cheeks heat, but it’s nothing compared to the pink in Clair’s.

At the back of the truck, Trish finishes tucking Clair’s carefully labeled supply bundles into each of our bags. They aren’t weapons exactly. More like loud little distractions packed with enough warning labels to make even Jacob nervous.

Joanie called them baby boom-booms until Trish threatened to take hers away.

I check everything twice. Bow. Arrows. Knife. Hatchet. Backup blade. Notebook. Pencil.