Page 63 of Romancing in Rot

Trish mutters, “Come on.”

A wet snarl rips through the street behind us. The infected from the broken storefront finally reach the edge of the intersection.

One of the kids with a gun in the upper window curses. The muzzle shifts, and Leon moves in front of me by a fraction. Enough to make his point.

His heat presses against my front, his body tense with controlled violence.

We don’t have much time.

My pulse hammers. Chicago presses in from every side. The buildings feel too tall. The windows too black. The alleys too narrow. Every shadow looks like Russ for half a breath before logic catches up. My scar throbs beneath my jeans like my body knows we’re closer to him than we’ve been since the day he shot me.

Carlos mutters something under his breath, too low to catch. His gaze darts toward the infected alley, toward the dog, then toward us.

We all hold. No one moves. Our breaths fog in front of us.

A gunshot cracks from somewhere down the alley, close enough to make the radio spit static.

Everyone flinches hard.

Carlos screams, “LUIS!”

My heart slams against my ribs. Jacob’s gun is halfway out before Joanie’s voice snaps through the walkie.

“Stop screwing around,” she says. No joke now. Just ice. “Walk away or the next one goes through his head.”

Carlos’s face drains of color, and for a beat, all the swagger drops away. What’s left is a kid. A terrified, furious kid who has kept other kids alive by becoming something sharp enough to scare people.

I understand that more than I want to.

Carlos exhales hard through his nose and turns to his crew. “Move.”

The girl with the half-shaved head looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Carlos⁠—”

“Move,” he snaps, then lifts the walkie again, eyes burning. “You better be good on your word.”

Joanie snorts. “Oh, fuck off. I’m not the one robbing people at gunpoint, dipshit. Now leave before we all become lunch.”

His crew backs away slowly, guns still up until the last possible second. Lyla doesn’t lower her knife. Jacob doesn’t put his gun away. Carlos glares while the others retreat down the street. The dog trots beside him, glancing back at us once before they disappear around the corner. I tuck the device carefully back into my jacket pocket, keeping my hand around it until I’m sure it’s secure.

The infected behind us use their retreat as an invitation.

More groans answer.

“Go!” Jacob barks.

Leon drops one infected with an arrow through the eye. Jacob puts a bullet into the crawling one when it gets too close to Trish’s boot. I lift my rifle and fire once at the corpse dragging itself around the taxi, and its skull snaps back before it slumps against the tire, leaving a black smear down the hubcap.

My hands stay steady.

We cut toward the alley Joanie must have used. The smell gets worse between the buildings, all wet brick, old trash, rot, and human fear baked into concrete. A fire escape rattles overhead.

Then Joanie appears at the far end, dragging Luis by the arm.

He’s younger than I expected. About Poppy’s age. Skinny in that stretched-out way boys get before they grow into themselves, with dark hair and a tan face covered in grime. His hands are raised even though Joanie only has one hand on him now. The other grips her pistol, steady and pointed down but ready.

We move to the end of the alley. Only a few undead shuffle in the street beyond it.

Joanie shoves the walkie into Luis’s hand. “Get going, kid.”