Page 96 of Romancing in Rot

Jacob’s expression goes flat in the way that means he is locking something violent behind his teeth. “And your stash is where in relation to them?”

“West of their usual territory,” Carlos says quickly. “Not close. We don’t go near the mall. We don’t follow signs. We don’t answer voices. We get in, take what we can carry, and get out.”

“Their usual territory?” Lyla repeats.

Carlos swallows. “They move sometimes. Not much. Not this far out.”

“Comforting,” Joanie says. “Love the part where cannibal geography is flexible.”

I ignore her, even though she’s not wrong. “Have you seen them?”

Carlos’s fingers tighten around the bowl.

Luis whispers, “Carlos.”

That one word closes his face.

Not this part.

Not in front of his brother.

I can see it happen. The door slamming shut. The grief going back behind the lock.

So I don’t pry. Not yet.

“What do we need to know to survive them?” I ask instead.

Carlos looks at me for a long second.

Then he points toward the map. “If you see green paint, don’t follow it. If you hear someone calling for help, don’t move until you know where the sound is coming from. If one person is alone in the open, they’re probably bait. If it feels too quiet, it’s because someone wants it that way.”

A chill crawls across my shoulders.

Jacob crouches beside the map. “Show me the safest route to the print shop again.”

Carlos sets his bowl down and moves closer.

We follow Carlos back into the city, sticking close and moving fast.

We are not walking in blind.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

The streets feel tighter today, pressing in on all sides. Boarded windows stare back like blind eyes, plywood warped and splintered from weather and desperate hands. Storefronts sit gutted, glass blown out, shelves picked clean or left overturned by people who tore through in a panic and never made it back out.

Carlos leads from the front, cutting through side streets and narrow alleys. He’s tall for his age, lean and wiry in the way hungry teenagers get when their bodies have burned through softness too soon.

I stay close to Trish, one hand brushing the strap of my rifle as I sweep rooftops, fire escapes, broken windows, and every gap between buildings. My thigh aches with each step, an ugly pulse under my skin, but I ignore it.

Pain is information.

That’s what Lyla would say.

Pain means I’m still moving, still useful, still here.

A low scrape echoes ahead, and we all slow.

One of the infected stumbles out from behind a rusted sedan, its head twitching like a broken toy trying to remember how to work. Skin hangs loose along one side of its face, lips peeled back from blackened teeth.