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< Chapter 1: The Hunt.

Even without an alarm clock I woke an hour before sunrise. Whether I wanted to or not, early mornings had always been my habit. Hunting trips, jobs that started before daylight, and long hikes had me used to waking before everyone else.

Packing camp went quickly since most of the work was finished the night before. I broke down the light tent and rolled my bed tight, then lashed both to the bottom of my pack. The venison I left hanging over the fire to smoke was divided into two groups. A smaller pouch hung from my belt for easy access while I walked. The rest I packed deep in the outer pocket I used for travel food.

The longest task was taking down my perimeter alarms. I worked from memory, finding each line of sinew or fishing cord strung between trees and shrubs. Small brass bells dangled from every loop. They had warned me more than once and were too valuable to abandon. Each coil of cord and every bell went into a cloth bag inside my pack.

By the time the first gray light spilled through the trees I made one last circuit of camp. I checked the pile of gear set aside to leave behind, touching each item as I decided for the final time that I could live without it. When everything was in order I filled in the fire pit until the stones vanished under dirt. Then I clipped the quiver and my bow to the side of the pack.

I sat for a moment on the log that had served as my chair and pulled out a waxed pouch that held my maps. With GPS long dead, paper was the only guide I trusted. At first I had collected the folding maps once sold in truck stops and gas stations, but those wore out fast. Months ago I salvaged a thick spiral-bound road atlas from a deserted town. Its laminated pages covered the whole country in detail, from national maps down to regional ones. I had torn it apart and kept only what mattered: the national map and the state and regional pages for everything from the Mississippi west to the Rockies.

Dave and I once talked about heading for the Rockies together. He always said they would be a good place to live, too far and too rough for most people to bother. When a forest fire forced us off his homestead, we started moving northwest. If not for that fire, we might have stayed there forever. Since his death I have carried our plan forward, every new camp farther north and west than the last.

I found my current location on the Ozark section of the map with the ease of practice. Next I studied possible destinations. I considered heading west into Oklahoma but set that thought aside. Tribal lands there had fared better than most regions and the communities had become wary of outsiders. I had traded with a few smaller groups near the Missouri border, but I avoided anything that looked like a fortified settlement. North remained the best choice.

At a steady pace I could cross into Missouri in less than a week. I marked a small town that I could reach by tomorrow evening. If I saw signs of life or too many walkers, I would push a few hours past it before setting camp. If it looked empty, I would stay in or near it and scavenge what I could.

I thought about what I most needed. Camp stove fuel. Spices and herbs. Medicine in any form. Even new socks—my two pairs were wearing thin. Those were the kinds of things people often overlooked when they scavenged. I folded the maps and returned them to their pouch.

I grunted when I hoisted the pack. With the bundles of meat, foraged roots, and everything I owned, it was heavier than anything I had carried in months. I tightened the shoulder straps and pulled the waist belt snug so the weight rested across my hips. Then I leaned the walking stick against my leg and gave the clearing a final long look.

Over the past seven years I had left many camps behind without a second thought. This one was different. I had stayed here longer than anywhere since Dave died, and in its own rough way it had started to feel like a home. Walking away carried a sense of loss. At the same time it felt right. Staying too long anywhere invited trouble.

I made no effort to hide where I had slept or to bury what I could not carry. By the time anyone reached this ridge I would be days away. If the people whose smoke I had seen were good folk, the leftover gear might help them. If they were not, the little I had left behind would not matter.

With the first streaks of sunlight touching the treetops, I set my walking stick and turned north. The air smelled of pine and damp stone. Behind me lay a shelter that had served well. Ahead lay only distance and whatever waited along the road west.

###

By the time the sun passed its highest point, I began to doubt I would reach that town as quickly as planned. The pack rode heavy on my shoulders and the climb toward the mountain’s top slowed me more than I liked. Instead of tomorrow near sunset, it would probably be late the next morning.

The slower pace didn’t bother me. In a world like this, rushing got people killed. Still, the farther I moved from the safety of my old camp, the more exposed I felt. A couple of hours back I had crossed beyond the point I used to patrol on hunts. Everything ahead was unfamiliar ground.

Logic told me the odds of meeting walkers or people up here were low. The runner I had killed yesterday had likely been someone who died alone in these hills, a rare accident that turned dangerous. But caution was louder than logic. I kept alert, bow ready, every sense tuned for movement or sound.

By the time I finally reached the top, the sun had started its slow slide toward evening. I guessed I had an hour and a half of daylight left. The summit wasn’t a sharp peak but a long plateau, a stretch of level ground broken by scattered boulders and clusters of pine.

I took my time scouting for a campsite. From the nearest tall tree, I climbed high enough to use my binoculars. The world below lay quiet. No smoke, no movement. Satisfied, I descended and chose a hollow beneath a thick pine where the branches would break the wind and hide my small tent.

With no water source nearby and only one night to spend, I kept most of my gear packed. Setting the tent and bedroll under the branches took only a few minutes. Three of my canteens were full thanks to a cold stream I’d found earlier, and a fourth was half filled with herbal tea.

While the sky deepened toward dusk, I dug a small fire pit and set it for a quick boil. The extra weight of meat and supplies had worked my back and feet raw. A blend from the tea shop notebook helped with pain and swelling, and I kept a packet of it ready for days like this.

I still had a few over-the-counter painkillers and even a handful of prescription pills I had traded for, but those were for real emergencies. I would not waste them on sore muscles.

When the sun finally slid behind the horizon, I struck a match and coaxed a small flame to life. I fed it dry twigs until a bed of coals formed, then set my army surplus canteen at the edge of the fire. It was the only one I carried that could take direct heat. The modern double-walled canteens kept water hot or cold longer but would burst if set over flames.

When the water boiled, I poured it into two tin cups. One took the pain-relief tea. Into the other I measured a scoop of dried oats and dropped in a chunk of pemmican. I stirred with a stick until the mixture thickened.

While the tea and food cooled, I buried the fire under the dirt I had dug out for the pit. The warmth would have been welcome, but I preferred darkness. The light could kill night vision and draw unwanted eyes.

I ate slowly, letting the heat of the tea and the richness of the oats and meat settle me after the long climb. As I cleaned up, I thought again of Dave’s old bug-out bag. He had packed twelve portable water filters in vacuum-sealed bags. I had bartered most of them away over the years. The three I kept would last me for many more, and two still sat unopened. It was the kind of foresight that had kept me alive.

Full and steady, I checked that everything was packed tight for a quick departure in the morning. The tent waited under the pine, a shadow in the fading light. My muscles loosened as the tea worked its way through me, and the ache in my back eased. The mountain air cooled fast as the stars came out.

I lay back on the bedroll, listening to the wind moving through the trees. For a while I watched the sky harden to black and fill with stars. The day’s climb wore me out, and the mix of food and medicine finished the job.

###

It was just after noon when I reached the first real sign of life before the fall. A cracked two-lane highway cut across my path. I had known it was coming. The map showed it, but seeing asphalt after so long still felt strange.

Eight years without upkeep had not been kind to the road. Grass, weeds, and saplings forced their way through the pavement, splitting it into slabs that ranged from the size of dinner plates to dining tables. The last time I had seen asphalt was more than a year ago.

I decided to follow it for a while. Instead of walking on the crumbling surface, I kept to the clearer strip of ground just beside it. The road itself was too broken, and a twisted ankle from a hidden crack would be a mistake I could not afford.

It didn’t take long to come across the first abandoned car. The vehicle sat at an angle in the weeds, windows still intact and paint dulled to a ghost of its old color. It looked like it had simply died there. I considered checking the trunk but let the thought pass. My pack was already heavier than I liked.

I kept walking and let my mind drift to the early days. Vehicles had worked for a while after the fall, though they were more curse than blessing near cities. A running engine was a signal to every runner in earshot. Most cars failed within a year when gasoline and diesel broke down. I remembered one of Dave’s friends trying to convert an old diesel truck to run on biodiesel and another who talked about propane engines that could keep going if you had enough fuel. Maybe somewhere a few of those still rolled, but for most of us travel now meant boots on dirt, or if you were lucky, a horse or bicycle.

The highway ended where a bridge once crossed a wide stream. Now only jagged concrete and fallen asphalt lay ten feet below. Nature had taken the bridge the way it had claimed everything else. I sat with my back against a broken barrier and pulled out lunch.

The day’s travel had been easier than the climb yesterday. The route was mostly downhill, letting me make up time. If I pushed hard I could probably reach the small town by dark, but I refused to gamble. Approaching ruins in fading light was asking for trouble. Better to stay back and walk in fresh tomorrow.

I drank cool tea and chewed smoked venison mixed with dried berries. The food quieted the hunger gnawing at me. As I rested I thought of how the world had shifted. Fewer people meant less pressure on the land. Trees grew where parking lots once baked. Streams cleared. Nature, given even a short break, wasted no time reclaiming what had been taken.

After a brief rest I climbed down the gully, crossed on the scattered chunks of concrete, and picked up the road again. Two more cars came and went along the way. They sat like forgotten bones, untouched and unstripped. It was hard to tell whether they had been left before the fall or after. Either way, no one had bothered with them.

The fourth vehicle caught my eye. A white cargo van rested half hidden by saplings, the sun having bleached whatever logo once decorated its side. Something in the windshield glinted faintly. I stepped closer and saw an ID card dangling from the rearview mirror, the faint red cross still visible.

The doors were locked. For a moment I weighed the risk of noise against the chance of reward. Medical supplies were worth far more than a bit of broken glass. I stood still, listening. The forest answered only with the whisper of leaves and the scattered notes of birds. No movement. No sign of life.

I eased my pack to the ground and pulled my knife. The butt of the handle cracked the driver’s side window with a single sharp pop. I froze again, waiting. The birds resumed their chatter. Satisfied, I reached in and unlocked the door.

A coat lay across the back of the driver’s seat. I used it to brush the shards of glass away and slid inside. The van smelled faintly of dust and stale disinfectant. I opened the rear doors to let in more light and felt my pulse quicken.

The cargo space was a small mobile clinic. A refrigerator stood bolted to the side wall, its door still sealed. I ignored it. Anything once kept cold had spoiled long ago. What drew my attention were the drawers and cabinets built along the walls.

I started opening them one by one. Bottles of pills. Rolls of gauze and bandages. Surgical kits and wrapped needles. Clamps and scissors. It was a traveling doctor’s dream, and a scavenger’s treasure. The sight almost made me laugh with relief.

I looked for a guide to the pills but couldn’t find one. No manuals or cheat sheets. The laptop in a docking station might once have held everything I needed to know, but its battery was long dead. Even if I could charge it, I doubted I could get past the password.

I focused on what I recognized. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Steroids. Allergy pills. Antacids. I sorted those into one pile. Next came the surgical supplies. Scalpels, suture kits, clamps, and sterile scissors. Finally, I gathered the soft goods—bandages, gauze, tape, and four elastic ace wraps. The wraps were almost as valuable as the painkillers. Elastic gave out over time and finding new underwear or socks with good stretch was getting harder. If I ever had to replace the elastic in my clothes, an ace bandage could do the job.

The only hard part was what to leave behind. I spent the next hour pulling everything from my pack and weighing the choices. The towel went first. Then half the unfinished arrow shafts. I kept ten shafts ready to fletch and the ten arrows already in my quiver. I dumped the mushrooms. They were easy enough to find again.

I used the small ziplock bags I had scavenged from the tea shop to repackage the pills. Each bag got a slip of paper with the name and dosage. The new method took up a fraction of the space and kept the pills dry. The surgical supplies fit neatly once I shifted my cooking gear and food.

By the time I cinched the last strap, the sun had dropped toward the trees. The van itself made the best shelter I could hope for. Instead of hunting for a campsite I rolled out my bed on the cargo floor and pulled the rear doors shut.

Dinner was simple. Smoked venison and dried berries, washed down with the last of my herbal tea. No fire, no light, nothing to draw eyes. I listened to the quiet while I ate, the steel walls around me a thin but welcome layer between my body and whatever still moved out there. 

###

I left the doctor’s van with a spring in my step. What I carried from it more than justified the gear I had discarded to make room. Some of the medicines and supplies were valuable enough that I could trade them if the need ever came.

I still preferred to avoid people. Life in this new world was safer that way. But sometimes I had no choice. The first water filter I ever traded away had gone for a bottle of antibiotics when a cut on my hand turned red and angry. That was before I discovered the tea shop and the book that taught me how to make poultices and herbal remedies. Since then I had traded only a handful of times: once for socks and underwear, once for camp stove fuel, another time for spices and salt. Each meeting had followed the same ritual. I would watch with binoculars from a distance until I felt certain of the group’s intentions. I looked for signs of women and children, who usually meant a lower risk of sudden violence. Even then I would stash my pack, carry only what I was willing to bargain, and keep both my bow and handgun in plain sight.

The forest began to open around me as the day wore on. The trees thinned, and sunlight spread in broad fields on either side of the path. I stopped at the edge of the tree line and backed into the shadows. Trees meant cover. They muffled sound and broke a person’s outline.

Open ground meant exposure, and I hated it.

I raised my binoculars and studied the land ahead. About a half mile away a weathered barn stood under a web of vines. Behind it a house sagged under the same creeping growth, windows black and broken. I climbed a tall pine to see farther. The fields beyond lay empty except for a single deer browsing near a hedge. No people, no smoke, no movement.

Back on the ground, I exchanged my walking stick for the bow. I strung it carefully and checked the arrows in my quiver. All ten carried hunting broadheads. When nocked, each head stood vertical so it could slip cleanly between an animal’s ribs. If I ever had to spend much time near a populated area, I would need arrows meant for defense. Horizontal broadheads would do. I even thought of the medieval bodkin tips I had read about years ago. Simple iron spikes for piercing armor. They would be easy to make and deadly against walkers.

They worked well enough as they were, but I had a hard rule: an arrow that pierced a walker was never used for hunting again. Whatever brought them back from death did not seem to pass to animals, yet only a fool would eat meat killed with a tainted shaft.
I pulled my handgun, slid a round into the chamber, and holstered it again. I used it only when I had no other choice, but if that choice came, I wanted it ready.

With the pack straps tightened and an arrow set to the string, I stepped out of the trees. Ahead lay scattered groves that could give me cover, and far to the west another forest darkened the horizon. The road I had been following would meet that forest, and somewhere beyond it waited the small town I was heading for. My plan was to circle the town and enter the next stretch of woods well before I reached it. First I had to cross the open fields.

I was two hundred yards from the barn when a sharp, unmistakable chittering froze me mid-step. The sound chilled my blood. I dropped to one knee and eased the pack off my shoulders. The grass grew waist high and hid me well enough if I stayed low.

I listened, every sense stretching. The noise came again, thin and quick, like dry sticks snapping inside a throat. Ahead and slightly left. I kept my eyes moving in a slow sweep. One sound could mask another.

A knot of runners burst from behind the ruined house. Seven in all, their bodies jerking with unnatural speed. They came toward me in a loose, hungry line.

“Damn,” I breathed.

The three in front moved differently from the rest, slower and less erratic. They were turning into roamers. I pulled two more arrows from the quiver and stuck them upright in the ground. At this distance I might get three shots before the pack closed on me.

I waited, scanning for stragglers behind the house and for movement in the fields around me. When I felt sure no others were near, I drew the bow and aimed at the lead runner. I let the string slip free.

The first arrow struck home and I was already reaching for the next. Draw, aim, loose. Draw, aim, loose. Two shafts hit throats and dropped their targets instantly. The third struck lower, thudding into a chest. With luck it had found the heart, but that kill would take longer.

The remaining walkers shrieked and stumbled over the fallen. I let the bow drop and pulled my combat knife as I rose. Two broke away and sprinted straight for me. I sidestepped the first, ducking under its clawing hands, and drove the blade upward through the soft spot under its jaw. I shoved it off and pivoted to meet the second. It had overshot me and was turning back.

I never got used to their faces. The whites of their eyes bled to a dull red while the irises stayed eerily human. Skin loosened as decay set in, telling you roughly how long ago the change came. This one’s cheeks sagged but not much. A month old, maybe.

It lunged and caught my arm with a cold, clammy grip. I yanked it closer and rammed the knife into its throat. I stepped back as it collapsed. Behind me the two wounded runners struggled upright, groaning in rage.

I charged the nearest, plunging the knife into its chest. It went down hard. The last one grabbed my arm, jaws snapping inches from my skin. I ripped my arm free and drove the knife down through the top of its skull. The blade stuck, and when the body fell it pulled the knife with it.

I carried two knives for a reason. I drew my hunting knife and turned a slow circle, scanning for any movement. The field lay still. Only the wind stirred the grass.

Once certain the danger was over, I sheathed the hunting knife and bent to retrieve the combat blade, wrenching it free from bone. My breathing slowed. The air smelled of iron and damp earth.

I checked the bodies. The three felled by arrows were older walkers, two men and a woman. Close inspection showed bullet or arrow wounds that had killed them before they turned. The four fresher ones, two men and two women, bore ragged bites where flesh had been torn away. Likely they had been killed by the older three. Their clothes were worn but not shredded.

Best case, these were the only infected in the area. Maybe a bandit attack had left the first three dead, and the others were unlucky travelers who had crossed their path. Worst case, a larger group had lived in the nearby town and the infection had spread through them all. Out in the countryside walkers tended to roam in small packs of five or ten, so if the town held many people after the fall came, I might find scattered clusters everywhere.

Until I knew more, I would not be sleeping soundly. Either I would need to put miles behind me or find a place built stronger than wood and glass. Walkers never tired once they locked onto a scent. I had seen them hurl themselves at doors until the frames splintered, and once I even watched one crash through a plaster wall. A house gave only the illusion of safety. Concrete, brick, or heavy-gauge metal were what truly kept them out.

I remembered a stretch early on when I had taken shelter inside a restaurant’s walk-in cooler. I had rigged the latch so the door stayed cracked for air and then piled metal shelving in front of it. It was not perfect, but anything trying to reach me would have made enough noise to wake the dead again.

The field was silent now except for the wind. I moved among the corpses, wiping each arrow clean on the grass before sliding it back into my quiver. I marked the three that had pierced infected flesh by cutting a small notch into the cock feather of each shaft. Those arrows went into a narrow canvas tube strapped to the side of the quiver, a space I used only for weapons that would never touch game again.

I cleaned my knives with handfuls of grass and a splash of homemade sanitizer from a small glass bottle. The mix of aloe and moonshine burned in the cuts on my knuckles but it kept infection away. The air carried the faint sharpness of alcohol until the breeze thinned it out.

Standing over the fallen walkers, I let my eyes drift toward the distant town. What waited there was still a question. The small victory in this field did not change the truth that something ahead might be far worse. But for the moment the danger was ended. I shouldered my pack, tightened the straps, and started toward the next stand of trees, alert once more to every sound in the deepening afternoon.

###

I spent more than an hour perched in a sturdy oak, scanning the deserted town through my binoculars. I wasn’t taking chances. From the height I could see the entire layout: a few intersecting streets, a handful of side alleys, and dozens of houses and small shops. Before the fall, it might have held a couple thousand people. Now it was abandoned.

Dozens of grassy mounds dotted the ground near the outskirts. They had been graves once, now barely visible beneath weeds and creeping vines. The same vines that had overtaken the farm where I fought the walkers had spread here too, weaving thick, green blankets over rooftops and windows. Nature was smothering what people had left behind.

Through the binoculars, I studied the grocery store and two small convenience stores on the main street. All showed signs of looting, smashed windows, doors hanging loose. The rest of the buildings looked surprisingly untouched, like nobody had bothered with them since the world collapsed. The town was too far from major roads for scavengers to come often. Those who once lived here had likely died early, left to find loved ones, or gone to FEMA camps that turned into feeding grounds within weeks.

A layer of dust on every window and sill told me nobody had stayed here in a long time. Still, the pack of walkers I killed yesterday had to have come from somewhere close. They were too fresh to have wandered from the next town. Without prey, walkers drift until they fall apart. Out here that decay happens fast. I had seen them collapse through stages: first runners, then roamers, then what I called blobs, their skin and muscles sliding away from bone until all that remained was a loose sack of bones on the ground.

I left my bow strapped to my pack. In close quarters, it was useless against more than a single enemy. By the time you could draw another arrow, it’d be too late. Knife in one hand, Glock in the other, I stepped from the trees and slipped into the town.

I moved with slow, measured steps, staying in alleys and hugging building walls. Where I could, I walked only on vines or thick weeds so my footprints would vanish. A skilled tracker might still find signs, but at least I wouldn’t leave a trail in the dust that anyone could see at a glance.

Half an hour of careful scouting convinced me the town was empty. If anyone alive remained, they were locked inside a building and were keeping silent. I tilted my head up. The sun was still a couple of hours from setting. Enough time to find shelter.

A two-story concrete building near the center of town caught my attention. Steel doors and a roll-up bay suggested a service garage or small repair shop. The sign had faded to a shadow of letters. The front door was locked, but the back door opened when I pushed.

Inside, the beam from my solar-charged LED flashlight revealed neat rows of tools and a car frozen mid-repair on a lift. The mechanic had probably dropped his wrench and walked away when the world broke. I checked the small office, bathroom, and supply closet, then climbed the narrow stairwell.

The stairs ended at a landing with another steel door. It swung open easily onto a simple one-room apartment. The air smelled only of dust. No bodies. No old decay. Just a silence that felt clean.

I set my pack beside the bed. Other than the thick dust, the mattress looked intact. It would feel strange to sleep on a real bed again, but I would have to strip the covers to use it. The room held only a table and chair, a recliner, and a dresser. A compact kitchen with a gas stove, sink, and fridge lined one wall. I didn’t bother opening the fridge. Anything left inside would have long since rotted.

The cupboards held small but welcome finds: salt and pepper, a half tub of rice, and a full container of flour, all in airtight plastic that had kept them safe. In a corner stood a water dispenser with two unopened five-gallon bottles. Enough to refill every canteen and have some to cook and wash with.

The dresser rewarded me even more. Most of the clothes were too small, but the sock and underwear drawer was a prize. A sealed three-pack of boxers, good cotton socks, two pairs of thick wool socks, and a wool beanie. My last wool socks had worn through last winter, and the nights would start cooling soon. I tried to keep track of dates, but missed days here and there. Late August, by my guess, give or take a week.

The nightstand held a notepad and pencil, a couple of weathered western novels, and several bar matchbooks. Matches I had in plenty.

The pad and pencil went into my pack.

The gas stove was the real test. I had spotted a propane tank behind the shop and hoped it still held fuel. I turned a burner and sniffed. No gas. Pulling the stove from the wall showed the line still connected and the valve open. Either the tank was dry or someone had shut it off.

Knife in one hand and a flashlight in the other, I went downstairs and outside. The metal lid on the propane tank lifted with a squeal. The main valve was closed, but the gauge showed just under a quarter full. Good news. I went back in and shut off every heater and the water heater inside to avoid leaks, then turned the main valve back on and locked the back door behind me.

Back upstairs, I lit the pilot lights in the stove with my Zippo. Soon, a steady blue flame burned under the burner. After wiping the counter clean, I unpacked food and laid it out. In a cupboard I found a four-quart pot. I washed the dust from it with bottled water, diced the deer heart I had carried since the hunt, browned it in a spoon of rendered fat, added water and chopped root vegetables, and set it to simmer.

The smell of cooking meat filled the apartment. It felt like a feast. There would be enough stew for three or four meals. I didn’t plan to stay more than two nights. Time to rest, plan, dry meat, and scavenge anything worth the weight.

The rice and flour would both come with me. They were the first true starches I had seen in more than a year. I stirred a handful of rice into the pot, thickening the stew into something closer to the meals I remembered from before.

Next I washed the salt from the remaining venison steaks, cut them in half, and laid them across the oven racks. I set the oven to its lowest heat and left the door open just enough to let the moisture escape. By morning I would have light, dry rations ready for travel.

I filled a large stockpot with water and set it on the second burner. Hot water had become rare in my life. Most days I settled for cold canteen water or a plunge into an icy stream. Tonight I would sponge off with heat soaking into my skin. The thought alone eased muscles stiff from days of hiking.

Dinner came first. I ladled a bowl of the thick stew and ate slowly, letting warmth spread through me. After cleaning up, I used the hot water for a long wash, then stripped the dusty bedding from the mattress. I lay back and felt the support of a real bed for the first time in months. Sleep took me fast.

A scream ripped through the quiet and snapped me awake. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. The second scream and a rough shout brought it all back. I snatched the Glock from beside the bed and crouched by the window, easing the curtain aside with the barrel.

Dawn had just touched the rooftops. Dust on the window softened the view but did not hide what I saw. The street stretched empty to the east. I shifted to the other side and looked west.

Three men were dragging a woman toward a low building a block away. She kicked and twisted, screaming for help. Even at this distance, I caught the flash of wild movement, the defiance in her struggles. The men were big, with tangled beards and matted hair. Black and blue tattoos wound along their bare arms.

A sharp breath escaped me. “Well, hell,” I whispered. “Not your problem, Zane. Last time you tried to help a stranger, you almost got stabbed.”

I stayed crouched, with the curtain barely parted, heart pounding. The smart move was to stay silent and let the scene play out. I had seen enough ambushes to know how a rescue could turn fatal. Yet I kept watching.

The men hauled their captive across cracked pavement. One kept glancing over his shoulder. I imagined their breath steaming in the cool morning air, though I couldn’t see it from here. The woman screamed again, her voice cutting through the waking town like a knife.

I checked the Glock by touch. A round already sat in the chamber, and the magazine was full. Beside the bed lay my knives and spare magazines. I slid them onto my belt with practiced motions. Old instincts stirred. Dave would have told me not to ignore a cry like that. He always said survival meant more than just breathing.

I told myself again that it wasn’t my fight. But the weight of the pistol in my hand said otherwise.