Sally rang out an unsettlingly warm washcloth. Blanka was burning up, and it was almost impossible to keep the wounded warrior from slipping into unconsciousness. Sally gave Blanka a worried look as her incoherent mumblings became more urgent. Sweat poured across her face, and her eyes fluttered beneath closed eyelids.

  “I hope the guys come back soon with that medicine. I don’t know how much longer she can hold out,” Marla said.

  “She’s strong; I’ve seen her kick some serious ass back in the city,” Sally said.

  “In Haven?” Marla asked?

  “New York!”

  Marla’s eyes widened at the mention of the once great city.

  Sally wondered how Ralphie was holding up. He had left with Nigel days ago. The fireplace cast ominous shadows across the infirmary walls. Blanka moaned in pain.

  “Just hang on a little longer, Blanka,” Sally said as she placed a cool cloth across her forehead. A chill rolled through her as a rustling sound came from outside, followed by hurried footsteps.

  Are those creatures coming back?

  The door burst open, and an older man rushed in.

  “Benson,” Sally gasped, her heart pounding. “Did they come back?”

  He shook his head, his gaze turning toward an unconscious Blanka. A foreboding sensation rolled across Sally; something was very wrong, and she needed to get out of this death trap.

  “No, not yet. But we need to secure the camp. The creatures are testing our defenses. And others are getting infected. We must barricade ourselves and wait for Nigel.”

  Sally nodded, then the pair began moving furniture against the doors and nailing the windows shut. They worked in silence until Benson collapsed in a nearby chair and wiped his brow.

  “I need to rest.”

  Suddenly, the old man didn’t look so well.

  Is he infected too?

  Sally shrugged off her apprehension and checked on Blanka; her temperature had risen several degrees. The injured warrior murmured something incoherent, her eyes fluttering beneath closed eyelids. Sally’s heart ached as she realized that Blanka’s only chance lay in the rumored hospital and whatever medication might be left behind.

  Come back, Ralph, we need you.

  An eerie silence fell across the camp as the fading sunlight cast strange shadows. Night fell, and the tension was palpable. The fire flickered in the darkness, casting long shadows on the infirmary walls. A chill rolled through her as a rustling sound came from outside, followed by hurried footsteps. Her heart leaped into her throat. Was it them? Or was it those horrendous creatures returning?

  Blanka coughed, a wet, gurgling thing, and Sally was there in an instant. She rolled her gently, mindful of the wound, and caught a glimpse of angry red creeping past the edge of the bandage. The infection was spreading. Sally closed her eyes and for a time, a sense of hopeful peace settled in her heart. Sally’s eyes grew heavy as a wave of exhaustion settled into her. She held the woman’s hand a little longer and drifted off to sleep.

  Later that evening.

  A crash outside made her flinch. A tin cup rattled across the table, and Sally barely had time to register the sound before Marla was peering out a window, clutching a battered saucepan.

  “They’re through and invading the camp,” Marla said.

  Benson was up in an instant, wielding an ancient-looking rifle.

  “We need to move her,” he barked, nodding to Blanka.

  Sally’s throat went dry.

  “She can’t be moved—”

  Benson cut her off.

  “She stays, we die,” he said, emotionlessly. “We go, maybe she makes it.”

  Sally blinked, felt the wall against her back, the sweaty grip on Blanka’s hand. If they had to go, if there was even a chance—she wouldn’t let Blanka go without a fight.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Sally nodded.

  “We need supplies,” Marla said as she packed what was left of the meds. Benson hovered by the door, counting bullets and muttering numbers, his gaze flicking from the entrance to the weak points in the walls. Sally took the blanket and made a rough sling, then eased Blanka’s too-hot body into it. Blanka grunted, lips opening for a second, but her eyes never really focused.

  “We go out the back,” Benson said, already moving down the corridor. “The storeroom. Toolshed’s got an exit through the cellar.”

  Marla followed; Sally fell in behind, cradling Blanka’s head and chest. Each step jarred the wounded woman. They passed through the hallway, the air thick with smoke and something else—a rot that clawed at Sally’s throat. She glanced down and saw a trail of bloody footprints, some fresh, some old and brown. Her vision blurred, her body threatening to tip her into the same fevered oblivion where Blanka drifted.

  They reached the storeroom, pausing only long enough for Benson to open the warped door. Marla slipped inside, with Sally on her heels. It was cold in the confined space; the air was rank with old potatoes and grease.

  “Down here,” Benson whispered, half-crouched, leading them to the cellar hatch. Marla pulled it open, the hinges shrieking before she managed to catch and ease its weight. Sally descended one-handed; the stairs strained underfoot. Sally hoped that it wouldn’t collapse. Her arms were on fire from carrying Blanka. Even Sally’s unorthodox training by the paramilitary group, the Dark Angels, which she had endured since childhood, was yielding to the strain. But Sally pressed on.

  Just a little longer.

  The cellar was black as pitch. Sally heard Benson shuffling, then the pop of a match, the slow flare of an oily lantern. The flame’s meager light revealed sagging shelves of canned beans, a heap of broken traps, and the trapdoor at the far end. Marla squeezed past, nearly knocking the lantern from Benson’s grip. Sally set Blanka down while Benson checked the door. Sally wasn’t eager to leave the cellar and was afraid of the world on the other side. She imagined hordes of monsters and wolves with bloody maws. Benson inched the door up just enough to peer into the night. Marla was right behind him, clutching the saucepan.

  “All clear,” he said.

  Benson and Marla slipped into the night. Sally gathered Blanka and followed. As she left the cellar, her eyes were drawn to the yard, which was lit by the ghoulish blue moon. Shadows loomed across the yard like claws of a specter, and the air bit into her like an animal taking a raw bite out of her sweat-soaked skin. A howl ripped the night. Marla whimpered, nearly dropped her pan, but Benson pressed on. They slipped behind the ruined silo, the crumbling brick thick with mildew and spiders. Sally’s breath came quick and shallow, her arms aching from Blanka’s dead weight.

  Where is he leading us? We’re exposed here!

  Sally was about to drop Blanka in exhaustion when a toolshed came into view. It was more of a lopsided lean-to half-swallowed by the back fence than a real structure. Benson ushered them inside and pulled the door shut, barring it with a rusted shovel. Sally sank to the floor, cradling Blanka’s head in her lap. The metal roof vibrated every time the wind shifted. The cold draft snatched at Sally’s feet. She adjusted Blanka’s sling, trying to find a position that looked less like a corpse on her lap. The fever had wrung all the water from her, left her lips cracked and eyelids twitching in restless sleep.

  We’re going to die of exposure out here long before these creatures get to us.

  Benson fidgeted, peering through a gap in the wooden slats. Sally tasted the air—sour, metallic, the bite of impending snow. Blanka moaned, and Sally pressed her closer, brushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair from her brow. She imagined the blood swimming beneath that skin, ragged white blood cells failing at their only purpose.

  “Any movement?” Marla whispered, crouched next to the overturned wheelbarrow.

  Benson shook his head. “They’re circling. Saw at least three. Maybe more.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, gaze flicking to Sally, then away, like he couldn’t stand to see what she was holding. Sally tried not to think about the creatures. Tried not to see Blanka’s hands, limp and pale, or how her chest rose in shallow, uneven jerks. She remembered Blanka as a force—how she’d kicked in a steel door when they were trapped in New York. She remembered Blanka lighting a Molotov cocktail with a cigarette still in her mouth, grinning like an idiot as the explosion punched out half a block. Not this—this sack of bones, this ember of a person. Sally pressed her palm to Blanka’s forehead, and it was like touching a stovetop. She fumbled for the antibiotics, but there were only three left. She tried to do the math—was three enough?

  Nigel, come save your girl.

  Outside, the wind cut through the shed’s gaps, whining over the corrugated metal and claws scraping wood. Not close, but not far away. She tried to focus on the practical: ration the pills, keep the wound clean, keep Blanka alive until sunrise. That was all that mattered.

  “Come on,” she whispered, rolling the pill between her fingers. “You’re not allowed to check out yet.” Blanka twitched, mouth opening to some private nightmare, eyes unfocused. Sally forced down a pang of helplessness and tilted the pill to her tongue, massaging her throat until the dry click of swallowing passed.

  Benson tensed by the door, shotgun up. Sally could see the rigid line of his shoulders, how he held his breath every time the wind shifted. Marla crouched in the far corner, arms wound tight around her knees. Sally wondered if she was praying or just counting the seconds until the end. Something thudded against the wall. Sally bit her tongue, the metallic taste of blood entering her mouth, and the throbbing pulsing sensation in her ears. Another thud, this time closer to the door. Benson stepped back, weapon up, gaze locked on the handle. There was a scuffling; the faint wet noise of claws scrabbling metal. Sally crouched lower, cradling Blanka and reaching for the wrench she’d tucked into her belt earlier, hands slick with cold sweat. Then a yelping sound and a desperate cry that sounded more human than that of any creature.

  Is this the end?

  A growl echoed through the shed, followed by a blast of light, and then the creatures scampered away. At least Sally hoped they did. More rustling, then the door rattled, then jerked open. Benson raised his gun, but a voice—breathy, human—called out from the dark.

  “It’s you,” Benson said as he opened fire at the figure in the doorway.