The fist-sized Aether Stone in my palm throbbed with a raw, dark current, a near-perfect indigo that made the goblin and orc trinkets look like cheap party favors. A grim thought wormed its way into my head: just how much would this thing, ripped from the Minotaur’s still-cooling corpse, fetch from the Fey? It shined brighter and was magnitudes bigger than the pebbles I'd gotten from Goblins and Orcs.

  Thirty brutal minutes of sawing my blade through the minotaur's flesh had earned me the rock, followed by the tedious job of dousing the petrol fires before I could finally drag my ass back up to the garage’s so-called "office". As consequence my skin felt like a greasy biohazard, a cocktail of monster viscera, grime, and the ghost of burnt fuel, and an increasingly louder part of me was demanding I call on Puck to ask how many Stones it would cost me for a shower. I wouldn't do it of course. This and all the remaining Aether Stones were all going straight into the Class Mark fund.

  But I couldn't help but wonder if a shower would do something to quell this growing headache. It had started almost immediately after the fight had finished and wouldn't go away, an endless aggravating throb that just kept on increasing in magnitude.

  The door creaked open, bringing a lick of cold air and the sight of Shashka, still rocking her birthday suit like it was the most natural thing in the world. At least she’d taken my advice and was perched near one of the busted-out windows, wicked-looking sword laid across her bare lap.

  "...Is... Did Leech Jon actually... pull it off...?" she stammered, eyes bugging out.

  I just held out the Aether Stone, its dark light pulsing in the gloom.

  Her eyes went wider, breath hitching. "Impossible. I have seen Leech Jon fight other monsters, Jon is… amateur at best with a blade. To fight and defeat a Sinborn of Wrath is…"

  "Didn't go toe-to-toe," I cut in, voice rough around the edges. "I set a trap."

  "How? If Jon knows a method, this could save so many…" A spark of fierce hope lit her face as she moved towards me.

  "It’s not a method," I said flatly, trying to keep my eyes on her face and not let them stray south. "Used what I had. I poisoned the son of a bitch...Could you at least throw on some damn clothes?" I added, the question laced with a weary impatience.

  "Poisoned?" she pressed, ignoring my request. "With what? Their resilience is monumental. Please, Leech Jon must tell Shashka what he…"

  "Carbon monoxide mean anything to you? How about diesel fumes?" The words almost snapped out, the silence that followed, thick with her stunned incomprehension.

  It was more... forceful than how I'd wanted it to sound.

  "Look," I sighed, rubbing a hand over my grime covered face. "No offense, but breaking down that whole damn redneck engineering project would take hours. We'd be chasing tangents till sunrise, which is about three hours away. So, let's just say... I fought it like an Owl-kin, not a Hound-kin" I added, remembering her words about Owl-kin apparently being tacticians and hoping this would explain at least a little bit to the beast-woman.

  Shashka lit up immediately. “So, guile and subterfuge. Sashka understands”

  I just shrugged. Communicating with the alien woman was like pulling teeth, but dodging a lengthy discussion felt like a win, however small. More than anything, I didn't want to risk getting stuck here for a day, so the less talking the better.

  "Yeah, yeah, that's all fine and dandy," I said, my gaze drifting towards the shattered window and the pre-dawn gloom. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on being stuck here till tomorrow night. I'm gonna get my gear on and get those APCs before the sun peeks over the horizon."

  Shashka hesitated, her brow furrowed in thought. "Does Leech Jon intend to take the... AiPeeSees... to..."

  "I'm keeping my word," I grunted, already wrestling my t-shirt over my head, recoiling at how sticky it felt over the grime on my skin. "One's mine. The other goes to the Miller sisters... the two Soft-Skins that gave me the info on this treasure trove."

  Washing off this biohazard would've been a damn sight better, but time was a luxury I couldn't afford.

  "Shashka remember them from when she was watching Jon. Tall and tiny. Smelled like same litter. Both smelled right."

  "Yeah they're sisters... Wait...what do you mean smelled right?"

  "Shashka has already told Leech Jon about Hound-kin instinct. We can tell when someone smell right or wrong. Usually we are right. Is why Shashka even talk to Leech Jon in first place. Something smell right about him, buriend under taint of Pride."

  The odd woman stood there, lost in her own world, for what felt like an eternity as I fumbled with my belt buckle. Finally, her brow smoothed out, and she gave a small, decisive nod to the empty air. "Very well. Shashka has made decision. She will come with Leech Jon."

  I froze, halfway through buckling my trousers, and turned back to her. "Run that by me again?"

  "Certainly. Shashka will join pack with you and two female Soft-Skins."

  "Okay, no, no, nonono. Hell no!" Frustration, a familiar knot in my gut, tightened. I was almost in the clear. Just deliver the damn APC, keep my promise, and then I could finally go back to looking out for number one. But no, fate, that twisted bastard, was once again trying to shoehorn me into a damn group. "I'll tell you what I told the girls. The second that APC rolls up to their hidey-hole, I'm gone. Solo." I put all the steel I could muster into that last word.

  The dog-girl tilted her head, genuine confusion clouding her features. "Why be alone, when could be part of pack?"

  My mouth opened, ready with a sharp retort, but the words died in my throat. Truth was, when it came down to the wire, my reasons felt flimsy.

  Sure, I could trot out the "noble vampire" routine, whine about being a danger to mortals, but that was just a pile of pretentious crap. The ugly truth hadn't changed: I didn't want the weight of other people's lives on my shoulders, the constant fear of screwing up and letting them down. And definitely didn't need the added baggage of looking after anyone.

  It was cleaner this way. Easier to survive.

  "I just prefer it," I muttered finally, hefting the rucksack onto my back and cinching the straps tight.

  Shashka's gaze was intense, like she was trying to pick the lock on my skull and rummage through the messy contents. Finally, she relented with a small sigh. "Shashka will not try to change Leech Jon's mind regarding pack, especially seeing that said mind clearly does not know what it wants in first place. Soft-Skins are too complicated for Shashka."

  My eye twitched. I definetly did not like how sharp this dog-girl was. Her words were simple, her demeanor straightforward, but there was a whole damn lot more going on behind those mismatched eyes. "Good. Then it's simple. You go your way, I go mi..."

  "Is not simple, Shashka is sorry to say," she interrupted, tapping the bandage on her midsection. "This. It healing. Without Health Poultice that Leech Jon has given Shashka, she would be meeting ancestors by now. Shashka owes Leech Jon blood debt. And Hound-kin always pay blood-debt. Always."

  I pinched the bridge of my nose hard, trying to ward off the headache that was only increasing. I’d given her the damn Health Poultice because I had enough Aether Stones to snag one, not because I wanted some kind of weird, anthropomorphic bodyguard. It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, nothing more. Without those thrown bottles, the Minotaur – the Sinborn of Wrath, whatever the hell it was – would’ve likely painted the asphalt with my insides. I’d owed her one.

  And now, this little act of not-quite-altruism was coming back to bite me in the ass. Karma? She definitely hated me.

  "No, you don't owe me jack," I said, my voice tight. "You helped me with the Mino... the Sinborn, and I gave you the poultice. We're square. Even."

  "Shashka is afraid we are not, how you say, square" she countered, voice surprisingly firm. "Sinborn of Pride are notoriously hard to kill. Shashka thinks Leech Jon would have escaped either way. Hurt yes, but alive. The wound Shashka had... that would have definitely sent her to meet ancestors. So Shashka owes Leech Jon."

  I closed my eyes and let out a long, weary breath. This woman had the stubbornness of a goddamn mule, and I had a sinking feeling arguing was a waste of oxygen. "So what's that mean?"

  The dog-girl's face brightened instantly, a wide, innocent grin spreading across her features. "Shashka will be travelling with you until she can repay the debt."

  "And what if I say no?" I muttered, trying to keep the edge out of my voice despite the rising tide of frustration. "What if I just go grab my APC and leave?"

  "Then Shashka will have to track you," she replied, still smiling and tapping the side of her nose. "She has Leech Jon's scent already. So easier for both of us if we just leave together, no?"

  "What if I just slit you right now?" The words were out before I could stop them, frustration finally boiling over as my hand instinctively settled on the machete's pommel. "You might be a better fighter, but that wound hasn't fully healed. A quick slice across the thigh, and you're crippled. Then I walk."

  To my surprise, she just stood there, arms still crossed, considering my threat with an unnerving calm. Eventually, the canid woman just shrugged, gaze flat and unwavering. "Leech Jon is correct. He can probably do just that. Probably succeed too. However..."

  The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as I waited for the other shoe to drop. She'd remained motionless, arms still crossed, stance unchanged. But as I watched her, something shifted in her face. Features sharpened, pupils dilating, the bridge of her nose wrinkling as her lips curled back over gums, revealing a flash of pointed teeth.

  A dog baring its fangs.

  "But Leech Jon better make certain he cripples or kills Shashka with the first strike," she said, each word a low growl that vibrated in the tense air. "Or he will not get a second."

  My knuckles whitened around the machete's pommel, the cold steel a stark contrast to the sudden heat that flared within me. The challenge hung between us, raw and undeniable, a primal dare that tugged at something deep and feral. The Animal within stirred, claws out and fangs bared, itching for a fight.

  Her words echoed in the cramped office, a stark warning that burrowed under my skin. "Leech Jon better make certain he cripples or kills Shashka with the first strike, or he will not get a second." The unnerving calmness in her voice amplified the threat, transforming it into a cold, hard fact. This wouldn't be just a simple scrap; this was a razor's edge. I wasn't just facing a stubborn woman.

  But something as dangerous as half a dozen Orcs.

  A veteran.

  A seasoned warrior.

  Could I win? Maybe. Probably. I'd faced certain failure more than once over the past two days, and always come out the victor. One way or another. But as much as her challenge was stirring something primal inside me, the rational part of me couldn't help but laugh at how utterly idiotic this was.

  Why fight her? Not only did she still have more information to share, the woman was anything but a "burden" that I'd have to look out for. Hell, she could probably have my back better than anyone. And here she was, offering her aid, with my only reason for spurning it being simple ego and stubbornness? This was dumb.

  "I’m going to get the tanks. Follow me or don’t. Your choice." I said, letting my hand slide off the handle and pressing knuckles against my temple, trying to massage away this damn headache. At least the Animal had gone silent. I could feel it like dormant in the back of my mind, as if the Minotaur fight had drained it. Small mercies, I guess.

  "And for the love of crap woman, put some damn clothes on."

  Her transformation was jarring, almost comical. One moment, a feral snarl; the next, the innocent, almost cute expression of a bewildered young woman. She huffed, uncrossing her arms. "Bah, seems Other-worlder Soft-Skins are just as bashful as Soft-Skins of Shashka's world. Why does your kind insist on clothes and cover what Kind Mother gives us? Beast-kin only wear clothes because it make other kin act weird when they don't. Does Leech Jon not like female body?"

  I didn’t even have the energy to unpack that question. Instead, I just turned and headed out of the echoing silence of the garage. With the generators dead, the fires extinguished, and the Minotaur’s bellow silenced, the moonlit scene felt eerily unnatural.

  Shaking off the unsettling stillness, my hand still hovering near the machete's handle, I started towards the hulking shapes of the two APCs.

  Massive metal beasts on wheels – that was the only way to describe them. They had the general silhouette of a Jeep, but scaled up to monstrous proportions. Matte black, each one was nearly twice the width of a car and half the length of a school bus. The tires alone, two in front and four in back, were wider and taller than those on an eighteen-wheeler, thick tracks grooved with the aggressive tread of military-grade pierce-proof rubber. Mina hadn't been wrong. I doubted even that mutated bull could crack one of these open. At the very least, it'd take a long time and a lot of effort for it to do so.

  "Shashka will admit, she is curious to see how Other-worlder magic works."

  I turned to see Shashka emerge from the garage, cinching a strap on her armor. It was surprisingly utilitarian. I'd half-expected to see some ornate plate, maybe the kind of flashy stuff you saw in fantasy flicks or games. Or maybe some of that ridiculous bikini-armor one would see in gratuitous games and fantasy posters.

  Quite the opposite.

  Shashka’s armor was a stark testament to practicality and resilience, forged for both protection and fluid movement. Worn, studded and boiled leather trousers clung to her legs with a rugged grace, while steel-toed boots offered a solid stance, metal tips catching the moonlight. A snug gambeson covered her torso, its deep, muted tones a backdrop to the sharp gleam of the iron greaves and arm guards that encased her long, muscular limbs. Each piece of tempered metal fit seamlessly, offering both security and unrestricted motion. Strapped across her back, the flamberge lay like a coiled predator, serpentine blade a lethal blend of elegance and deadly intent. This was the armor of a warrior, with every component whispering tales of survival and hard-won experience, a protective shell that also hinted at the raw power and unwavering poise beneath the layers of leather and steel. The kind you'd see at a historically accurate HEMA- competition, nothing gratuitous or flashy about it.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Well, you're gonna see soon" I muttered, grabbing a handhold and hauling myself up the two massive steps until I stood level with a small black rectangle beside the door handle. This damn tank was practically as tall as a semi.

  "Shashka is excited. Leech Jon must be great mage to know how to operate this artefact," she said, appearing by my side, practically jumping in place, tail wagging furiously. It was almost enough to make me laugh. Woman really was like an excited puppy.

  "Far from it" I replied, finally managing to unlatch the small hatch. Hidden behind the metal rectangle was a simple numeric keypad with a fluorescent green screen.

  "Is that the magic catalyst?"

  "Something like that," I grunted, pulling out the crumpled paper Mina had given me with the access code and began tapping in the numbers.

  Tha-Thunk

  The locking mechanism snapped open with a satisfyingly solid clack, and I heaved the heavy metal door outward, releasing a smell of motor oil, synthetic leather, and the unmistakable tang of gunpowder. The interior looked and smelled like cutting-edge, brand-new equipment. It was also surprisingly roomy, filled with the smart-containers and multi-functional gadgets you'd expect from a modern war machine.

  Twin seats with generous legroom sat on circular mounts, allowing for a full 360-degree rotation, facing a console that looked more like an airplane cockpit than any land vehicle, save for the steering wheel on the left.

  Dozens of blank screens, buttons, and a dizzying array of gauges, meters, and "clocks" – likely measuring things way beyond my understanding or "paygrad" – covered the console, flanking the steering wheel. There was even what looked like a built-in computer on the passenger side.

  More high-tech paraphernalia dotted the overhead console, with an entire section on the right dedicated to what appeared to be a mobile command and supply center. The rest of the APC's interior consisted of two foldable metal benches embedded in the floor and several integrated storage compartments, the "smart-design" kind that were part of the vehicle's inner armor.

  "Your carriages are... odd. And smell funny," Shashka commented, head peeking over my shoulder.

  "Mhmm," I muttered, waving her away from the entrance. "It'll get the job done."

  I quickly moved outside to the back of the truck and started searching for the towing cable Mina had mentioned. Thankfully, it was hard to miss – a rather substantial metallic box bolted to the rear of the APC.

  "Shashka still does not understand how carriage is supposed to work without horses. Even armored carriages of the Mountain's Children are pulled by Ram-Bulls," Shashka continued as I wrestled with the heavy towing cable, latching and securing it onto the front hook of the second APC.

  "Mountain's Children? Another type of Kin?" I asked, punching in the unlock code on the second APC just long enough to release the handbrake.

  "Oh yes. Rather, yes and no. The Mountain's Children are Old Kin. Older than Beastkin. Older than most. And very... peculiar."

  "Peculiar how?" I pressed, trying to glean as much intel as possible while gesturing for her to follow me back to the lead armored truck.

  "Is difficult to explain. Mountain Children are... alive and not. Is... Shashka thinks Jon should meet to understand. Though they rarely leave their mountain bastion. They very detached from problems of other kin. And problems are many."

  I slid into the driver's seat and nodded towards the passenger one. "Listen, you said you owe me a blood debt, right?"

  "Jon is correct," Shashka replied, nodding vigorously. "Shashka is duty-bound to pay Jon back. And she will not be deterred..."

  "Yeah, I got that," I interrupted, wanting to avoid another stubborn standoff. If the dog-girl was dead set on this "debt" thing, I might as well leverage it for some answers about this insane new reality. "Here's a way you can pay me back. Information. I want to know exactly what kind of a mess our world's in."

  The dog-woman didn't respond immediately, fixing me with that unnerving, intense stare again. "Information. Shashka is neither Owl-kin nor Doe-kin. But she has spent enough time around their wisdom to know how valuable information is. But Shashka does not see it as commensurate compensation for Jon saving her life."

  "Then consider it as an extra you're giving me to pay your blood debt."

  "Shashka... can agree to that." She gave a slow, deliberate nod, and I mirrored it.

  "Then we've got an understanding," I stated, turning my attention back to the console and slamming my thumb down on the large red ignition button. It was finally time to test this beast out, see if it actually works.

  The APC roared to life, massive engine shaking the entire vehicle for a heartbeat, sending tremors through the steering wheel and up my arms. It was a raw, untamed sound. Shashka yelped, leaping onto the passenger seat, face contorted in a bestial snarl, fangs bared as she... growled back at the rumbling console.

  "HEY! Get your damn boots off the chair, what the hell's wrong with you?" I snapped, half-serious, half-amused by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

  "It growls at Shashka. It challenges..."

  "It's just a machine," I interrupted, trying to find a way to explain it in terms she'd understand. "It's not challenging you. It's... how our magic sounds."

  Shashka's face instantly smoothed out, the feral snarl replaced by a look of sheepish embarrassment. She hopped off the seat, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks and around her nose. "Otherworlder magic is weird!" she mumbled, crossing her arms and peering out through the steel mesh reinforced window.

  "Right, well, preferences aside, the thing works. Now, since you're coming with me, you're going to be sharing the workload, so let's get started," I added, hitting the red ignition button again and silencing the roaring engine. The sudden quiet felt almost as jarring as the noise had been.

  "What does Leech Jon mean?" she asked, tilting her head as I pushed open the driver's side door and hopped out.

  "I only started it because I wanred to make sure it works before putting in the effort of supplying it. This thing needs fuel to run. And I intend to stock up on as much as I can." I answered, gesturing towards the darkened gas station across the deserted road, its pumps standing like skeletal sentinels under the pale moonlight.

  Shashka followed me out, armored feet deceptively silent on the cracked asphalt. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of old blood and burnt fuel, a grim reminder of the night's events, as we crossed the road, only the sound of our footsteps on the debris-strewn surface to accompany us. There was still fortune to be thankful for. Despite all the noise, starting the engine and everything else, the area had remained just as barren and devoid of life as before. Maybe some form of aura that had radiated off the Sinborn of Wrath served to keep everything at bay.

  Or maybe Lady Luck was finally throwing me a bone.

  "Alright," I said, surveying the scene. The gas station's windows were shattered, the interior a shadowy mess, but the pumps themselves looked relatively intact. "You keep an eye out. Anything moves that shouldn't, you let me know. I'll see what kind of fuel we can scavenge."

  Shashka gave a curt nod, ears flicking and eyes alert. The woman's shifts in personality were odd to behold. One moment she seemed innocent, downright adorable and the next, when it came time to work, she'd become every bit the seasoned, uncompromising veteran her appearance hinted at.

  It was slow, tedious work, as I spent the next half hour pulling jerrycan after empty jerrycan from inside the empty gas-station and filling them up with as much fuel as they could hold. Shashka, despite her lean frame, proved surprisingly strong, easily carrying the full containers and loading them in the back of the second APC. By the end of it, every inch of the truck's floor was stacked with sealed shut jerrycans, enough to power a generator for a whole month. More than enough for two APCs, despite being gas-guzzlers.

  Once we had a decent stockpile, I decided to check the storage compartments inside the lead armired truck. Mina had mentioned something about supplies and there was still enough time in the night for me to take stock. Plus, I was curious. This was probably what Christmas felt like for all them that could afford it.

  And Christmas? It came early for me.

  A jackpot. The storage containers of both APCs were an absolute treasure trove of weapons and munitions. Standard army protocol equipment consisting of handguns, M4A1 Carbines, AR-47 rifles, alongside a few more types of weapons that I had nowhere near the knowledge necessary to recognize. But I did know a crew-operated machine gun when I saw one. And ammo. So much ammo. Each APC had these items. Fully kitted out and ready to roll at a moment's notice. Just like Mina had said.

  Bestter yet, it wasn't just guns and ammo. The best find, at least as far as I was concerned, was in a large storage "locker" implemented into the APC's inner armor, with a tag that spelled out : Tac-Gear. Three sets, neatly and methodically arranged as if waiting for me.

  "Mina Miller, I could kiss you right now." I muttered, pulling out one of the sets.

  Ballistic tactical gear. Clean, untouched, downright pristine. Dark plating gleamed under fluorescent light, still wrapped in factory plastic. I tore the plastic like a rabid racoon and pulled the chest piece out first. It was heavier than I'd expected, solid, but not bulky. No logos. No tags. Just a strange barcode etched along the inside edge. Attached to it was a slim black booklet, clipped to the lining with a plastic seal. I opened it. No title, no frills—just clean diagrams and sharp text printed in that no-nonsense, government-style font.

  MODEL: ATLAS REACTIVE COMBAT SYSTEM (ARCS) GEN-5 - COMPOSITE SERIES

  Primary torso protection: Boron Carbide Ceramic over UHMWPE core. Rated for up to 7.62 AP.

  Forearm and shin guards: Flexible poly-ceramic lattice with trauma-reactive gel lining.

  Modular system: Magnetic locking joints. Quick-release failsafe. No external power required.

  There were diagrams showing how to lock in each piece—the chest and back guards, the arm shells, even the full shin armor with adjustable knee bracing. The boots, I hadn’t even noticed them at first, had reinforced toe plates and ankle support. The chest-piece itself was thin enough that I could easily hide it under my oversized hunting jacket.

  I wasted no time in equipping it. Interlocking chest and back piece snugly fit over my undershirt, work-gloves exchanged for the composite tac-gloves and forearm guards, steel-toed boots swapped for this new and improved footwear, all the way up to shin and knee guards. There were no helmets, unfortunately, but considering how much I'd grown to depend on my enhanced senses, it would've probably just been a detriment in the long run.

  "What is Leech Jon doing?" Shashka asked, her head poking into the APC.

  "Upgrading my wardrobe with armor. This should offer a bit more protection than civilian clothes."

  She tilted her head, her mismatched eyes studying the shin and arm-guards. "Looks... odd. Why is black? Where is steel?"

  "Our armor is... different. This black material is even stronger than steel."

  The dog woman scrunched up her nose, as if thinking whether I was pulling her leg or something. "Shashka prefers good steel."

  I shrugged. "Well, I like it. Either way, we're done with preparation, so let's head out. Dawn's closing in and I wanna deliver the girls' APC, collect my share of the gas and then make tracks before the sun peeks over the horizon."

  She hauled herself inside, curling atop the passenger seat, not unlike a dog, and affixed me with a deep stare. "Won't the Sun be a problem for Leech Jon even inside this behemoth?"

  I smacked my hand twice against the windshield's top inlay. "Bulletproof shutters on the outside. Can seal this baby up so that not a single speck of sunlight can filter in. Won't be able to drive it that way, but I can basically live iinsidehert. She's perfect."

  The woman snickered. "Jon talks about carriage like it's woman. Amuses Shashka."

  "Hey now, Sheyla over here is my precious baby-girl. Don't make fun of her" I snickered back, planting a kiss on the steering wheel. "Now, I suggest you get your damn feet off my leather chair and strap in. It's gonna get bumpy."

  The gear crunched home, a low growl rumbling up through the floor as my foot eased onto the gas. The clutch bit hard, a mechanical snarl that vibrated in my bones. I’d handled small vehicles, tractors and forklifts at the construction site, but this beast… this was a different breed.

  It lurched forward, surprisingly smooth for the armored brute it was. The engine, a damned titan, didn’t even hiccup at the drag of the second APC chained and tugging behind. A raw kind of power thrummed beneath me, and I fed it more juice. This was a lot more fun than it had any right to be. Heartbeats later, I had a feel for its flow, an excited, boyish glee urging me through the gears. Second, then third, as we chewed our way off the blacktop, the linked APC tracking like it weighted nothing, straight uphill towards the dead-eyed stare of the mall.

  Shashka clung to the passenger seat like a drowning rat, knuckles bone-white. Her face, usually carved from granite, was pure chalk. “Otherworlder… magic… loud and… strong,” she choked out, her voice a ragged whisper. “We moving faster than horse…”

  Motion sickness? Probably. Dogs that actually enjoyed cars were few and far between.

  A flick of my eyes to the speedometer. Thirty. “If you throw up on my chair, you'll be walking” I grunted “The mall is three miles up. Once we crest the hill I'm gonna really push it. See how much it can handle.”

  “This… thing… can move even faster?” A thin squeal ripped from her, so out of sync with her usual hardass demeanor it almost cracked a smile on my face. Weird seeing the iron woman reduced to a jittery pup. But then, this whole metal cage on wheels, the unnatural speed – it had to feel wrong to someone like her.

  “Triple this, easy. More if I want.”

  A string of guttural curses spewed from Shashka, a rapid-fire barrage of growls and barks that sounded like something scraped from the bottom of a kennel. I tuned it out. She’d wanted to come with me; now she had to pay the proverbial piper. More to the point, unlike my stroll up here, there was no need to play it soft or quiet anymore. This engine’s roar was a middle finger to the silence, and the mall, a leering shape against the fading light, was already in spitting distance, maybe two miles out. The noise, once a worry, was now our battle cry. No need to care about noise anymore. Not when I was driving a bunker on wheels.

  It was refreshing, to say the least. Downright liberating.

  Within a minute, we’d crested the uphill portion and I put it into the fourth gear, speeding the tank straight for the parking lot fencing.

  “Rounded black box in my rucksack. Fetch it,” I whispered to Shashka, eyes glued to the shrinking barrier. If she was riding shotgun, she’d be responsible with helping me out. To her credit, the muttering died as soon as I gave her something to do. Despite the sway in her stance, like a seaman trying to get their land legs back, she scrambled behind the seats, rummaging through my rucksack.

  The fence went down like tissue paper, the impact, barely a shudder swallowed by the APC’s thick armor. This beast was all it appeared and then some. As soon as we hit the cracked concrete, I jammed it into fifth and hammered the gas, the APC howling along the perimeter. Smaller cars scattered like bowling pins, bulled and battered by the armored bulk as if they weren't even there.

  For now, I was sticking to the script – a wide loop to herd the dead away from the supply depot's doors. Give them a wide enough berth for the girls to roll the gate up and than park in before any stragglers could reach it. Simple, in theory.

  Step one: nailed. Figures oozed from under shadows, limbs jerking in grotesque spasms. Corpses that had been leaning against concrete dividers now twitched and lurched, drawn by the engine’s guttural bellow, stumbling out in a sick parody of motion.

  Shashka reappeared, still looking slightly green around the gills. my walkie-talkie clutched in her hand. “This… the thing Jon talked about?”

  I snatched it with a nod, flicking the power on. “Mina, Tina. You copy?”

  Silence. A dead line of static and for far too long. For a gut-twisting minute, nothing. Doubt, a cold blade, pricked at my confidence. Step two hinged on them – once enough of the rot-heads were corralled and away from the supply depot gate, I’d punch it towards the cargo doors, leave the rotbloods in the dust. But the girls had to open the gate for me. Otherwise, the only option would be to bash through them. And that would ruin any attempt at a sanctuary.

  "Jon...?"

  The static-laced reply scraped through the walkie-talkie, Mina’s voice a warped echo.

  "Finally. I'm back. Got the APCs. Circling the lot like we planned. One more go-round should have enough of the deadheads tagging along. You two set to open the gate?"

  "Jon, I don't know if…" Mina started, her words cut short.

  A beat of silence before the walkie-talkie chirped again, a clipped "We're ready. Just say the word."

  Something felt off. Wrong. She'd choked back something else, a raw fear hanging in the static. A knot twisted in my gut, and the hairs on my neck prickled. A sudden, sharp feeling: something was wrong.

  "Shashka smells something bad" the woman muttered, eyes fixed on the mall.

  "What the hell is it now?" I muttered, hitting the talk button. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing—nothing's wrong, Jon. We… we're ready, okay? Just tell us when…" Even the static couldn't hide the wobble in Mina's voice, the clear fear thrumming beneath.

  A split-second of hesitation. Then another. Until it snapped.

  "JON LEAVE, IT'S A TRA…"

  A sickening thunk, and Mina’s cry was sliced off, swallowed by the walkie-talkie’s hiss, a brutal contrast to the engine’s growl. Shashka stayed quiet, but I felt her eyes on me, sharp and waiting. She was reading me. My clenched jaw, the tight set of my shoulders. That fabled intuition she had talked about, it was telling her something.

  I gave her nothing. Just the strained silence until the walkie-talkie clicked again, the static breaking for a rough tone.

  "Hey there gopher! I see you brought me my tanks. Good!" Andreas’s voice, low and mean, crackled from the speaker.