His hand went to her shoulder. “Stay with me. It’s going to be okay,” he said, his voice steady and even.
We burst through the door.
Ben went first—two shots, step, two shots, step—clearing a narrow lane. I followed, pulling a dark-haired girl and a tall boy through. Lucas came last with the others.
For a heartbeat, I thought our gamble had worked.
Then the lane collapsed.
Hands grabbed at sleeves, at skin, and at hair.
Someone screamed.
I turned back.
Grace was caught—fingers hooked into her jacket, pulling her sideways into the mass of the infected. One bit her neck as she screamed, then another ripped into her stomach.
Lucas grabbed her wrist, desperately trying to pull her back. “Let go of her, you fucking bastards!”
He held on for a moment too long, and I knew that in another second they’d have him too.
“Lucas!” I barked.
He met my eyes, and I could see the agony in them as he let go.
Ben dragged him through the door.
We stumbled into the daylight, slamming the bent door behind us, and ran for the vehicle.
Before the last person sat down, the engine roared to life, and I took off.
No one spoke.
The town rolled by in a strange quiet. A stoplight blinked red over an empty intersection.
Lucas broke the silence when he spoke.
“She was right fucking behind me.” His voice was low and barely controlled. “I told her to stay close.”
No one answered, but a sob came from a girl, her head in her hands.
“I fucking hadher!” His fist slammed into the inside of the van door.
The sound rang in the cab.
He hit it again.
Harder.
Blood smeared across the window.
Ben kept driving, ignoring Lucas's breakdown entirely.
“Grace was barely a teenager,” he said hoarsely. “She didn’t deserve that. None of them did.”
Everybody went silent again, except for the girl, who was crying openly now.
“I need to get home to my mother,” Ethan whispered.
