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SEVEN

YES, MA’AM.

LEON

“Fast sweep,” Lyla says, checking the knife at her hip. “Weapons. Ammo. Anything useful. No hero shit.”

Joanie raises a hand. “Define hero shit.”

“Anything you think is funny,” Trish says.

“That’s everything. Define useful.”

Clair steps forward from beside Max, a notebook page folded in one hand. “Look for hardware or pharmacy aisles. Rubbing alcohol, peroxide, batteries, gloves, eye protection, tape, sealed cleaners. Anything marked corrosive or flammable stays capped and separate.”

Joanie stares at her. “That sounded suspiciously like homework.”

“It’s lab safety,” Clair says. “With a higher chance of being eaten.”

Trish points at Joanie. “Which means no mixing mystery liquids because you think it’ll be funny.”

Joanie lowers her raised hand.

Lyla looks at Clair. “Anything else?”

“Ventilation matters. Labels matter. Gloves matter. And if you smell something sharp enough to make your eyes water, leave it alone unless you enjoy melting from the inside out.”

Jacob blinks. “Comforting.”

Clair shrugs. “Chemistry usually is.”

My eyes find her before I can stop them.

Only Clair could make lab safety sound like foreplay.

I shake my head.

No.

Bad, Leon.

Chicago is close enough to feel it pressing in, close enough to start counting all the ways it could go bad.

Riverside is the last stop before the city, or close enough. A cracked sign told us the name before it gave up and fell off its hinge on the way in.

We’re taking a full week here before we go any farther.

Seven days to stock up, study routes, count ammo, patch gear, and give Edith’s leg more time before we ask her to survive another disaster in the back of Earl’s truck.

Seven days for Clair too.

More drills. More miles under Trish’s particular brand of torture. More chances for her body to learn the difference between training and danger before Chicago throws too much at her at once.

Not enough time to make her fearless.

Enough time to make sure fear doesn’t get the first vote every time.

So we’re holed up in a cul-de-sac off the beaten path, close enough to walk to the downtown strip and far enough to make a break for it if the dead start gathering.