Ash watched the light bleed from the sky, slow and steady—orange to rust, rust to bruised grey. Shadows stretched like dark fingers between the trees, creeping. The air had cooled, the bite of it cutting through her lungs with every breath. They couldn't stay here.
She looked down at Eve. Still as stone. Her skin burned, her breath shallow. The bleeding had stopped but the tourniquet was a temporary fix. She couldn't risk it long. Eve's leg, her life—Ash didn't know how long either would last.
Nothing to patch her up. No water. No plan. Nothing but a knife and a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.
Turning back wasn't an option—not with the blood trail they'd left behind, with the scent of death clinging to them. Forward was a stretch of woods and a night closing in too fast. Either way, they were fucked.
"The trees were wrong. Thick and tangled, their limbs clawing at the sky like they were closing in on her. The air felt stifling, like the forest itself was conspiring to hold her here.
Her body screamed in protest, arms raw, legs shaking with every step. Her throat was tight, dry, and the half-empty bottle in her bag felt like a joke. The sun was setting and she had to move.
She knelt beside Eve again, her palm against the fevered skin. "Stay with me," Ash whispered, her lips brushing the side of Eve's head. "Just a little longer. I'll find something. Somewhere."
A breeze stirred the canopy, dry leaves rustling. A crow cawed once, and then silence.
The air shifted. Something was wrong.
Then came the growl - animal. Definitely animal. And it wasn't friendly. Could they turn too? Could the infection twist more than just people?
Her hand slipped to the knife at her side. Her grip was unsteady, but her resolve wasn't. She knew she couldn't win—not against something fast, something wild. But she'd tear her own hands apart before letting it get to Eve.
She crouched low, body tense, every muscle coiled tight.
A huff followed—a sharp exhale, loud enough to feel deliberate. Threatening.
Then the forest moved. Leaves rustled like whispers, branches clawed at one another overhead, and beneath it all—the crunch of something heavy shifting through the deadfall.
Closer.
Ash's breath hitched. She scanned the trees, every shadow a potential threat, every flicker of movement dragging her deeper into panic.
She stepped in front of Eve, planting her boots in the dirt, knife raised.
"Come on," she whispered. "I dare you."
Branches snapped.
Out of the dark came the shape.
A dog.
The dog was huge. Wiry and lean, its fur a mottled patchwork of brown and black, crusted in dried blood and streaks of mud. One ear was torn nearly in half. The other flicked as it watched her, head low, shoulders tense.
Its eyes were wrong. One cloudy and blind, the other too sharp, too still. It didn't bark. Didn't charge. Just stared. Like it was trying to figure her out.
Ash's breath hitched. Her body screamed with exhaustion, arms aching from dragging Eve through the woods. Still, she shifted, half-shielding Eve's body, raising her knife with trembling fingers.
"Easy," she whispered. "Just stay there."
The dog stepped forward. Its teeth flashed. Ash stiffened.
She didn't want to hurt it—not unless she had to. But she wouldn't let it get to Eve. Not when she'd come this far. Not when Eve still burned with fever, her skin slick with sweat, lips parted in shallow, rasping breaths.
The dog paused. Then, suddenly, it barked. Loud. Sharp. Echoing through the trees like a gunshot.
Ash flinched. Her heart dropped into her stomach. "Shit—stop! Are you trying to get us killed?" she hissed, looking wildly around.
She didn't hear anything—not yet—but she knew better than to trust the silence. The bark could carry. Could bring something worse. She tightened her grip on the knife, eyes scanning the darkness between the trees.
The dog barked again, then turned and trotted a few steps ahead—pausing just long enough to glance over its shoulder.
Ash stared.
"You've got to be kidding me." It barked once more, urgent, then moved ahead again. Stopped. Looked back.
Waiting.
Ash looked down at Eve. Her skin was too pale, her brow furrowed, twitching like she was trapped inside some fever dream.
Ash reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from Eve's face, fingers lingering just a little too long. There was something about her like this—quiet, fragile, vulnerable—that made Ash's throat tighten. Not because she looked weak, but because Ash couldn't stand the idea of losing her.
She'd never say it out loud. Could barely admit it to herself. But right now, looking at her, it settled like a weight in her chest.
She had to keep her safe.
She looked up again.
The dog was waiting.
She cursed under her breath. If there were walkers nearby, the barking would bring them. If she stayed out here, exposed, she'd be a sitting target. Worst-case scenario, maybe the dog could help fight one off. Best-case… maybe it knew something she didn't.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered.
She yanked off her jacket, shoved it beneath Eve's shoulders, then crouched low and began to drag again.
The cold clawed at her knees. Every root felt like it was grabbing her ankles, trying to hold her back. Her arms burned. Her back screamed. But she didn't stop. As she pushed on, dragging Eve, careful of her leg and trying to stay as quiet as possible, her mind wandered. She'd never been good with people, never understood the weight of attachment. But right now, it felt like something was anchoring her to Eve—something that went beyond survival.
The dog led them—always ahead, always barking if she fell too far behind. Each step brought them deeper into the woods, and part of her hated how much hope began to bloom in her chest.
Then she saw it.
A break in the trees. Vines clinging to the sagging roof of what might've once been a hunting shack. It was crooked and nearly hidden beneath ivy, with stone walls that leaned like they could collapse any minute.
But it stood.
Ash froze. Chest heaving. It didn't look safe. It didn't even look sane. But to her, it looked like shelter. A barrier between them and the dark.
The dog padded to the door, sat down, and looked at her. Quiet again. Tongue lolling. Ash didn't speak. Didn't thank it. She just dragged Eve the last few feet to the door, heart thudding. The dog stood, gave her one last glance—and vanished into the woods.
"Thanks… I guess." Ash muttered before turning to Eve. Her face was pale but peaceful now, it wasn't a good sign.
Ash's throat tightened.
"Almost there," she whispered.
Then she shoved the door open with her shoulder, forcing it past rust and swollen wood, and pulled Eve inside.
Behind them, the forest swallowed the dog's tracks. And everything went quiet.
She shoved against the door. It didn't budge at first—its hinges rusted, the wood swollen from years of rain and rot. With a grunt, she braced her shoulder and forced it open. It groaned in protest, then gave way, revealing the dim interior of a small, forgotten shack. Dust hung in the air. A single cot sat in the corner, slanted but intact.
Ash didn't hesitate. She turned back to Eve, dragging her over the threshold as the last of the light slipped away. Once they were inside, she kicked the door shut and slid the latch into place, the click echoing like a promise. She stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, the cold air clinging to her sweat-soaked skin. Her hands burned from the effort, her shoulders screaming from dragging Eve through the woods. She was shaking—muscle-deep, soul-deep.
She turned back to Eve.
She had to get her onto the cot. She knew that. Off the floor, off the cold, out of her soaked clothes, warmed somehow. But her legs felt like splintered wood, and for a second, she just stared down at her—this girl she didn't know, not really, and yet couldn't seem to leave behind.
The flickering light through the cracked slats painted Eve's skin in pale gold and shadow. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her lips parted, her breath shallow and uneven. But her face—God, her face. Even now, with the fever flushing her cheeks and the bruises blooming at her temple, she looked untouchable. Not fragile. Just… something other than broken.
Ash knelt, the floor groaning beneath her knees. Her hand hovered just above Eve's cheek, not quite touching, afraid to break the spell. There was dirt smeared along her jaw, blood at her temple, and still she looked almost peaceful.
Ash blinked hard. "Come on," she whispered, voice cracking. "I need you to hang on."
Ash slid her arms beneath Eve's shoulders and lifted, biting back a cry as her muscles screamed. Her knees buckled, and she nearly dropped her, but she managed to haul her up—half onto the cot, Eve's limbs limp, head lolling toward her.
Ash collapsed with her, breath ragged, arms braced against the rotted cot to keep from crushing her. Her chest hovered over Eve's, their bodies close, too close. She could feel the faint heat of her breath against her cheek. Her own pulse thundered in her ears.
She didn't move.
Her face was inches from Eve's—close enough to see the smudge of dirt along her throat, the flutter of her pulse just beneath it. Her lips were parted slightly, her breath shallow and unsteady. But it was still there. Still hers.
Ash's eyes dropped to her mouth. Then to her throat.
And before she could stop herself, she lowered her head, gently pressing her forehead to Eve's shoulder.
She breathed her in.
Sweat. Blood. Dirt.
But underneath all that—Eve.
And Ash huffed her in like a secret. Like something fragile and fading.
"I'll keep you safe," she murmured, the words heavy with a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.
Then— "...Ash."
The name came soft. Slurred. Like a dream. Ash's head snapped up. Her heart stopped. Eve's eyes were still closed, but her lips had moved. Ash could feel it—feel the word more than hear it. Her name. Like it meant something.
Ash curled tighter over her, like she could shield her with the weight of her own body, like she could will the warmth back into her skin.
Still, Eve didn't move.
And Ash, trembling with everything she couldn't say, broke quietly—hot tears spilling onto Eve's neck as the night pressed in.