The rifles glinted in the dying light.
Iyisha froze, hands instinctively raised. Behind her, Malcolm stood still as the men emerged—four, maybe five—armed to the teeth and dressed in mismatched military gear. No insignias.
She dropped her pistol without being told.
"Smart girl," one of them muttered.
Malcolm said nothing. But when a rifle's barrel tilted toward Iyisha's head, he lowered his machete slowly to the ground. One wrong move and they'd both be dead.
"Wanderers," the leader said, smirking like he'd already won. "Or Vultures?"
They were shoved forward at gunpoint. As they neared the windmill, one of the men jabbed Malcolm in the back with the butt of his rifle. He stumbled but didn't fall. Inside, the house smelled of dry wood, dust, and something older—neglect.
"Search them," barked the leader. "See what they're hiding."
Iyisha and Malcolm were split. She was pushed into a dim side room. He was dragged into what looked like a kitchen.
As they were torn apart, their eyes locked—hers wide with fear, his steady and unreadable, but hard with a silent vow. A promise. She didn't need words to understand it. Whatever happened next, he'd come for her.
The room she landed in was musty. There were faded family photos on the walls. A cracked tea set still on a table. The man guarding the door leaned against it lazily, while the other stepped close.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
She frowned. "What?"
"Bites. Gotta check for 'em. Can't be too careful."
"I'm not infected."
He grinned, stepping in. "I'll decide that."
When she resisted, he grabbed her jacket anyway.
"Don't touch me!" she snapped.
His hand came fast—struck her cheek with a crack. She flew sideways, hit the wall hard, air whooshing out of her lungs.
In the kitchen, Malcolm heard it. The thud. Her cry.
"Fuck," he growled, twisting, but hands held him down.
One man rifled through their things. "Dried beans. A cracked compass. Useless."
Another leaned close. "You two playing house? Must be newlyweds."
Malcolm met his gaze, voice low but sharp as glass. "You touch her again, and I swear—no matter what happens, I'll come back for you."
The man only chuckled, but there was a flicker of something wary in his eyes.
Iyisha, who got a little dizzy, sat dazed on the floor. The dominant man crouched in front of her.
"Pretty and soft. Bet you were someone's little princess before all this."
He reached for her shirt.
She scooted backward, inching toward the far corner of the room, her back scraping against the wall. Her eyes darted to the doorway, then to the window—any escape, any chance.
The man chuckled darkly and began to walk toward her, slow and deliberate, savoring the moment.
Then—the door burst open.
He turned, startled, just as Malcolm was dragged in, arms bound behind his back with a pistol to his temple.
"On your knees," the man hissed.
Malcolm dropped down slowly, but not before locking eyes with Iyisha. She was curled in the corner, trembling. The man who'd been advancing toward her had frozen mid-step.
Malcolm's eyes burned with fury—silent, blistering rage. It was a warning, clear as day.
The man took a step back.
"She's a fighter," the leader muttered. "Skin too clean and not a single mark on her. Probably never had to fight for anything a day in her life."
He adjusted himself, shameless and slow. "Pretty, protected, and dumb. Perfect mix for us."
He tugged at Iyisha's collar. She jerked away, kicking hard. He stumbled, laughing.
"Feisty. Good. I like that."
Malcolm lunged despite the gun pressed to his head.
"Try it," the man behind him said coldly. "I'll paint the wall with your brains while she screams."
Iyisha's chest heaved. Her breath hitched. Malcolm moved, tension rippling through him.
"Don't," she gasped, eyes locked on his. "Please."
The thought twisted through her like a knife. If they killed Malcolm—she'd be left with them. Alone. Trapped.
One of the men laughed, loud and mocking. "Aww. Look at you two. That's sweet."
Another grinned at her. "Bet you like strong men, huh? Well, you got five now."
The leader stepped forward, peeling off his filthy shirt. His belly sagged over his beltline, slick with sweat. He grinned as he pulled a knife from his side.
"Let's make it special," he muttered, voice thick with cruelty.
He came closer to Iyisha, crouched in front of her again, and slowly traced the tip of his knife along the curve of her shirt, just above her chest.
"You better watch, lover boy," he said to Malcolm without looking away. "So you know she ain't fighting it."
Iyisha turned her head slowly, locking eyes with Malcolm. Hers were wide with terror. His were unreadable—cold, focused, yet burning just beneath the surface. She didn't know if he was about to break or hold. But he didn't look away.
CRACK. CRACK.
Gunfire from outside. Sharp. Controlled.
One of the men rushed to the window. "Shit. Muzzle flashes—Vultures!" one of the camo men shouted, panic cracking through his voice.
Malcolm didn't wait. He threw his shoulder sideways, slamming into the gunman. The pistol went off, ear-splitting, missing his ear by inches.
Iyisha scrambled, hand finding a jagged shard of glass near the wall. As one of the men lunged, she drove it into his side.
A flashbang burst through the window.
The world exploded in white and ringing.
Gunshots tore the air and screams followed.
Masked figures flooded in.
Malcolm yanked Iyisha to her feet.
"Go!"
They bolted out the back. Down the porch and into the brush. Gunfire followed.
Behind them, someone yelled, "Backup! We need—"
It was cut short.
They reached the bike. Malcolm ripped it from the brush, flung himself into the seat. Iyisha climbed into the sidecar, her wrists still bound, rope cutting into her skin as she braced herself. Her breath came fast, ragged, but she didn't look back.
They didn't stop.
In the distance, flames licked the sky.
The windmill was burning.
Whoever attacked had finished the job.