CHAPTER 28: COLLECT SUPPLIES II

Rosalia — POV

Despite the obstacles scattered across the road—broken concrete, abandoned cars half-embedded into ditches, the faint smears of dried blood on the cracked asphalt—the drive didn’t take long. The few zombies we spotted along the way barely registered as threats. They dragged their limbs sluggishly, jaws hanging open, limbs twitching in broken, animalistic motions. If anything, they looked more like discarded puppets than monsters.

Barney, however, treated even the hint of danger like an insult.

Broad-shouldered, thick-armed, and solid as a wall, he sat behind the wheel with the casual dominance of someone who had lived their whole life behind controls. He didn’t merely drive the vehicle—he commanded it. The muscles in his forearm stood out as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the veins cutting sharp lines beneath his skin. Every time a zombie staggered toward us, drawn by the low growl of the engine, Barney simply pressed down on the gas pedal. No hesitation. No fear. Just a firm, decisive action.

The car surged forward each time, rolling over bodies with mechanical indifference. The crunches echoed beneath us, swallowed quickly by the roar of the engine.

There was no denying it—his driving really was superb. Not artistic or refined, but confident. Competent. Absolute.

"We’re here," Barney said at last, pulling the car into a cleared patch of ground.

His voice was steady, as always. Grounding.

Outside the window, the hospital rose like a ghost of a forgotten world.

It was supposed to be a "small" hospital. That was what the maps, old signs, and faded listings had called it. But as we stared up at the cluster of white buildings—long, rectangular structures stretching far into the distance—I couldn’t help but think that whoever named it had been delusional. The walls were streaked with soot, cracked in several places, as though time itself had taken a chisel to the entire property. Tall glass windows were shattered or smeared with grime. And behind the buildings, the silhouettes of even more structures loomed—shadows of an institution that had once been alive with noise and movement.

Small? Compared to a state hospital, maybe. But here, surrounded by emptiness and decay, it felt like an enormous abandoned campus swallowed by silence.

And the front gate...

Zombies were pressed against it, shoulder to shoulder, a grotesque crowd frozen in restless hunger. Their clothes hung in tattered strips from skeletal frames. Their jaws trembled faintly, dripping with congealed drool. Their eyes—milky, unfocused, disturbingly blank—twitched whenever the wind brushed against their faces.

Hospitals, malls, cafés... places where laughter once echoed, where people hurried from one place to another, where a hundred voices blended together—they had all been transformed into suffocating death traps. Cluster points. Meet-up spots for the dead.

Even in the distance, I could feel the weight of the air. Thick. Sour. Heavy.

A single scratch from any of them meant the end. A real one. Not a warning, not a scare tactic, not a second chance. The end.

"The gate is locked," Henry said, leaning forward slightly. His brows knit together, shadowing his eyes. His messy chestnut hair fell over his forehead, and he shoved it back irritably with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times that day. "For your ability to work properly, you need physical contact to sense other people. But if we climb over the gate, it’ll be hard for you to do that."

Frederick adjusted his cracked spectacles, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Tall and lean—almost willowy—he looked more like a scholar than a survivor. Except scholars didn’t usually appear so chaotically put together. His eyes flickered across the scene, calculating, absorbing.

"True," he murmured. Then suddenly his entire expression shifted—brightened, even—like a single spark had ignited an entire idea in the depths of his mind.

"I got it! Since there are only three of us, one person can carry her every time—"

His voice cut off with a sharp inhale.

A cold wind swept across the space, sudden and biting, cutting straight through the heat of the midday sun.

Frederick froze mid-sentence. His shoulders crept upward instinctively, heat draining from his face.

Henry didn’t miss a beat.

"I think you should donate that brain of yours," Henry said dryly, tone utterly flat. His green eyes narrowed as he looked at Frederick like he was examining a questionable insect. "Carry Rosalia every time? And how exactly do you expect her to climb back? Also, if we keep clumping together like that, the zombies will notice us in seconds."

"There are too many holes in that plan," Barney added, not even bothering to hide his amusement as he folded his muscular arms across his chest.

Frederick’s bright idea died instantly.

Cassel, however, didn’t speak.

Cassel rarely spoke. Silence clung to him like a second skin, like a cloak woven from darkness and cold air. He stood slightly apart from us, a tall, imposing figure cut from angles and shadow. His black hair fell in uneven strands, brushing the sides of a face carved in sharp, unforgiving lines. If marble statues could glare, they’d look like him.

His expression revealed nothing. His eyes—deep, dark, and unreadable—seemed carved from ice, carrying a chilling stillness that made it impossible to decipher what lay behind them.

He stared at the gate for several long, tense seconds, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the storm beneath his calm exterior. A shadowy heaviness clung to him, something dark simmering under the surface—sorrow, anger, fear... something.

Then, abruptly, his eyes shifted.

They locked with mine.

The moment our gazes connected, it felt like stepping into a pool of freezing water. Cold. Sharp. Unyielding. I couldn’t read him—no one could—but he saw everything. I felt it. The weight of his gaze pressing in, dissecting, observing, then shuttering itself just as quickly.

He turned away before I could gather my thoughts.

"There should be a back door or another entrance," he said finally. His voice held the same cold edge as his eyes—controlled, unshaken. "Let’s go."

Once we exited the vehicle, everyone slipped seamlessly into preparation.

Henry moved toward me first. Of course he did.

He flicked his hand outward dramatically, stepping forward like an actor slipping into character. His tall frame bent into an exaggerated bow, one hand against his chest, his wavy hair sliding forward to frame his amused smile.

"My lady," he said with a grin sharp enough to irritate even the most patient saint, "may I have the honor of holding your hand?"

I liked Henry—really, I did. He was strong, clever, and arctic in a way that made danger feel a little lighter. And he was one of the rare people who could stay around the villain without dying early. Not to mention he was good-looking—sharp jawline, smirking lips, an ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes.

For a heartbeat, I almost fell for the ridiculous charm.

Almost.

Before I could even open my mouth, a hand shot out.

Someone seized my wrist—firm, fast, and with absolutely zero hesitation—and yanked me forward.

My forehead slammed into something solid, the impact rattling my teeth.

A sharp sting spread across my skin, and I stumbled, my balance tipping forward until my face was pressed against heat and muscle. A chest. A very hard chest.

Warm breath brushed over the top of my head. A steady, powerful heartbeat thumped beneath my cheek.

Cassel.

His body was tense—coiled tight, like every muscle had been pulled to the brink of readiness. His hands, broad and warm, gripped mine with an intensity that bordered on possessive, like he intended to fuse our palms together.

Even with my head throbbing, I glared up at him.

"Alex will hold Rosalia’s hand," Cassel announced, his voice flat and utterly unmovable. "The rest of you link up as well. We’ll keep Rosalia and Alex in the middle since they’re the weakest."

The tone he used could’ve been carved from stone—cold, firm, unquestionable. There was no room for argument, and he didn’t give either Henry or me even a second to form one.

He simply pulled me away from them, muscles shifting beneath his sleeve as his grip tightened, dragging me into position like he’d already calculated every danger around us.

With my right hand trapped in his, I extended my left.

Alex approached quietly, almost ghost-like. His small hand slipped into mine. Soft. Cool. Delicate. His dark hair fell across his youthful face, partially hiding his eyes. Too calm for a child in the apocalypse. But beneath that calm, I felt a faint tremor.

He held onto me tightly.

Henry begrudgingly took Alex’s other hand, his expression twisted with annoyance.

Barney stepped back.

He wouldn’t be joining us inside.

He’d stay behind, guarding the car—our only exit, our only safety net—and keeping watch for anything dangerous.

Because in this world, danger didn’t always wear rotting flesh.

Sometimes it walked on two perfectly living legs.