Part 12

The warehouse rose out of the dark like a crouched animal, all angles and steel, its floodlights buzzing and spitting pale cones of light into the night. As Dacre rolled the car to a stop, Victor's breathing changed. It quickened—not with fear, but hunger.

"There," Victor said, nodding toward a strip of shadow near the loading docks. "Park there."

Dacre did. The engine ticked as it cooled, loud in the quiet. Armed men moved along the perimeter in lazy, practiced loops. When they saw Victor, recognition snapped into place fast—like dogs spotting their owner.

One of them broke off and approached the car. He was big, thick-necked, with a long scar pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent sneer.

"Boss?" the man said. His eyes dropped to Victor's hand. What was left of it. "What the hell happened?"

Victor lifted the mutilated stump with theatrical care. "Leadership dispute," he said lightly. "Turns out not everyone appreciates a strong hand." He laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender.

The guard—Mike, according to the patch—shifted his gaze to Dacre. Suspicion hardened his face. He raised his rifle and pressed the barrel against the glass.

"And this one?" Mike asked. "Who the hell is he?"

"I brought him," Victor said, voice flat.

Mike's finger tightened near the trigger. "Funny. Looks like he brought you."

Victor raised his good hand. "Easy, Mike. He's with me."

Mike hesitated, then lowered the rifle an inch. Not much. "With you? Boss, your hand—"

"Nathan, he did this." Dacre said.

Mike's eyes flared. "That little bastard? From that one night?" He spat on the concrete. "I'll kill him."

Victor smiled. "That's the idea."

"We'll need weapons," Dacre said.

Victor turned to Mike. "Load up. Enough for a real visit."

Mike didn't ask questions. He just nodded and disappeared inside.

Dacre swallowed. "Can I get a gun?"

Victor glanced at him, amused. "Why not? Pistol'll suit you." He raised his voice. "Mike—give our friend something light."

When Mike returned, he brought hell with him: racks of rifles, crates of ammo, shotguns stacked like wood. He handed Dacre a 9mm pistol.

It was heavier than Dacre expected.

"You know how to use that?" Victor asked.

"Hunted with my dad," Dacre said.

Victor chuckled. "Maybe you'll surprise me."

He started strapping on gear, moving with easy familiarity. "We go after dark. I lead. You shoot what gets in the way." His eyes flicked to Dacre. "If you see Nathan—don't hesitate."

"How do you know where they are?" Dacre asked.

Victor smiled thinly. "Been watching them a long time. Old college campus. Two miles out."

Dacre nodded.

An hour later, night had settled in thick and close. Dacre crouched behind a rusted dumpster at the edge of the college campus, knees screaming, breath shallow. The place loomed ahead—brick buildings slumped together like old men telling secrets. Somewhere inside, people were alive.

Victor squatted beside him, face smeared with camouflage, eyes bright and feverish. Mike knelt on the other side, silent as a statue, crowbar slung across his back.

Dacre counted under his breath, tapping his fingers together like he was afraid they'd forget their names.
"Nathan. Aliyah. Mary. Keira. Avril."

Victor smiled. "That's right. And by morning?" He checked the chamber of his rifle with a soft, intimate click. "None of them."

They moved in, quiet as rot spreading through wood. A few zombies wandered too close—easy work. A knife here, a muffled crack there.

At the main building, Mike tested the barricade. Rusted. Weak. He pried it open inch by inch.

Inside—voices.

Laughter.

Dacre froze.

"They're... laughing," he whispered, like the word itself hurt.

Victor leaned close. "While you're bleeding inside. While you're breaking. Funny how fast people forget."

"Open it," Dacre said. His voice didn't sound like his own.

The door creaked inward.

Firelight filled the room.

They were all there.

Nathan leaning back, relaxed. Aliyah smiling faintly. Mary close to the warmth. Keira and Avril side by side.

"Well," Dacre said softly. Then louder, shaking. "Well, well, well."

Every head snapped toward him.

The smiles died.

"Remember me?" Dacre stepped inside, gun loose in his hand. "Your leader. The one you threw away."

Nathan rose slowly, eyes hard. "You shouldn't be here."

Mary's voice broke. "It's him..."

"You pushed me out!" Dacre shouted. The gun wavered. "Like I was nothing!"

"We did what we had to," Nathan said, drawing his weapon. "You were weak."

Victor laughed and shoved past Dacre. "Weak?"

"Drop them," Dacre said suddenly. "Both of you."

Silence.

Victor stared. "Say that again."

"I'm fighting him," Dacre said, eyes locked on Nathan. "No guns."

Nathan barked a laugh. "You want this? Fine."

He came fast.

The first punch cracked Dacre's jaw. Another followed. Dacre staggered, blocked clumsily, then drove his fist into Nathan's gut. Air left Nathan in a grunt.

Rage took over.

They crashed into furniture, fists and bodies, skin splitting, breath tearing. Nathan slammed him down and mounted him, blows raining like hail. Blood filled Dacre's mouth.

Then Dacre caught a punch.

Hit back.

Hard.

They rolled. Dacre got on top and didn't stop. Each punch was weeks of loss. Of betrayal. Of silence.

"STOP!" Aliyah screamed, yanking him back.

Dacre shoved her aside and lunged again.

Nathan crawled, broken, pulled a knife. Swung.

Missed.

The knife stuck in the wall.

Dacre kicked his wrist, grabbed his throat, and slammed him hard. Once. Twice.

Nathan fell.

Didn't move.

The room went quiet in the way churches do after funerals.

Victor smiled like it was Christmas morning.

Dacre's fingers closed around the pistol's grip, and the feel of it was like shaking hands with an old ghost. It sat in his palm with the dead weight of inevitability, slick with someone else's blood. Maybe his. Maybe Nathan's.

Aliyah saw the gun and went still.

"Dacre..." she whispered. Her voice was so small it barely made it past her teeth. "What are you doing?"

He smiled at her, but there was no humor in it. It was the kind of smile people wore in obituaries, cropped from better days. "You remember what you called me?" he said. Calm now. That was the scary part. "Reckless, Weak, Selfish. An idiot who was going to get everyone killed."

Aliyah swallowed. She nodded once, miserably.

Dacre lifted the gun and pointed it—not at her, not at any of them—but at the ruined thing on the floor. "Then look at him."

They did. They couldn't help it.

Nathan lay twisted where he'd fallen, limbs bent wrong, face swollen into something barely human. His chest hitched and fell, stubborn as a broken engine that refused to quit. Blood had pooled beneath his head and soaked into the carpet, dark and spreading.

Aliyah clamped a hand over her mouth. A wet, choking sound slipped through her fingers.

"He's the weak one," Dacre said.

"Always was," Victor said, stepping closer, savoring the moment like a man leaning into a good smell. "Took him long enough to show it."

Then Nathan laughed.

It crawled out of him at first, a bubbling, broken sound, and then it grew—loud, sharp, hysterical. He smeared blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a red streak across his cheek like war paint applied by a madman.

"You—" He coughed, spat, pointed a shaking finger at Dacre. "You fucking idiot..."

He tried to sit up and failed, laughter tearing through him anyway. "You think this makes you strong?" Another laugh, wetter this time. "You beat me up and suddenly you're something else?"

Blood dribbled from his split lip and hit the floor. "You're still nothing."

Something snapped.

"Keira!" Dacre roared, the sound exploding out of him. "Say goodbye to him. Now. Before I fucking kill him."

Keira screamed his name and ran.

She didn't seem to notice the blood or the way Nathan's body jerked when she threw herself across his chest. She clutched him like she could knit him back together with her arms alone. "Please," she sobbed, words breaking apart as they left her. "Please don't do this. Please—"

Dacre watched them, gun steady.

"Tyler," he said suddenly, his voice flat as a grave marker. "You remember what you said when he died? You said it was my fault."

Nathan's laughter died like a switch being flipped.

His eyes locked onto Dacre's, bright with pain and fury and something dangerously close to fear. "Don't," he rasped. "Don't say his name."

"You said I got him killed," Dacre went on. "Said I led him into it."

Nathan snarled, trying to rise again, Keira clutching him desperately. "Because you did!" he screamed, voice cracking open. "It was your fault!"

Dacre tilted his head, considering that. Then he said, softly, "Maybe it's good he died. Maybe that's what it took for me to see what you really are. All of you."

The words settled over the room like falling ash.

Keira lifted her head slowly, her face streaked with tears and blood that wasn't hers. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—but it carried.

"What did you just say?" she whispered. Her eyes locked onto Dacre, sharp and shining. "You think Tyler dying was good?"

That was it.

Whatever thread had still been holding Nathan together finally snapped.

He shoved Keira off him like she weighed nothing and launched himself forward with a hoarse scream. Dacre barely had time to register the blur of motion before Nathan slammed into him, hard enough to rattle his teeth. The gun flew from Dacre's hand, clattering uselessly across the floor as they crashed into the wall. Drywall cracked and split behind them.

Nathan's hands—slick, shaking, impossibly strong—wrapped around Dacre's throat.

"I'LL KILL YOU FOR THAT!" Nathan screamed, spit and blood spraying into Dacre's face as his fingers tightened.

"Nathan, stop!" Keira shrieked, scrambling toward them.

Dacre clawed at Nathan's wrists, panic flashing hot and white behind his eyes. He slammed his forearm up, breaking the grip just long enough to suck in air, then shoved with everything he had. Nathan stumbled backward and crashed into the coffee table. It shattered under his weight, books and magazines exploding across the room like startled birds.

Dacre moved on instinct.

He snatched the pistol off the floor, spun, and leveled it at Nathan's chest.

"You're dead," Nathan rasped, staggering upright, fists clenched, eyes wild. "You're fucking dead."

The gun went off.

The sound was deafening in the closed room. The bullet screamed past Nathan's head, close enough to kiss his ear, and buried itself in the wall with a dull, final thunk.

Too close.
Too slow.

Nathan lunged again, faster than he should've been able to. He caught Dacre's wrist and twisted. Pain exploded up Dacre's arm as the gun was forced skyward. Dacre snarled and swung, bringing the pistol down like a hammer.

It connected with Nathan's ruined face.

Nathan howled, a raw, broken sound, and Dacre followed it with a brutal kick to the gut. Nathan flew backward and hit the floor hard, skidding through the wreckage.

For a moment, it looked like he was done.

Then Nathan laughed.

It bubbled up through wet coughs and choking breaths, blood frothing at his lips. He stared up at Dacre, eyes glittering with something unhinged. "You think... you think you're winning?" he gasped. Blood sprayed when he laughed again. "I saw it... I saw the future..."

Dacre frowned, chest heaving. "The future?"

"Yes," Nathan wheezed. "The future. I saw it." His grin widened, feral. "You three... dead."

Dacre blinked. "Us three?"

"You, Victor, Mike." Nathan's voice dropped, almost reverent. "All dead. Bodies broken. Minds gone."

He dragged himself up onto one elbow, leaning forward. "You watch it happen. You see Mike's brains on the wall. You hear Victor scream while he's torn apart." His eyes burned into Dacre's. "And then it's just you."

Dacre snarled. "I don't give a shit about them! I used them. I used them to get back at you!"

"Revenge?" Nathan barked a laugh that turned into a cough, blood splattering the floor. "I kicked you out because you were a danger. A liability." He gestured weakly around the room. "Look at this. Look at them. Who's the monster now?"

Dacre looked.

Aliyah sat curled against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at him like he was something rabid. Avril shook uncontrollably. Mary's hands trembled in front of her chest, lips moving silently. Keira was sobbing, broken and helpless.

Nathan smiled.

"You see?" he whispered.

"You did this," Dacre said, his voice cracking. "You made me like this."

"Yes," Nathan said softly. "I pushed you until you snapped. I wanted to see what was underneath." His smile widened. "And now everyone else sees it too."

Dacre screamed—a raw, wordless sound—and brought the gun down on Nathan's head.

Once.
Twice.
Again.

"Shut up!"
Again.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up—"

Nathan made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sob as the wall shuddered behind him. The vibration traveled through the concrete and into his bones. He slid down until his knees hit the floor, his body folding in on itself like it had finally remembered it was broken.

For a second, his eyes cleared.

He lifted one trembling hand, palm out, a child's gesture.

"We can... we can talk this out," he rasped.

Dacre's answer came as a scream ripped straight from his chest, raw enough to hurt just hearing it. "WE'RE PAST THAT!"

Nathan didn't argue. He only sighed, a long, tired breath, like a man giving up. He used his ruined arm to push himself away from the wall, teeth clenched so hard they creaked, and somehow, he stood.

The gun came down again.

Crack.

Nathan's head snapped back. Blood slid from his nose in a thin, shining ribbon. His legs buckled and he hit the floor with a wet thud.

"Stop..." he whispered, barely audible.

Dacre screamed again, and brought the gun down once more. Nathan curled, covering his skull with his good arm, shrinking into himself. The others recoiled as one, pressed against the walls like frightened animals.

"Please stop!" Aliyah cried, her voice breaking apart.

And then—just as suddenly as it had begun—it ended.

Dacre collapsed.

He folded in on himself and dropped to the floor, sobbing so hard his whole body shook. The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered beside him. He rocked there, forehead against the ground.

Nathan watched him, chest heaving. Fear was still there—but something else crept in too. Recognition. Regret.

Slowly, painfully, he crawled toward Dacre.

"Hey..." he said, softly.

Dacre shoved him weakly. "Leave me alone..."

"I can't," Nathan said—and then flinched.

Because Dacre's hand closed around the gun again.

Nathan froze.

His eyes went wide, pupils blown. "Don't," he whispered. "Please... don't..."

The gun fired twice.

Victor's head snapped back as if yanked by an invisible wire. Red sprayed the wall behind him in a violent bloom. Mike dropped to his knees, a surprised sound leaving his mouth as blood spread across his chest like spilled paint. He fell forward and didn't move again.

Dacre stared at what he'd done. Tears streamed down his face, cutting clean paths through the blood there. He turned slowly toward Nathan and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug.

"I'm sorry," Dacre whispered into his shoulder.

Nathan stayed stiff for a second, then carefully, awkwardly, wrapped an arm around him. "It's... it's okay," he said, though it clearly wasn't.

Dacre pulled away and staggered toward Aliyah.

She didn't run. She couldn't. She froze, eyes wide—until he fell into her arms. She clutched him back, shaking.

"I thought you were going to hurt me too," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "I'm scared."

"I'm sorry," Dacre cried, the words useless but all he had.

Aliyah nodded against him. The others edged closer, fear slowly giving way to shock, then sorrow. Avril wrapped her arms around both of them.

"We're alive," she whispered, like saying it might keep it true.

Then the door exploded inward.

Victor's remaining men poured in, guns already raised. Their eyes flicked once—to Victor's body on the floor—and hardened.

Then hell broke loose.

Gunfire ripped through the room. Bullets chewed into walls and furniture, screaming past Dacre's head. He was knocked flat as Avril was thrown onto him.

The noise was unbearable.

Nathan screamed his name. Aliyah wailed.

The floor was slick with blood—too much blood. Dacre couldn't tell whose.

Hands grabbed Avril and tore her away. Her blonde hair dragged across the floor, dark and sticky with blood. Another set of hands yanked Dacre in the opposite direction, fingers biting into his arm.

Nathan was slammed against the wall.

Hard.