Chapter 47: Breakfast
Rosa took the stairs one at a time, her palm curved around Roy like a shell. She kept her other hand on the banister, knuckles brushing the worn wood, her feet finding the familiar rhythm of the descent. The morning light filtered through the boarded windows in thin slants, catching dust motes that drifted lazy and slow.
She could feel his heartbeat. Quick and steady through the pad of her thumb, a tiny drum against her skin. Her fingers curled closer, almost without her deciding to. A quiet, automatic sheltering.
"Rosa. You're crowding me a bit."
His voice was muffled against her palm, but she heard the gentle amusement in it. She loosened her grip, heat creeping up her neck. "Sorry. Habit."
"You're going to put me in a pocket and forget I'm there."
"I would never forget you're there." She meant it as a joke, but it came out softer than she intended. She cleared her throat and took the last few steps into the first-floor hallway.
The kitchen was already alive with the sounds of the dorm stirring. The propane lantern flickered on the counter, casting a warm, wavering pool of light over the patchwork room. Dried herbs hung from a rack above the stove, their scents mingling with the lingering ghost of burnt coffee. A half-finished map of the wasteland was spread across the table, weighted down at the corners with a canteen and a rusted wrench.
Sandy stood at the stove, her back to them, spatula in hand. She turned at the sound of Rosa's footsteps, and her face broke into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"There you are. I was starting to think you two were going to sleep the whole day away."
"Tempting," Rosa said. She crossed to the table and lowered her hand, letting Roy step onto the surface. He was still wearing the scrap of grey cotton she'd given him last night, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. It made him look smaller somehow, softer, and Rosa felt something twist in her chest at the sight.
Sandy slid a plate onto the table. Pancakes, golden and steaming, made from some treasured mix of flour and powdered egg that she must have been hoarding. She set a second plate down, smaller, with a single pancake cut into pieces no bigger than Rosa's thumbnail.
Roy looked at it. Then up at Sandy. "You made me my own."
"Of course I did." Sandy ruffled the air near his head, careful not to actually touch him. "You think I'd let you eat a pancake bigger than your head? That's just bad manners."
Roy laughed. It was a small sound, but it filled the kitchen. He crossed to the tiny plate and sat down cross-legged beside it, wrapping the grey cloth tighter around himself.
Rosa pulled out a chair and sat heavily, the ache in her shoulders from last night's tension finally starting to loosen. She reached for the larger plate and took a bite. Warmth spread through her chest, sweet and simple.
Sandy leaned against the counter, cradling a tin cup of something steaming. "So. What's the plan for today?"
Rosa chewed slowly, considering. The map on the table caught her eye: routes marked in pencil, x's where they'd scavenged clean, question marks where they hadn't dared to go yet. She reached out and traced the line of the road that led to the Mill Street supermarket.
"Roy and I were thinking about checking the hardware store on the east side," she said. "We didn't get a chance to clear it last week, and the tool situation is getting thin."
Roy looked up from his pancake. "The one on Broad Street?"
"Yeah. It's a short run. Two hours, maybe three if we're careful."
Sandy took a sip from her cup. "You want company?"
Rosa shook her head. "Three's a crowd for a quick run. We've got the comms now. If anything goes sideways, we call it in."
Roy pushed a piece of pancake into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "We should also check the pharmacy next door. They might have antibiotics we missed."
"Already on the list." Rosa tapped the map. "I marked it."
The kitchen settled into a comfortable quiet. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Somewhere above them, the floorboards creaked as someone moved around in the common room.
Rosa caught Roy watching her. His eyes were steady, dark, and intent, the way they'd been since the sewer. She lifted one eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing." He picked up another piece of pancake. "Just happy."
The word settled in Rosa's chest like a warm stone. She ducked her head, hiding the smile that pulled at the corner of her mouth, and took another bite of her own breakfast.
Sandy watched them both with a knowing look. She didn't say anything, just refilled her cup and turned back to the stove, humming a tune Rosa almost recognized.
Rosa reached out and laid her finger flat on the table beside Roy's plate. He leaned into it briefly, a tiny warmth against her skin, then pulled back to finish his breakfast.
She kept her hand there. Just in case.
Rosa let the silence stretch a moment longer before she pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the worn linoleum. The warmth of the pancakes lingered in her chest, but the day was waiting, and she could feel it pressing at the edges of the kitchen like a held breath.
"Alright. I'm going to get dressed." She picked up her plate and carried it to the sink, rinsing it under the tap with water from the gravity-fed tank. "Roy, you need anything before we head out?"
Roy stood on the table, brushing crumbs from his knees. "Just a minute. I've got a kit."
Sandy raised an eyebrow. "A kit?"
"Roy's growing collection," Rosa said, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. "He's got more gear than any of us now. Half of it's toothpicks and paperclips, but he's got it."
"I resent that characterization," Roy said, but the corner of his mouth was curved up. "It's a survival kit. Very professional."
Rosa scooped him up with her palm, the familiar warmth of him against her skin, and carried him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She moved faster now, two steps at a time, and Roy curled into her hand like he was used to the motion.
In her room, she set him on her desk next to a small pile of organized supplies. The morning light caught the glass of the window she'd reinforced with duct tape and wire mesh. She turned her back to give him space as he dressed, the rustle of fabric behind her a small, domestic sound.
She pulled on her own gear: the reinforced vest Joan had patched for her, the harness with its quick-release clips, cargo pants with reinforced knees. She tucked a knife into her boot and checked the load on her pistol. Then she heard Roy's voice, muffled.
"Rosa. Little help."
She turned. Roy stood on the desk in a set of thermal underwear that fit him now, a clean pair of tactical pants and a jacket laid out beside him in folds. He was struggling with the sleeve of the jacket, his arms lost somewhere in the fabric.
"Shrunk the clothes, not the dexterity," he muttered.
Rosa knelt to his level. "You want me to hold it while you—"
"Just help me with the shoulder." He turned, showing her where the seam was bunched. She gently eased the fabric up over his shoulder, steadying him with the pad of her finger against his back. He was so light she could barely feel the weight of him.
"Thanks." He fastened the jacket with nimble fingers, then reached for the pack. It was slim, a tiny cloth satchel she'd helped him sew from an old eyeglass case, with straps he'd rigged from braided thread. He shrugged it on, settling it against his back.
Rosa watched him, a lump forming in her throat. He looked like a miniature soldier, ready for war. "You've got everything?"
"Comms, water, a ration bar. Map. Knife." He patted the pack. "And a piece of that pancake Sandy made, for morale."
"Good." Rosa reached for one of the thin braids; the individual binder rings glinting in the faint sunlight. “Ready to link?”
She held the braid steady between her thumb and forefinger, the binder rings cool against her skin. Roy stepped up onto her wrist, his tiny boots finding purchase on the leather of her cuff, and made his way up her sleeve to her shoulder. He moved with a confidence born of practice now, no hesitation in the way he scaled the fabric of her jacket.
Roy reached into his pack, pulling out a length of braided thread with a small carabiner ring on the end, one he'd rigged from a keychain salvaged weeks ago. He crouched at the edge of Rosa's shoulder, steadying himself against the collar of her jacket with one hand.
"Your hair's going to be the death of me," he murmured, but there was no bite to it. He leaned toward the braid, hooking his pack's strap onto the binder ring closest to her shoulder, then gave it a firm tug to test the hold. The satchel swung gently, settling against the weave of her hair like a hammock.
"Showoff," Rosa said, tilting her head slightly to give him better access.
Roy ignored her. He reached behind his back, fingers finding the small sewn-in phone ring holder at the base of his survival vest. The round carabiner there was no bigger than a ring you would put on your finger, but he'd tested it a dozen times. He clipped it onto the same binder ring, the click of the gate engaging sharp in the quiet of the room.
He gave it a solid tug, then a harder one. The ring held. His weight settled against the braid, and he let himself hang for a moment, feet dangling off Rosa's shoulder, testing the load. The braid didn't so much as shift.
"Good." He swung himself back onto her shoulder, landing lightly. "That'll hold."
Rosa turned her head, catching his eye. "You sure? I don't want you swinging around if I have to move fast."
"I'm sure." Roy patted the carabiner. "This ring's rated for way more than my weight. And with the pack clipped separate, it balances the load. Your hair does the rest."
She reached up, her fingers brushing near the braid, not quite touching him. "If you slip..."
"I know." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then he settled into the hollow of her collarbone, his back against the curve of her neck, the braid running alongside him like a lifeline.
Rosa stood still for a moment, feeling the small weight of him against her, the faint warmth of his body against her skin, under the layers of her jacket. Then she moved, crossing the room and scooping up the map from her desk, folding it into her vest pocket. She checked her boots, her knife, the straps of her pack, the extra mags clipped to her belt.
"Comms check," she said.
Roy reached up, tapping the earpiece she'd fitted him with this morning, a tiny bud wired to a micro-transmitter she and Lee had pieced together. "Loud and clear. You?"
She tapped her own ear. "Good. Alright." She took a breath, then another. "Let's go."
The hallway was quiet as they made their way downstairs. The common room was empty, the chairs still scattered from last night's card game, a few stray chips on the floor. Joan was in the armory, the door cracked open, the soft sound of metal on whetstone drifting out. She looked up as Rosa passed, raising a hand in a lazy salute.
Rosa returned it, then pushed through the heavy reinforced door at the end of the hall. The morning air hit her, cool and damp, carrying the smell of wet earth and something faintly metallic. The yard beyond Anderson Hall was a patchwork of garden beds and barricades. Jayden was already out with the chickens, scattering feed from a tin can.
"You two heading out?" Jayden called, wiping her hands on her thighs.
"Broad Street hardware," Rosa said. "Should be back by midday."
Jayden nodded, her eyes flicking to Rosa's shoulder where Roy was settled. "Be careful. Those walkers Lee spotted yesterday were moving in formation. Something's herding them."
"We know." Roy's voice came through, small but clear. "We'll keep to the rooftops where we can."
Jayden's mouth curved. "Good. Don't get eaten."
"Plan on it."
Rosa waved and set off toward the gate, her boots crunching on gravel. The sun was climbing, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. She kept her pace moderate, even, letting her eyes scan the treeline and the empty storefronts beyond.
"You warm enough?" she asked, tilting her head slightly toward Roy.
"Toasty," he said. "The thermal clothes help. Your neck helps more."
She snorted. "Glad I could be of service."
They cleared the gate, and Rosa turned east, following the line of Broad Street. The road was mostly clear of walkers, just a few distant figures shambling between buildings that she avoided with practiced ease. She stuck to the sidewalks, moving from cover to cover, her hand resting near the grip of her pistol.
Roy stayed quiet on her shoulder, watching. His hand was on the braid now, fingers loosely curled around it, not to steady himself but just to touch. She felt it, a faint pressure that grounded her.
"Three blocks," she murmured. "Then the hardware store."
"Pharmacy's next door. We hit that first, grab the antibiotics, then clear the hardware."
"Sounds like a plan."
The sun was bright over the rooftops, and for a moment, the day felt almost normal. Just two people going to run errands. Rosa let herself have that, just for a breath. Then she saw the shadow move in the pharmacy window.
She stopped mid-step, her hand going to the grip of her pistol before she'd even consciously made the decision. The shadow had been brief, a flicker of movement behind the grimy glass of the pharmacy's front window, but it was enough. Enough to tell her that what Lee had said about the walkers being herded wasn't just paranoia.
"Roy," she breathed, barely a whisper.
"I saw it." His voice came through the comms, small and tight. "West window. Something moved past it, not shambling. Too deliberate."
Rosa didn't argue. She scanned the street in both directions, the empty storefronts and the cracked asphalt that glittered with frost still holding in the shadows. No walkers in sight. No sound except the distant moan of wind through broken windows. She edged backward, keeping her body low, and slipped into the mouth of an alley between the pharmacy and a boarded-up laundromat.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and it stank of rot and damp cardboard. A rusted dumpster sat against the far wall, its lid half-ajar, and a tangle of old fire escapes crisscrossed the brick above her head. Rosa pressed herself against the wall, her back flat against the cold brick, and eased forward until she had a clear sightline to the pharmacy's front door.
"Can you see the window from there?" she asked, tilting her head so Roy could get a better angle.
"Mostly." He shifted on her shoulder, his fingers tightening on the braid as he leaned out. "The glass is dirty, but I can see part of the interior. There's a counter, spilled shelves. Looks like it was ransacked a while ago."
"Anyone in there?"
Roy was quiet for a long moment. Rosa held her breath, every muscle in her body coiled and ready. The morning light seemed too bright, too innocent, cutting across the alley in a hard diagonal that made the shadows feel blacker by contrast.
"There," Roy said, his voice dropping. "Back of the store, past the counter. Someone's crouching behind the shelving unit on the left. I can see the top of their head. They're moving, but not like a walker. Too controlled."
Rosa's jaw tightened. A survivor, then. Or worse, someone like Silas, someone who could command the dead to do their bidding. The memory of the sewer rose unbidden in her mind: the cold water, the rushing dark, Roy's tiny body swept away by a current she couldn't fight. She crushed it down.
"How many?"
"One that I can see. Could be more behind the shelves." Roy paused, then added, "Rosa. I think they're watching the street. The same way we are."
Rosa considered. The pharmacy had been their target, the antibiotics she'd marked on the map. It wasn't worth dying for, not if there was a hostile inside. But they'd come out here for supplies, and the group needed those antibiotics. Joan had been rationing the last of their penicillin for weeks.
"Options," she said quietly.
"We go around the back, see if there's a service entrance we can use to check the interior without exposing ourselves. Or we wait, see if they leave. Or we call it off and try again tomorrow."
"And if they're scavenging the same antibiotics we need?"
Roy was quiet. Then: "Then we have a problem."
Rosa hugged the wall, peering around the corner of the alley mouth. The pharmacy's front door was still closed, the window dark except for that one flickering shadow. The street beyond was empty, still and quiet under the climbing sun.
"Let's take a closer look," she said. "Stay quiet. If anything moves wrong, we pull back."
She eased out of the alley, keeping her body low and her footsteps soundless on the cracked pavement. She crossed to the pharmacy's side wall, pressing herself against it, and inched toward the back of the building. The service entrance was a rusted metal door with a busted handle, half-hidden behind a pile of collapsed shelving. It was slightly ajar, a dark gap just wide enough for a person to slip through.
Rosa looked at the gap. Then at Roy.
"Back way's open," she murmured.
"I see it." Roy's hand was on his knife now, the small blade he'd sharpened to a wicked point. "If there's more than one in there, we're going to have company fast."
"I know." She took a breath, held it, then let it out slow. "I've got the pistol. You've got the comms. We go in quiet, we assess, and if it's too hot, we leave."
"Agreed."
She crouched, gripping the edge of the rusted door, and pulled it open just enough to slip through. The gap was tighter than she'd thought, and she had to squeeze, her vest scraping against the metal with a sound like a suppressed curse. Inside, the back of the pharmacy was dark, lit only by thin slats of light from the boarded windows. The air was stale, thick with dust and the faint chemical smell of old medicines. Shelves loomed on either side, their contents long stripped by previous scavengers.
Rosa moved forward, one slow step at a time, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. Roy's breathing was calm in her ear, a steady counterpoint to her own hammering heart. She could feel his tiny weight against her collarbone, his fingers gripping the braid for balance.
They rounded the end of the shelving unit, and Rosa froze.
The crouching figure was still there, but closer now. A man in a dark coat, his face shadowed, his hands moving over something on the floor in front of him. He didn't seem to have heard them. He was hunched over, intent, murmuring to himself in a low, rhythmic voice that Rosa couldn't quite make out.
Roy's voice came through the comms, barely a whisper. "Rosa. He's not scavenging. He's setting something up."
Rosa looked. The man had laid out a series of small objects on the floor, things that glinted even in the dim light. Glass vials. A coil of wire. Something that might have been a battery. He was arranging them with care, like a surgeon preparing for a procedure.
A tight knot pulled in Rosa's stomach as she watched the man's hands move with a purpose that felt mechanical, rehearsed. She pressed her back against the shelving and let her breath out in a slow, controlled stream, her mind already tallying exit routes and cover positions when Roy's whisper tickled her ear.
"He's building a signal. I've seen a setup like that before, in the lab notes. He's not here for medicine."
Rosa's pulse jumped. "Signal for what?"
"Walkers. It's a low-frequency broadcaster. The notes Lee pulled from the engineering lab had schematics for something similar, a device that mimics the sound of a large group moving. It draws them. Herds them."
The words settled over her like cold water. Lee had said the walkers were moving in formation, herded. She'd dismissed it as paranoia. Now here was proof, crouched in the dark of a ransacked pharmacy, arranging glass vials and wire with the precision of a man who'd done this before.
"Is it Silas?" she breathed.
"I can't see his face. But the technique matches." Roy's voice was barely audible. "He's got a coil there, and a power source. He's nearly done. Once he activates it, every walker in a two-mile radius is going to start converging on this spot."
Rosa's hand drifted to her pistol. The man was maybe twenty feet away, hunched over his work, oblivious. One clean shot and the problem ended. But guns made noise, and noise drew the very thing the device would call. And if there were others in the building, the shot would bring them running.
"Options," she said, the word tight.
"We could disable the device. The coil is exposed. A single hard impact would crack the housing, ruin the tuning." Roy shifted on her shoulder, his voice dropping even lower. "But we'd have to get within arm's reach."
"And he'd see us."
"Maybe. Or maybe he's too focused. Watch his hands. He's in the zone."
Rosa watched. The man's fingers moved with a quick, practiced rhythm, seating the coil, crimping wire, checking connections. He hadn't looked up once. His lips were still moving, a low stream of words she couldn't catch, almost like he was talking to the device itself.
She made a decision.
"I'm going to circle around the far side of the shelf. When I get close, I'll signal you. You tell me if his head comes up."
"Rosa—"
"I'm not leaving that thing here to call a horde down on our home."
Roy was quiet for a heartbeat. Then: "If he turns, we go. No heroics."
"Agreed."
She slid sideways, keeping low, her boots finding the quiet spots between scattered debris. The shelf she'd chosen ran parallel to the man's position, casting a long shadow that swallowed her movement. She could hear him now, the murmuring resolving into something almost recognizable, a repeated phrase like a prayer or a calibration note.
"Five feet," Roy whispered. "He's still down."
Rosa's hand found the grip of the coil's housing, a thick cylinder of black plastic scored with cracks. The man had set it on a raised pallet, waist-high, easy to reach. She measured the force she'd need. A solid strike with the butt of her pistol would crack it, maybe sever the wire, render it useless.
She raised her arm.
The man's head snapped up.
He turned, and the light slanting through the boarded window caught his face. It wasn't Silas. It was someone younger, hollow-eyed, with a thin beard and a patch of raw skin across his cheek. He stared at her, and for a frozen second, neither of them moved.
Then his hand dropped to the coil, and Rosa swung.
The pistol butt connected with a sharp crack. The housing split, the coil twisted, wire snapping with a sound like a dry twig. The man snarled and lunged, grabbing for her wrist, his grip startlingly strong. Rosa twisted, using the momentum to drive her shoulder into his chest, and they both went down hard, the man's weight crushing the breath from her.
She heard Roy shout something, small and sharp, and then she was fighting, her knees finding purchase, her elbow driving into the man's jaw. He grunted but held on, his fingers clawing at her collar, and she felt something shift on her shoulder, felt Roy's weight fall down the back of her neck, under her shirt.
The world turned sideways. Roy's feet left Rosa's shoulder, the braid swinging back, propelled by the sudden pitch of her body, and then he was falling. He tumbled down the slope of her neck, his body caught by the collar of her jacket. At a change in motion from Rosa, his body thumped against her spine, getting caught in the collar and sliding under it, the world going dark and tight, pressed between the weave of her shirt and the warmth of her skin.
The movement was relentless. Rosa twisted, rolled, drove her weight into the man, and each motion pressed Roy deep into the crease of her spine. He could feel her muscles bunch and release beneath him, the violent rhythm of the fight transmitted through every inch of her body. The braid was taut where it had fallen around the back of her neck. Roy scrabbled for purchase, trying to get a hold of the strands, but the fabric of her collar was in the way. He couldn't reach around it. He couldn't get his arms free.
His pack swung on its strap, banging against his back with each jolt. The small knife was clipped to his vest, but he couldn't reach it either. He was pinned, blind, helpless, a flea caught in the folds of a wrestling giant.
He heard Rosa grunt, heard the wet sound of something hitting something hard. The man snarled, a sound that vibrated through Rosa's ribs like a second heartbeat. Roy's own heart was slamming against his chest, loud in his ears, and he forced himself to breathe, forced himself to think.
The carabiner. It was clipped to the binder ring on her braid. If he could get a hold on that ring, he could reorient himself and climb up, get his head above the collar, see what was happening. But the fabric of her shirt bunched around him like a swaddle. He was stuck.
He twisted, fought, and managed to get one arm free, his fingers finding the ring, then the edge of the braid where it curved around her neck.
The braid was thick and solid in his hand as he grabbed it with both hands. The next time Rosa threw her weight, he was ready. When the fabric loosened, he hauled himself up, hand over hand. His boots found a hold on the collar, he heaved himself up, and then his head was clear, the dim light of the pharmacy washing over him.
He was on the back of Rosa's shoulder again, clinging to the braid like the lifeline it was. Below him, Rosa had the man in a joint lock, the man's arm held at an uncomfortable angle behind his back, his face red, his eyes bulging. Rosa's jaw was clenched, her teeth bared, her breath coming in hard, ragged bursts.
"Rosa!" Roy called, small and breathless. "His right hand! He's reaching for something!"
Rosa drove her knee into the man's spine and heard the pop of his shoulder. He screamed, a raw, guttural sound that echoed through the empty pharmacy, and his body went limp beneath her. She kept the pressure on, her weight pinning him flat, his arm still twisted behind his back at an angle that promised more pain if he struggled.
"I said," she ground out, her voice low and dangerous, "who are you?"
The man's breath came in ragged gasps, his cheek mashed against the grimy floor. "Name's. Name's Carter. Please. You broke my arm."
"You're lucky I didn't break your neck. What were you doing with that device?"
Carter's eyes rolled, trying to see her, to see anything past the agony in his shoulder. "It's. It's just a radio. I was—" She twisted his arm a fraction higher, and he howled. "Okay, okay! It's a beacon! It draws them! The walkers! It mimics the sound of prey, a big group, something they can't resist. It pulls them in."
"Pulls them in where? Here?"
"No, no, it's directional. I was aiming it east. Toward the old stadium. There's a nest there, a big one. The walkers keep getting drawn toward it, bunching up."
"For what purpose? Why would you want to bunch them up?"
Carter's breath hitched. He was silent for a long moment, and Rosa could feel Roy's tiny weight shifting on her back, the fabric of her jacket moving slightly as he repositioned himself to hear better.
"Because they're easier to avoid in a herd," Carter said finally. "You know where they're going to be. You can route around them. It's a survival tactic. The whole city is a maze of them, but if you know where the masses are, you can move through the spaces between."
Rosa's grip tightened. "That's not a survival tactic. That's trapping them in one place. You're building a kill zone."
"It's not—"
The man's voice caught as Rosa shifted her weight, applying fresh pressure to the joint. A fresh trickle of sweat ran down his temple, mixing with the dust on the floor.
"Who sent you?" Rosa demanded. "Were you part of the group at the supermarket? Do you know a man named Silas?"
Carter's eyes widened. "Silas? I don't. I've heard of him, some herder who calls himself a shepherd, but I've never met him. I work alone. I've been alone since the walls went down. I just. I just want to move through the city without getting eaten."
Roy's voice came through the comms, small and tight, meant only for Rosa's ear. "Ask him if he's seen the ray gun. The one Silas used."
Rosa leaned closer, her lips nearly touching Carter's ear. "Have you ever seen a weapon that shrinks things? A ray gun, a device that changes size?"
Carter's breath caught. He didn't answer immediately, and Rosa could feel the shift in him, the sudden tensing of muscles that had nothing to do with his pain.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, too fast.
"The way you said that tells me you do."
"I'm telling you, I've never seen anything like that. I'm just a scavenger, lady. I find stuff, I rig it, I survive. That's all."
Roy's voice again: "He's lying. His pulse jumped when you mentioned the gun. Ask him where he got the parts for the beacon. The coil is military-grade. Someone had to supply it."
Rosa repeated the question, her voice flat. Carter's face went pale, the patch of raw skin on his cheek standing out starkly against the white.
"I. I found the parts. In a lab. On the campus. There's a research building, kind of off the main quad, the one with the greenhouse on the roof. I found a whole cache of equipment there, transmitters, batteries, a few other things I didn't understand."
Rosa's blood went cold. The engineering lab on campus. The same building where Lee had pulled the schematics for the shrinking device. If there was a cache of equipment there, if Silas had been working from that same location, then the trail was warmer than they'd ever dared to hope.
"Describe the lab," she said. "What floor? What rooms did you access?"
"I only got into the first floor, through a broken window. There's a server room, a bunch of workstations, and a storage closet full of equipment. I grabbed what I could carry and got out. Place is crawling with walkers, and there was something else, something big, moving on the lower levels. I didn't stick around."
Rosa processed this, filing each detail away. Carter was a low-level scavenger, a man trying to survive, and he'd stumbled onto something bigger than he understood. But the mention of "something big" new on the campus, a dangerous variable they'd have to account for.
Roy's whisper came again: "Ask him if he knows how to reverse the effect. If he knows anything about the size-changing tech."
Rosa's throat tightened. The question was a long shot, but it was the first lead they'd had in weeks.
"Did you see anything in that lab about size-changing technology? Anything about shrinking objects or people?"
Carter's breathing was still ragged, but there was something else in his voice now, a spark of calculation. "I saw a lot of things I didn't understand. Files, schematics, notes. Some of it was about frequencies, some of it was about particle physics. I didn't have the education to make sense of most of it."
"But you took something."
His silence was an answer.
"What did you take?" Rosa demanded. "Besides the transmitter parts?"
"Look, lady, I don't know what I've got, okay? I just grabbed things that looked useful. There's a case, a black case, with a keypad lock. It was too heavy to carry, but I pulled out some of the contents. Little discs, like medals, and something that looked like a glass tube, but it was sealed, and it was cold. Ice cold."
Rosa's heart hammered. A sealed, cold tube. Like a vacuum flask, or a containment vessel. She thought of the shrinking device, the one Silas had used, and the way it had targeted her with a deliberate, practiced aim.
"Do you still have it? The tube? The discs?"
Carter shook his head, a weak, desperate motion against the floor. "No. I lost it. I was running from a pack of walkers a few days ago, and I dropped my pack. It's gone. I don't know where it landed. Somewhere near the river, I think, by the old bridge."
Rosa's mind raced. The river. The old bridge. It was a needle in a haystack, but it was something. A tangible piece of the puzzle, more than they'd had before.
She considered her options. She could kill him, tie him up, let him go. The device was broken, and he was just a scavenger. But the information he'd given her, the lab, the cache, the lost case, was too valuable to waste, and if he got loose and found Silas, he might give up the same information in exchange for his life.
"Roy," she said quietly, bypassing the comms, just the two of them in the dim light. "What do you think?"
"Let him go," Roy said after a beat. "He's scared, and he's just a scavenger. The beacon's destroyed. We take the parts we need, we use what he told us. The lab on campus is more important than him."
Rosa looked at the man beneath her. "You're going to walk out of here. You're going to remember that I was here, and that I could have killed you. If I see you again, if I see you anywhere near my home, I won't let you walk away."
Carter nodded frantically. "Y-yeah. Yeah. I understand. I won't. I'm gone."
Rosa released his arm, and he scrambled to his feet, cradling his shoulder, staining the floor with the blood that dripped from his torn jacket.
Carter got to his feet, swaying, cradling the arm against his chest. His face was pale beneath the grime, sweat beading on his brow. He took a step toward the door, then another, moving like a man who expected a bullet between the shoulder blades at any moment.
"Wait."
He froze. His good hand came up, trembling, half in surrender, half in self-defense. "I told you everything I know. Please. I'm just trying to—"
"Your arm." Rosa's voice was flat, but there was something else underneath it, something softer. "That pop was your shoulder, not your arm. If you walk out of here without it set, you'll lose the use of that hand within a week. Infection'll set in before you can find help."
Carter stared at her like she'd started speaking a foreign language. "You're going to help me? After I just tried to kill you?"
"I'm not helping you. I'm being practical." She holstered her pistol and crossed to a section of shelving that had been stripped of anything valuable. She crouched, running her hand along the base, and came up with a rectangular case, dusty and scuffed. "Pharmacy injury kits. Most people overlooked these. Samaritans don't survive long, but the supplies do."
She set the case on the counter and popped the latches. Inside, neat rows of bandages, splints, antiseptic, and a roll of medical tape. She selected what she needed and turned to face him.
"Sit down. Before you fall down."
Carter stumbled to a low crate and sat, his head lolling against the wall. Rosa moved behind him, her fingers finding the joint of his shoulder with a practiced gentleness that seemed to startle him. He flinched when she touched him, then went still, his breath hitching.
"This is going to hurt." She didn't wait for him to brace. She pushed, a firm, steady motion, and the joint seated with a wet pop that made Carter gasp and go white. "Breathe."
He exhaled, a ragged, shaking sound. "Jesus. That was worse than the break."
"It's worse than the break because you waited." She took the splint and bound it tight against his forearm, immobilizing the joint. She worked quickly, efficiently, her fingers finding the right tension without hesitation. When she was done, she stepped back and surveyed her work. "Keep it tight for two weeks. Don't use that arm for anything heavier than a cup of water. Clean it once a day with antiseptic, and if it starts to smell bad or runs a fever, you're going to need to find a doctor fast."
Carter stared at his splinted arm, then up at her. "Why are you doing this?"
Rosa didn't answer at first. She walked to a crate she'd noticed during the fight, half-hidden behind a fallen shelf. It was dusty, flecked with dried mud, but the zippers worked. She brushed it off and carried it back, laying it at his feet.
"There's water in the back, a few bottles behind the counter. Pain meds, the ones that didn't get scavenged, are on the top shelf by the window." She crouched and unzipped the pack, checking the interior. "There's a can of soup in there I found under the sink, and a first aid kit that's better than the one I just used on you. I'd rather you have it than leave it to rot."
Carter's mouth opened, then closed. He looked at the pack, at his splinted arm, at the careful precision of the bandage job. Something in his face shifted, a crack in the hardened shell of a man who'd been alone too long.
"I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything." Rosa stood, wiping her hands on her thighs. "Remember what I told you. If I see you again near my home, I won't let you walk away."
Carter nodded, a jerky motion. He gathered the pack with his good hand and stood, wobbling for a moment before finding his balance. He looked at her one last time, something unreadable in his eyes, then turned and shoved through the pharmacy's front door. The bell above it jangled, a jarring, cheerful sound in the desolate quiet, and then he was gone.
The silence settled back over the pharmacy like a held breath. Dust motes drifted in the slanted light. The coil lay shattered on the pallet, wire and plastic scattered across the floor. Rosa stood in the middle of it all, breathing.
"Roy?"
She felt it before she heard it. The tiny tremor that ran through his body where he was pressed against the hollow of her collarbone. She felt the rapid flutter of his heartbeat against her skin, the faint shake in his small frame that he was trying, with every fiber of his being, to hold still.
She reached up, carefully, and brushed the edge of her collar. "Hey. You okay?"
His voice came through the comms, small but steady. "Fine."
"You're shaking."
A pause. Then: "Adrenaline. It's not, you know. It's not fear. It's just the body doing its thing."
She was quiet for a moment, her thumb hovering near the spot where she could feel the faint heat of him through the fabric. She moved her hand, palm out, and felt him step onto it, a tiny weight settling into the center of her palm. She lifted him up to eye level.
His face was pale, his jaw tight, but his eyes were clear. He looked at her with that steady, intent gaze he'd worn since the sewer. She looked at him, and the shaking in her own chest finally stilled.
"Your hands are steady," he said. "That was. That was the hardest thing you've done in a while."
She didn't ask what he meant. She knew.
"I used to practice on cadavers," she said. "Forensic anthro class. It's easier when they're dead."
Roy huffed a laugh, the sound shaking at the edges. "Yeah. I bet it is."
She tucked him back against her shoulder, feeling the warmth of him once more settle into the curve of her neck. She felt his tiny hand find the braid, his fingers curling loose around it, grounding himself. She let out a long breath.
"Let's get out of here. We've got supplies and tools to find."
Rosa turned from the shattered coil and moved deeper into the pharmacy, her boots crunching over scattered debris. The shelves along the back wall were mostly bare, but she found what she was looking for tucked behind a fallen display of vitamin bottles: a plastic crate, dusty and unmarked, shoved into a corner where the light barely reached.
She crouched and pulled it out, setting it on the counter with a thud. Inside, neat rows of prescription bottles and blister packs, their labels faded but legible. She began to sort through them, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency.
"Antibiotics," she murmured, holding up a bottle of amoxicillin to the light. "Still sealed. Good."
She set it aside and kept digging. Amoxicillin, then a bottle of doxycycline. Anti-inflammatories, ibuprofen and naproxen in blister packs that had survived the humidity. Codeine, a small bottle, half full, the label worn but the pills intact. She tucked each find into her pack, taking care to wrap the glass bottles in cloth so they wouldn't rattle.
Roy was still against her shoulder. She felt the shift in him as the adrenaline drained away: the subtle unclenching of his small muscles, the slowing of his heartbeat against her skin. The tremor that had shaken his frame during the fight faded, replaced by a warmth that seeped through the fabric of her jacket.
She worked in silence, scanning labels, checking expiration dates. The morning light through the boarded windows had shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor. She found an unopened box of surgical gloves, a roll of medical tape, a bottle of antiseptic that was still three-quarters full. She packed them carefully, her movements methodical.
Roy's breathing deepened. The tiny weight of him settled more firmly against her collarbone, his body relaxing into the hollow of her neck. She could feel the slow rhythm of his breath, the occasional twitch of his fingers against the braid.
She paused, scanning a label on a bottle of cephalexin, and felt his weight shift as he nearly slipped. His hand tightened on the braid, a reflexive grab, and then he stilled again.
"Roy," she said quietly, not looking up from the label. "Don't forget to reattach yourself, in case you doze off there."
A pause. Then his voice, a little thick with sleep: "I'm not dozing."
"Mhm." She turned the bottle over, checking the expiration date. "You were about to fall down the back of my jacket."
"I had it."
"You had it." She set the bottle in her pack and reached for another. "You also nearly slid off my ear yesterday when you fell asleep during that book you were reading."
"That was different. The book was boring."
"The book was about antique clock mechanisms."
"Exactly. Boring."
She huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the dim pharmacy. She felt his small fingers move against her skin, unclipping the carabiner from the binder ring and then clipping it back on, a little higher up her braid, closer to the base of her skull. He gave it a firm tug, testing the hold.
"There," he murmured. "Reattached. Happy?"
"Very." She pulled another bottle from the crate. "Now stay put."
"I'm not going anywhere."
She worked through the rest of the crate, finding a few more useful items: a nearly full bottle of acetaminophen, a pack of sterile gauze, a small tube of antibiotic ointment that hadn't lost its seal. The pile in her pack grew, each item wrapped and tucked with care. The pharmacy had been picked over by previous scavengers, but they'd left the basics behind, the things that were hard to carry or easy to overlook.
She felt Roy shift again, and this time his weight settled into a definite position, his body molding to the curve of her neck. His breathing had evened out, slow and deep, the rhythm of imminent sleep. She could feel his tiny heartbeat against her skin, a steady pulse that matched her own.
She didn't call him on it. She kept working, her movements quieter now, softer, so as not to disturb him. She found a half-empty bottle of multivitamins, a sealed pack of bandages, a small container of electrolyte powder that had escaped the general ransacking.
The light through the boarded windows continued its slow shift. She finished with the crate and set it aside, then moved to the next section of shelving, her eyes scanning for anything she might have missed.
Roy's breathing was fully asleep now, deep and even, the kind of sleep that came after a body stopped running on pure adrenaline. She could feel the faint warmth of him through her jacket, a small, steady heat.
"Rosa." His voice was barely a murmur, half-awake. "You're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
"Good." A pause, then: "Don't leave without me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
His breathing deepened again, and she felt him slip back under. She finished her search, finding a last few items worth keeping, and then she stood, stretching her back, careful not to jostle the tiny weight on her shoulder.
The pharmacy was quiet around her, the only sound the occasional creak of the building settling, the distant moan of wind through a broken window. She looked at the shattered coil on the floor, the scattered wire and plastic, the evidence of the fight already cooling into stillness.
She should check the hardware store next door. She should move, keep moving, get back to base before the sun got too high or the walkers got too bold. But she stood there a moment longer, feeling the small, steady weight of Roy against her neck, breathing in time with his.
"Alright," she said quietly, more to herself than to him. "Hardware store. Then home."
She picked up her pack and moved toward the front of the pharmacy, stepping carefully around the debris, her boots finding the quiet spots. Roy slept on, a tiny soldier carried by a giant, his heart beating in time with hers.