The trip back to Ellis's house in Savannah was quiet. Not just from the infected outside - thankfully, there had only been a few stragglers here and there - but inside the truck. Apart from Max's pants and occasional whine, Zoey, Phyllis and Nathalie did not speak at all. In the rearview mirror, he could see them huddled together, holding one another. Zoey's expression was distant as she stroked Max absently. Ellis watched her a few moments, thinking that she was probably hardly aware she was doing it.

They had pulled into a long stretch of open road, which had rarely had traffic even in the days before the infection hit. Nothing much down here apart from the odd village, all long destroyed or abandoned as CEDA told people to congregate in the major cities. They'd have to go offroad from the highway eventually as the traffic piled up on the way into Savannah, but that wouldn't be for at least another 10 miles.

Ellis rested his forehead on his steering wheel. He thought he'd been pushed to the limit of how this world could make him feel. How devastated, lost and afraid he'd felt; so many times. If he'd been a little bit smarter and a shred less optimistic, he knew he'd have died in this shitshow a long time ago. He'd always been able to find the good in things, even when it looked like his number was up. Shit, it had gotten them out of that crazy mall via the Jimmy Gibbs Jr. Being stupid enough to have hope was what had kept him - and, he felt, others around him - sane enough to keep fighting.

But he was finding it real hard – real fuckin' hard – to see the light in anything right now.

He began to cry. It infuriated him and he scrubbed his tears away violently with the back of his hand. They kept coming, anyway.

What the fuck do I even have to cry about? How dare I cry?

He felt so deeply ashamed, as he looked back at the woman he had come to love. Her eyes looked lifeless now, drained of emotion. Maybe because there was simply too much for her to stand to think about. Ellis knew a part of her, a part of the three of them, had died in that place. It had been a different kind of threat; a different type of trauma. One that wasn't the constant, ongoing threat around them, that could be out-thought or shot with a big enough gun.

No. This had been something else. Something Ellis himself couldn't relate to as a man, but he knew, looking at the three of them, that it was something every woman understood to an extent. Despite the fact that Ellis was a grown man, there was a simplicity (although he'd have jumped off a building before owning up to it, an innocence, really) about how he saw the world. He couldn't have known it (as he'd never truly understood what she'd seen in him in the first place), but it was what had drawn Polly to him. It had been, on that night when she'd shown him her scars, what made her fall in love with him. He lived by a basic moral code, and when he saw things like they'd seen in that place -

(Why. Why did they)

- he just didn't, couldn't get what would drive a person to do that.

He lifted his head, trying to pull himself together and focused on the road. The steering wheel was slick with his tears - his stupid, goddamned tears. He knew he didn't have to 'get' anything, and it was more than a damn sight unhelpful to think on the whys and hows.
They did what they did.

And now they were dead.

He couldn't exactly bring himself to smile. Enjoying the memories of stabbing those two assholes (and seeing what Zoey had done to their asshole leader) was tempting, as it was certainly what he'd desperately wanted to do at the time when they had made him watch. But it didn't make what they'd done go away, or bring back the other women and girls they had hurt.

The only savin' grace is they'll never be able to do it again. That's for damned sure.

Even if they didn't have the threat of nuclear fire at their doorstep, getting out of the mainland was still a better option than staying. He knew Zoey hadn't wanted to when her group had gone, but wondered now if she thought different.

"Looking after their own", she'd told him Bill – the older fella with them – had said.

His heart was heavy with sadness as he looked at her. It was hard to stand, like the emotional equivalent of staring into the sun. He wished he could find some stupid words - anything - to offer comfort, but he had none. Nothing could take this away – it wasn't like a car in the workshop, where he could do an oil change and it'd chug into life. One of the only things (except playing bass and shooting zombies) that he felt he was actually good at.

The only thing he could give them all was time. And the fact the others were here, with them – that was sure as hell better than their chances before they were here. In numbers, resources and –

Shit, just seeing their faces again is keeping me going right now.

He ran a hand over his face, following the car in front which Nick had jacked to get them here, watching the blinking taillights –

(Rochelle must be driving, she's not a dumbass on the road)

- as they drove off into the darkness.

The group staggered through the front door, collapsing in the front parlour. Ellis's parents hadn't had much money in life, but their house had been their pride and joy before all of this. It had been handed down the McKinney line since Ellis's great-grandparents had eloped from Ireland. They had looked after it like one would a precious family heirloom; forever painting, patching cracks in the walls, tending to the garden. Until he'd moved out into his own place in town with Keith and Dave, he'd not appreciated it, or the sheer number of filthy dishes and socks that his mother dealt with on a daily basis.

Seeing the house again had made Phyllis break down into tears. She'd looked at it as if she was dreaming.

(She probably thought she'd never see it again)

He forced the thought out of his mind. They needed to act – and act right now.

"We need sutures!" Coach bellowed, pulling back the bandage on Phyllis's face. The blood had gone right through the makeshift wrapping Ellis had made but had begun, at least, to congeal.

Before Ellis could move, Zoey ran to the upstairs bathroom. He could hear distant fumbling in the medicine cabinet, then across the hall.

Probably the craft room. Good thinking, Zo.

She returned a moment later with a half-full bottle of rubbing alcohol, bandages, painkillers and his mom's sewing kit. She was slightly out of breath and as she struggled, Ellis saw her wince.

"Ah!"

She grabbed her finger, breath hissing between her teeth. Ellis was quick, catching the rubbing alcohol with one hand. The kit – a Danish butter cookie tin, like every household in the South – clattered on the ground. The lid popped free, spilling buttons and spools like colourful entrails. He passed the bottle to Coach and got to work picking them up, gathering them together in a messy pile.

"You ok?" He asked her, and felt immediately stupid saying it.

Not meeting his eyes, she nodded and turned away.

"Fine. Just my stupid finger."

He knew better than to probe any further. He watched her as she bandaged it, splinting the fracture with her middle finger. She made neat work of the injury, well-practised at this point.

Like we all are, I guess.

When she finished, she got up without a word and headed towards the door. As she left, she paused at the doorway. Ellis saw her stop, and looked over at her.

Their eyes met.

It was the first time that she'd looked at him – really looked at him – since they'd left. Her eyes were wide, haunted and pleading. His stomach turned, again, as he fought to find some meaningful words to say.

But he knew what that look meant. Now wasn't the time. It wasn't the place, nor the company either.

He knew that later, they would talk. And it would be alone.

She closed the door behind her. He listened to her footsteps on the stairs for what felt like a lifetime, before turning back to help Coach.

"How's it looking your side?" Rochelle asked, from somewhere beneath the body of the helicopter.

When he didn't answer, she repeated the question – louder, and significantly more sharply. It was enough to make him jump, and he dropped his torch. He swore as he bent to pick it up, aiming the broad beam towards Rochelle.

"Can you," Nick started, not bothering to hide his annoyance as she shielded her eyes, "use your inside voice? For once?"

"Can you answer a goddamned question? For once?"

"Alright!" Nick yelled, breaking his own self-imposed rule. "It's fine. Few scratches here and there, but that's it. No tampering, no parts missing. Either we got super fucking lucky, or we're pretty much the only non-infected people left here. But it's an intact helicopter, and so long as it's that, I don't care."

"What's up your ass?" Rochelle snapped back.

"Nothing!"

"Clearly there's something."

Nick ignored her, going round to check the tail. He ran the torch over it several times, but he couldn't find anything. Just the odd scratches you get from landing a helicopter when the only practice Coach had gotten as a pilot was two up-and-down trips on the key with Bennett before leaving. The fact that he'd managed to land it intact – at all –was impressive. Nick still felt mad at Bennett for not flying it for them, even though Bennett had pointed out that he didn't have a whole lot more experience than Coach did.

He'd wanted to stay to make sure Applegate was okay – and after all, wasn't that what they'd done by coming here for Ellis?

Nick had no doubt that Bennett probably had complicated feelings towards Ellis, for what happened at the compound the night Ellis had run with their armoured truck and triggered the sirens. He also had no doubt that Ellis, for the way they'd treated them at the compound, didn't harbour much love for the soldiers at that post either. Especially after what they'd found out.

Let them talk, Nick thought as he worked, get to know each other when we're out of this shit. I'm sure they'll kiss and make up, like big boys.

There was definitely something that he knew he had to talk about. But even the idea of it made him cringe to the point where he wanted to throw up – especially as it had been a seriously shitty day. Hell, he admitted to himself, he had been (despite his best efforts) really happy to see Ellis, but –

The looks on their faces.

The three females Ellis had been with looked about the worst he'd seen anyone look since this all started. It took a lot to horrify Nick (and certainly a lot these days to actually make him feel anything, given everything they saw on that goddamned key), but the way they had seemed had genuinely shocked him. They were more zombie-like than the actual zombies.

What they've seen – he thought, numbly – what they've been through in that church, I really, really do not want to know.

He figured that Ellis would talk about it eventually. Probably. But it wasn't going to be tonight. He'd exchanged about two words with the kid since laying eyes on him a couple of hours earlier. Seeing him so quiet, withdrawn and looking like he'd had ten rounds or more of the living shit kicked out of him unsettled Nick to his core.

Rochelle's voice cut across his thoughts, like a slap to the back of the head.

"It's because of the other night, isn't it?" She asked, smugly.

Nick could hear the 'gotcha' in her voice, and threw up his arms in exasperation.

"Are we seriously having this conversation? Here? Right now?"

She pointed to him, letting out a victory laugh.

"So I was right!" She exclaimed, aiming her torch towards him.

Nick hated it – he felt spotlighted enough. He didn't need an actual spotlight to make him feel worse. One thing Nick hated more than anything in the world – more than bad coke, cheating ex-wives and being shot – was being vulnerable. Rochelle had gotten through his defences – more than he'd ever thought she would. Now he knew that she knew that. He gritted his teeth, trying his best to maintain his usual slightly arrogant expression.

It was poker, and she was calling his bluff. That's all this was, and he could handle that.

Right?

"You're dreaming, Rochelle," Nick said curtly, rolling his eyes. He turned away from her, so she couldn't see his face.

"Besides," he continued, "I'm not in the mood."

Rochelle let out her own cry of exasperation. She marched up to him, fists balled in anger, and grabbed Nick's shoulder.

"Get off me!"

"Listen, you… you – "

"Toerag? Asshole? Slimebag?" Nick said, before she could finish. "Heard 'em all before, honey."

"Look, I don't love the idea of having this conversation either."

"So then, why the hell are you trying to have it?"

"Because it might be our last chance."

That last sentence caught Nick off guard a little. He stopped trying to shrug her off, and looked back at her.

"Rochelle," he said, a little more gently, "every day we're still alive might be our last chance."

(Isn't it just)

"Besides", Nick continued, muttering. "It's… embarrassing for me to talk about."

Rochelle's mouth was agape.

"Are you for real?" She said, dumbstruck. Her hands were now on her hips like they always were when she was mad. "Embarrassing for you to talk about? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is for me that you – of all people, on this Earth – made me come?"

Her comment cut through the tension in the air like a hot knife through butter. Nick paused for a second, as he registered what she'd just said. Completely involuntarily, his poker face broke instantly down and he burst into a hopeless fit of laughter.

With an equally involuntary snort, Rochelle did the same.

"Gee, thanks," he wheezed eventually, wiping away tears. "I guess I can take that as a… backhanded compliment? Which from you, doll, is something."

"Call me doll again, and I'll end you with the back of this torch."

"Now baby, don't be so angry – "

She punched him in the arm and cringed, the blow reverberating down her bad arm. Nick opened his mouth to ask if she needed help, but she gestured him away. He turned from her, exhaling slowly.

Now or never. That's right, Ro?

"Look," he said, quietly. His tone was serious, and a little hesitant. "Case it isn't obvious, you're… well… one of the few people in this world I can actually stand to be around. Want to be around."

Her smile at his words warmed him. Nick took her hand, and rolled his eyes.

I cannot actually believe I am about to fucking say this.

"I like you, okay?" He blurted out, after pausing for long enough for Rochelle to raise an eyebrow. "And no, I'm not just saying that because you're the first lay I've had in – sad, I know – months, or because there's not a hell of a lot of fish in the sea."

He swallowed, never wanting to be swallowed up by the ground.

"You call me out when I'm full of shit. You back me up. Being around you," he paused. "Well… it makes me hate everything just that little bit less."

His words hung in the air, and there was silence for a moment between them. A squirrel rustled along the gutter above, settling in the nest it had made of trapped leaves.

Eventually, Rochelle was the one to break the silence.

"Even when I 'run my mouth'?" She asked him, coyly. Nick laughed.

"Even then," he said. "Every annoying thing about you, every time you steal the last granola bar, every time you insult me to my goddamn face. I can't stop thinking about that night and I fucking hate it, because I am a fucking cynic who would rather be miserable than think for a second I could be happy amid this crazy bullshit."

For Nick, this was probably about the limit of what would constitute a heartfelt speech. He couldn't believe he'd done it, let alone done it sober. Hell, he'd not even had a sober proposal. His nerves were frayed; his palms clammy.

I'm a 35-year-old man, and I feel like a damned teenage boy.

There was a pause before she spoke.

"I like you too."

Nick raised his head, looking at her in disbelief.

"Are you serious?" He said, dumbfounded. "After that speech?"

Rochelle laughed. He felt his skin flushing, and felt like a total moron.

"Come on," she said, squeezing his hand. "I'm not exactly a hopeless romantic either. But if now isn't the time to be sentimental and try and look for the little things to live for, when is?"

"Little?"

"You know what I mean!"

As he was trying to think of an appropriate smartass comeback, she hugged him. He hadn't been expecting it and he held his arms up for a moment, as if he'd lost the ability to behave like a basic human. Nick wasn't used to physical displays of affection; sex, yeah, but not tenderness.

Urgh. I hate myself. I am disgusting.

And yet, despite his best attempts to resist it, he felt more at peace than he'd felt since the night they'd spent together. It surprised him, and as she rested her head on his chest, he leaned in, embracing her against the cold night air.

"I even like the suit," she whispered, slightly muffled.

"Now I know you're lying."

They stayed like there for a while, holding one another. The night, for the moment at least, was the stillest it had been for weeks – the commotion on the street that had met them when they arrived was all but gone. Maybe it didn't look normal, but for the first time since the pandemic had begun, it seemed almost like… well, a peaceful night in a quiet suburb of a mid-sized city in southern Georgia.

When they broke apart, she led him without speaking through the house. Ignoring Coach's questions, they went through to the armoured truck at the front – and spent the rest of the night in a tangle of limbs and sweat.