_ Meet Garth

CHAPTER 15

~Garth's Point Of View~

"Please, Dad."

I let out a long, tired sigh, slapping a hand on my forehead. "Maggie, we've been over this."

"But…"

"No."

Maggie twists her lip, her fourteen-year-old face wrinkling into a scowl "That's not fair," she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It's not about fair. It's about the fact that the place we're going is crawling with things that want to rip us apart and use our bones as toothpicks. So no."

She scowls. "Then why do you get to go if it's too dangerous?!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Because we need food, kid. You like eating, don't you?"

Maggie glares. "Maybe."

"Then there's your answer. We don't have a choice."

"Uh-huh," she deadpans, rolling her eyes so hard I worry they'll get stuck that way. "And I guess I have a choice? Like, if you die, what happens to me?"

My stomach tightens at her words. My daughter is obsessed with dying at this point. "I'm not dying, Maggie."

"Right, because you're immortal," she scoffs, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder. "You always say 'I won't die,' like you get a say in it. You know who also said that? Ethan. And Eric. And Mal. And they're all freaking dead, Garth."

Ouch. Those were some deaths that really scarred the base. Those people my daughter just mentioned are very important members of the base that we either lost to the virus or to fights with other survivors. 

"Look, kid. I always come back, don't I?" I throw my hand frustratingly in the air. 

She makes a frustrated noise and throws her hands up too. "I still think it's stupid. You're always the one going out. What if you don't come back? Then what?!"

I open my mouth, but Maggie barrels on. "I'll tell you what. I'll have to scavenge by myself because no one else cares, and I'll probably end up eaten by some drooling corpse because my idiot father went and got himself killed!"

I gnashed my teeth together. "First of all, rude. Second of all, I always come back. How many times do you need me to remind you of that?"

Maggie lets out an exasperated huff. "Until you don't."

"Christ, Maggie!" I hollered before lowering my voice to less of the no-nonsense commander and more of the dad who's spent years trying to keep this reckless kid from making stupid choices. 

"I need you to stay put. I need to know you're safe, so I can focus on keeping my people alive."

She throws up her hands. "And I need you to stop treating me like a baby! I know how to shoot, I know how to fight, and I know how to survive! You think you're the only one who—"

I cut her off with a look. The kind that screams "NO" in caps.

"No."

"Nope!" She swerves and storms away. "Whatever! Go get eaten! Not my problem!"

"Language!" I call after her.

She flips me off, throws a scathing "I hate you" over her shoulder, and stomps away finally. 

I rub my temples. "Wonderful parenting, Garth. Just stellar."

"Teenagers," A voice calls from behind. "They're like feral cats. You can love 'em, but you can't control 'em."

I turn to see Trish leaning against the rusted-out truck beside me, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She's already geared up; tight cargo pants, a reinforced jacket, two knives strapped to her thighs. 

Efficient. Deadly… That's Trish. 

"She'll get over it," Trish continues, pushing off the truck and stepping closer. "You worry too much."

"She's my kid," I say flatly. "Worrying is mandatory."

Trish shrugs. "She'll be fine, Garth. You're already handling it well."

"I don't need parenting advice," I grumble, adjusting the straps of my vest.

"Didn't say you did," she replies easily. "Just saying—she'll be fine. And so will you."

I don't respond. Trish's been circling me for months now, always looking for an opening, always dropping hints. She's good in a fight, reliable, and smart. 

And she clearly wants something. But I don't have time for whatever it is.

"You ready?" She further asks. 

"Yeah. Let's load up."

I turn toward the others, clapping my hands together. "Alright, people, let's get this show on the road! Who's ready for a terrible idea?"

A few groans of agreement and a couple of muttered curses affirm. Well, what can I say? Standard procedure.

I do a quick headcount as we pile into the van.

—Kyle, our medic, who is already muttering something about how he's a healer, not a bullet sponge.

—Trish, obviously, who slides into the seat beside me up front.

—Benji, our scout, who grins like we aren't about to walk into hell itself.

—Hector, the big guy with arms like tree trunks, cracking his knuckles like he's excited for a fight.

—Then there's Vic and Dom—brothers, built like bricks, dumb as them too. They exchange a look before climbing in.

That's it. Seven of us. Small team, fast in and out. Or at least, that's the plan.

I slide into the driver's seat, crank the engine, and the van rattles to life with an unholy groan.

"Well," Benji mutters from the back. "That sounded promising."

"She's a classic," I say, patting the dashboard.

"She's a deathtrap," Kyle corrects.

"Only if you have no faith."

Trish scoffs. "Faith doesn't fix bad brakes."

"You all have so little confidence in my girl."

"She nearly killed us last week," Hector rumbles.

"That was one time!"

Kyle sighs. "Just drive."

So I do.

.

.

The city outside the base is a graveyard. The buildings are now crumbling husks of their former selves. Windows shattered. Cars rusted in place, some still containing their unfortunate occupants. The streets are empty, but the silence is deceptive. 

The dead are always there, lurking. Waiting.

We drive in tense quiet for a while, passing through abandoned intersections, and driving between burned-out vehicles. The sun is setting, shining faintly across the pavement.

"Tell me again," Vic says from the back, "why we thought going into The Nest was a good idea?"

"Because," I say, "it's the only place left with food."

"The Nest" isn't its real name. Just what people call it.

 It is a stretch of city overrun with the worst of the worst—undead, raiders, the kind of people who think 'survival' means 'kill everyone who isn't you.' But that also means untouched supply caches.

And we're running out of options.

"I'm just saying," Vic continues, shifting in his seat, "there's gotta be another way."

"Yeah," Benji mutters. "Starvation."

Nobody has a comeback for that.

We continue to drive in silence for a while. The van bounces over potholes, and the wind whistles through a crack in the window. My fingers drum against the wheel, my thoughts circling going to Mia.

And then, things go to shit. 

Because life is never easy.

It happens fast. One second, we're coasting down an open stretch of road. The next… 

BANG.

The whole van jolts, the back end slamming downward with a violent lurch.

"What the—?"

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snap, wrenching the wheel as the van skids.

We spin out, tires screaming, and come to a jarring stop against a crumbling storefront.

Everyone groans.

"Well," Benji coughs. "That sucked."

"What the hell was that?!" Kyle demands.

I throw open the door and hop out, cursing under my breath as I round the van.

And there it is.

The left rear tire—blown to shit. A spike strip gleaming in the fading light just a few feet away.

"Oh, great." I kick the tire. "Fantastic."

Trish peers over my shoulder. "Looks like someone didn't want company."

"No shit."

We hear a rustle in the alley ahead. A shadow moves.

And then… 

"AMBUSH!" Hector bellows.

Gunfire erupts.

I duck as bullets rattle against the van, diving for cover.

"Fuckers set a trap!" Kyle shouts, already scrambling for his med kit.

"Well, duh," Benji yells back, returning fire.

I draw my pistol, heart beating fast, and fire off a few shots of my own.

Figures dart between the wreckage—scavengers, not the dead. Armed, fast, and clearly desperate.

I grit my teeth. "Of course, this trip wasn't going to be easy."

"Do they ever not try to kill us?" Trish shouts over the gunfire.

"Apparently not!" I reload. "Hector, any bright ideas?"

"Yeah," he grunts, grabbing a nearby car door and yanking it free with brute strength. "We fight our way out."

"Well," Benji says cheerfully. "At least we're not bored."

I take a deep breath, grip my gun, and mutter to myself, "Maggie's gonna love this story."

And then, we charge.