Chapter Four: Into the Ash

The truck's engine rumbled beneath me, vibrating through the rusted metal frame. The air inside the cabin was thick with sweat and gun oil—suffocating, but familiar. I sat sandwiched between Cain and a wiry guy with a knife twitching in his hand like it was an extension of his nervous system.

Great company.

Cain was silent, of course. His gaze fixed on the cracked wasteland stretching before us. The others in the back—five rough-looking men—talked in low tones, but their eyes kept flicking toward me.

Sizing me up.

I met their stares, one by one, until they looked away.

I wasn't prey.

Not today.

"This run—" Cain started, his voice low, only for me.

I smirked. "What? Don't die?"

His jaw tensed. "Stay close to me."

My heart gave a little traitorous flutter at that. Not because I was some weak little girl swooning over the stoic warrior, but because in a place like this, having someone who gave a damn about keeping you alive was rare.

Precious.

"Relax, Boss. I know how to keep my head down."

Cain didn't relax. He never did.

The truck lurched as we hit a pothole the size of a grave. Dust kicked up, blurring the horizon. The landscape was scarred—earth split open from bomb blasts and mutant growths twisting like veins over the ground.

The world had turned into something cruel.

And we'd adapted to survive it.

We pulled up near an old gas station, the windows shattered, the pumps rusted out. A skeletal sign still clung to life, swinging in the wind, the words "LAST STOP" barely readable beneath layers of grime.

The men piled out. I followed, keeping my steps light.

Silent, but alert.

Because out here, everything was a threat.

Cain moved beside me, close but not suffocating. His hand rested near his gun. Always ready.

"Standard sweep," the guy in charge barked. I didn't know his name—didn't care. He had the look of someone who liked the sound of his own voice.

"You," he pointed at me, "check inside."

I raised an eyebrow. "What, alone?"

He grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "You scared?"

"Of this shithole? Please." I would never admit I was scared.

But I was. Not of the building. Of what could be inside.

Cain started to step forward. "I'll—"

"I've got it," I cut in quickly.

Because I couldn't be the weak link.

Not on my first day.

Cain hesitated, but he let me go.

Inside, the gas station was a tomb. Shelves overturned, glass crunching under my boots. Dried blood stained the floor near the counter—old, but the kind of thing that never truly left.

My fingers brushed over empty cans, wrappers… nothing useful.

Until I saw it. A locked supply cabinet.

Jackpot.

I crouched, pulling a small blade from my boot—hidden, because you never showed all your cards. I worked the rusted lock, muttering under my breath.

Click.

The door creaked open, revealing canned goods—dust-covered but sealed. Beans. Meat. Water bottles.

I grinned. "Hell yes."

The floor groaned behind me.

Every instinct flared.

I twisted around, blade raised—only to meet a pair of bloodshot eyes set in a face half-melted by radiation burns.

Mutant. Shit. This was going to be fun.

He lunged. I scrambled back, narrowly avoiding his clawed hand. His breath reeked of rot. Teeth, jagged and yellow, snapped inches from my face.

"Back the fuck up!" I shouted, slashing with my knife. I caught his arm—black ichor oozed from the wound.

But he didn't stop. They never stopped. It was how they were programmed.

He grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard enough to make me cry out. My knife clattered to the ground.

"Let her go."

It was Cain's voice loud and commanding.

A gunshot cracked through the small space.

The mutant's head snapped back—half of his face gone. He crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

My chest heaved as I stared at the corpse, heart racing.

Cain stepped over it, eyes sharp, scanning me. This should have made me uncomfortable but it didn't. Instead I felt a warmness spread over me.

"You hurt?" Cain asked with a hint of concern laced in his voice.

I flexed my wrist. "Just bruised pride." Noting the slight pain that was radiating up my arm. I knew better than to make a fuss over a slight injury. That just showed a weakness that would be taken advantage of.

His eyes lingered on my hand—my shaking hand—but he didn't comment. He knew better than to comment on something that was already done.

Instead, he glanced at the open cabinet. "You found supplies."

"Yeah," I breathed, adrenaline still flooding my veins. "Lucky, huh?"

He didn't smile, but there was a flicker of approval in his eyes.

A flicker that meant more than it should.

We gathered the cans and bottles, hauling them back to the truck. The other men took notice—nodding, some even giving me half-smiles.

I was proving myself.

Piece by piece.

But I didn't miss the way Cain hovered.

Or how he checked the perimeter twice before we left.

We drove back to the camp as the sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and fiery reds. Cain's hand rested near his gun the whole time.

He was always ready.

And now… so was I.

When we rolled through the gates, Lucian was there.

His silver eyes flicked to the supplies. Then to me.

"Looks like our stray has some teeth," he mused.

I didn't smile this time.

Lucian leaned closer, voice low. "Good. I like my pets with a little fight."

Cain stiffened beside me.

I met Lucian's gaze, defiant. "Careful. Pets bite."

His smirk sharpened. "I'm counting on it."

He turned away, but the tension lingered.

Cain waited until Lucian was gone before he spoke. "You did good."

I blinked. "Did you just give me a compliment?"

He didn't answer. Just walked ahead, but his pace was slower—like he was waiting for me to catch up.

I did. Running up beside him as he looked down to greet me.

Because in this place, having someone at your back?

That was everything.