"Ready."
Matthew wove his fingers together with mine as we reached the service elevator. I wanted to say something. Some acknowledgment of what he was sacrificing and what it meant that he'd chosen to run without demanding proof that I deserved saving. Words were inadequate against the weight of what was happening.
Matthew spoke about our destination. "The cabin's isolated. Marcus built it after his adventure with Michael and Miles fighting AI-powered goons. He'll hide out there during the apocalypse. It's equipped for longer stays. Generator, well water, enough supplies to last a month if we're careful."
"And if a month isn't enough?"
He squeezed my hand. "Then we figure out what comes after."
The doors closed, and we descended into the parking garage where his truck waited in its assigned space. He started the engine as I settled into the passenger seat.
Matthew drove with the same steady competence he brought to everything else—hands positioned correctly on the wheel and checking mirrors regularly.
I checked the passenger mirror, scanning for vehicles that maintained a consistent distance behind us. The blue sedan three cars back could be surveillance, or someone heading home from a shopping trip. The motorcycle splitting lanes might be a tail, or just another commuter tired of sitting in traffic.
Paranoia was an occupational hazard in my line of work, but so was complacency. The trick was finding the balance between hypervigilance and functional awareness.
"Clear so far," I said, more to reassure myself than inform Matthew.
He nodded, signaling for the left turn that would take us toward I-5 and the northbound route out of the city. "How long before they escalate?"
"Depends on their operational priorities. If they're running multiple operations, we might have hours before they coordinate a response. If we're their primary target..."
"Minutes."
"Maybe less," I clarified
Matthew accelerated up the onramp, and some of the tension in my shoulders loosened as the city fell away behind us. The immediate pressure from urban spooks was lifting, replaced by the different challenges of highway travel.
I settled into my seat. "Is the cabin comfortable?"
"It's a small hunting lodge, basically. I think Marcus is going through a mountain man phase. Solar panels, rainwater collection, and enough stored food to make a stand against the zombies. He's always been a planner."
"Weapons?"
"Hunting rifles. Probably some handguns locked in his gun safe." Matthew glanced at me. "You know how to shoot?"
"I know how to do a lot of things. Sorry. Yes, I can handle firearms. Among other skills that don't usually come up in polite conversation."
"None of this is polite conversation."
He was right. We were well past the boundaries of usual social interaction, deep into the territory where survival mattered more than etiquette. Where admitting to lethal capabilities was practical information rather than a disturbing confession.
I watched the city disappear and tried to feel something other than guilt. Matthew had made his choice with full knowledge of the consequences. He was an adult who understood that certain decisions couldn't be unmade, but that failed to absolve me of responsibility entirely.
He glanced at me. "Second thoughts?"
"I was supposed to die with Erik, the contact who died in Portland today. He asked me to leave with him. Said we could burn it all down together."
I took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I told him no. Told him we had to stay quiet. I thought I was keeping him safe."
"And now?"
"Now, I'm keeping you alive the way I should've kept him. I'm not sure I should have dragged you into this."
Matthew shook his head. "I could have called the police and turned you over to the hospital authorities. Could have kicked you out after Michael's visit." His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I chose this, Dorian. Every step of the way."
