novelraw Chapter 367: Three Days Grace
Chapter 367: Three Days Grace
The road had been empty for hours before the first shape appeared on the horizon.
It was a church steeple...or what used to be one. The paint had peeled off years ago, leaving pale ribs of wood against a gray sky. Around it sprawled a town whose name barely clung to the rusted highway sign: Three Days Grace.
Zubair slowed the Hummer as they rolled past the shattered welcome arch. Dust kicked up behind them, curling in the heat.
He glanced at the side mirror out of habit, saw Lachlan grinning faintly, and Elias’ worried face. Alexei was simply staring out the window, as impassive as ever.
The place had once been a mining town.
Rows of brick storefronts, cracked pavement, a rail line that cut the main street clean in half. Now it was silent except for the idle groan of metal signs in the wind.
He could tell at a glance that someone had been using it, though. Fresh tire marks. Clean drag lines. Order in the debris — never a good sign.
"Looks like they picked the spot for us," he muttered.
Elias leaned forward from the back seat. "Ambush point?"
"Or a message."
Zubair pulled the truck to a stop outside what had been a diner.
The old neon letters still clung to the roof, flickering red once every few seconds as if trying to remember their rhythm. Luci jumped down the moment the doors opened, nose to the ground, tail twitching once before settling low. Alert, not afraid.
They fanned out automatically, more of a habit than anything else.
Survival when it came to military missions meant knowing every part of a landscape. Zubair was still learning what survival meant when it came to the end of the world.
Lachlan checked the left side, Alexei the right. Elias moved behind Sera, who didn’t bother to take cover at all. She walked straight up the middle of the street, hands in her pockets, eyes half-lidded. Zubair didn’t tell her to stop. She had her own gravity; the rest of them orbited it whether they admitted it or not.
The Saint Eaters were already waiting in the center of the main street, their bikes lined up like something out of a novel. Ten bikes were at the front, and stretching out behind them were too many to count.
Even for Zubair.
It appeared that Rourke had come prepared to collect.
Rourke stepped forward from his line, his helmet sitting on the back of his bike like it was nothing, his face twisted in a smile that almost appeared friendly. "You had three days," he called out, raising his voice.
Zubair replied as the five of them came to a halt a few feet away from the biker. "The sun hasn’t set on the first day yet."
Rourke grinned wider. "General doesn’t keep time by the sun."
"Maybe he should," Zubair said.
The air between them felt thin.
Alexei marked the distance—twenty paces, no cover.
Behind Rourke, two dozen riders, trucks behind those, a shimmer farther out that might have been more. He catalogued everything without emotion. Numbers were comfort. Predictable. Until they started moving in unpredictable ways.
Luci whined low from the cargo hold of the Hummer, wanting to be outside. Wanting to protect his mistress. The dog’s nose twitched; his muscles quivered against the cage mesh. Sera didn’t turn. She murmured, "Patience," and the animal stilled.
Deep inside of Alexei, Psycho, stirred at the sound. She commands everything, it whispered inside his skull, half-fond, half-hungry.
Even you.
But Alexei ignored it.
Mostly.
Rourke’s tone sharpened. "You took from the General’s stores. Medical stock. Fuel. Hardware. You stripped the mall bare and walked out smiling."
"We walked out alive," Zubair said. "Even after meeting Harrow. That’s the part you left out."
Rourke’s smirk faltered, just a shade. "General says you pay it back."
"General can send a bill," Zubair said. "You can take it to him when you crawl home."
A few Saint Eaters shifted behind Rourke.
The sound of leather creaked like a warning.
Alexei saw Sera tilt her head, watching them as if cataloguing new insects. The corner of her mouth curved—not mockery, not pleasure. Just... anticipation.
Her creature pulsed around her, as faint as static. He felt it crawl over his skin like frost: hunger looking for permission.
Lachlan broke the quiet with a laugh that sounded too close to relief. "You’d think Marrow would’ve told them what happened to the last crew."
Elias answered dryly, "He might’ve, but believing stories is a skill most of them lack."
Rourke’s eyes flicked to the voices, sizing them up, then back to Zubair. "This isn’t a story. It’s collection. Hand over the crates, the drums, the ammo. Then we take a person. Harrow says one of yours rides with us till he’s satisfied."
Sera straightened slightly, elbow leaving the door. "He can’t have my men."
Rourke’s gaze cut to her again. "Not your call, sweetheart."
"It’s mine," Zubair said with a shake of his head. "And I agree with her. You aren’t getting anything from us."
Alexei saw the faint shimmer of heat crawling across Zubair’s fingers. Fire restrained, bright at the edges.
The Saint Eaters noticed too.
Rourke tensed, hand drifting toward his pistol. "This is me being polite."
"This is you thinking numbers mean something," Zubair replied. "That’s not polite. That’s optimistic."
Alexei’s mind ticked through odds, sightlines, ranges. He could drop three before they hit cover, five if he froze the pavement beneath them first. He glanced at Sera again—still calm, watching both men as though studying which one would blink first.
Psycho murmured, She’s waiting for the hunt. Let her start it.
No, Alexei thought back. Zubair calls the timing.
Then she’ll make him do it.
The logic in that was unsettlingly sound.
Rourke exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath a man takes when he’s out of patience but not out of audience. "You’re making this harder than it needs to be."
Zubair smiled faintly. "That’s my specialty."
Taking a step closer, Sera’s hand slid down to her thigh, her fingers tapping once.
It wasn’t a command so much as a rhythm. Her creature’s hum deepened, brushing against every other presence around them. Alexei’s breath hitched even as Psycho purred.
Lachlan cracked his knuckles, lightning ghosting between them. "You smell that?" he asked.
Elias, quieter: "Gun oil. Fear. Too many heartbeats in one place."
Alexei tasted metal at the back of his tongue. "And arrogance."
Zubair stopped halfway to Rourke. "Tell Harrow," he said, "if he wants what’s ours, he can come take it himself."
"That so?" Rourke asked.
Zubair nodded once. "We’ll even leave the light on."
Rourke’s jaw flexed. "You don’t get it, do you? The General doesn’t lose. Harrow doesn’t forgive."
From the edge of the formation, a Saint Eater slammed his truck door—signal. Engines growled alive behind him. The entire line rippled like a muscle contracting.
Alexei’s grip tightened on the rifle. He didn’t look at Sera, but he felt her move, like gravity choosing sides.
Rourke gestured sharply. "Load weapons."
Zubair’s voice carried, low and clear. "Last chance to walk away."
Sera finally spoke again, tone almost sweet. "They won’t. It’s their nature to fight for dominance."
Her creature licked across the link of them all—one pulse, one hunger, one promise. Now.
Rourke raised his hand, thumb cocked toward his riders. Zubair’s eyes caught Sera’s reflection in the side mirror; she smiled faintly.
The world held its breath for a moment.
And then a single gun cracked.
Dust jumped from the street, a man folded backward, and every engine on the block roared at once.