Page 18 of What Remains

He kept watch through the long hours, and he tried—just for a moment—to forgive himself for surviving.

Chapter 4

Thaws Silent Threat

From behind the living room curtain, Josie watched. The late morning sun cast a rectangle of light across the floorboards, later than yesterday—a subtle sign of the coming thaw. She tracked its slow creep, listening past the house's familiar groans for the unnatural silence of the street.

Spring was coming, and she hated it. The thaw meant movement, driving the desperate from their winter holes. A woman alone, with something precious to lose, was the easiest target of all.

Her jaw clenched as she scanned the street one last time. No footprints were visible in the slush. No movement stirred in the yards that once held children's toys, back when the world still bothered with such things. Only an absolute stillness, which she loathed more with each passing day.

Josie drew back. Her pulse hammered—a frantic, useless rhythm. Six years as an Air Force trauma surgeon, and she'd never known a fear like this. It wasn't the sharp adrenaline of an OR; it was a creeping dread that turned her tactical knowledge to dust in her mouth.

But Layla?

Her heart twisted at the thought of her daughter sleeping downstairs. Layla, five years old, smart and gentle and sensitive in ways that now frightened Josie—brave in all the wrong ways, brave like a child who had never known real monsters until now. Every decision Josie made, every risk she weighed and rejected, every sleepless hour spent listening in the dark; all of it existed for that little girl.

Her gaze slid toward the house across the street: Mr. McKale's place. He'd lived alone there since his wife died. He was a strict man, but decent underneath it all. A former Marine Corps colonel, a man who lived and breathed regulation, and whose house almost certainly held a treasure trove of supplies that could keep her and Layla alive. Tools. Fuel. Maybe even weapons or supplies he'd squirreled away out of old habit.

She'd eyed that house for weeks. Each time she worked up the nerve to cross the street, she talked herself out of it before her hand reached the door. She despised herself for that. But fear had become a physical thing these days—a weight across her shoulders, a chokehold that tightened whenever she imagined stepping past her own threshold. Venturing outside meant risking everything she had left in this world.

She took a slow breath and glanced toward the basement door, toward the makeshift hideout where she and Layla had endured the worst winter of their lives. No windows. Reinforced. It had kept them alive—but survival and living weren't the same thing. Spring meant she had to stop hiding, stop waiting, stop pretending that staying put was a plan.

Her fingers brushing the dog tags she still wore—the ones she hadn't removed since her discharge—they hung heavier now, pressing against her skin, reminding her that she'd never been the kind of woman who froze in place.

She closed her eyes.

Denver.

Her parents lived there—or had, before everything went to shit. Rationally, she understood how terrible the odds were. The virus had swept through the cities first. But rational thought couldn't smother the need burning in her chest. Her parents lived outside the city. There was a chance. She had to believe there was a chance. She had to know. She had to try—not only for herself, but for Layla, who needed hope, who needed family, who deserved more from life than a mother stretched to her breaking point.

Josie opened her eyes, a hard resolve settling over her. As soon as the roads thawed enough to travel, they were heading to Denver. She didn't care how far the distance stretched, or how dangerous the journey would prove. She owed the attempt to her daughter—and to whatever remained of herself.

But first, she had to go next door and gather everything she could carry, because hundreds of miles of broken country lay between this house and any answers.

And fear or no fear, she would face whatever waited out there.

For Layla.

Denver.

For them, the decision had been made weeks ago. It was farther than anything they'd attempted, farther than anything that seemed remotely sane, but it was the only option left worth the risk.

They gathered around the kitchen table late that evening, the map spread open across its surface.

Seth's finger traced the route, following the highways west. "Two weeks, bare minimum. Three if the weather screws us."

"Then we plan for three," Jay said. "And we make this one count."

Cara nodded, her eyes steady in the lantern light. "We won't get another chance this big." Addy rested a hand on her small but undeniable bump. "Then make it the last one. For a long while."

Sawyer squeezed her hand without a word, his silence answer enough.

They'd argued logistics for days, but tonight, everything clicked. They needed another vehicle—rugged and reliable enough for decimated roads—and another trailer, at least as large as the last, if not bigger. Travel would be in daylight only; driving after dark was suicide, with infected still roaming and the healthy even less predictable. Each night, they'd vanish into abandoned industrial buildings, gravel pits, or sprawling car lots where their vehicles could blend with the dead ones. Once in Denver, they'd stick to the outskirts, targeting big-box stores, pharmacies, hardware suppliers, and warehouses. No lingering, no curious detours. Load both trailers, turn around, and book it for home.

This run was crucial for their survival over the next year, and hopefully longer.

Jay tapped Denver on the map. "We don't go downtown. Too many blind spots, too many tall buildings for things to hide in."