when we become them

Chapter 1

It had been three months since Carter saved my life; he'd patched me up that night in the ruins and told me to keep up or die. I did. But even after all that time, I still couldn't read him, his way of silence, distance and the scars. The kind of man who looked at the world as if it had ended years ago.

Now it was almost one in the morning, and we were held up in the service room of a metro station, the sort of place that reeked of rust, mould and decay. The overhead lights flickered and buzzed like dying fireflies, struggling against the dark. Carter sat a few feet away, the moonlight reflecting off his rifle that was resting against his leg, his grey eyes fixed on a point through the broken, boarded-up windows.

"C'mere, it's cold." His voice was flat, monotone, as if he didn't care whether I obeyed. But I moved anyway, sliding onto the cracked tiles beside him. I tugged my blanket wide and draped it over both of us. The fabric brushed his arm.

He stiffened immediately; his eyes flicked down to the shared warmth like I had tossed him a live grenade. His jaw tightened, the muscles beneath his scarred skin pulsing. That, in itself, was something.

"You're going to freeze your scrawny ass 'cause you're too soft," he muttered. No heat. No care. Just the usual sharp edges I've learnt to respect.

I glanced out the window. A lone corpse dragged itself down the street, its ruined legs scraping cracked pavement. Its head jerks towards the faint glow of broken fluorescents. Towards us.

Carter's fingers twitched near his rifle. "Five seconds to drop that fucker," he muttered flatly, eyes still on the zombie. "Wanna test those piss poor reflexes again?" he began to pass the rifle over, "Just try not to shoot me like last time."

I froze, heart thudding, my hand hovering above the rifle. Hesitation gnawed at me, "You move slow when you're tired." It wasn't an insult. Just a fact. His version of concern.

I picked up the rifle, lined up the shot and pulled the trigger. The crack echoed through the empty station. The bullet slammed into the zombie's neck, spinning its head sideways. It staggered, then fell into a twitching heap.

Carter exhaled through his nose, half snort, half reluctant approval, "Not terrible. Still aiming like a concussed squirrel, but hey, at least you didn't piss it off this time."

I swallowed, eyes still on the corpse. Its eyes were on mine. Blood pooled around its body; it was opening its mouth, but no sounds were coming out. Slowly, its breathing stopped. No more twitching, no more gasping. Just stillness. Silence swallowed the station.

Carter placed the still-warm shell into my palm. "Keep it," he muttered, already pulling the rifle back. His eyes were narrowed, not soft, never soft, but something flickered beneath the surface. Pride, wrapped in barbed wire. This shell wasn't just a token to me; it was his unspoken way of showing approval, of acknowledging I was more than just dead weight. "Thank you," I muttered softly as I watched the bullet in my palm. I closed my hand around it before I placed it into my pocket.

"I found something." Carter froze. His reflex honed to anything unknown. "What?" His voice dropped, rough.

I pulled my hand out of my pocket. Carter's eyes were now fixated on what I was hiding. "I found it a long time ago, back when we first met." his eyes met mine. "You mean when I almost put a bullet in your skull?" I nodded, "yeah," he said after a beat, "I remember."

I opened my hand, and Carter went still, his breath hitching. He reached out, "You held onto them," he said roughly, "After all this time." He picked up the tags, "When I almost shot you? While we ran through hordes? While I..." he trailed off, and then he forced the rest out, "While I treated your dumb ass like trash?"