Chapter 164: Livestock
From the moment Naomi saw the blonde woman step out of the housing block and lock eyes with her, her whole body went cold.
For half a second, the noise of the sector dropped away.
The shouting from the market lane. Boots on concrete. Metal gates clanging shut for curfew prep. All of it blurred behind the pounding in her ears.
Her eyes widened.
St. Louis flashed through her head like lightning.
Rain on broken pavement.
A scream.
Blood on her hands.
The sound of something wet hitting the floor.
She looked down without meaning to.
Her missing fingers.
Still gone.
Still real.
She looked back up.
Cherie was already moving.
And there was a gun in her hand.
Naomi’s stomach dropped.
How the hell did she get one?
The intake patrols took weapons at processing. Knives, pistols, even loose ammo. They’d taken Naomi’s rifle without blinking.
But there was no time to think.
Cherie’s face said enough.
Jaw tight. Eyes burning. Breathing through her nose.
She meant to use it.
"Oh, shit."
Naomi turned and ran.
She shoved through the crowded lane, shoulders slamming into strangers. Somebody cursed at her. A crate of canned food tipped and burst open across the ground. A man yelled about rations. She didn’t look back.
Behind her came the sound of boots pounding harder.
Cherie.
"MOVE!"
Naomi ducked under a hanging laundry line and cut through a narrow service path between two housing rows. People flattened themselves to the walls as she flew past.
A pair of soldiers near the checkpoint looked over.
One of them sighed.
"Domestic," he muttered.
Neither followed.
Naomi nearly laughed.
Of course.
She hooked left into an alley stacked with old pallets and busted water drums.
Dead end.
"Fantastic."
She skidded to a stop, bent over with hands on her knees, sucking air into burning lungs.
Then straightened slowly.
Cherie entered the alley a second later, chest rising and falling, hair wild from the run, gun leveled with both hands.
"Fancy seeing you here, bitch."
Naomi wiped sweat from her forehead and turned around fully. She raised her hands a little.
"Listen."
Cherie cocked the pistol.
The sound clicked down Naomi’s spine.
"I don’t want any trouble," Naomi said, trying to steady her breathing. "I came here to survive. Same as you."
Cherie’s mouth twitched.
"Survive?"
She took another step.
"You know who said that before they did grimey shit? Everybody."
Naomi kept her eyes on the barrel.
"Cherie—"
"Don’t say my name."
Cherie’s voice cracked with anger.
"Don’t stand there acting human now."
Naomi swallowed.
"I’m not acting."
"The hell you aren’t."
Cherie’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Images moved behind her eyes. Naomi saw it happen. The grief. The hate. The memory of Hailey.
"You reap what you fucking sow."
Naomi flinched before she could stop herself.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "I know."
That made Cherie hesitate.
Just a beat.
Naomi saw it and took the chance.
"I know what I did."
"You don’t know shit."
"I put a gun on people who didn’t deserve it. I helped bad people do worse things. I know exactly what I did."
Cherie’s jaw flexed.
"Then why shouldn’t I shoot you right now?"
Naomi looked at the weapon.
Then back at her.
"Because it won’t help."
Cherie barked out a laugh.
"Help me? It’d help me plenty."
"You’d feel good for five seconds," Naomi shot back. "Then you’d still wake up with the same ghosts."
Cherie’s face hardened.
"You don’t know my ghosts."
"No," Naomi said. "But I know mine."
Silence sat between them.
People passed at the mouth of the alley, pretending not to watch.
Cherie’s gun stayed up.
Naomi’s shoulders sagged.
"I ran into Adrian."
The words slipped out before she planned them.
Cherie froze.
The gun lowered an inch.
"What?"
Naomi blinked.
"I ran into Adrian."
Cherie stared at her like she’d started speaking another language.
"No."
"Yes."
"Don’t play with me."
"I’m not."
Cherie stepped closer now, eyes searching Naomi’s face for a lie.
"When?"
"Few days back."
"Where?"
"South of the border. In the woods."
Cherie’s breathing changed. It got shaky.
"And he was alive?"
Naomi nodded once.
"Beat to hell. Limping. Stubborn as ever."
Cherie’s lips parted.
The rage in her face cracked open and something raw came through underneath.
Tears filled her eyes so fast it startled Naomi.
She lowered the gun completely.
"...He’s alive?"
Naomi looked away for a second.
"Yeah."
Cherie wiped under one eye angrily.
"Don’t do that," she muttered.
"Do what?"
"Give me hope if you’re lying."
"I’m not lying."
Cherie laughed once, then covered her mouth.
It turned into a sob she tried to swallow.
Naomi watched her carefully.
The same woman who’d chased her down with murder in her eyes was now shaking in the middle of an alley.
"Was he okay?" Cherie asked. "Was he hurt bad? Was he alone?"
Naomi hesitated.
"No."
Cherie looked up sharply.
"Who was with him?"
Naomi rubbed at her face.
"Lila."
Cherie went still.
"All right," she said slowly. "No. No, say that again."
"Lila was with him."
Cherie’s grip tightened on the pistol again.
"That psycho?"
"Yeah."
"And you left him with her?"
Naomi’s temper sparked.
"You think I wanted to?"
"Then why the hell is he still with her?"
"Because he chooses her!" Naomi snapped.
The words echoed off the alley walls.
Both women stood there breathing hard.
Naomi’s eyes burned.
"I tried," she said, voice lower now. "I tried to get him to come. I tried to talk sense into him. He keeps going back."
Cherie stared.
Then slowly, some of the anger drained from her.
"He’s still Adrian," she whispered.
"Yeah."
Footsteps pounded toward them.
Saul came first, Jackson right behind him.
Both slowed when they saw the scene.
Cherie crying.
Naomi cornered.
Gun lowered.
Nobody shot.
Jackson blinked.
"The hell did we miss?"
Saul looked between them.
"Cherie?"
She didn’t answer him.
Her eyes stayed locked on Naomi.
"Where is he now?"
Naomi exhaled through her nose.
"I don’t know exactly."
Cherie stepped forward.
"Guess."
"Heading north."
"How far north?"
"Trying for Canada."
Saul and Jackson looked at each other.
Cherie wiped her face hard, then shoved the gun into Saul’s chest.
"Get your stuff."
"Cherie—"
"Get your stuff."
Her voice was steady now.
Cold.
Focused.
She looked back at Naomi.
"You’re taking me to where you last saw him."
Naomi gave a tired, humorless smile.
"Thought you wanted to kill me."
Cherie’s eyes narrowed.
"Don’t push it."
—
The truck bounced hard over cracked pavement, the whole bed rattling like it wanted to shake itself apart.
Harry sat against the metal wall with his wrists zip-tied in front of him, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every bump sent pain through the swollen side of his face. One eye was still nearly shut. The other stared out through the slats at gray road, dead trees, and the occasional wreck left to rot on the shoulder.
Canada.
That was all anybody had been talking about for days.
Canada this. Canada that. Safe walls. Food lines. Soldiers. Order.
Harry hoped the whole place burned.
Around him, bags of supplies slid and bumped with every turn. Two men from camp sat near the tailgate with rifles across their laps, pretending not to listen. Nobody liked being stuck in the truck with family drama.
His mother sat across from him, knees close together, fingers twisted in her jacket.
She kept looking at him.
Looking away.
Looking back.
Finally, when the truck hit a smoother stretch, she leaned forward and laid a careful hand on his forearm.
"Harry..."
He jerked away so fast her hand fell into empty air.
The hurt on her face came quick and sharp.
"Don’t touch me."
"Please," she whispered. "Just listen to me for one minute."
He laughed under his breath and turned his head toward the road again.
"That’d be a first."
She swallowed. Her eyes flicked toward the other men, embarrassed, then back to him.
"What I did... I did for you."
That made him look at her.
Really look at her.
Hair tied back sloppy. Dark circles under her eyes. Dirt on her sleeve. Fear sitting in every line of her face.
"For me?" he said flatly.
"Yes."
He shook his head once.
"You never needed to do jackshit for me."
"Harry—"
"I could survive on my own."
The words came cold and steady. He surprised himself with how true they sounded.
"I was surviving before all this. I’ll survive after."
Something in her face hardened then. Shame turning to anger.
"You think so?" she snapped. "You think you’re invincible?"
The men near the tailgate shifted awkwardly.
She leaned closer, voice rising despite herself.
"I heard what happened. If it wasn’t for Bill, that boy who took you would’ve killed you."
Harry went still.
For a second, all he saw was Adrian’s face.
Bruised. Tired. Gun in hand.
What is wrong with you?
Then the memory shifted.
I don’t kill kids.
Harry hated how that sentence still lived in his head.
Hated that it had weight.
Adrian should have killed him. It would have made more sense. Made the world simpler.
Instead, he let him live.
And somehow that felt worse.
His mother mistook the silence for weakness.
"You don’t know what’s out there," she said, voice trembling now. "You think pride keeps you alive? You think hate feeds you? Bill saved you."
Harry’s good eye slowly moved to her.
"No," he said quietly. "He saved his image."
She frowned.
"You don’t know him."
"I know enough."
He shifted forward, the zip ties biting into his wrists.
"I know he likes people weak. Owing him things. I know he likes you ashamed, because then you stay close."
"Stop it."
"I know he looks at everybody like livestock."
"Stop it, Harry."
"And I know you let him."
Her hand cracked across his face before she even seemed to realize she’d done it.
The truck went dead silent.
Harry’s head turned with the slap. He stayed there for a second, then slowly looked back.
She was horrified.
Her fingers trembled in midair.
"Oh my God... Harry, I—"
He smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because it proved everything.
"There you are," he said.
Tears filled her eyes instantly.
"I’m trying to keep you alive."
"No," he said. "You’re trying to keep yourself from being alone."
She shook her head violently.
"That’s not fair."
"Nothing is."
The truck hit another pothole. Everyone bounced.
One of the men muttered, "Jesus Christ," under his breath.
Harry ignored him.
His mother wiped her cheeks angrily.
"What are you going to do then?" she asked. "Hmm? Since you know everything. Since you’re so strong."
He leaned back against the metal wall.
The pain in his face pulsed with every heartbeat.
"I’m leaving."
She stared.
"When we stop. First chance I get."
"No."
"Yes."
"You can’t survive alone."
"I already told you I can."
She grabbed his tied wrists this time, desperate.
"Harry, listen to me. There are patrols, infected, raiders, border checks—"
He yanked free.
"And Bill."
Her breath caught.
He held her gaze.
"I’m going to kill him first."
The words landed heavier than shouting ever could.
One of the armed men straightened. "Hey now—"
"Shut up," Harry said without looking at him.
The man actually did.
His mother’s face went pale.
"You don’t mean that."
"I do."
"He’ll kill you."
"Maybe."
"Harry—"
"But I’ll make him feel fear first."
She began crying again, quieter now. Real crying. The kind that came from somewhere deep and tired.
"This isn’t you."
He almost pitied her.
"You don’t know who I am."
She covered her mouth.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Wind howled through the gaps in the truck bed. Tires hummed. Up front, someone laughed at a joke that didn’t matter.
Harry looked through the slats again.
The road stretched north.
Somewhere ahead was Bill.
Somewhere farther ahead was Canada.
He didn’t care about either one nearly as much as he cared about the promise now taking shape in his chest.
His mother reached toward him one last time, then stopped before touching him.
"Please," she whispered.
He never looked back at her.
"Save it for him."