Pretty Much Dead Already, page 30
He tastes of salt, of sweat, but there’s a sweetness underneath, the memory of those careful, healing hands. When he comes, it’s with a shudder that wracks his whole body, and he spills across my tongue, breathing my name like a prayer.
Cass pulls out then, panting, his knot swollen but just shy of locking. He rolls to the side, making room for Rhett, who’s already lined himself up at my entrance.
He slides in slow, stretching me until I gasp. His hands hold me steady, never letting me forget who’s in charge. He sets a rhythm—deep, relentless—and with every thrust, the world narrows to the point of impact.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, over and over, a litany that drowns out the memory of every bad hand, every old pain. “You’re ours. You’re mine.”
He’s close to knotting, but before he does, he pulls out, groaning, and instead takes my shoulder in his mouth, biting just hard enough to break the skin. The mark stings, but it’s a good pain—a promise, a brand.
Jace is last. He’s trembling, maybe from nerves, maybe from need. He guides himself in, careful, and when he bottoms out he chokes on a sob.
I pull him closer, wrap my legs around his waist, and hold on as he starts to move. He’s gentle, so careful, but the deeper he goes, the less he can hide how much he wants this—wants me, wants us, wants the family we’ve made in this ruined world.
He comes inside me, shuddering, and when he’s spent he collapses atop me, arms shaking, eyes wet.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, brushing the hair from his face. “You did good.”
The others crowd close, Cass spooning behind me, Rhett’s arm draped over my waist, Michael pressed against my side. They’re all breathing in sync, the scent of us new and sharp, an animal promise that nothing, not even the end of the world, can break.
We fall asleep like that—a tangle of limbs, of hearts, of futures.
For once, I dream of nothing but the warmth.
And when I wake, they’re still there.
All of them.
Mine.
Chapter Twenty Six: Dawn of a New Pack
Lira
Weeks later
The first thing I notice about the council chamber is that it doesn’t smell like death anymore.
Someone—probably Cass, if the faint whiff of lighter fluid is any indication—torched every lingering memory of the old world. The battered banners and inspirational posters are gone, replaced by a hand-painted sign over the whiteboard: SURVIVAL IS VICTORY, with the V made from two bent crowbars. The overheads are still busted, but the generator-powered spots throw harsh halos across the rows of folding chairs, where the entire population of Fort Hope—seventy-three, not counting the infant in hydroponics—crowds in for the morning’s main event.
Me.
I stand at the center of what used to be the community college auditorium, gavel in hand, jacket pressed as tight as I can get it, jaw locked with something that isn’t quite nerves and isn’t quite hunger. The old me would be trembling. This version taps the gavel once, crisp and final, and lets the hush sweep over the room like a gust of winter air.
The council meets at the low stage, a makeshift table of doors lashed together with extension cords. Rhett is my shadow, upright and terrifying in a way only a man with nothing left to prove can manage. His uniform is patched, but every seam is regulation straight; his presence alone makes the front row of Betas sit up like they’re back in boot. Cass slouches just out of reach, legs propped on the folding chair’s back, a half-smoked cigarette perched behind one ear. He radiates disrespect so aggressively I’m almost impressed nobody’s called him on it. Michael—Dr. Mare, to the nervous cluster of medical aides—sits prim and professional, a clipboard balanced on his knee and a battered stethoscope coiled like a trophy at his neck. Jace floats at the back, never still, orbiting the rows of anxious Omegas and shivering Betas, pausing only to lay a reassuring hand on a shoulder or whisper a calm word in an ear.
I let the room settle, counting heartbeats, watching the ripple of attention as it moves from me to the pack and back again. There are no more distractions left—no horde pounding at the gates, no old-guard Alpha ready to call for a challenge. Grayson’s name hasn’t been spoken aloud in two weeks. Viktor is a rumor, a story you tell to scare the kids. I could almost forget the way it felt to have them circling, waiting for a slip, a mistake, a moment of weakness.
Almost.
“Let’s call this to order,” I say, and my voice is too loud in the sudden quiet. Nobody laughs, but I see a few faces twitch at the newness of it, the unfamiliar authority. “First up: reconstruction priorities.”
A Beta at the front—skinny, a patch over one eye, could have been a grad student in the old world—raises her hand. “Gardens need more hands. We’re short a dozen from the last run. If we don’t get the new beds planted, we’ll be eating shoe leather by Christmas.”
Someone at the side scoffs. “That’s if the wall holds. Last storm took out half the west side. If we can’t patch it, the next breach is gonna be the last.”
“Medical wing’s down three cots,” calls another. “And the supply dump’s running low on saline. We’re resorting to boiling Gatorade.”
Cass flicks his lighter, clicking it in time with the rising voices. “Could be worse,” he mutters. “I once did a transfusion with Fanta Orange. Kid lived. Turned him the color of a carrot, though.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter, and then the tension snaps back. I let it build, just a little, then tap the gavel again. “One at a time,” I say. “We’ll go through the list.”
I see the way the words land—not just in the ears, but in the shoulders and spines of everyone in the room. They’re not used to Omegas running the table. Even less to an Omega with a pack like mine. But the new world has stripped away every scrap of the old order, left us all feral and raw, and now the rules are whatever we decide to enforce.
“Gardens get top two votes,” I announce, reading the tally from the Beta secretary at the end of the table. “Wall repair is second. Medical’s third, but it’ll get extra hands once the food situation stabilizes.”
Someone mutters, “That’s not how the hierarchy works,” but the words are lost in the scrape of Rhett’s chair as he stands to his full, intimidating height. The councilman responsible shrinks into his collar, face flushed.
Rhett doesn’t speak. He never has to. He just crosses his arms and glares, the implication sharp as a bayonet.
I try not to smile. “Dr. Mare, your report?”
Michael stands, clearing his throat. His voice is soft but carries, a product of years triaging ERs at full crash. “Four cases of acute dehydration, two severe infections, one pregnancy at thirty weeks. Otherwise, only minor injuries from the last perimeter sweep. I need more antibiotics, but I can improvise with what we have.”
“Don’t you always,” says Cass, not bothering to hide the admiration.
Michael ignores him. “I’d like permission to convert the old computer lab into an infirmary. The air filtration there still works.”
I nod. “Council?”
A murmur of assent. One of the elders, a hard-faced woman in a patched blazer, adds, “You can have my gavel if you want it.” Her words are dry, but her eyes are warm.
I make a show of tucking my own gavel away. “I’ll trade you for your heater when winter comes.”
Another round of laughter, easier this time.
Jace moves among the crowd, hands never idle. He’s got a way of talking down panic I envy—one touch, one word, and the hysterics melt to manageable tears. I see him settle a trio of kids at the edge of the room, offering each a sip from his water bottle, tucking a threadbare blanket around the Omega’s knees. When one of them flinches at a sudden shout from the stage, Jace just kneels, takes her hands, and breathes slow until she’s calm.
The effect is infectious. By the time we get to the third item on the agenda—division of remaining livestock—the room is almost civilized.
Cass breaks the spell by throwing his feet up on the table and cracking his knuckles. “So who gets the chicken that bit Jace last week?” He grins, yellow-eyed. “Pretty sure it’s plotting an escape.”
I shoot him a look, but he shrugs, unapologetic. “What? It’s not like we’re swimming in protein.”
Rhett, dry as kindling, adds, “If it can take Jace in a fight, it deserves to run for council.”
Even the Betas can’t help but smile.
We grind through the list, hour by hour. The topics are familiar: fuel rations, defense rotations, who’s allowed to use the last of the duct tape. Each problem is a new disaster, but the solutions are always the same—argue, compromise, then assign the job to whoever is least likely to botch it. I watch the pack through it all, and the way they move tells me everything I need to know about how far we’ve come.
When a Beta at the back tries to argue that Omegas shouldn’t be allowed on supply runs, Cass is already off the wall, looming behind him with a wolfish smile and a suggestion about what he can do with his opinions. When the motion is withdrawn, Cass winks at me. “Democracy in action,” he says, and for once, I believe it.
Michael lobbies for more medical volunteers, and within five minutes the room is full of hands—Betas, Alphas, even a pair of battered Omegas eager to be useful. Rhett spots the troublemakers before they can stir up a challenge, and his mere presence smooths them back into silence.
Jace makes his way to my side as the meeting nears its end. He leans close, voice low. “You’re doing well.”
I murmur back, “Could be worse.”
He grins, a spark of warmth in the cold. “You know they look to you now. Even the ones who pretend not to.”
I don’t have time to answer. The old police captain in the front row stands, voice grave. “There’s one last matter. The council wants to recognize Lira Vale and her—” She hesitates, searching for a word that won’t incite a riot, “—her partners for their service in the breach.”
A smattering of applause, awkward but genuine. Someone shouts, “Saved my kid!” And I feel the burn in my cheeks, the urge to flee. But I don’t. I let them look, let them see what we are: a pack built from blood and stubbornness, a new law in a world that forgot the old ones.
Cass nudges me. “Don’t get used to it,” he says. “If they start clapping for you every time you show up, you’ll get soft.”
I smirk. “You’d love that.”
He winks, then returns to his post at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, watching the door for trouble.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. We vote on the next week’s duties, sort the volunteers, decide who gets to name the new chickens. Michael stands by my chair, quietly noting down every request, every supply need, every whispered report of a fever or a fight. Rhett patrols the exits, making sure nobody slips out without a reason. Jace, ever the shadow, checks every child for signs of stress, brings cups of water to the shyest, the smallest, the most frightened.
I realize, with a rush of something dangerously close to pride, that we are the backbone now. Not because anyone anointed us, but because when the world stopped making sense, we never stopped moving.
The final vote comes down to the garden expansion. I call for hands. All but three go up.
“Motion passes,” I say, and the gavel cracks down with the force of a new era.
The room empties fast. Most linger at the doors, talking in hushed, hopeful tones. A few drift up to the stage, dropping notes or requests or, in one case, a lopsided thank-you muffin baked in a scavenged cupcake tin. I try not to laugh when Cass pockets it, licking the sugar off his fingers.
When we’re alone, I collapse into a folding chair, head in my hands.
“You okay?” Asks Michael, gentle.
I shake my head. “No. But I’ll fake it for now.”
Cass is first to recover. He flops down beside me, boots on the table. “Hell of a show, Birdie. Almost got choked up at the end.” He bumps my arm. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Rhett kneels in front of me, all business. He checks my hands, my pulse, then tilts my chin up so our eyes meet. “You didn’t flinch,” he says, pride sneaking through the sternness. “Not once.”
Jace drops into the chair on my left, sliding a cup of water to my lips. I drink, letting the coolness wash away the taste of nerves.
“You led them.” Says Jace, simple and true.
I let it land, feeling the weight of it. “Yeah,” I say, voice hoarse. “I guess I did.”
The pack closes around me, not with words but with presence. Rhett’s hand steady on my knee, Cass’s arm slung careless over my shoulders, Michael’s precise touch at my wrist, Jace’s silent comfort at my side. I inhale, and the merged scent of us—wild, sharp, layered with sweat and hope and animal certainty—fills my lungs.
Outside, the world is still ruined. But inside, in this small pocket of order, I am not afraid.
The new era has teeth.
And it’s hungry for more.
The mess hall has become the new marketplace, a place where the rules are written in leftover paint and the only social currency is calories. Lunch today is a beige slab of protein, maybe soy, maybe rat, maybe something more exotic—nobody asks, nobody cares. The survivors crowd the tables in loose, shifting clumps, everyone pretending to ignore the fact that a third of the benches are now occupied by ghosts.
We sit together, as always: me, Cass, Rhett, Jace, and Michael. Our table is the only one with all its seats full. Even now, months after the world ended, people instinctively give us space—like the gravity of our pack bends the lines of sight, the edges of comfort. Cass is halfway through a story about the time he swapped labels on the med supplies, leaving Michael to accidentally dose a Beta with horse tranquilizer instead of antibiotics. Jace and Michael laugh, but it’s the laughter of people who have learned to find joy in the fact of still being alive, rather than the content of the joke.
Rhett doesn’t laugh. He never laughs in public, unless he’s bleeding. Instead, he watches the room—always, always—shoulders squared toward the door, jaw tense. Every so often, I feel his gaze flicker to my face, then back to the main entrance, as if expecting a challenge or an ambush.
Maybe both.
Today, he gets both.
Grayson appears at the threshold, flanked by two of the Fort’s new guards. They’re Betas, faces drawn and uniforms two sizes too big, the arm bands still tagged with the names of the men who wore them before. Grayson is not the man he used to be. Gone is the perfect posture, the tailored suits, the artful sneer. His clothes are rumpled, spotted with old blood and new grime; his hair is longer, uncombed, his face carved into sharp, hungry angles. Even his scent is different—stripped of the sickly-sweet cologne, replaced by something brittle and medicinal, like the inside of a freezer after a blackout.
The room goes quiet. Not all at once, but in ripples, as if every mouthful of food suddenly tastes of threat.
He doesn’t look at anyone but me. Not even the guards, who seem less like escorts and more like chaperones making sure he doesn’t try to dissolve into the floor.
He walks to our table, and the Betas at the benches on either side scatter like sparrows.
Cass’s eyes are knives, ready for a fight. Rhett stands, a wall between me and Grayson, while Michael and Jace close ranks, each gripping my arms in silent solidarity.
Grayson stops two paces away and stands, hands visible, eyes fixed on mine.
“I was wrong,” he says, voice dry as dust. “About everything.”
It’s not the apology I expect. It’s not even an apology, really—just a statement, leveled at me with the flat finality of a death sentence.
“I’m glad you made it,” I answer, carefully. “I didn’t think you would.”
A shadow of the old Grayson flickers across his face—a twist of pride, or maybe just muscle memory.
“I didn’t,” he says. “Not for a while.” He glances at the guards, then back at me. “I spent the siege in the dry goods closet. Listened to people screaming. Didn’t move. I—” He falters, swallows, and I see a tremor run through his hands. “I could have helped. I didn’t.”
Cass scoffs. “Hiding behind canned peaches while everyone else does the heavy lifting.” The disgust in his voice is only outmatched by the rage in his gaze.
Rhett bristles, but stays silent.
Grayson doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he looks at me, really looks, and for the first time I see something like regret. Not the weaponized variety he used to wield, but the real, naked kind that only shows up after you’ve run out of lies.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, softer now. “But I needed you to hear it.”
The room is silent, watching.
I meet his gaze, and I feel—not pity, not even hate, just an echo of the old loyalty that once bound us. The part of me that was groomed to see him as destiny, as the only possible future. It’s a small part, now. It’s dying, but not dead.
“I forgive you, Grayson,” I say, and the words feel strange, like learning a new language after the tongue has forgotten how. “But that doesn’t mean you get to come back.”
His face twitches, but he nods. “I know. I’m not here for that. I just…” He trails off, uncertain.
Jace, kind even now, speaks up. “What will you do?”
Grayson shrugs, the motion making him look older than I remember. “I’ll request reassignment. Maybe the west camp. I hear they’re short on strong arms and weaker minds.” It’s almost a joke, but nobody laughs.
He glances once at the guards, then at me, then at the four men around me. “You did well,” he says, and for a second, I almost believe he means it.
He turns to go, but before he does, he pauses. “You were right, you know. About choosing your own family.” His voice cracks on the last word, just a hairline fracture, but enough.
