Chapter 142: Chapter 142 - Dread
A sharp knock cut through the quiet.
Iyisha’s eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes heavy, her body still thick with sleep and the lingering ache of the night before. For a moment she did not move. The room felt too warm, too still.
Then the knock came again.
Her heart kicked.
Someone is at the door.
She pushed herself up, the sheet sliding from her skin, and her muscles protested with a dull heaviness that made her grit her teeth. Malcolm was not beside her.
The other side of the bed was empty.
"Wait," she called out, voice rough from sleep as she reached for the clean clothes folded on the small table. She pulled them on quickly, fingers fumbling at the buttons, pulse quickening with each second of silence from outside.
Another knock.
"I’m coming."
She opened the door.
Marybeth stood there.
"Morning," Iyisha said softly.
Marybeth nodded once, distracted, eyes unfocused like her mind was somewhere else entirely.
"Can we talk?" she asked.
Iyisha’s brows drew together slightly, and out of instinct she glanced toward the kitchen area.
Malcolm sat on one of the chairs, body relaxed but alert, watching.
Watching her.
Their eyes met.
She smiled.
He gave a small nod.
"Do you want to talk inside?" Iyisha asked gently looking back at her.
Marybeth nodded again.
Iyisha stepped aside and let her in, closing the door behind them. Now that she could see her clearly, she noticed the strap bag still hanging from Marybeth’s shoulder.
"You just came back?" Iyisha asked as she moved toward the chairs.
Marybeth nodded. "I spent the night with Reya."
Iyisha gestured to the seat across from her and sat down. Marybeth lowered herself into the chair but did not remove the bag.
"So..." Iyisha prompted quietly. "What’s wrong?"
Silence.
Marybeth stared at the floor.
Iyisha did not rush her. She simply waited, hands resting loosely in her lap, gaze steady.
Finally, Marybeth spoke.
"Their church is fucking weird."
Iyisha inhaled slowly.
It is not just weird. It is straight up dangerous faith.
But she did not say that yet.
Marybeth looked up at her, something unsettled flickering in her eyes.
"Can you help me?"
Iyisha leaned forward slightly.
"Help you with what?"
"I think Reya is brainwashed," Marybeth said, her voice low but tight, like she had been holding it in all night.
Iyisha did not interrupt.
"She kept talking about mutation," Marybeth continued, fingers curling against the strap of her bag. "About how I should join them. How we could change the world. How the old humans are weak and afraid."
Iyisha’s expression remained calm, but something in her chest hardened.
"And Rick," Marybeth added, her jaw tightening, "he’s a fucking creep. He keeps touching her. Casually. Like it’s nothing. Like he owns the air around her."
She paused and looked at Iyisha directly.
"I know I sound like a hypocrite," she muttered. "Especially since you know about Brix."
Iyisha gave her a small, reassuring smile. "We got drugged that time."
Marybeth exhaled, shoulders loosening just slightly. She opened her mouth to say something else, then closed it again as if the words were heavier than expected.
"We’ve been together for three years," she said quietly. "We went our own way last year. She stayed behind. We promised I’d come back for her." Her voice thinned at the edges. "She wasn’t like this."
Iyisha could see it now. This was not just fear. This was grief. The kind that comes when someone you love is still breathing but no longer recognizable.
"They call themselves The Chosen," Marybeth said, bitterness lacing the name. "They are a messed up group."
"The Chosen?" Iyisha repeated slowly.
Marybeth nodded.
"They believe mutation is evolution. That the outbreak was not a tragedy but a correction. They say some of us are meant to ascend. Rick keeps saying the Motherhold is suppressing potential. That we are afraid of becoming something greater."
Iyisha’s fingers curled slightly against her lap.
"And Reya believes that?" she asked carefully.
Marybeth swallowed. "She says it makes sense. That if the world already ended once, maybe it needs to end again properly."
Silence filled the room.
From the kitchen area, Malcolm had not moved. His gaze remained steady, unreadable.
Iyisha leaned back slowly, processing.
"What exactly do you need from me?" she asked, her voice steady, grounded.
Marybeth looked at her like someone standing on the edge of something steep.
"I don’t know," she exhaled, then buried her face in her hand. Her long curls fell forward, spilling over her fingers and hiding her expression. Her shoulders curved inward as if she were folding into herself.
Iyisha watched her quietly.
When she first met Marybeth, she had been erratic, unpredictable, constantly pulled by impulse and emotion. Safety had softened that. The months inside protected walls had given her rhythm, stability, breath.
Now Iyisha could see it again.
That tremor beneath the surface.
This is doing something to her.
Iyisha sighed softly.
"Do you want me to talk to Reya?" she asked.
Marybeth lifted her head quickly, eyes wide, something fragile and hopeful flickering there.
"Yeah," she muttered. "Yeah. We can talk to her."
Iyisha gave a small nod, but inside she was already calculating the weight of that request.
She had seen this before.
Not the mutation rhetoric exactly, but the pattern. The way belief reshapes a person. The way ideology becomes oxygen. Once someone is deep enough inside it, logic rarely pulls them back out.
Talking might open a door.
But it might also push Reya further in.
From the kitchen area, Malcolm remained silent, his presence solid and watchful. He had not interrupted once. He did not need to. His stillness felt like assessment.
Iyisha looked back at Marybeth.
"We can talk to her," she said carefully. "But you need to be ready for something."
Marybeth swallowed.
"What?"
"She might not listen to us."
The words settled heavy between them.
"And if she doesn’t," Iyisha continued quietly, "you need to decide whether you’re trying to save her, or whether you’re trying to follow her."
Marybeth’s fingers tightened in her hair.
Because those are two very different paths.
"I..." Marybeth started, then stopped.
She sank back into the chair, fingers pressing against her temples. "I don’t know."
Iyisha smiled softly, not pushing.
"When’s the sermon?"
"Five," Marybeth answered.
Iyisha nodded. "Go take a rest first."
Now that the adrenaline was fading, the exhaustion showed clearly. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath Marybeth’s eyes, her movements slightly delayed.
Marybeth gave a small nod and stood.
They stepped outside just as Waldo was at the door receiving their food from a runner.
"Come on, let’s eat," he said, carrying a tray with bread and a metal pot of thin soup toward the table.
Marybeth muttered something about being done eating and needing sleep, then disappeared down the hallway.
Iyisha moved to the table.
Malcolm was already seated.
He looked at ease, posture relaxed, one arm resting on the chair, yet there was a tension beneath it, coiled and ready. His eyes lifted to her as she approached.
She smiled, a quiet private thought passing through her mind.
Last night helped. He look relaxed.
She sat beside him.
"Morning," she said lightly.
"It’s afternoon," he replied.
"Well, not my fault I overslept," she teased.
He did not answer.
She laughed anyway, soft and unbothered.
Waldo set the food down. The bread was slightly stale, the soup more broth than substance, small pieces of vegetable floating like reluctant proof of effort. It was enough.
"Going to the sermon again?" Waldo asked.
Iyisha nodded as she tore a piece of bread. "Need that map."
Waldo gave a slow nod.
"I could ask someone else," he replied, dipping the bread into the broth, "but since that man is offering for free, why not go?"
"Yeah. Though I don’t know if it’s free." She glanced at Waldo. "You coming?"
He shook his head.
"I’m starting quarantine today. If I want access to the inner city, I need to finish seven days of self quarantine first."
Iyisha paused mid bite, then nodded.
"Then we’ll be leaving tomorrow without seeing you."
"That’s the plan," Waldo said simply.
She chewed slowly.
A solid plan.
Sermon at five. Map. Leave at dawn. Waldo in quarantine. Malcolm steady beside her.
Everything structured.
Everything aligned.
And yet her stomach tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with hunger.
Her gut whispered something low and instinctive.
Doom does not always arrive screaming.
Sometimes it waits politely until you are seated at the table.
