Chapter 262: Chapter 261 - Aljun in Doubt
Aljun’s POV
Aljun’s knee jerked up and down.
He pressed his palm over it, but it started again as soon as he let go.
Damn it.
He had only wanted a better life than the one he had in New Jersey. That was all. A wall. Food. A place where he did not have to sleep with one eye open.
The island had given him that.
A roof. A job. Protection.
Then the job turned into a table, a blade, and meat he learned not to name.
He had been the butcher.
That was the truth of it.
He had cut what they brought him. He had weighed it. He had kept his face blank while hungry people lined up because everyone understood the rule without saying it. Eat, or starve. Work, or become someone else’s ration.
He hated it.
He still did it.
Because the butcher had value. The butcher got fed. The butcher did not get dragged out at night.
Now he was here, trapped in a dead office building with a dying man, a child listening to torture, and Malcolm behind a closed door taking someone apart for answers.
Aljun put both hands over his face and breathed hard.
Another sob came from the back room.
His fingers tightened against his eyes.
What was he even doing here?
He could walk away. No one had chained him to them. Malcolm would not notice at first. Arnulf might. Marybeth might. But they had bigger problems than him.
And maybe that was what he was good at.
Finding the side that kept him alive.
Only this time, he did not know which side that was.
He was not even sure the island Arnulf talked about was real. A place where they could live. A place where they could build again. It sounded like something men said when they needed people to keep walking.
Aljun stood.
Archie looked at him from the window. "Where are you going?"
"Checking outside."
"Don’t open anything."
"I’m not stupid."
Archie did not answer.
Aljun moved to the front window and looked through the crack between the boards. The street had gone darker. The last light sat low behind the buildings, and the broken cars looked black against the road.
Then he saw movement.
One walker dragged itself around the corner.
Another came from behind an old van.
Then more.
Aljun counted under his breath.
Four.
Seven.
Ten.
They were not rushing yet. They were turning their heads toward the building, drawn by the sound coming from inside. Their mouths hung open. Their hands dragged against the walls and car doors as they moved closer.
Aljun stepped back from the window.
"There are walkers outside," he said.
Arnulf looked at him. "How many?"
"Ten. Maybe more coming."
Harry cursed under his breath.
Another sound hit the wall from the back room. Something heavy slammed against the floor. Tilly flinched hard, and Chanse pulled her close with both arms.
Aljun’s stomach tightened.
Malcolm should have killed the soldier already. If he needed answers, fine. But the man kept screaming, and every scream carried into the street. If Malcolm did not shut him up soon, the whole block would know where they were.
Arnulf crossed to the window and checked the street himself.
Aljun moved away before Arnulf could tell him to stay there. He did not want to watch the walkers gather. He already knew what ten could become. Ten became thirty if the sound kept going. Thirty became a wall if they waited too long.
He walked toward Marybeth instead.
She sat on the floor beside Lance with one knee up and one hand near his chest. Her other hand held a strip of cloth stained with old blood. She looked tired in a way that made her face sharper.
"He’s waking up," Marybeth said.
Aljun stopped.
Lance’s eyelids moved.
His head shifted against the wall, and his mouth opened as if he was trying to speak. No sound came out at first. His breathing hitched, then steadied again.
Aljun crouched beside him.
"Lance," Marybeth said, leaning closer. "Can you hear me?"
Lance’s eyes fluttered open.
He stared at the ceiling first. Then his eyes moved to Marybeth, then to Aljun. He looked confused. Too pale. Too weak.
"What happened?" Lance whispered.
Marybeth’s face changed for half a second before she covered it. "You were shot."
Lance’s brow tightened. His hand moved toward his stomach.
Marybeth caught his wrist before he touched the wound. "Don’t."
Aljun’s eyes went there anyway.
The shirt was pulled low again, but he had seen it earlier. Dried blood across Lance’s skin. Marybeth’s hands stained from checking him. And under it, that red closed skin where a bullet wound should have stayed open.
Aljun would not have believed it if he had not seen the blood.
A man got shot in the stomach and did not just close up.
That did not happen.
Not unless the lab had done something to him.
Lance swallowed and tried to sit higher.
Marybeth pushed gently against his shoulder. "Stay down."
Lance looked past her toward the back room.
The soldier cried out again.
Lance’s face tightened. "What is that?"
No one answered at first.
Aljun looked at Marybeth.
Marybeth kept her eyes on Lance. "Malcolm is getting answers."
Lance blinked slowly.
The words settled in his face.
Another walker hit the outer wall with a dull scrape.
Aljun looked toward the window.
"We have another problem," he said.
Arnulf turned from the boards. "They’re gathering."
"How bad?" Marybeth asked.
"Bad enough," Aljun said. "And getting worse."
From the back room, the soldier shouted something that cut into a sob. Then there was a click.
Aljun went still.
Another click followed.
The room stopped breathing with him.
Tilly lowered one hand from her ear. "What was that?"
Nobody answered.
Aljun looked at the closed door.
He wanted to leave.
He wanted to grab what he could and walk out before Malcolm dragged them all into the lab, into the walkers, into whatever Frankenstein had built under the fort. He wanted to choose himself for once without feeling like a coward.
Then Lance moved beside him and let out a thin, pained breath.
Lance pushed himself up with a weak sound.
Marybeth caught his shoulder at once and helped him sit against the wall. His face had gone pale under the dirt, and sweat shone on his upper lip. His hand moved toward his stomach, but Marybeth stopped him before he could touch the wound.
"Don’t," she said.
Lance blinked at her, then looked around the room.
His eyes passed over Arnulf, Harry, Archie, Bert, Tilly, Chanse, and Aljun. Then his face dropped.
"Iyisha?"
Marybeth did not answer.
Aljun wished she had. He wished anyone else had.
"They got her," he said.
Lance looked at him.
Aljun swallowed and looked away first.
Lance’s lips trembled. His eyes shone, but he did not cry. He only lowered his head and breathed through his mouth like the words had hit him somewhere deeper than the bullet.
Aljun watched him for a second, then felt something ugly move in his stomach.
He doubted he would cry over Iyisha if it had been him waking up. He would cry because Malcolm would tear the city apart and anyone near him might get dragged under with it.
That was the truth.
He hated that it came so easily.
He looked toward the boarded window instead. The walkers outside dragged closer every time the soldier screamed from the back room. Their hands scraped along the walls and the cars. Ten had turned into more. Not enough to break in yet, but enough to make the building feel smaller.
They had not even heard anything strange before the ambush.
That bothered him.
They had been in the shop beside the gun shop. Everyone could see each other. Everyone was tired but moving. Then the shot echoed, and the whole street changed. Bullets tore into the gun shop before anyone understood where the first one came from. They grabbed whatever weapons they could reach and fired back through broken shelves and smoke.
Archie’s gun had blown apart in his hand.
Aljun glanced at him now.
Archie stood near the window with his hand wrapped in cloth. Blood had soaked through the first layer. He still held another gun in his other hand, but his fingers were stiff around it.
Aljun looked away.
The back room went quiet.
That was worse than the screaming.
Tilly lowered one hand from her ear.
Chanse pulled her closer.
The door opened.
Malcolm came out first.
He dragged Smith by the back of his vest and shoved him forward. Smith stumbled into the main room and almost fell. His mouth was bleeding. His face was swollen and bruised, and the front teeth Aljun had seen earlier were gone. Blood ran down his chin and onto his vest.
Then Aljun saw the hand.
It was bent wrong.
Two fingers sat at angles that made his stomach turn. Smith tried to hold the hand against his chest, but every step made it shake. He made a small sound through his teeth and cried without trying to hide it.
Malcolm pushed him into the middle of the room.
Smith dropped to his knees with a grunt.
Aljun looked away.
This was worse than butchering dead bodies.
At least the dead did not watch him while he worked. At least they did not beg. At least he never had to see the moment they understood what was happening to them.
Smith was still breathing.
That made it worse.
Malcolm did not look at him again.
His eyes went straight to Lance.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of him. Marybeth stiffened but did not move away.
"You fine?" Malcolm asked.
Lance nodded once. His face pulled tight from the effort. "I think so."
Malcolm looked at his stomach.
Marybeth kept one hand near Lance’s shoulder. "He woke up. The wound still looks the same."
Malcolm’s jaw moved once. He looked at Lance’s face again.
"Stay down," he said.
Lance nodded.
Arnulf stepped closer with the folded map in his hand. "What’s the plan?"
"We go tonight," Malcolm said.
Aljun almost sat down.
His legs felt hollow all at once. God, no. They were exhausted. Lance could barely sit. Tilly looked ready to pass out. Archie’s hand was torn up. Walkers were already outside. Running through the Bronx at night toward the lab would get them killed before they reached the first fence.
Arnulf blinked. "Tonight?"
Malcolm looked at him.
Arnulf did not back up. "The group is exhausted."
Malcolm’s eyes moved around the room.
Aljun saw them pass over Lance first. Then Tilly. Then Archie’s wrapped hand. Then Marybeth’s bloody fingers resting near Lance’s shoulder.
For a second, Malcolm looked like he would argue.
Then he sat down.
Not fully. Not like a man resting. He lowered himself near the wall, one knee up, the other foot planted, ready to move again. His hand stayed close to his weapons.
"Then rest," Malcolm said.
Nobody relaxed.
Arnulf opened the folded map and crouched near the floor. Harry moved closer. Archie stayed by the window, but his eyes shifted toward them.
Malcolm pointed to the rough line Smith had drawn. "The lab is one underground level. Wider than we thought. It runs from the fort side toward Reeder Street."
Arnulf studied the map. "One level?"
"Wide," Malcolm said. "Main corridor through the center. Wings on both sides."
Harry leaned over Arnulf’s shoulder. "Where’s Iyisha?"
Malcolm tapped the east side of the map. "Observation room three."
Lance closed his eyes.
Marybeth looked down.
Aljun rubbed his palms over his knees and tried not to look at Smith bleeding on the floor.
Arnulf’s finger moved over the paper. "Entrances?"
"Fort tip. Reeder service route. Supply access. Emergency hatch near the generator."
"That hatch sounds best," Harry said.
"Old camera. Bad angle," Malcolm said. "Most guards think it’s sealed."
Arnulf nodded slowly. "After what happened at the gun shop, they’ll tighten everything. More guards. More checks. If they know we might come, every clean entrance will be watched."
Malcolm nodded. "That’s why I go in first."
Harry straightened. "Let me come with you."
"No."
Harry’s jaw tightened. "You’ll need backup."
"It will be easier with just me."
"That’s not backup. That’s suicide."
Malcolm looked at him.
Harry stopped.
The silence pressed down again.
Malcolm’s voice stayed flat. "Stay with them."
Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but his eyes flicked to Lance, then to Tilly, then to Archie’s hand. He swallowed whatever he wanted to say.
Arnulf folded the map halfway. "We need a proper entry plan. Rest first. Then we move before sunrise."
Malcolm nodded.
Aljun watched him.
Something was wrong.
Not in the way Malcolm looked angry. Everyone could see that. Not in the blood on his hands or the way his eyes kept returning to the map.
It was smaller than that.
His fingers moved against his thigh. Once. Twice. Then stopped when he noticed them. His foot stayed angled toward the door. His shoulder never touched the wall. His eyes kept cutting to the window, then to the map, then to Iyisha’s pistol on the desk.
He looked like a man sitting only because people were watching.
Aljun’s stomach tightened.
Maybe he was imagining it.
Maybe he was just tired. Maybe the screams from the back room had shaken something loose in his head. Maybe everyone looked like they were about to run because none of them had slept properly since the river.
Malcolm reached for Iyisha’s pistol and checked it without speaking.
Aljun looked at the door.
Then he looked back at Malcolm.
No.
He was not imagining it.
