Dash

The storm isn’t just here—it’s everywhere. The rain lashes against us like a living thing, cold and unrelenting, soaking through layers of clothing in minutes. Wind roars through the trees, bending branches and shaking loose a chorus of creaks and groans. Thunder cracks above, close enough to rattle my teeth, and the world lights up in a jagged flash of white before plunging back into darkness.

I pull my hood tighter, though it does little to keep the rain off my face. Around me, Alicia’s camp is a frenzy of controlled chaos. People move in near silence, loading crates of supplies onto carts while others secure tarps over wagons and livestock. Every step is a fight against the mud, which clings to boots and wheels, dragging everything down.

“Keep it steady!” I call over the noise, though my voice is almost swallowed by the wind. “No sudden movements. Make it look routine.”

Dean, Alicia’s second-in-command, trudges through the mud to my side, his face a mask of irritation. He points at the cart nearest us, where two people struggle to push it free from a rut. “This isn’t routine. We’re bogged down already, and we haven’t even made it out of camp!”

“Keep your voice down,” I snap. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

He glares at me but lowers his voice. “The longer we’re stuck here, the more time Reeves has to figure out what we’re doing. If he sends scouts, this storm isn’t going to stop them.”

I clench my jaw, scanning the camp. He’s not wrong, but rushing now could cost us everything. “We stick to the plan,” I say firmly. “Slow and steady, one group at a time. You start improvising, and we’ll leave a trail so obvious even Greg will figure it out.”

Dean mutters something under his breath and storms off, but I don’t have time to care. I focus on the nearest group, moving to help them lift a crate onto the cart. The woman holding one side stumbles, nearly dropping it, and I step in to take the weight.

“Got it,” I say, my voice gruff as I heave the crate into place. “Get yourself balanced. We’re not in a race.”

She nods quickly, her face pale and soaked, and moves to secure the load with rope.

By the time the first group sets out, the rain has turned the main trail into a river of mud. I wave them off, watching their silhouettes vanish into the trees, and let out a slow breath. That’s one down, but there’s still so much left to move.

“Dash!” Alicia’s voice cuts through the storm, sharp and commanding. She’s already halfway to me, her braid plastered to her neck and rain dripping from her jacket.

I turn to meet her, wiping water from my face. “What is it?”

She jerks her head toward the west side of camp. “The livestock are spooking. Something’s got them riled up.”

Damn it. Livestock was always going to be a problem. I follow her through the camp, my boots squelching in the mud, until we reach the small makeshift pen where a group of goats and chickens huddle under a tarp. The animals shift and bleat nervously, their heads darting toward the tree line with every crack of thunder.

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“Anything out there?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at the dark forest beyond.

Alicia shakes her head. “Nothing we’ve seen, but that doesn’t mean much in this weather.”

I nod, stepping closer to the pen and crouching down to check the gate. It’s secure, but I can feel the animals’ tension, the way they shift and push against each other, ready to bolt at the first chance.

“We need to move them,” Alicia says, her tone low but urgent. “Now, before they break loose.”

“Not yet,” I say, standing and brushing my hands on my soaked pants. “We move the livestock too early, and we’ll lose the cover of the storm. Get them calmed down and wait for my signal.”

Alicia gives me a look, her eyes sharp and unreadable, but she doesn’t argue. She turns to her people, issuing quiet orders, and I take a step back, scanning the tree line again. For a moment, I think I see movement—a shadow shifting against the dark—but another flash of lightning blinds me, and when the darkness returns, the forest is still.

The second group sets out just before midnight, their cart loaded with crates of dried food and medical supplies. The rain shows no sign of letting up, but I catch a break in the thunder long enough to hear faint voices in the distance—too far to make out, but close enough to send a chill down my spine.

I motion for Alicia to join me, keeping my voice low. “We’ve got company. North side.”

She stiffens, her hand drifting to the knife at her belt. “Reeves’ men?”

“Probably just scouts,” I say, though the words feel like a gamble. “We need to divert the next group. Take the east route instead.”

“That’ll take twice as long,” Alicia argues.

“It’ll keep them safe,” I counter. “Get your people moving. I’ll keep an eye on the north side.”

She doesn’t look happy, but she nods and disappears into the storm. I grab my rifle and head for the tree line, moving as quietly as the mud and rain will allow. The voices grow louder as I approach, though I still can’t see anything through the downpour.

I crouch behind a fallen log, straining to hear. It’s hard to tell in this weather, but the voices sound like two men, their tones sharp and urgent. If they’re scouts, they’re too close for comfort.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the forest for a split second, and I catch a glimpse of movement—a man in a raincoat, his rifle slung low as he gestures to someone behind him.

My breath catches, but I don’t move. The storm will cover us if I stay patient.

The voices fade as the men retreat, heading back toward Reeves’ camp. I wait another minute, counting my breaths, before slipping back toward Alicia’s camp.

By the time the last group is ready to leave, the storm has eased slightly, though the rain still falls in sheets. My legs ache, and my hands are raw from hauling crates and tying knots, but I keep moving. There’s no room for weakness—not tonight.

Dean approaches as we’re loading the final cart, his expression grim. “This one’s not going anywhere,” he says, jerking his thumb at the wagon wheel half-buried in the mud. “It’s stuck.”

I curse under my breath, motioning for two more people to join us. Together, we push and heave, trying to free the wheel, but the mud clings like a vise.

“Dash, we’re running out of time,” Dean growls.

“I know that,” I snap, digging my boots into the mud and shoving harder. The wheel shifts slightly, and I let out a strained breath. “Again. Push.”

With a collective effort, the cart finally lurches free, and we stumble back, panting and soaked.

“Get it moving,” I order. “No stops until you’re clear of the woods.”

Dean nods and takes the lead, guiding the cart toward the trail. I watch until their shapes disappear into the rain, then turn back to check the camp one last time.

The storm has done its job, covering our tracks and masking our movements, but it’s left chaos in its wake.

As I scan the ground, my eyes catch on something small but damning: a crate overturned near the edge of camp, its contents spilled into the mud. The sight sends a cold weight sinking into my chest.

If Reeves’ scouts were close enough to see this…

I clench my fists, forcing the thought away. There’s no time to dwell on mistakes.

The storm isn’t over yet, and neither is this fight.