The river cut through the land like something that didn’t care what lived or died on either side. Wide enough that the other side could barely be seen and so dark that it was impossible to know what hid in its waters.

Given the fact that the water was moving fast enough to carry whole trees along its current without a pause, Elias doubted that crossing by any means other than the bridge would be next to impossible.

He rode shotgun in the lead truck with the window cracked and the rifle flat across his knees, safety on, muzzle down, finger nowhere near the trigger.

Gravel spit from the tires, dust hung low, and the engine noise bounced off the concrete footings long before they saw the span of the water.

"Two hundred out," he said, mostly for Zubair. There was no urgency in the tone, he was simply stating a fact.

Zubair grunted once and let the truck roll in steady.

Behind them, Alexei held the second truck in the mirror gap, keeping distance perfect without trying.

Sera stood behind the cab’s seat with one hand hooked on the roll bar, her long white hair lifting in the wind. Luci had his head over the door, his tongue tucked, and his ears pinned forward at the smell of water and rot.

Bodies marked the approach like mileposts.

Some were fresh while others were not. No one had tried to drag them off the shoulder, no one even bothered to try and hide the evidence of what had passed before.

A boot here, a hand caught in weeds there, a shirt glued to asphalt where weather had done most of the work.

Elias didn’t stare. He cataloged how long since the last fight by the color, by the flies, by the way the skin had gone to leather on the oldest.

He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and counted while the truck rolled down to idle.

"Near side...three on the deck, one on a truck roof, two behind the barrier. Far side...two in the open, more in shade. Shack on the right past the truss has shadow movement...maybe one, maybe two."

Zubair dropped their speed another notch. "Sniper?"

"Not one who has had any training. His position is too obvious to be good," Elias answered. The man on the roof had a scope, but his barrel drifted in small eights. "He’ll miss his first clean shot just from nerves."

The bridge sat higher than the bank.

Concrete deck, rust-stained truss, old bolt heads the size of knuckles.

Someone had dragged wrecks up to make a choke tunnel...pickup nose-in across the lane with its bed turned toward them, a panel van angled behind it, a stack of road barriers wired together with rebar and wire rope.

They’d cut firing slots and hung scrap to soak stray rounds. It wasn’t pretty, but it was definitely effective. There was only one way forward, and that was through a path that was barely the width of the truck.

Zombies on leashes lined both banks.

Long poles sunk deep in the mud with rings welded at the top. Chains ran down to collars cinched on stupid zombies that strained and jerked and ground their own throats raw trying to reach the road.

A slight shift in the wind shoved the stink straight through the open window...rot and wet cloth and teeth grinding against metal.

Luci’s lip peeled an inch. He didn’t bark. He didn’t need to.

Zubair rolled them to a stop twenty yards short of the first hard cover. It was close enough to show they weren’t skittish, but far enough to make sure that no one had a clean shot at them.

He turned the wheel a hair to set the nose slightly off center to their line, then took his hands off the rim and rested his forearms on the top like the truck was a table.

Elias kept the glass up. "Guns ready but the muzzles down. No fingers on triggers. The guy in the cut sleeves likes to shout. The one in the white shirt moves like he owns the line." He let the binoculars fall back to his chest on their strap and added, "Don’t look at the dogs unless you want to feed them."

"Noted," Zubair said, dead flat.

The man in the cut sleeves walked out first, lazy confidence, rifle slung.

He wore a red bandanna at his throat and old tattoos that had gone grayish blue and wrinkly with time. He lifted one hand with the kind of authority that came cheap when people were too scared to argue and pointed at the painted stop line they’d laid across the road in what might have been spray paint and might have been something else.

"Stop there," he called out, his loud voice easily crossing the distance.

They already had, but that was besides the fact.

Elias rolled the window down another inch and let the air wash through.

He ran a quick sweep of what mattered: the angle of the sun, the shine off the river, the shadows under the truck bed ahead where someone could sleep and roll out with a shotgun, the shack door wedge that kept it from closing all the way.

If you knew what to look for, small things always turned into big benefits.

The man in cut sleeves let his eyes walk the truck. Moved on to the second truck, the men in it, the machete slanted on Lachlan’s shoulder, Alexei’s half smile that wasn’t. Finally, he looked at Sera and stayed there too long.

"Payment," he announced. "Ninety percent of your goods, both trucks, and the girl."

Lachlan whistled softly. "He went straight to dessert," he chuckled in a tone that lacked all humor.

Elias didn’t shift his focus. He wasn’t here to laugh. He was here to count.

He didn’t like the way the chains had kinked where the stupid zombies had hit them over and over. Two rings looked hours from failure, not days. One pole listing out of plumb had a hairline crack at the socket weld.

A voice from the far side cut across the man in sleeves. Older. Deeper. Carried without effort.

"Pablo," it said, almost bored. "Back up."

The man in sleeves—Pablo—checked himself and moved. The white shirt stepped into the open like the road belonged to him.

Clean collar. Holster low. Belt buckle with shine.

His hair was slicked back like he still had a comb.

Elias clocked the pistol weight at his hip, the spare mags tucked neat, the boots that had seen upkeep. This one had orders in his pocket and men who followed them.

"You’re at my bridge," the white shirt said. Not loud. Not friendly. "You pay my toll."