Page 4 of Ghosts of the Dead

I try. My eyes flick toward his, and he nods encouragingly. I can barely make out his features through the fog consuming my vision.

The man, however, is impossibly calm despite the growing horde of rotters pounding against the door mere feet away. How is he not panicking like I am?

“Breathe with me,” he says, keeping his voice even. “In through your nose…good. Hold it. Now, out through your mouth. You’re safe. You’re here. You’re not alone.”

My lungs battle against themselves, but I follow his lead.

Once.

Twice.

The spinning slows, and I finally draw a deeper breath. My limbs still tremble, but the violent shaking subsides. I tip backward, collapsing onto the roof in relief, breathing hard. My heart continues to race, but I’m breathing again.

Air, such beautiful air, rushes in and out of my lungs. “I love breathing. It’s so underrated.”

He gives me a look that’s equal parts confused and relieved, then crouches beside me. “You okay?”

I blink back the heat building behind my eyes and nod. “Yeah. Just…a little bonus round on apocalypse hard mode.”

His mouth quirks into a smile. It’s softer than I expect, a stark contrast to his earlier death glare. “You’re tough.”

“Damn right I am,” I say. That earns me half a smile, and it almost makes me want to smile, too. Almost.

We sit in momentary silence, listening to the symphony of rotters pounding against the door behind us, like a rhythmic, rotting drumbeat. The wind stirs ash from my clothes and whips strands of hair across my face. The man doesn’t flinch when I cough. He simply stays, which is somehow worse than if he’d left.

“Guess you’re my guardian angel after all,” I joke, trying to fill the silence with anything that isn’t the deafening sounds of the rotters scratching at the door, which now groans beneath their increasing mass. I don’t want to discover exactly how many are piling up there, mere feet from where we sit.

His lips turn up in a small smile, and he shakes his head. Those dark, intense eyes somehow seem softer now. “Got lucky.”

I raise a brow. “You got lucky, or I got lucky?”

He chuckles. It’s a pleasant sound. A low rumble deep in his throat. “Both.”

I force myself upright, ignoring the persistent tremor in my arms that’s still lessening, and reach for my bag. Until I remember I abandoned it when the first bullet flew past me. Perfect.

Normally, I would assume this guy was trying to kill me, but considering he just saved my life today, I’m inclined to believe otherwise. That doesn’t mean I can trust him. “I should go.”

He stands first and offers a hand. After a moment’shesitation, I take it, and he helps me to my feet with surprising gentleness. He surveys the rooftop, then eyes the buckling door. “Where?”

I hesitate. That’s a damn good question.

He walks to the edge of the roof and raises his rifle, scanning the distance through the scope. He waves a hand in the air like he’s signaling to someone, which sends a warning prickling down my spine. “You don’t have to tell me, but I’ve got people. They’re not far off. We can help…if we ever get off this damn roof, that is.”

He looks straight down, and I follow his gaze. Rotters cluster in the alley below. We won’t be climbing down that way, either.

“Well. Not exactly the refuge I had in mind, but at least we’re no longer down there,” he adds.

People. Has people. As in plural. No. That’s a hard no for me.

“I don’t do groups. Not anymore,” I say, stopping myself before adding how attachment only gets people killed.

“That’s a shame.” He frowns, still looking below. “We’ll find another way out. Too many rotters to wait this out forever.”

The sealed door behind us groans in agreement.

“Who are you, anyway?” I ask.

“Mars.”

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