Cloud shot a harpoon line to the adjacent building—a shorter hop than yesterday's—but the rope hissed and quivered.
Below, the undead surged at the music again, then scattered as the van fishtailed through the intersection, horn screaming. A fresh tide poured out from a gaping storefront, sniffing the air like wolves.
"Secondary group," Cloud said. "They were bedding down in the arcade."
"Figures," Alvaro said. "Even in death—addicted."
Sasha slid into position, clipped onto the line. "Dylan's bag goes first."
"We'll do a tandem," Dylan began, but Sasha was already hitching the medicine pack to the clip, double-checked the knot, and shoved it into Alvaro's waiting grip.
"Trust me," she said, softer.
He did. That irritated him too. He was a scientist; trust should come last. Yet here he was, obeying her instinct like it was data.
