"Aaah!"
All four women shrieked as the coach lurched again. Everyone slammed into Sosuke Kitahara by the hatch; knees and elbows hammered his head and shoulders. Terrified the door would give and fling them out, he braced both boots against the bulkhead, latched onto a support post, and roared, "Grab a pole anything! Hold on!"
Thunk!
The bus flipped hard. Pinned at the bottom a moment ago, Kitahara suddenly hung weightless. Yukino and Utaha clung to his neck and screamed; Haruno and Kitada Mitsue tumbled together in a heap. The compartment filled with a storm of bodies and noise.
The bus rolled like a tin can in a child's hands maybe the funnel had taken them into its core. Kitahara felt like he was trapped inside a giant's shaken jar. His body chose the worst time to falter. He forced the breathing method, clinging to clarity as the world spun: ceiling to floor, wall to wall women flung past, then yanked away.
"At this wind…!"
His teeth ground together. Weight vanished; the outside impacts fell suddenly silent. His back slammed to the wall and began to spin. His gut dropped. The truth hit: the coach was airborne. The post in his hands shivered under the load.
CRANG.
The deformed hatch blew clean off, torn away with a single blast. A colored gale punched through the luggage bay, detonating the opposite door. Yukino, latched to his waist, managed one strangled scream then her light body ripped from him like grass in a squall.
"YUKINO!"
Kitahara's vision went white.
At that height, with ordinary human bones? A fall meant death. She'd just bared her heart to him and now…?
Decide.
He bit his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth; the bright pain snapped something loose. Staying inside was her only chance. Maybe not even that but the only chance.
Everything else fell away.
As she skated toward open sky, he hooked both legs around her neck tight. Her breath hitched; reflexively she grabbed his thighs. He hauled with everything left, dragging her up the post, shoving her toward steel.
"G grip "
Wind rammed his open mouth; the word came out a garble. Strength bled out of him; sweat slicked the pole to ice.
The bus hammered into something. A rank, heavy body slammed into his chest, jolting his grip loose.
"Sosu mmph!"
Utaha got one syllable out before a lungful of wind stole the rest. Kitahara flashed past her and the world dropped away. A single, panicked shout cut off as he blew free of the coach.
He twisted midair. The bus hung high above the ground, a toy dangling in the sky. The asphalt below was a thin gray belt.
That's it. I'm dead.
You don't walk off a fall from dozens of meters. His unadvanced body wouldn't survive it. His heart banged like a drum in a war band
DOOM.
Something smashed his skull then,
SPLASH.
A freezing weight swallowed him whole.
Water?
The thought flickered and pain wiped him clean.
…
Time passed. He didn't know how much.
Kitahara surfaced into a throb of aches and a hissed breath.
A simple room. Timber walls. Old furniture and futons. No rot, no damp someone tended this place.
"Oh! You're awake."
The door slid; a slim silhouette stepped in. He turned his head and caught the line of a calf sheathed in sheer nude stockings. His pulse stuttered. He raised his eyes.
She looked around thirty: pink-and-white loungewear, hair coiled into a bun, alabaster skin, almond eyes, a soft smile. The poise of a married beauty familiar somehow. He squinted and blinked. The lovely face matched a photo he'd seen on a rescued phone, cheek to cheek with Yui Yuigahama.
Mrs. Yuigahama? Wasn't she supposed to have left with Yui's uncle? If she was here… was Yui?
She caught his searching look and smiled. "Don't move. It's safe here. Rest."
She'd tied on an apron must have been cooking. Steam curled from the bowl in her hands, a fragrance so rich it set his gut to growling. The apron framed a generous curve; when she knelt by him and leaned to set the bowl down, her chest pressed together, soft hills rising. Heat pooled in his chest at the clean scent of her skin, and he cursed himself. Get a grip. He shoved the blame onto Sayuri from his previous life; mature, elegant women had become his particular weakness.
Especially when they looked like this.
"You… saved me? Thank you." His voice rasped.
She glanced up through lashes, tucking a stray strand behind her ear an effortless, adult gesture. "You finally stabilized. When I pulled you out, your heartbeat was terrifying over two hundred a minute." Cool fingers pressed his sternum, then pried his eyelid. Relief softened her face. "The redness is gone. Pupils aren't blown like yesterday. If you didn't have a single bite, I'd have thought you were turning."
Classic zombie onset… and yet I'm still here. Mind's clear. I lived through it?
He reached inward and felt the plateau break. Tier Two. A bitter laugh flickered through him. A blessing inside a disaster. Relief curdled as it turned to worry Haruno, Yukino, Utaha…
If he hadn't burned himself empty to fight the change, he'd already be up and moving. His gaze slipped just once over her bodice. She tracked his eyes, glanced down, and caught how the lean had pushed her softness together. A faint flush rose. She straightened without comment.
He was younger than her daughter. Clean features, polite eyes handsome. She liked him on sight. She also knew exactly what she looked like. Near forty by the calendar, but years of care and great bones kept time at bay. To most eyes she read as early thirties; with that dewy skin, twenty-seven wasn't a stretch.
After Yui entered junior high… cracks. A reason she didn't like to name. A husband who went distant, then separate rooms. On cold nights, she'd sit before the mirror, take a little private pride in a supple waist and upright bust. Other men noticed, too hungry glances at the market.
Ripe fruit tempts the hand.
She was a mother, not a maiden; some things didn't fluster her. And this boy because that's how he read to her was barely twenty.
"What time is it?" Kitahara forced himself upright.
"Almost four." She passed him the bowl.
He didn't care how much it hurt; he wolfed it down. Heaven.
"Did you… see a coach bus?" he asked, words thick. Everything after blacking out was a blur.
She shook her head. "This is farm country. A bus would stand out."
He drained the last drop. She took the bowl. "Don't stew on it. Rest. I'll call you for dinner."
She slipped out. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Strength crept back with the heat of the broth. He looked at the sky and lay down again.
Going after them now would be like combing the sea with a rake. If they're alive, they'll head for the airport and wait. He'd only lost a day. He wouldn't panic.
If they're alive…
…
The sky stayed the color of wet ash. The tornado hadn't crossed here, but the storm had scrubbed the air. Weeds bowed under a fine rain, beaten, then oddly refreshed.
On a paddy ridge, a young man with a knife-scar on his cheek slashed at the air with a machete, spitting curses. "What rotten luck. We barely slipped that giant freak and then a storm. Those guys sit cozy in the truck meat and women while we risk it for supplies. That monster's still hunting us, I swear. We should run before it finds us. Otherwise we're dead by sundown."
Beside him, a short, compact man lit a cigarette and smirked up at him. "What's this, Scarface cold feet already?"
Scarface bristled. "What's that supposed to mean, Shorty?"
Shorty blew a ring. "Means if you're scared, go now. I'll tell them you died out here. Since you're so brave: boss told me himself put in the work a few days, once we bulk up, I'm squad lead."
Scarface blinked tempted then waved it off. "I was joking. I'm not eating that shame. Run in a fight, you can't show your face again."
Shorty nodded, flicked him another cigarette. "Good. Listen you can't get by on mean alone. You need loyalty. Boss treated us decent. When it's time, we show up. No weak links."
Scarface dragged hard, exhaled. "Then why the airport? Why not hole up somewhere with food?"
"Hole up where? You forget the five-meter freak already?" Shorty twirled his blade and snorted. "Without heavy weapons, every base is a joke. Boss says we scout the airport, score guns, then head for Yamanashi. Word is the official camp's there. After what we saw, I want concrete walls and uniforms, not wishes."
"But our hands aren't clean," Scarface muttered.
Shorty's lip curled. "Idiot. No witnesses, no crimes. The world's reset. If you've got muscle, nobody cares. Who's clean now?"
Scarface stared toward the clustered farmhouses, then grinned and leaned in. "You know what I saw yesterday? We were out in the typhoon, came past here. I took a look with the scope. Guess what?"
"What more zombies?" Shorty drawled.
"Nope." Scarface clicked his tongue. "A woman. Fishing in a pond with a net. Older, but kept. Skin like cream, curves for days screamed trouble in all the right ways."
Shorty chuckled. "Old habits, huh?"
Scarface nodded, eyes bright. "Would be a shame to let something like that die in a dump like this. I didn't tell the others just you."
Shorty wavered, then tried to play it cool. "We're out for supplies, not skirt. Don't make a mess."
"Relax. I've got the crossbow, you've got the pistol. Three or five villagers won't stop us. When a swan lands in your lap, you don't let it fly."
Shorty swallowed and gave in. "Fine. Your lucky day."
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