I dashed across the rooftops. It's easier when the downtown buildings stood so close together, and Jun didn't have to use the wooden planks. I was amazed at how fast he was, and I had to slow down, carefully watching out for my steps or else I'd fall. He had done this route many times, but he did tell me that he had never been to Dalewood. The Alphas patrolled that neighborhood from the beginning, so Jun had never ventured further.

"...close now," he said ahead, realized he was still speaking, though it was the only word I could pick up.

I nodded, still praying that my friends were holding out okay.

The gaps between buildings soon grew wider. Jun had to go down an escape ladder again to an alley when he didn't have a plank tucked away this far in the route. I didn't know if replacing heights with the narrow alleys was a good substitute because spotting the vectors became harder. I passed two rotting bodies behind a dumpster, slit holes on their skulls, and I'm guessing Jun had killed these people before with his bow. As we narrowed a corner, a vector wearing an apron stumbled into view, but he didn't see us coming.

Jun pulled out an arrow from his quiver, but instead of using his bow, he bolted forward, winds sweeping up his jacket, spinning around out of sight until the vector caught his movement. The vector had only a split second to turn before Jun plunged the arrow right under the vector's chin. Jun cupped the back of the vector's head, pushing the arrow further until the vector's gurgled screeches faltered into a dead stop. Jun pulled the arrow, wiping the pointed tip on his jeans, and then placed it back inside the quiver.

Jun turned to look at me, saw my mouth hanging open, and answered with a slight shrug. Show off, I thought.

"This way," he said, pointing toward the street.

I followed after him, walking over the vector's corpse.

Downtown faded behind us. Gone were the picturesque red bricks, live oaks, and cast-iron balconies of small-town Americana, paving the way to small modern-looking apartment buildings and the residential houses converted into offices. We passed by a motel. Another one was a full strip of offices for dentists, lawyers, and real estate agents. Jun thought it was easier to traverse across a parking lot, so we took off there, careful not to get spotted by either the vectors or humans.

The streets grew wider, the spaces more open, but there wasn't a concrete line or a wall where Dalewood began. It wasn't until I noticed that I was surrounded by suburban houses—all those white picket fences, green grass on the front yard, and trees covered every block—that I realized we were now inside the neighborhood. I could no longer smell burnt rubber and days-old smoke, rotting meat, and the overpowering stench of the damaged sewers.

Here, fresh air reigned, sweetly scented in the air, birds chirping soundly, and the neighborhood remained undisturbed. Aside from the houses obviously having barricades over their windows, it's like the world left this neighborhood in the past. I half-expected children to run out of the homes to play on the front yard laughing, neighbors lazily strolling by the sidewalk, and the occasional mailman driving by to deliver the mail. Further off, I saw a large park with its own pond. It was clearly a more affluent neighborhood compared to the rest of Colby.

Then, I saw a few marks on the houses' doors. I've seen them in Albany before, the ones outside the safe zones, shaped like an X. It was the usual code for search and rescue, one that Peter had described to me, and the CRA clearly had gone through this neighborhood before they left. Each quadrant of the X told the date, time, the unit's search identification, and hazards encountered within the building. One particular house was only searched fifty-two days ago, 1430 meant two-thirty in the afternoon, NE-2 for the unit, and then zero hazards labeled at the bottom quadrant—no dead inside. The markings disrupted the quiet solitude of Dalewood, and I didn't know why, but I was unsettled by it like I wanted to rip those doors off and burn them. It didn't feel right.

I felt like I was alone in a crowd, completely disconnected from everyone, and no matter how much I screamed, no one could hear me. My breath hiked up my throat and gripped there, and suddenly, I was thrashing on the floor, and yet people still didn't bother to look at me. I didn't like that feeling at all. I didn't like feeling so alone and lost.

I realized all these houses reminded me of my home.

I stopped in my tracks, turning around to face a ranch-style house with light blue sidings, white trims from the windows, and a warm gray roof. It almost came close to being the exact replica of my home in Portland. I stared at it, wide-eyed, felt a pull inside my gut to the red-painted door, but I felt Jun's fingers on my arm, pulling me back.

"See something?" He asked.

I shook my head, prying my eyes away from the facade. "No. Let's keep going," I said. I didn't dare turn around and looked back, still feeling that pull in the pit of my stomach.

I heard shots fired not far from us, almost coming from all directions. Thankfully, whoever kept shooting didn't stop, and I quickly pinpointed their location to our left. We turned that way, ending up in a small park.

Is that you, Peter? Logan? Please, be okay, I muttered quietly.

We made it halfway through the park, almost reaching up to the gazebo when Jun suddenly pulled me down into the tall grass by the large pond. But it was already too late. A truck veered off the road and into the sidewalk, barreling across the cobbled path toward the park's center. Men hollered and whooped, spitting curses, and bloody murder. I didn't get to see how many there were.

The Alphas saw us.

A bullet wheezed past and hit close to my ankles, throwing chunks of dirt all over my leg.

"Shit!" I cried out, pulling my knees close to my chest. That was close.

More shots rang out. Left with no option, I swiftly pulled Jun into the edge of the pond and dove into the murky water. It was a one-meter drop, which I was thankful for because the embankment allowed us enough cover to swim across and hide under a bridge. The pond wasn't deep, so I didn't have to worry about my backpack weighing me down. The waterline only went up to my shoulders, but for Jun, he was a lot taller than me; the water reached up to his chest.

The bridge wasn't a safe hiding space, but it would give us enough time to think of another plan.

I came up empty.

"Fuck," I spat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Jun stared hard at me. "And?"

Overhead, the truck skidded to a stop near the bridge. Doors opened and closed, and I could hear four distinct voices approaching. There were only about three feet of space above our heads, but we're caught out in the open on both sides. It would only take for them to stand by the embankment's edge, crouched down, and get a 'wonderful' view of our heads poking out of the water. We're sitting ducks.

Jun saw a shallower embankment to our right. They had to swim for it, but that would leave them open to an attack unless we swam beneath the surface. I reckoned I could hold my breath for half a minute. I looked over to Jun, and he was thinking the same thing.

"I'll distract them," Jun said. "Go get your friends."

"But—"

"They haven't killed me yet for weeks," he said coolly. "This won't change."

I was about to protest, but Jun already pulled out an arrow from his quiver, readied his bow, and glanced in my direction, his eyes telling me to get ready. I nodded and slowly swam to the bridge's end until my back leaned against the abutment. I then pulled out my hatchet and Betty, reminding myself that I only had seven bullets left.

Improvise, I thought.

Their steps grew heavy, louder, one foot hit the wood, and I knew one of them was walking on top of us. I caught Jun watching the embankment where we fell, pulling the string of his bow, and aimed at that direction.

It only took a split second for the arrow to come loose, followed by a man's gurgled yelp, his friends crying out his name, and then the clamorous splash of water. I didn't bother to look that way. If there's one thing, I noticed about Jun was that his kills were absolute. His target was dead, and it was my next move.

I knew the men would come to look under the bridge, seeing where the arrow had come from. Jun quickly disappeared into the murky water, a small wake going the opposite way of the shallow embankment.

I cursed myself and went under, swimming to the shallower side of the pond. There were some reeds there by the edge, and if I reached it, I could come up for air.

Muffled shots echoed above me, their shouts muted beneath the water, but I caught another loud splash from behind. I didn't want to come up to the surface yet. I still couldn't feel anything ahead, merely loose silt and dead branches, but I was hoping I was close. Shots continued to echo above, though growing fainter and fainter.

My fingers felt strands ahead, like rough-spun coils wrapping around my wrist, then my face. Reeds! I pushed another inch deeper until my elbows grazed the muddy bottom--until I was crawling. I pushed myself up, breaking through the surface, and air entered my lungs. Tall reeds surrounded me, and the first thing I heard was the opening and closing of doors, the truck roaring back to life. I waded closer to the edge.

"He's running away!" One man screeched, taking a couple of shots from a rifle.

The driver stepped on the gas and drove away from the pond, chasing Jun. In the water, two bodies floated on the surface, arrows sticking out of them. One floated close by, and I swam over, pulling the arrow out of his throat, and placed the arrow inside my backpack. I reckoned Jun wanted them back. By his waist, I caught sight of a holster and a sheathed knife, unlatching the buckle and putting it around my waist. I checked the gun, a silver Smith & Wesson revolver with only four bullets left in the chamber.

"Good enough," I muttered. The other body was too far away from me, and I didn't bother to swim back. I pulled myself out of the pond, the summer heat sticking into my skin. At least my clothes would dry quickly.

I looked around and had no idea where Jun had run off to, perhaps going back downtown where he could quickly lose them into the buildings. Even up the rooftops, he was faster than me, and I reckoned he'd give those guys a chase. Once I found and rescued my friends, I thought the warehouse should be the safest place to go next, and hopefully, Jun would be there. I still remembered the route back.

With only one holster, I exchanged the revolver with Betty since it had more bullets, putting the former inside my backpack. I kept the black Bowie knife close to my waist. At least I had something better than an icepick. I looked around, and there were no signs of the men. There were no signs of vectors either, but I reminded myself to get as far away from the area. Those gunshots would draw those monsters here.

Shaking the water off, I strode toward the foot of the bridge where another body lay, an arrow sticking out on his chest. I instantly recognized him as one of the men who chased me in the resort and the same group who ambushed us at the road. On his holster belt, it said his name was Eric.

My blood boiled, and I spat on his face. If you killed my friends...I wondered, I'm going to raise you from hell and kill you slowly myself.

A foot away to his left was his pistol. I crouched down and picked it up, but it was empty, the bullets all spent. Sighing, I threw the gun to the side.

I turned and gripped the arrow when suddenly, Eric's eyes open, and he sputtered blood out of his mouth. Before I could react, he grabbed my wrists and pushed them away. I stumbled back, surprised that he was still alive. Eric saw me and tried to scramble up to his feet. He couldn't. He saw the gun lying not far from him—the same weapon I threw—but he couldn't crawl toward it either. Too painful, I realized, and he struggled to pull himself together, tears streaming down his face. I crouched back down and pulled him by the collar until he was leaning against the bridge's railing.

"What do you want from us?" I asked. "What did you do with my friends?"

Eric gurgled, sputtering up more blood out of his mouth; red trickled out of his nose.

"Did you hurt my friends?" I was tempted to twist the arrow in his chest. I wanted to.

The arrow had pierced his lungs—he wouldn't live long, maybe a couple of minutes to spare before he choked to death.

Eric's eyes never left mine, and I realized he recognized me.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

He didn't answer me, and I doubt he could, but his stern glare was enough. He did. You wouldn't forget the face of the murderer who killed your friends.

I recognized him the same way.

I tried to calm myself down, steadied my voice to lower my pitch. I'm not an expert in interrogation, and I hardly knew what I was doing. I got lucky both times, so hopefully, Eric would comply or at least intimidated enough to give me an answer. I determined that it's easier to get answers from someone who was dying; the last words, last wishes, and last confessions. It was akin to me throwing dirt on the wall, hoping one would stick. I tried to control my expression, kept it emotionless, but I desperately wanted to lash out and scream at him, demanding answers.

So I said, "Both of us knew you won't live long with that wound on your chest. Now, I can make it easy, or I can make it hurt. Your choice."

Eric managed a grin, looking down at something on my left chest. Then, he chuckled as his mouth trickled out blood.

I followed his gaze and found the rainbow flag pin that Logan gave me still attached to my shirt, poking halfway behind the jacket. I scrunched my face, wondering why he was smiling. I was threatening him! He shouldn't be laughing! He should be scared of me!

My fist curled around his collar, gripping it hard. "Tell me what you did to them!"

"Faggot," he stammered. "Hell. Burn. In. Hell."

I froze, catching me off guard, but only for a split moment. I heaved a sigh. "Fine."

Eric grinned at me, but then, he disappeared, tumbling down the embankment and plummeted into the murky water below. My fist wrapped around a bloody arrow, pulled away from his chest, my foot slightly raised over the edge. I blinked. Had I done that? Did I knock him off the ledge? There were a few seconds of blackness in my memory, and no matter what I do, I couldn't recall what led me to the pond's edge. I hauled him there, I realized; the drag marks evident on the disturbed grass like a boat's wake. He had struggled against my grip, scratch marks all over my lower arm, a chip of his fingernail stuck through my skin. It bled, trickling down between my fingers. I pulled the chip out like a splinter.

I stared down below into the water as Eric tried to keep his head afloat.

Keep it hidden. Think of it later.

The water turned red with his own blood.

He deserved it. This piece of shit deserved to die.

I kept staring, his eyes looking upward, burrowing onto me. A split change in his expression, as if he was going to call out, flight-or-fight response going into overdrive, but he swallowed too much water, flailing desperately to stay alive.

Put it at the back of your mind. Forget about him. Ponder on it later.

Friends. I should think about my friends, and this man was on my way. H needed to move out of the way.

I saw the light went out of his eyes, mouth parted open, his last breath bubbled out of his mouth and nose, breaking onto the surface. His face disappeared into the dark water.

I don't know why this memory sticks out to me for a long time, but the simplest explanation is—ninety-nine percent of the time—the right one. I had killed and fought in self-defense or for mercy before, but this one is different.

It was murder.

I killed an unarmed man on purpose. There is no excuse around it, and if there is one, it won't stave the guilt building in my chest for years to come. I don't remember him in my waking days, but when I go to bed at night, his face appears in my dreams, floating in those dark waters, staring at me.

I cleaned the bloody arrow on my pants and put it inside my backpack. I turned around and walked away from the pond, leaving the dead behind.

A hail of gunshots rang from the opposite direction of where the truck had gone. I ran down three more blocks, following the battle ahead, turning right until it led me down to a building—a campus.

DALEWOOD HIGH SCHOOL, it said, plastered at its facade.

And it was on fire.