3:00 a.m.

  A gentle shake on his shoulder pulled Reese from a dreamless sleep that felt more like unconsciousness than rest. In the dim light filtering through the camp's makeshift barriers, he could see Jarret standing over him, fully dressed and equipped with his hunting gear. The older man's silhouette was perfectly still against the emergency lighting, his expression calm, almost peaceful.

  "Gear up," Jarret said quietly, his voice carrying none of the tension that would indicate an attack or immediate threat. "Follow me."

  Reese blinked away the confusion of interrupted sleep, his mind immediately cataloging the inconsistencies. The camp around them was still, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the security guard's footsteps echoing through the tunnels. The air held that particular quality of deep night, when even the most restless sleepers had finally found peace. It was far too early for the hunting teams to begin their morning patrols, and Jarret's demeanor didn't suggest any immediate danger.

  "What's going on?" Reese whispered, already reaching for his equipment out of ingrained habit. His fingers found the familiar weight of his rifle.

  "Just get ready. We need to head out."

  Something in Jarret's tone discouraged further questions. Over their days together, Reese had learned to read his mentor's moods like a student studying for a final exam. He knew the sharp bark of orders during combat, the patient instruction during training, the dry humor during rest breaks. This was something else entirely, something deliberate and resolved, tinged with an finality that made Reese's stomach clench with unease.

  Within minutes, Reese had assembled his gear with the efficiency Jarret had drilled into him. Rifle secured, ammunition checked, water canteen attached, knife properly sheathed. The routine had become second nature, muscle memory born from repetition and necessity. As he followed Jarret toward the camp's entrance, each step felt weighted with significance he couldn't yet identify.

  As they approached the security checkpoint that marked the boundary between safety and the unknown, Reese caught sight of an unexpected scene that made him slow his steps, uncertainty freezing him in place.

  Sarah stood near the checkpoint, her usually composed posture completely abandoned. Her arms were wrapped around Jarret in an embrace that spoke of desperate farewell. Even from the distance, Reese could see tears streaming down her face as she pressed her cheek against Jarret's shoulder, her fingers clutching at the back of his jacket as if she could hold him in place through will alone.

  Jarret's response was too quiet to hear, but his hands moved gently across her back in what was clearly a gesture of comfort and finality. When he finally stepped back, Sarah's tears caught the light like scattered stars, and her expression held the raw devastation of someone watching a piece of themselves die.

  Reese averted his eyes, embarrassed to witness such an intimate moment. Had there been something between them that he'd missed? The raw emotion in Sarah's posture suggested something far deeper than professional concern or even close friendship.

  "Reese, let's go," Jarret said, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of gentleness that hadn't been there before.

  Reese walked past Sarah without lifting his gaze from the ground, pretending to focus on checking his equipment as he rejoined his team leader. Behind them, he could hear Sarah's quiet sobs echoing off the tunnel walls, each one like a nail being driven into a coffin he was only beginning to understand.

  3:15 a.m.

  They walked in silence for several minutes, their footsteps creating a steady rhythm against the concrete floors. The tunnels stretched ahead of them, illuminated by the sporadic emergency lighting that had become their only reliable source of navigation. Reese waited for Jarret to explain their mission, their destination, the reason for this unusual patrol.

  They passed through a junction where three tunnels converged, the space opening up enough to accommodate the massive support pillars that held the weight of the city above. Graffiti covered the walls. Some from before the catastrophe: bright tags and artistic murals. Others newer: desperate messages from survivors seeking lost loved ones.

  "Jarret," Reese said finally, unable to contain his growing unease, "what's going on? Why are we out here with just the two of us? What happened to the rest of the team? What's our mission today? Are we going somewhere dangerous? I need to know what we're walking into."

  Jarret stopped walking and let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of every difficult decision he'd made since becoming a leader. When he turned to meet Reese's eyes, blood was trickling from both nostrils in thin, dark streams that looked black in the emergency lighting.

  "Shit," Reese breathed, immediately moving to steady Jarret as the older man swayed slightly on his feet. "I thought you were already healed? Didn't you talk to Rebecca yesterday? What's Vincent doing not healing you first?"

  Jarret accepted the support for a moment, his hand gripping Reese's shoulder with surprising strength. Then he gently pushed away as he regained his balance, pulling out an increasingly stained cloth to wipe away the blood. The fabric was already soaked with previous episodes, a testament to how long this had been going on.

  "I already gave my place to Dana," he said simply, his voice matter-of-fact despite the gravity of the admission.

  The words hit Reese in the heart, stealing the breath from his lungs. "What? I thought Vincent healed Dana because Jake made that scene forcing the issue—"

  "No." Jarret's voice took on the patient, instructional tone he used when explaining important concepts to slow students. "Rebecca never would have allowed Jake's methods to work. Otherwise, chaos would erupt every day. If all you need to do is raise your voice and get physical, then order disappears. I don't know what's best, but when you're organizing the lives of everyone, you have to be able to make the rules respected."

  He continued walking, forcing Reese to follow. Their footsteps echoed in the empty tunnel, a lonely sound that emphasized how isolated they were from the safety of the camp.

  "What about you then?" Reese's voice cracked with desperation. "You need healing too! Let's go back right away to see Vincent!"

  "Reese, you don't get it." Jarret stopped again, fixing him with a steady gaze that held depths of resolution Reese had never seen before. "I don't want to be healed."

  The confession hung in the tunnel air like a lead weight, seeming to absorb sound and light until the world felt muffled and distant. Reese stared at his team leader, struggling to process what he'd just heard.

  "I've been healed enough times already," Jarret continued, his voice taking on the same teaching tone he used during training sessions. "Five times, to be exact. Enough to understand what it means to select one life instead of another, and enough to understand that the healing isn't as effective as the first time. My body gets used to it, builds up some kind of tolerance. The infection does too, apparently, adapting and coming back stronger each time."

  Jarret leaned against the tunnel wall, suddenly looking every one of his years and more. "It won't matter if I get healed now. I'll get infected again a few hours later, and the cycle will continue until I'll have to live with Vincent's holy hand permanently attached to my ass just to breathe. The intervals get shorter, the symptoms get worse, and each time I get healed, someone else dies waiting."

  Understanding began to dawn on Reese, cold and terrible like ice water in his veins. His mouth went dry as he realized why Jarret had brought him out here alone, why Sarah had been crying, why this felt like a goodbye.

  "If I have to go," Jarret said quietly, "I want it to be my way, on my terms. If you'll allow me."

  "You see, Reese," Jarret continued, his voice growing more certain, "I never bought into Vincent's messiah story, despite his obvious power and talent. I've seen what he can do, felt the healing touch myself, but that doesn't make him divine. I already have a Lord. I already have a Messiah. And in my religion, suicide is not allowed."

  The emphasis on those last words made Reese's blood turn to ice.

  "I won't be able to end my life myself," Jarret said with the careful precision of someone who had thought this through completely, "but if you would please help me, I would be eternally grateful."

  "What are you talking about?" Reese's voice exploded through the tunnel, his composure finally breaking under the weight of understanding. "What is this twisted, diabolical logic? If you want to die, then jump into a rat nest or go fight the shooters! If you ask me to kill you, it's the same exact thing as suicide, Jarret!"

  Jarret actually smiled at that, a half-joking expression crossing his weathered features despite the gravity of the moment. "I guess you make a good point. Theologically speaking, you might be right. But killing myself is a straight path to hell, while with you helping me, I'm sure God will understand regarding the situation we're in." He gestured at the darkness surrounding them, the oppressive weight of concrete and earth above their heads, the impossible circumstances that had driven them to this moment.

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  "I'm asking you to help because I'm tired, Reese. So goddamned tired." His voice broke slightly, revealing the pain he'd been hiding. "I don't want to suffer anymore. Getting healed by Vincent is great, but the infection comes back more violently each time. I've been holding it back for more than a week, fighting it every single day, and this is killing me, no pun intended."

  Jarret moved closer, his expression becoming almost vulnerable. "The bleeding started two days ago and hasn't stopped. My vision goes in and out. Sometimes I forget where I am, forget what I'm doing. I'm losing myself, piece by piece, and I won't let the infection turn my soul into an abomination."

  He reached out and placed a hand on Reese's shoulder. "Even if it may sound cowardly, I want a painless death, Reese. I want to die while I'm still myself, still human, still capable of choosing how this ends. Can you please do me the honor?"

  Reese's emotional state was in complete chaos. Everything was turned upside down in his head. He couldn't think of a way to save his friend, couldn't think of what to do, couldn't process that this man who had pulled him from the depths of despair was asking him to become his executioner. And then, in the midst of this turmoil, a face came to him: Dana.

  He had tried his best to motivate her just yesterday, and he had seen the pain she was enduring, witnessed the suffering the infection was generating inside her. The way she'd fought to stay conscious, the determination in her eyes even as blood streamed from her nose and mouth.

  She'd been dying in pain, and everyone could see it.

  And here was Jarret, bleeding from the eyes but standing tall, strong and dignified in his pain, not letting a single sound of grunt escape, not giving the infection the luxury of hearing his screams. How long had he been suffering like this? How many times had he hidden his pain so others wouldn't worry?

  Reese let his head fall forward, tears streaming down his face as he realized the level of suffering Jarret had been enduring in silence, almost every day, while still leading hunting parties and protecting others and maintaining the facade of strength that kept their small community functioning.

  Keeping his head down, tears falling to the tunnel floor, he began to speak.

  "I've been dreaming of being a quarterback all my life. Since I was eight years old, watching the pros on Sunday afternoons with my dad. I trained, and trained, and trained again. Spring, summer, fall, winter. It didn't matter. Rain, snow, blazing heat. I was out there with a football, perfecting my throw, studying playbooks, working out until my muscles screamed."

  His voice grew stronger, more certain, as the words poured out. "I never once stopped training, whatever the reason. Christmas Day? I was in the gym. Sick with the flu? I was studying game footage. Girlfriend broke up with me? I threw passes until my arm felt like it was going to fall off. And every year at the selection, I did my utmost, I was training harder than anyone, competing against myself, every day doing more and better than the previous one."

  Reese lifted his head slightly, meeting Jarret's eyes. "I was proud of myself. I had great matches, my play was sensational. My completion percentage was higher than guys who got drafted. My decision-making under pressure was textbook perfect. But every year, I wasn't selected for the pros."

  "I couldn't blame it on the weather, or blame it on not feeling well that day. No. I was at my peak, and the best version of myself wasn't enough to get past the line. I was always one step away from being selected, always the guy coaches would say 'has real potential' or 'just needs the right opportunity.' But it didn't matter, history doesn't record the names of those who finish fourth."

  His voice took on a bitter edge. "You know what the scouts told me? 'Great fundamentals, but lacks that special spark.' 'Good athlete, but doesn't quite have what it takes at the next level.'

  "I wasn't good enough. I would never be good enough."

  Reese wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I did my very best and gave everything I had, I couldn't blame myself. So I started blaming others. It was their fault. They couldn't realize my strength, they were jealous of me, they were all a bunch of losers who couldn't see talent when it was right in front of them. The coaches who didn't recruit me, the scouts who passed me over, the quarterbacks who got drafted instead: they were all idiots."

  "And before I realized it, I stopped competing against myself and started comparing myself against the world. I stopped progressing. I stopped trying. I got bitter, resentful. I started coasting on reputation instead of earning it every day. I became exactly the kind of player I used to despise: entitled and lazy."

  Tears continued to flow, but his voice remained steady. "I was never selected, Jarret. I was a complete failure at the one thing I'd built my entire identity around. And you know what the worst part was? Deep down, I knew they were right. I knew I didn't have what it took."

  He straightened up, looking directly into Jarret's eyes. "But then you found me. In that alcove, covered with tears, convinced I was the biggest coward who ever lived. I was completely worthless. And after one look at me, you chose me."

  "You selected me for your team. You saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself."

  Reese's voice broke with emotion. "You gave me what I'd been searching for my entire life: the chance to be chosen, to matter, to be part of something bigger than my own failures. You taught me how to become someone your team can count on when everything goes to hell."

  Jarret's own eyes filled with tears as he listened, understanding the weight of what Reese was offering him: not just assistance in dying, but recognition of the value of his life, the meaning of his mentorship.

  "Thank you," Reese whispered. "For seeing something in me worth saving."

  Jarret nodded, tears streaming down his face as he unslung his rifle and checked the chamber with practiced efficiency. The weapon was clean, well-maintained, military-issue. He had prepared for this moment, planned it down to the last detail.

  "Thank you," Jarret said, his voice breaking slightly, "for giving me the chance to die as a human being instead of a monster."

  He looked around the tunnel one final time, taking in the harsh lighting, the concrete walls, the oppressive darkness that had become their world. "You know what's funny? I used to complain about teaching the same lessons year after year, dealing with the same problems, feeling like I was stuck in a loop. But down here, every lesson mattered. Maybe this is what teaching was always supposed to be. Not just transferring knowledge, but actually changing lives."

  Jarret smiled through his tears and handed the rifle to Reese. "Make it quick, son. Make it count. And remember, everything that comes after this, every choice you make, every person you help, make it all count."

  3:47 a.m.

  When it was over, Reese sat beside Jarret's still form for a long time, the bloody knife forgotten beside him. The tunnel was silent except for the distant drip of water and the barely audible hum of electrical systems struggling to maintain power.

  He had aimed for the head, just as Jarret had taught him during their hunting expedition, because everyone told him if you aimed for the head, the corpse didn't rise as undead. The lesson felt obscenely practical now, a final piece of instruction that served its purpose even in this most personal of moments.

  But still he remained, making sure that his friend's soul would not be corrupted by anything that lurked in these tunnels. He cried until he had no tears left, holding vigil beside the man who had taught him what leadership looked like. Jarret's face was peaceful now, almost smiling, free from the pain that had been consuming him from within.

  Reese thought about the weight of choice, how Jarret had carried the burden of deciding who lived and who died, who got healed and who had to wait. How he'd given up his own chances at healing to save Dana, then chosen to end his suffering rather than become a burden to others. Every decision had been about serving others, protecting others, even when it cost him everything.

  He thought about courage, not the reckless bravado he'd mistaken for strength his entire life, but the quiet willingness to do what was necessary even when it hurt beyond measure. Jarret had faced his own death with dignity, had trusted Reese with the most difficult task imaginable, had died on his own terms rather than let the infection steal his humanity.

  Most of all, he thought about responsibility. The grinding, daily commitment to being worthy of trust. Jarret had shown him that leadership wasn't about being the best; it was about making everyone around you better. It wasn't about never failing; it was about failing forward, learning from mistakes, becoming stronger through adversity.

  When Reese finally stood and picked up his equipment, he felt the weight of a different kind of burden settling on his shoulders. Not the crushing guilt that had defined him since the massacre, but something more substantial and purposeful. Jarret had taught him one final lesson: that sometimes becoming the person you're meant to be requires carrying the weight of impossible choices.

  He looked down at his mentor's peaceful face one last time, then turned and began the long walk back to camp. Behind him, the tunnel stretched into darkness, but ahead lay the responsibility of living up to the trust Jarret had placed in him.

  And now, for the first time in his life, Reese understood what it truly meant to be responsible for someone else's trust.

  4:23 p.m. Somewhere else.

  The darkness was absolute.

  The air hung still and stale, undisturbed by breath or movement. Emergency lighting had long since failed, leaving only the distant glow of tunnel markers to suggest that the world beyond still existed.

  Sam's body lay exactly where Mike had left it, propped against the cold concrete wall, covered by the oversized coat that had become his shroud. But something was changing.

  A faint shimmer began to rise from beneath the coat. Not visible light, but heat. Steam. Wisps of vapor that shouldn't exist in the cold underground air, curling upward like incense smoke from a hidden altar.

  Under the coat, fingers twitched.

  Not the random spasms of decomposition or settling muscle. Deliberate movement. Purposeful. A hand that remembered how to clench into a fist, then slowly relaxed.

  The steam grew thicker, more pronounced, as if Sam's body was burning through some internal fire that had nothing to do with fever or infection. The coat itself began to shift, no longer draped over a still form but covering something that was very quietly, very carefully, coming back to life.

  Sam's eyes opened.

  Not the glowing purple of the infected, not the flat deadness of reanimation. Just regular brown eyes. Confused, but undeniably human. He blinked in the darkness as consciousness returned from wherever it had been hiding.

  He lay still for a long moment, testing the sensation of breath filling his lungs, of blood moving through his veins, of being alive when he distinctly remembered dying. The memories were there, Mike's face as he slipped away, the feeling of everything just... stopping. The peaceful darkness that had seemed so final.

  Sam sat up slowly, the coat sliding down his shoulders to pool around his waist. His movements were careful, deliberate, like someone relearning how their body worked. He looked around the abandoned station, taking in the empty space, the discarded supplies, and the evidence that his friends had moved on without him.

  Because they thought he was dead.

  Because he had been dead.

  Sam lifted the coat, recognizing the weight and texture of the garment Mike had joked about, the one that had become his final gift. He held it against his chest, feeling the lingering warmth from his own impossible resurrection, and tried to process what any of this meant.

  He was alone in the dark, miles underground, with no idea which direction his group had gone or how long he'd been... away? Dead? Whatever the hell had just happened to him.

  Sam stood on unsteady legs, still clutching Mike's coat, and spoke into the absolute silence of the abandoned station.

  "Well, this is some serious bullshit."

  His voice echoed off the concrete walls and faded into darkness, leaving him alone with the impossible truth that death, apparently, was no longer permanent.