The Villains Must Win-Chapter 332: Apocalyptic Romance 42

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.

Cloud fed the line. The bag skated across the gap cleanly, low and fast. The woman—Reyes, Cloud had called her—caught it and dragged it in with a grunt.

"Next. Sasha," Cloud said.

"I can go alone," she said.

Cloud didn’t argue. He rarely did when she used that tone. He checked her harness, fingers quick and impersonal except for the half-second longer they rested at her hip. Then she stepped off the ledge and zipped across the rope, weight a hummingbird compared to the pack, landing in a roll that made Reyes whistle through her teeth.

"Show-off," Reyes said.

Sasha only grinned. She could sort out her tangled relationship with her boys later — right now, survival came first. They had to get out of here alive.

She appreciated the help, but she didn’t like anyone stealing what’s hers.

Dylan went next. He hated every moment of it, clinging to the line with white knuckles while the street gaped beneath him, a maw of gnashing teeth and outstretched hands.

In the center of the block, the van executed an insulting little donut, leading the horde on a merry chase.

Dylan hit the far roof, stumbled, righted, and only then let himself breathe. Sasha’s hand was waiting; he took it without thinking.

"See?" she said. "Fun."

"Your definitions," he said, and couldn’t keep the grin off his face, "are a public health hazard."

Cloud crossed last, hand over hand, smooth as a pendulum. He landed, swept the rope free, and without being asked, moved to the next ledge to set the second line.

They leapfrogged roofs like that—rope, shuttle, regroup—while the undead below grew frustrated, then angry. Bottles rattled. Somewhere a sign tore free, skittering down the street with a metallic scream.

"Two more and we’re in the clear," Reyes said, watching the van spin another flare of music into the morning.

"Wish I could’ve brought the chainsaws," Alvaro sighed. "They love the chainsaws."

"Focus," Cloud said.

They were halfway over the penultimate gap when something buckled—a corroded anchor giving up after too many seasons of rain and heat. The line went soft with a sickening twang.

Dylan was on it. He didn’t drop; he plummeted, hands burning as the line hissed through the belay.

Sasha didn’t think. She dove, caught the trailing carabiner with her forearm, and let the sudden weight drag her to the edge. Pain knifed up her shoulder. She swore and dug her boots into cracked tar.

Cloud was already there, jamming a piton into a seam and looping the rope in a blink. "Don’t let go."

"Working on it," Sasha snapped, gritting teeth.

Dylan swung like a pendulum over a chorus line of grasping fingers. He refused to look down. Numbers, not teeth, he told himself. Angle, not height. He kicked, swung, and used the momentum to reach for the lip. Not enough.

"On three," Cloud said, voice calm. "Sasha, give me half an inch. Alvaro, when he swings back, shoulder behind his boot."

"Copy," Alvaro said, eyes gone flat and dark with focus.

"One." Cloud eased the line, bleeding just enough slack to amplify the swing.

"Two." Dylan felt the world inhale around him. He bent his knees, found the rhythm, the math of it.

"Three." The rope sang. Dylan arced. Sasha released a hair’s breadth of weight at the apex. Alvaro dropped, jammed a shoulder under Dylan’s boot, and heaved.

It worked because it had to. Dylan’s hand slammed into the ledge. Sasha caught his wrist. Cloud’s line went taut and locked. Reyes grabbed Sasha’s belt and hauled backward with a soldier’s lack of ceremony.

They spilled into a coughing, cursing heap. Then laughter—raw, shaky, alive.

"Ten out of ten dismount," Alvaro said, gasping.

"Would not recommend," Dylan croaked, gripping Sasha’s forearm like a lifeline.

Cloud didn’t laugh. He looked at the street, calculated the distance to the van, and finally—finally—let a breath go as the armored beast slid into the alley below, engine purring, door open like a waiting jaw.

"Time to go home," he said.

They descended by rusted fire escape, boots clanging an unlovely anthem. The van door slammed shut just as a fresh wave of undead turned the corner, jaws working, tongues gray and twitching.

Reyes slapped the roof twice. The driver—some wiry kid with a joyride soul—hit the gas. They shot down the alley flanked by walls painted in handprints and old graffiti.

Inside, the air smelled like gun oil and tired leather. Sasha collapsed between Cloud and Alvaro and, because she could, head-butted each man lightly in the shoulder.

"Good boys," she said.

"We’re not dogs," Cloud said, but his mouth softened.

"Speak for yourself," Alvaro said, and angled his jaw toward Dylan. "You okay, Doc?"

Dylan flexed his hands, palms scraped raw, shoulder throbbing where the rope had tried to steal him from the roof. "I’m... fine."

Sasha nudged him with her knee. "He’s more than fine. He’s getting field-competent."

Reyes snorted. "Glad that the reckless plan worked."

They hit the open road, undamaged glass catching the first clean claw of sunlight. The city pulled away behind them like a bad dream that hadn’t learned to end.

Sasha tipped her head back against the plating and watched dust dance in a shaft of light. "Looks like my boys are more loyal and trustworthy than your leader," she said, not gloating—just stating a fact that tasted too satisfying.