Showdown at the River

The river was a churning serpent of gray-brown water, swollen from the rains of the past three days. It roared past the rocky bank where Chris had cornered Mike, the sound a constant, violent whisper that drowned out the distant groans of the dead. The air smelled of wet earth and decay, a perfume the apocalypse had made familiar.

Mike stood with his back to the current, his hands raised in a mock surrender. His smile was a slash of white in the gloom, a predator’s grin. Behind him, the water crashed against exposed roots and jagged stones. Behind Chris, Yasmine held Marie close, her hand clamped over the girl’s mouth to stifle her whimpers. Monte stood rigid, his small hands balled into fists. Trey, Ashley, and Kacy fanned out in a loose semicircle, their faces hard, their weapons drawn. Christina was nowhere to be seen.

“You’ve got nowhere to go, Mike,” Chris said, his voice flat, the weight of a pistol heavy in his hand. He’d taken it from the corpse of a guard they’d found three miles back. It was a cold comfort. “It ends here.”