Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 46: Route 66

We’d been on the road for hours.

The truck rattled beneath us, every vibration reminding me how close she was to giving out— but somehow, she kept going. Bruised. Battered. Still stubbornly alive.

We’d passed the Welcome to Missouri sign a while back. Minutes ago. Maybe longer. Time blurred when the road never changed.

Oklahoma was next.

Then Texas.

My stomach tightened at the thought.

I hated this state we were in. Every mile closer felt wrong. Like stepping back into something I’d barely escaped the first time. I wanted in and out. Fast.

Lila didn’t sit beside me anymore.

She stayed in the back with the others now, quiet, withdrawn. Punishing me with distance. Or maybe protecting herself. Either way, the guilt gnawed at me.

I still felt her eyes on me.

Every so often, I caught her reflection in the rearview mirror— only for her to look away the second our gazes aligned. Like she’d been burned.

I frowned.

I needed to fix things with her soon, or I wouldn’t forgive myself.

Terri sat shotgun now. She’d smiled awkwardly the first time she climbed in, like she wasn’t sure she belonged there. I hadn’t known what to do with that, so I barely smiled back.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

In my peripheral vision, Terri scribbled furiously in a notebook balanced on her knees. Page after page filled with cramped handwriting and half-sketched diagrams.

"What’s that?" I asked.

She jolted slightly, pen freezing mid-word.

"Oh— um— this?" She hesitated, then closed the notebook halfway, like she’d been caught doing something wrong. "I was just... documenting things."

I glanced at the exposed page before she shut it completely.

"Documenting what?"

She swallowed. "The infected."

That got my attention.

"I’ve been organizing them into groups," she continued, words tumbling faster now. "Based on what we’ve seen. The ones at the warehouse. The ones that hunted us at the camp. The quiet ones— we saw a lot of those back in Hyde Park."

My grip tightened.

"And the ones we drove into earlier," she added, voice dropping. "They weren’t like the others. They didn’t rush. They didn’t scream. They just... stood there. Like they were watching us pass. Monitors."

I didn’t respond.

Terri took a breath.

"I think the disease affects different brains a certain way," she said carefully. "If we assume they’re all the same, then there are gaps. Inconsistencies."

I glanced at her.

"The majority are volatile," she went on. "Emotionally unregulated. Impulsive. Sadistic. They cluster in hordes. Loud. Very close to mindless. Often attracted to noise and light. Those are what I’d call... baseline."

My thoughts drifted, images flickering behind my eyes.

"But others," she said, quieter now, "seem like they’re fighting it. Their minds push back. They can talk sometimes. Remember things. Hold conversations— briefly— before it all collapses."

Mary-Ann.

The man in the woods.

My jaw tightened.

"Fragile," Terri said. "Still dangerous. But aware."

I nodded slowly. "Abnormal."

Her shoulders relaxed slightly at the agreement.

"And then..." She hesitated. Almost looked over her shoulder before stopping herself. She scratched at her cheek. "Then there’s a third type."

Something twisted in my stomach as she continued.

"Ones who can pass," she said. "They blend in. Maintain relationships. Function. They don’t lose themselves— they manage themselves."

My pulse skipped.

"They’re still infected," she added quickly. "Still corrupted. Still driven by impulse. The difference is... restraint. Strategy."

Her fingers tightened around the notebook.

"I think those are the most dangerous ones."

My mind betrayed me instantly, my face going cold.

Lila.

Terri kept talking, unaware. "Sheldon. The woman with the piercings. Cherie—..."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the rearview mirror.

Cherie’s silhouette lounged in the back, blonde hair whipping in the open air, that streak of baby blue bright enough to feel obscene against the wreckage we’d left behind.

"I...don’t really know about her entirely," Terri admitted. "She might be infected. She might not be."

I frowned.

"The fact that she was apart of a nihilistic murderer cult doesn’t convince me at all that she isn’t like them."

Silence filled the cab.

"I don’t understand why you keep her around," Terri added. "She’s dangerous. Even restrained."

I cleared my throat.

"She’ll be useful when we run into the Crucible again," I said. "She knows how they think. Their patterns. Their strategies. We can force her to talk."

Terri considered that, then shrugged, eyes dropping back to her notebook.

The road hummed beneath us.

After a moment, I spoke again. "Mind if I read that later?"

Her head snapped up.

"Oh—! Yeah. Yeah, of course." A small, nervous smile. "I just want to finish working out a few ideas first."

I smiled back.

This time, it came easier.

Warmer, despite the heaviness in my thoughts.

I was glad to have someone like Terri surviving with me.

The road changed without warning.

Concrete swallowed the weeds. Buildings crowded closer together— abandoned storefronts, shattered windows, signs hanging crooked like broken teeth.

I frowned.

The city wasn’t completely overrun, but the infected were everywhere. They drifted between wrecked cars and collapsed awnings, skin split, clothes stiff with dried blood. Some noticed us. Heads snapped up. Mouths stretched into rictus grins.

A few followed.

Not fast. Not coordinated. Just enough intent in their eyes to remind me that they wanted us dead.

Not an immediate threat.

Still not comforting.

St. Louis.

The murder capital of America— before the world ended. I hadn’t expected kindness here, or happy faces.

So when the truck rolled to a stop in front of a police station—

My chest loosened.

A smile tugged at my mouth.

Supplies.

I killed the engine, unbuckled, and climbed out. The air smelled like rust and rot. Terri followed close behind, her eyes darting from alley to alley. The others spilled out after us, boots hitting pavement, weapons shifting into hands.

"What’s the hold-up, Adrian?" Aubrey asked, arms folded tight across her chest.

I looked at her.

"Thought you were dying to get to Texas."

I frowned. "We’d be stupid not to stop. Stock up on guns. Ammo. Medical. If this place hasn’t been stripped already, it could keep us going for a couple days."

Aubrey scoffed, brushing past me hard enough to bump my shoulder.

"Of course you’d say that," she muttered under her breath. "Always about you."

I exhaled slowly, rubbing at my eyebrow as if I could scrub the frustration out.

Cherie passed next, a grin dancing on her lips. She flicked her hair as she went by, deliberately brushing my arm. I lifted a hand halfway— then let it drop.

Lila climbed out last.

For a heartbeat, I thought she’d ignore me too.

Instead, she stopped.

"What did you two talk about?" she asked softly.

My stomach tightened.

"Nothing," I said—too fast, too sharp.

I didn’t have anything to hide.

So why did it feel like I did?

Her eyes narrowed, just for a second. Long enough to make my pulse stutter.

Then she stepped past me without another word.

I watched her go, running a hand through my hair.

The doors had been left wide open.

That alone should’ve bothered me more than it did.

I let Hale take point without thinking about it. He moved like he still wore stripes on his sleeve, shoulders squared, eyes scanning corners like muscle memory had never died.

If anyone knew where a police station hid its real treasures, it was a former sergeant.

We passed empty desks. Overturned chairs. A dispatch room with its screens long dead.

Then Hale stopped.

A reinforced door sat at the end of the hall. Thicker than the rest. No window. No markings.

Bingo.

"Everyone step back."

The voice came from Cherie.

I turned, startled, just in time to see her stepping forward. Calm. Almost casual. She raised her hands toward me.

The zip ties dangled from her wrists.

"Mind helping me out?" she asked lightly.

Every head turned to me.

I hesitated, eyes dropping to the restraints. This was a bad idea. Every instinct screamed it. But we needed what was behind that door—and she knew it.

I exhaled through my nose.

"Don’t make me regret this."

I pulled the knife from my pocket and sliced through the plastic. The ties snapped apart, falling to the floor with a soft clatter.

Cherie smiled.

Not smug.

Satisfied.

She reached into her pocket and produced a bobby pin like it had been waiting there all along. Kneeling, she leaned into the lock, movements slow and deliberate. The hallway felt too quiet. Every click echoed louder than it should’ve.

Then—

Thunk.

The lock gave.

The door creaked open.

For a second, no one spoke.

Then—

"Holy motherlode..."

The room beyond glowed.

Weapon racks lined the walls. Shotguns. Rifles. Assault weapons I couldn’t name without a manual. Ammo crates stacked like offerings. Spare parts. Vests. Helmets.

Holy motherload indeed.

I stepped inside, almost reverent. Fingers brushed cold steel. The weight of survival hung in the air, thick and intoxicating.

The others poured in behind me.

Cherie lingered near the door, chin lifted. Proud.

I met her eyes.

For the first time since we’d captured her, I smiled.

She noticed.

Minutes passed in a blur. Weapons lifted. Slides checked. Magazines loaded. Metal clicked against metal. A dangerous kind of comfort settled in— confidence, sharp and reckless.

Then—

Chk.

A sound that didn’t belong to us.

A weapon being cocked.

"Hands where I can see them."

The words slid down my spine like ice.

My body locked up. I didn’t turn. I didn’t have to. Heavy boots filled the doorway— too many footsteps, too close together.

We were outnumbered.

Badly.

"We’ll be taking those," the voice continued, calm and certain. "Along with the weapons you walked in with."

My fingers twitched near the rifle in my hands.

Too slow.

Too late.

The room that had felt like salvation seconds ago suddenly felt like a trap.

And every exit was behind them.