There was an industrial catwalk spanning the face of concrete that made up the tunnel entrance. It had a roof of sheet metal and though the railings were rusted, the catwalk looked like it was made of steel. I followed Dakota along it to where there was a narrow staircase, our footsteps echoing with metallic twangs as we made our way down to the lower level where the tracks were. 

It was clearly an abandoned tunnel, maintenance signs, scaffolding, and barricades plastered all over the massive, dark, cave-like entrance. There were heaps of rubble and trash piled on either side, dead leaves and other dried up foliage nearly entirely covering the rusted tracks. “Damn,” I muttered, looking down the rail line that was flanked by high fences and concrete walls as far as I could see—all painted over with words no-one could make out anymore. I looked at Dakota’s large brown eyes, nodding with a sense of approval as I muttered, “Smart place to hide.” 

He blinked at me in surprise, a hint of color rising to his cheeks before he looked away. “Thanks. It seemed like a place people wouldn't think to look for shelter and those creatures wouldn't be interested. The tunnel's damp, so it masks the smell of flesh and blood. I've been able to stay here for a while... Just been lucky I guess.” Dakota shrugged slightly, gesturing for me to follow him into the dim of the tunnel. 

As we neared the entrance, I noticed solar panels that had been fixed along one of the rickety railings, attached to a heavy power cord that ran along the ground. I followed it with my eyes as I saw it ran into the tunnel, disappearing in the dark. 

Dakota paused at the mouth of the entrance, rummaging in his bag. The small flashlight he took out turned on with a sputter of light, illuminating a swath of track in front of us. 

With Dakota in the lead, we followed the path of the cord, the glow of the entrance dwindled to nearly nothing before the light in his hand caught off a metal surface. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected—maybe a bunker or makeshift shelter out of crates or a dumpster. 

The large RV seemed almost comically out of place in the middle of the deserted tunnel, the silver paneling surprisingly clean with glossy black accents. Small windows shone with the light in his hand, faintly illuminating Dakota’s face as he approached the door. “This is home,” he said with a hint of pride, looking over his shoulder with an inviting smile as he opened the door. “It’s not much…but it’s better than spending the night out there.” 

I hesitated before I followed him, holding the door open for Carrot to enter first. She bounded up the few small steps, her paws slipping across the linoleum flooring. Dakota staggered as her weight hit him, laughing as he caught himself against the open shelves of the small pantry just inside the door. 

He dropped his backpack on the table of a small dinette, the wood surface dull and scratched; the fabric over the bench seating was worn and faded. A small sofa was crammed next to the booth, covered in several brightly colored pillows, mason jars full of small twinkling lights placed on the ledge that served as a divider between areas. 

Glancing to the right of the entrance, I saw a small kitchen area; the fridge and microwave seemed outdated, the sink showing signs of rust next to an oven with an electric cooktop. There was also a door that likely led to the driver’s cabin, closed and off to the side. 

To the left of the narrow living room there were doors that had been left open, showing a small, simple bathroom and a bedroom mostly occupied by a large bed and built-in wardrobe. The mattress was covered in more of the cheerful pillows piled together, strings of lights running over the ceiling like small stars. 

Small trinkets lined a few open shelves, but my eyes were drawn to a battered acoustic guitar that hung from a worn strap, dangling off a hook that was affixed to the wall next to the wardrobe.

“What do you think?” Dakota asked nervously, capturing my attention. I realized he’d been watching me inspect his living space, carefully arranging supplies on the dinette table as he prepared to treat my wound. 

I smirked at the colorful fabric choices and use of decor. “Looks like a catalog,” I muttered, taking a seat at the dinette. It was comfortable and actually much more spacious than it appeared just looking at it. 

Setting down my gun case and large bag, I placed my shotgun on the table’s surface, disconnecting the mag. I winced as I removed my jacket, my muscles and skin stretching around the wound at my side. My shirt was wet, the gauze bandage barely still attached and slipping against my skin. I took off my bandolier and shoulder holsters, grunting as I moved my arm and placed them with my pistols beside the shotgun. 

Dakota gave the weapons a wary look, carefully nudging them further out of the way.

Now that I was sitting, I could tell I felt lightheaded, wondering how much blood I’d really lost and if I had left a trail to lead the hackjaws to Dakota’s bright sanctuary. I glanced down at the light gray dinette booth, realizing I’d smeared blood across the fabric. “Sorry,” I said in a low apology, blinking up at the man as I wondered how angry he’d be at me for disturbing his picturesque home. 

“It’s fine, I needed to reupholster anyway.” The cheer in his voice was strained as Dakota rearranged the rolls of bandages. A needle was still in its packaging, the attached thread coiled inside. Dakota stepped back, seeming on edge as he said, “I’ll run some warm water to get you cleaned up, and grab some towels. I’ll need to disinfect it—I have iodine, but it’s a medical tincture and the alcohol is going to sting. How strong do you want your painkillers?” 

I grunted, my jaw clenched as I asked, “Depends. What are you offering? And how long exactly am I going to be allowed to stay? The hackjaws are attracted to blood and I’ve been bleeding all the way to your cozy little getaway here. Not sure I want to be zonked out of my mind here or out on my own.” 

“I’m not going to kick an injured man out on the streets. If that were the case, I would have left you in the clinic instead of risking my life.” Dakota sniffed, eyes narrowed as if I’d wounded him with my words. “No morphine then…but you can at least take some acetaminophen, right? Trust me, this isn’t going to be fun.” 

I shrugged, holding out my open palm for the pills. “Sure. Thanks.” The answer was short and gruff, but it was the only defense I had left—wounded and vulnerable in the home of a stranger. I glanced at my guns, wondering if this was all a charade and I’d need to defend myself, but somehow this man was easy to trust—genuine in a way I hadn’t expected. 

Dakota gave a slight sigh of relief, retrieving the bottle to tip pills into my hand before fetching a bottle of water from the fridge. He left me to take the pills, and I downed them, watching as Carrot followed his steps as he collected water and towels. 

Returning to my side, Dakota placed the equipment on the other seat, gently shooing the dog away before he knelt down next to me. “Can you take your shirt off, or do I need to cut it?” The tremble had disappeared from his voice, his tone becoming cold and clinical as he seemed to brace himself for what he would see. 

I managed to get one arm free, trying to push it over my head. I felt his gentle hands help me tug it, pulling it slowly off me. There was a soft, metal clinking as my dog tags rattled around my neck, resting in the thick hair of my chest. With my wound exposed, I thought the man would cower back or have disgust cringe on his face; he was the opposite. His eyes were sharp, his movements steady and soothing with how in control he was. 

I felt the rough washcloth tug over my raw skin, wincing as he cleaned the wound. Warm water dribbled down my side, cooling quickly before he’d pass over the gash again with warmth. When most of the blood had been gently scrubbed off, I sucked in a breath and forced it out to relax against the disinfectant. 

It felt like acid burning me, a deep sting in the exposed tissue. I slammed my eyes shut, focused on breathing as I gripped the edge of the table. “Fuck,” I muttered, low under my breath as my jaw clamped shut. 

When the stinging subsided, I opened my eyes to glance at Dakota. He was already holding the needle, threaded with suture. I’d been treated in the field before, but I still dreaded the pain of it, wishing the man had something to numb the area at least. 

His free hand lightly patted against my leg, his voice an absentminded murmur as he said, “You’re doing so well…” It was clearly meant to be soothing, his attention completely on my wound as he praised me. 

A soft smirk left my lips as I felt my mouth ease into a smile. I stared at him, watching his careful concentration as he pinched the gaping flesh together, readying the needle to pierce the torn skin. “You know I’m a human right, and not a dog?” I asked teasingly, remembering him mentioning he’d worked at the clinic. “Most people ask, ‘are you ready,’ before they impale you with sharp objects.” 

Dakota paused, blinking up at me as he gave me a sheepish smile. “I suppose I’m just not used to patients who talk,” he admitted, shrugging slightly. There was a glimmer of mischief in his gaze before he added, “It must be the hair…reminds me of working on a Bernese mountain dog.” 

“Already calling me a mutt, huh?” I said, shaking my head. It was amusing, but my smile and laughter faded quickly as I felt the needle pierce my skin without warning. Every muscle in me clenched as I automatically held my breath, my mind reeling. Though the pain wasn’t as bad as the initial injury, it was an uncomfortable sensation to feel the cool, stiff metal sliding through thick layers of my skin. 

All my focus was on Dakota’s hands, moving without hesitation as he swiftly stitched along the wound, completely focused and unshakeable.

He finally pulled away, the stitches neatly knotted, and snipped the thread. Dakota placed the needle on one of the bloodied towels before he washed his hands clean with the remaining water. “Pretty serious wound,” he murmured, gaze raking over the line of stitches. “Did those things do that to you?”

I looked down at the neat stitch work, finding it shockingly less painful and easier to breathe now that my nerves weren’t quite so exposed. “The hackjaws? Yeah. One of them grazed me—fucking claws. My own fault. I was being careless.” It bothered me, knowing I had let them get to me—weaken me.

“You’re just lucky it wasn’t a bite wound. I wouldn’t have brought you back if it looked like one of them got their teeth on you. If you were being chased by those things, it’s a miracle you escaped with just this,” Dakota murmured. 

I saw him grimace and shudder—no doubt recalling the creature I had gunned down in the clinic. “But it should heal pretty easily now that I’ve taken care of it. I’ll wrap it in something soft to protect it later, but for now I’m just going to put a waterproof dressing on so you can shower,” he explained his motions softly as he unwrapped a thin, clear sheet. It took several of them to cover the full span of the wound, but Dakota seemed satisfied as he leaned back. 

I grazed my fingertips against it, feeling the odd plastic blending almost seamlessly with my skin. Glancing toward the small bathroom, I looked back at Dakota, asking earnestly. “That alright with you?”  

“Of course,” he said, a little too firmly, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll prepare the couch for you while you shower. It’s a pull-out, hopefully you can get some decent rest so that wound can start healing. But I’m not replacing those sheets too, so I need you cleaned up if you’re staying the night.” Despite the stern words, Dakota gave me a soft smile as he collected the dirtied towels and tools.

“Thanks,” I said as I stood up from the dinette, Carrot wagging her tail and woofing softly as I gave her head a pat. “You be a good girl,” I muttered, eyeing the man with a final glance of caution before I stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. 

Stripping off my grimy clothes and turning on the hot water, I let out a sigh of relief as it ran over my tired body. I hadn’t expected to end up wounded, or to meet another person along my supply run. With a hot shower and the promise of a real bed—a safe space to rest for at least a little while—maybe my luck was finally turning.