Free Those Who Remain (Book 2) by Priscila Santa Rosa

figures between bad roads filled with abandoned cars and two quarantine checkpoints turned into death traps, we might have to sacrifice speed for safety.
    That, and the fact that the miracle base is not exactly in Canada. Instead, it’s located on a remote and unpopulated island named Akimi, twelve miles from the north coast of Ontario, with deep forests and little roads between here and there.
    “It’s on the Hudson Bay,” Tigh educates me while packing a military-grade hiking bag. “No one lives there most of the year, so it was easier to set things up. The Army used the cover of building an international bird sanctuary. Canadian authorities didn’t have a clue.”
    “Nice going. I mean, international diplomacy and common courtesy… Who needs it?”
    “Well, think what you want. If it wasn’t a secret, it probably would have been destroyed like everything else.”
    Our conversation lacks the usual annoyance and anger. Probably because we both feel like crap, we aren’t fighting anymore, and are focusing solely on the trip. My bullet wound gets in the way of preparations, but overall I think I’ll live. Or, to be precise, I won’t die because of it. Tigh gives us three days, so I can sleep in a proper bed for a little while longer, but after two nights, I can’t stand it anymore. Everything inside the base torments me. Nightmares of Tom becoming enraged and trying to bite me mixed with the pleas and cries of Victoria’s family haunt my waking hours.
    Outside of the base, standing side-by-side, we take a few minutes to stare at what has been our home for a month. Tigh’s eyes linger more on the heavy metal doors, and for once, his shoulders slump, his back arches and a long sigh escapes his lips. My chest feels like it’s being crushed by the weight of a concrete block. The guilt I was trying to bury these past days, comes back in full force.
    I wrap my arms around him, hands finding his back. My head can only reach his chest as I close my eyes. “I’m sorry, Tigh.”
    “You said that already,” he answers with a low voice. “We need to move out, Doc.”
    He doesn’t return the embrace, but he doesn’t push me away. We stay like that for a few more seconds, and then I get inside the truck on the passenger's side. Without another word, we depart, driving toward the main road to reach the highway.
    Tigh’s predictions turn out to be spot on. Every hour or so, we encounter an obstacle. Snow covered roads, fallen trees, abandoned frozen cars that won’t turn on, and worse. Before reaching the highway, Tigh stops before a crash site of two cars: a family van turned over, bags scattered over the pavement, and another car with a smashed rear, blocking our way. The second car looks functional, and we might be able to circumvent the van, if we maneuver the other out of the way.
    Tigh gets out the car and orders me stay put. As promised, I obey him. My long track record of bad judgment makes heeding his decisions a lot easier. While he surveys the damage, I roll down the window of the car, and look for any signs of danger.
    The Sergeant treads carefully between cars, his rifle ready to fire. He kicks the luggage out of the way, and approaches the van. My heart races, a hand on the door’s handle, as his feet pass by the broken windows of the overturned vehicle.
    Movement inside the van catches my eyes. “Tigh, below you!”
    A bloody and battered hand reaches out of the window, grabbing him by the ankle. Tigh uses his free foot to kick the hand off, crushing the bony fingers until they let go of him. Another pair of hands tries to reach him, this time coming out from the driver’s window. The Sergeant jumps out of the way just in time.
    I stare at the van, waiting for the infected passengers to crawl out and attack Tigh, but they must be trapped by seat belts or between the wreckage, because Tigh goes to the other car without another incident. He buries his combat knife insides the still almost-alive