Autopilot

The walk back takes hours. Neither of us speaks.

Zoe stays behind me. Five paces, maybe six. Close enough that I can hear her footsteps, far enough that there's no mistaking the distance.

I don't try to close it.

The forest is dark by the time the cabin comes into view. The broken door hangs at an angle, catching the moonlight. Everything looks smaller than I remember. More fragile.

"Wait here," I say.

Zoe stops without argument.

I approach the cabin slowly, rifle ready. Checking for movement, listening for sounds. But there's nothing. Just the wind and the creak of frozen branches.

Inside, everything's still chaos. Overturned furniture. Scattered belongings. Their boot prints everywhere, violating our space.

They were here. In our home.

I push the feeling down. No time for that. Work to do.

I drag the heavy table across, wedge it against the damaged door frame. It'll hold for tonight. Tomorrow I'll fix it properly.

The fire pit's cold, full of dead ash. I clear it out, build a new fire from kindling. My hands move through the routine automatically. Strike the flint. Coax the flame. Add larger pieces gradually.

The fire catches. Warmth begins to spread through the room.

"Zoe," I call toward the door. "It's safe."

She enters slowly. Takes in the destruction. Her face shows nothing. She's locked down, same as me.

She moves to the piano bench, rights it, sits down. Doesn't touch the keys. Just sits there, staring at nothing.

I check what they took while she sits. The food stores are mostly intact. Some dried meat missing, but they didn't find our hidden cache under the floorboards. Water containers fine. Medical supplies untouched.

Then the rifle. I clear it, remove the magazine, check the chamber. Clean the barrel with a cloth. The smell of gunpowder still clings to the metal.

Six bullets fired. Nine people dead.

I reload it. Lean it against the wall within reach.

Then the knife. Still crusty with dried blood. I heat water over the fire, clean it thoroughly. The blood comes off in dark swirls. Three people with this blade. Six with the rifle.

My hands are steady. They shouldn't be.

"Jamie."

I look up. Zoe's watching me from the piano bench. Her face is pale, drawn. The firelight makes the bruises look worse.

"You need something warm," I say. "I'll make hot chocolate."

"I don't want hot chocolate."

"You should get warm."

"Jamie, stop."

I put the knife down. "Stop what?"

"This." She gestures at me. At the weapons. At the methodical cleaning and organizing. "Just... stop for a second."

"I'm almost done."

"You don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"Take care of everything. Fix everything." Her voice cracks slightly. "You can stop."

I don't know how to respond to that. Stopping means thinking. Thinking means feeling. And I can't afford to feel right now.

"Let me make you some hot chocolate," I say again.

She closes her eyes. Nods. Gives up.

I heat water, mix in powdered milk and chocolate powder. Make two cups. Hot chocolate from our dwindling supply. Hand one to her.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

I sit in the chair across from her. The fire crackles between us. We drink in silence.

Zoe's hands shake slightly as she holds the cup. The rope burns on her wrists are angry red lines. The cut on her neck has stopped bleeding but it'll scar.

"Let me look at your injuries," I say.

"They're fine."

"That cut needs cleaning."

"Jamie, please. I just need—" She stops. Takes a breath. "I need a moment. Just to sit."

"Okay."

More silence. The wind picks up outside, rattling the damaged door against the table barricade. The sound makes me tense, hand drifting toward the rifle.

"They're dead," Zoe says. "All of them. They can't hurt us now."

I know that. Logically, I know that. But my body hasn't caught up. Every sound is a threat. Every shadow is movement.

"Jamie, how do you feel?"

The question catches me off guard. "I'm fine."

"You killed nine people today."

"I know."

"And you're fine?"

I look at her. She's not accusing. Just asking. Trying to understand.

"I don't know," I admit. "I don't feel anything."

She nods slowly. Like she expected that answer.

"When I close my eyes," she says, "I see their faces. The one who grabbed me. The one with the knife. I keep thinking about what they were going to do. What would have happened if you hadn't..." She trails off.

"You're safe now."

"I know. I know that." She takes a shaky breath. "But I also keep seeing you. The way you moved. Like you'd done it a thousand times before. Like it was nothing."

It wasn't nothing.

But I don't say that. Because in the moment, it felt like nothing. Just actions. Just training. Pull the trigger, move the knife, assess the next threat. No thought. No hesitation.

Maybe that's worse.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," I say.

"Don't apologize. You saved my life." She sets the cup down. "But Jamie, that person I saw today. That wasn't you. That was someone else."

"That was me. That's who I am when I need to be."

"And now? Who are you now?"

I don't have an answer for that.

We sit there as the fire burns lower. Exhaustion is finally catching up. My body aches. My shoulder's stiff from the rifle's kick. The cut on my arm from the grapple is starting to throb.

But I can't rest. Not yet.

"You should sleep," I tell her. "I'll keep watch."

"Jamie, you need to sleep too."

"I'll sleep later."

She looks at me for a long moment. Then nods. Stands. Moves to her bed in the corner. Lies down fully clothed, boots still on.

"Wake me if you need anything," she says.

"I will."

She turns to face the wall. Within minutes, her breathing deepens. Sleep or a good imitation of it.

I stay in the chair. Rifle across my lap. Watching the door. Watching the windows. Watching the shadows that might be movement or might be nothing.

The fire burns down to coals. I add more wood. Keep it going.

Outside, the forest is silent. No wind now. Just cold and dark and endless white.

Inside, it's warm. Safe. Zoe's breathing. The crackle of fire. The smell of chocolate.

But I can't feel any of it.

I'm still out there in the clearing. Knife in my hand. Blood in the snow. Eyes going dim.

Nine people.

I killed nine people today.

I wait for the guilt to hit. The horror. Something.

Nothing comes.