Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 74: Dust and ash

The Humvee rumbled beneath us, tires humming softly over cracked asphalt as the road stretched ahead. I leaned my head back against the seat and looked out the window.

The sky was bruised purple and pink, the sun hanging low on the horizon like it was reluctant to leave. For a moment—just a moment—it eased something in my chest.

It had been hours since the expedition.

We’d done well. Better than expected.

Canned food. Hardware. Medical scraps. Whatever wasn’t nailed down and still useful, bundled tight in the back. A win.

I let out a slow breath.

The kind you only allow yourself when you’re afraid that if you relax too much, something bad will notice.

I pulled my gaze from the sky and looked beside me.

Cherie sat there with her arms loosely crossed, boots braced against the floor, eyes forward. The fading light caught the sharp angles of her face, the scar tissue around her missing fingers.

A lot had changed about her.

More than I’d realized.

If you’d asked me weeks ago who would have my back out here—really have it—I never would’ve said her.

The thought felt unreal.

"You have a staring problem, you know."

Her voice snapped me out of it.

Something twisted uncomfortably in my chest.

"Sorry," I muttered, half to myself.

She smiled—not sharp, not teasing. Just...soft. Then she looked forward again, like it didn’t matter.

But my eyes stayed on her.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Swallowed.

"Hey—Cherie," I said. "Can I ask you something?"

She glanced at me this time, one brow lifting.

"What’s up, sweet cheeks?"

I hesitated, then forced the words out.

"Why’d you join the Crucible in the first place?" I asked. "You never struck me as the type. I think... I think I had you wrong."

She didn’t answer right away.

Her jaw tightened. Her eyes darkened, fixed on the road ahead like she was watching something that wasn’t there anymore.

My stomach sank.

Then she exhaled.

"Before all this," she said slowly, "I had a boyfriend. Abusive. Real piece of shit."

My hands curled slightly in my lap.

"He controlled everything," she continued. "Who I talked to. Where I went. What I wore. I tried to leave. Over and over. Every time, he found me."

She glanced down at her hands.

"Then Vivian showed up."

I stiffened.

"She and her little group beat the hell out of him," Cherie said flatly. "Dragged me out of that apartment and told me I didn’t owe anyone my fear anymore."

My eyes widened.

"Back then... the Crucible hadn’t been what it was now."

A pause.

"Just a handful of angry, reckless kids. Edgy. Loud. Dangerous—but not like this. Not organized. Not hungry."

She went on.

"At first, it felt like freedom. Like I finally belonged somewhere." Her lips twitched. "I would’ve followed her anywhere."

There was a pause.

Then her voice hardened.

"But Vivian wanted more. Power. Control. That’s when the real terrorism started." She shook her head. "By then, I was too deep. Saying no wasn’t an option."

Another pause.

Then quieter.

"When you guys kidnapped me... I thought she’d come for me."

I looked at her.

"She didn’t," Cherie said plainly. "Didn’t even try. I don’t think she noticed I was gone."

Silence filled the Humvee.

The engine hummed. The road stretched on.

I stared ahead now, my earlier calm evaporating.

Because for the first time, I understood something clearly—

Vivian didn’t save people.

She collected them.

And sooner or later, she always let them go.

The Humvee slowed.

I hadn’t even noticed how close we were.

The compound gates loomed ahead, concrete and steel cutting into the dying light. Watchtowers silhouetted against the bruised sky. Familiar. Safe.

Too safe.

The unease I’d pushed down during the ride came crawling back, coiling tight in my stomach. The kind of feeling that didn’t scream—it whispered. The kind you learned not to ignore.

As the vehicle rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires, a thought hit me all at once—

What did I leave behind?

My chest tightened.

Blood spread beneath Jane like a dark mirror, soaking into the concrete in slow, creeping tendrils.

Her eyes were wide. Empty. Staring at nothing.

Her face had drained of all color, skin stretched pale and waxy as her chest hitched in shallow, uneven pulls. Each breath sounded like it hurt. Like it might be her last. Tears slipped free, tracking down her temples into her hair, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her lips trembled. No sound came out.

Hands moved around her—too many, too fast.

Men in fatigues knelt, boots splashing lightly through the blood as they worked. Someone slid a stretcher beneath her with practiced efficiency. Someone else pressed gauze to her wounds, fingers already slick and red.

"Easy... easy..." a medic murmured, though it was unclear if he was speaking to Jane or himself.

Jane’s fingers twitched weakly at nothing.

A soldier straightened and turned.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened again?"

His voice wasn’t aimed at Jane.

It was aimed at Lila.

Lila stood just a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding something inside together. Her shoulders shook—just enough. Her face was twisted into the perfect expression of shock and grief, eyes glassy, lips parted like she was barely keeping it together.

She took a breath.

Then another.

And then she spoke.

"She— she just snapped," Lila said softly. Her voice wavered, fragile, threaded with disbelief. "She started screaming... swinging the knife at her husband. I tried to stop her, I swear I did—"

She swallowed hard, tears finally spilling over.

"She— she stabbed herself," Lila continued, shaking her head, like the memory was too much to bear. "Over and over. I didn’t know what to do. I thought— I thought she might be infected or something. I was so scared..."

Her voice cracked right on cue.

A sob broke loose. Convincing. Raw.

The soldier’s expression shifted—sympathy replacing suspicion. He raised a hand gently, cutting her off.

"Hey," he said, softer now. "That’s enough. You don’t need to relive it."

Another soldier nodded. "We’ve seen cases like this before. Stress-induced psychosis. Infection paranoia."

Lila wiped at her eyes, breathing unevenly.

"I just wanted to help," she whispered.

"You did," the first soldier said firmly. "You did the right thing."

Jane was lifted onto the stretcher.

Her head lolled to the side as they raised her, eyes rolling just slightly—enough to show she was still there. Still alive. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, and for a split second, it landed on Lila.

Recognition flickered.

Horror.

But Lila didn’t look back.

Straps were pulled tight. The stretcher wheels squealed as they turned toward the infirmary.

"She’s in the clear," the soldier said to Lila, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "So are you. We believe you."

Lila nodded weakly, leaning into the touch like she needed it to stand.

As Jane was wheeled away, blood smeared across the floor in her wake—silent proof of a story no one would ever question.

And behind them all, Lila stood untouched.

Unblamed.

Believed.

The stretcher came first.

Metal rattling. Wheels squealing faintly as hands rushed it down the corridor.

"Breathe. Hey—look at me. Just breathe."

My chest tightened before my mind caught up.

Then I saw her face.

Jane.

The color drained from me so fast it felt physical, like something vital had been ripped out through my ribs. My vision tunneled. The world tilted.

"No—"

I shoved past the soldiers blocking the quarters before the word could fully leave my mouth.

Inside, everything felt distant. Muted. Like I was underwater.

Lila stood near the wall, speaking to a soldier. I could see her lips moving, her hands trembling just enough to sell it. I couldn’t hear a single word she was saying. The ringing in my ears drowned everything else out.

Then she noticed me.

She turned.

And she smiled.

Soft. Gentle.

Knowing.

Predatory.

My breath hitched. Tears burned behind my eyes, spilling over before I could stop them.

This was my fault.

All of it.

The thought crushed down on me so hard I nearly folded in on myself.

I turned and bolted.

I followed the stretcher as they wheeled Jane toward medical, my legs moving on instinct alone. No one stopped me. No one spoke. Soldiers stepped aside like I wasn’t even there.

Good.

Medical smelled like antiseptic and blood.

I finally saw Peter.

He lay on a cot, an IV drip hooked into his arm, his throat wrapped thickly in white bandages already blooming red. The sight punched the air from my lungs. There was no guessing what that meant.

Isabella sat beside him in a metal chair, too small for the weight she was carrying. Her eyes were rimmed raw and red, cheeks streaked where tears had dried and come back again. She didn’t look up when I entered.

A woman I didn’t recognize worked over Peter, dark hair tied around the back. Younger—not Dr. Tekashi. Her movements were calm, precise. Detached.

Jane’s stretcher was rolled in and set a few meters away, but I barely registered it. My focus locked onto Peter.

"A friend of his?" the woman asked, glancing at me.

I didn’t answer.

Peter’s eyes shifted. Slowly. They found me.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

His jaw moved under the bandages as he tried to speak, his breath coming harsher. He lifted a trembling hand slightly, accusing even in its weakness.

"Were you the one who put her up to this?"

I didn’t need him to finish the question.

"...I’m sorry," I whispered. The words felt useless the second they left my mouth.

His face twisted, rage breaking through the pain, eyes blazing despite the morphine haze.

"This is what happens," he rasped, each word tearing out of him, "when you try to play fucking hero, kid. I had it handled. She was changing—I was helping her change—"

His voice rose, raw and broken.

"And you just... SCREWED IT ALL UP!" 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

He tried to sit up, panic and fury surging together.

"Keep him still," the woman ordered sharply.

Isabella jumped to her feet, pressing her hands gently but firmly to his shoulders. "Dad—please. Relax. Please..."

The ringing in my ears grew louder.

Peter’s mouth kept moving. I could see the anger, the grief, the blame pouring out of him—but I couldn’t hear a single word anymore.

The room blurred at the edges.

I stood there, frozen, drowning in silence, watching the damage I’d caused unfold in real time.

And for the first time since the world ended, I wasn’t afraid of the infected.

I was afraid of myself.