"Thank God you're alright, mistress!" The two girls aboard the boat flung their arms around Avya, their relief palpable as they squeezed her tight.
"Don't call me that," Avya said, peeling them off with a faint grimace. "Just use my name. We might run into people out here, and they could get the wrong idea about us." Her tone was firm but practical—she didn't need rumors complicating an already perilous mission.
She glanced back at the shore, now a writhing mass of zombies clawing at the sand. The drone's mysterious voice had been dead-on: a minute's delay, and she'd have been swallowed by that horde which made her smile.
Shaking off the thought, she turned to the man who'd saved her. "That was a hell of a shot. Since when are you a sharpshooter?"The man—gruff, weathered, and still clutching his rifle—gave a curt nod, his eyes darting uneasily toward the horizon.
He didn't bask in the praise; his focus was on escape. "We need to move," he muttered, voice low.
