Forty is sure they've reached the halfway mark. On Dr. Daas' crude little map, Forty recalls the cluster of squares and rectangles labeled 'City of Vaine'. What else could be the hellscape she currently examined? From about a half mile away and perched precariously on top of a large oak tree, Forty can see humans moving about like insects. There's a few standing buildings clustered around a crop of cleared land, the road leading from the brush cutting straight down the middle, but the rest crumble in various states of decay in concentric circles. More of those trucks live here, it seems, and had it not been for the numerous rusty and peeling signs declaring each dilapidated building a store, Forty would assume she's just stumbled upon another compound.

"We've reached the city," Forty says, sticking her face through the branches to peer at Thirty-Seven. He's been touchy since they picked up the severe human smell a day ago, easily falling into a half transformation at the slightest movement in the brush. The trees have thinned out, too, making it hard to stay concealed as they follow the road into town. There is also the purveying odor of gasoline which clings to the road as it turns to tarmac, and Forty is loathe to have to smell it everyday. It's an uncannily human scent, smoky and acrid. Perhaps that's why Missy was hard to pin as a human at first. She missed out on all the nuances that make humans smell so different from Chupas.

"How the hell are we going to get through there?" Thirty-Seven spits, kicking at a cluster of cactus near the tree. He had eaten earlier this morning but remained irritable and jumpy. I have six cups of blood a day. Forty shivers.

"We'll have to go around it, but from what I can see it is quite extensive and we lose all cover in about a mile," Forty grunts as she works her way down the tree. The cluster of buildings she sees gives way to more houses and interconnected roads. There's barely a tree in sight between them.

"I wish we had one of those things," Thirty-Seven says, pointing through the low-lying brush at a truck. "They move fast, and it's like a small shed. No one can see us."

"The humans live inside them," Forty says, watching as a lone male walks out of one of the stores and enters the truck. He wears a full respirator mask and carry's a large rifle at his side. Forty recalls Cade's stories about modern human towns. They are more military organizations than communities with every citizen concerned with vigilantism. Even the smallest indication of infection receives a barrel to the face. The man stows the rifle in the trunk, and as the truck drives away it releases a huge plume of black smoke.

"We can steal one," Thirty-Seven suggests, sounding far too interested in the idea. Forty is ashamed to realize she might entertain him because there really is no other way to get around this place without being spotted and shot. "We don't know how to operate one."

"It can't be that hard," Thirty-Seven shrugs, pretending to squat down in a seat and move an imaginary wheel violently. "I watched those humans in the field do it, and Andres told me what pedals to press."

Forty chews at her nail bed, trying to recall anything she knows about vehicles. Besides the crude drawings of them in illustrated children's books and Andres' obsession with muscle cars, she has no experience. This is one subject she is almost completely ignorant on. Suddenly, she catches her finger on the point of her natural canine, busting the scab on her nail sheath. She immediately looks up at Thirty-Seven. "Sorry," she mumbles, wiping the bead of blood off on her shirt.

Thirty-Seven digs his claws into his thigh and takes a deep breath. "It's okay," he says, exhaling. When he opens his eyes, they're blood red, the irises an icy blue that seems to glow among the sepia landscape. His fangs just poke out of his mouth, the last things to fully react to the scent of blood, and he swallows deeply like that will bring them back into his mouth.

"Is it getting bad?" Forty asks, watching as her skin quickly scabs over again. It's been close to three weeks since Thirty-Seven has had human blood, and Forty can start picking out the physical signs of withdrawal. Deep eye bags make his face look hollow, an ashen waxiness to his skin. When he bends down or flexes his upper body, Forty can pick out the bones of his spine, the divots of his clavicles, and the bat wings of his scapulae. Though he's been getting consistent animal meals, a Chupa as reactive as Thirty-Seven requires human blood. Forty is honestly impressed he's gone this long.

"I... can manage," he grits out, unlatching his claws from his pants. The red bleeds back from his eyes and the irises slowly turn dark brown again. "But I need something soon. I don't think I can last the month."

"I know you're not a big fan of the idea," Forty begins, trying to tiptoe around the subject. Thirty-Seven watches her closely, his eyes following the curve of her neck when her honey hair brushes across it. She swallows and his eyes dart between the bob of her throat to meet her own. "But I am biologically similar to a human. It may satisfy you."

The fact that Thirty-Seven doesn't immediately shoot the idea down tells Forty how far gone he is. He chews at his lip, brows furrowed, but his gaze doesn't leave Forty's face. "I don't want to," he says, and it comes across testing, as if he's waiting for Forty to refuse.

"Okay," she says instead, turning back to watch the humans milling around town. She feels a presence at her neck, and when she turns to glance at Thirty-Seven he's close behind her, his nose only a few inches from where her throat meets her shoulders. His temple rests against her cheekbone, his mouth so close she has to ball her hand in a fist to keep from redirecting it. She doesn't push the issue, just smells as a host of emotions run through him.

In truth, she doesn't know how to feel about this particular situation. She's learned that when dealing with Thirty-Seven, she has to be firm when something is important but listen to his input otherwise. Where she had been relatively unregulated in the compound, his everyday life was militant. His opinion didn't matter there, and it didn't matter when Forty bit into his neck every few days for a month. She never wants him to feel dehumanized ever again, but this blood situation is beginning to shape up as one of those important matters Forty has to take control of.

She doesn't know why he refuses to drink from her besides the venom, which hadn't been an issue that one time in the lab. It wasn't a problem on the riverbank, when she woke to a soreness in her neck and his arms fastened around her back. Had she done something since then?

"Do I bother you, Seven?" she asks, tilting her head against his. He flinches, stops trying to discreetly sniff her, instead moving to stand at her side.

"No," he says, not looking at her. "It's not you."

"What is it, then?" she presses. Not only is there no possible way they can remain discreet in the town unless Thirty-Seven gets blood soon, but this is starting to present as one of those deeper, more emotional matters. There is something bubbling under Thirty-Seven's surface, something Forty can't quite discern. She just hopes she's made him comfortable enough to tell her the truth.

"I... I don't want to bite you again," Thirty-Seven finally forces out, a slight blush high on his cheeks.

When he looks up at Forty, it's not embarrassment that she sees, but frustration. His fangs poke menacingly out of his mouth, and between how long and messy his hair has grown and the open way he displays emotions, he looks truly wild. "Every time I do it, it's because something bad has happened. I bit you when I attacked you, when I had venom withdrawal, when we fell into the water. It's not fair to you. You're not my toy to chew on when things get hard."

Forty has to consciously close her mouth before he turns away again. Never in a million years could she have guessed that was the issue. Now that it's out, Forty doesn't know how to put a name to what she feels.

Very few people in this world have cared about what she thinks, and even fewer cared about her on an emotional level. She would have never expected Thirty-Seven to say something that makes tears prick at her eyes. She doesn't even know why they start, she just feels the burn at the corners and tries desperately to keep them in. "I never saw it that way," she says, hoping the thought will comfort him. Thirty-Seven shakes his head, his eyes downcast.

"Spending time in the campsite, being out here with you, I think I've gotten a lot of things wrong," he says, bending at the knee to sit back in the dirt. Forty follows, letting the weight of the last two weeks sag her shoulders. "I've always thought that the way for me to be noticed was to cause a problem, but you ask me things and look at me for no reason. You're always talking, whether about something random or when you want to talk about the compound. You care about what I have to say, and it feels better than any time I've gotten a rise out of you or any of the monitors."

"I never wanted you to feel like expressing yourself is a bad thing," Forty confesses, laying back in the grass. If it wasn't fall, the greenery would almost mirror her outdoor space in the domicile. "I like hearing you talk when you're honest."

Thirty-Seven groans, covering his face with his hands. "See, like that! You say things like that, and you back it up. I can't just... drink from you. You're not food."

"I thought we didn't exclude things as food just because they're nice to us," Forty chuckles. Thirty-Seven rolls his eyes at her but ultimately lays back in the grass too.

"It's not even about the venom. I just don't want to hurt you anymore," he says, reaching out to catch the ends of her hair that float up with the wind. Forty's captivated by him, by the softness in his eyes and those dark, dark lashes. Even the fangs poking out of his mouth are endearing because they are entirely his. She's grown to not only like Thirty-Seven as a companion, but also as a person, and when he runs an absent hand through her hair and looks at her like she's hung the stars, she can't help but want to do anything for him.

"You'll hurt me a lot more if you don't take care of yourself," she says, and he stops the petting. She reaches out and keeps him from turning over by gripping his shoulder tightly. "We've made it this far, and we can't keep going unless you get something like human blood. But even more than that, I don't want to see you in pain anymore." Forty allows herself to trace her thumb lightly across the edge of one of his eye bags. He blinks slowly at her, his lids drooping. "It won't hurt me, and then I'll be happy because you feel better. Let me do this for you."

Thirty-Seven sighs, leaning further into the hand on his face. "Fine," he mumbles groggily. "But you have to tell me if it hurts."

Forty nods, sitting up quickly and moving her hair off her neck. "I think I know how to make it not hurt," she says, thinking about the day in the lab where she moved just slightly off his shoulder, relieving some kind of nerve pressure. "Bite here." She traces a circle around the meaty part of her trapezius, closer to her shoulder and far away from her neck. Thirty-Seven nods, swallowing thickly when he watches the movement.

His eyes are already a coral color, the irises green in their half-transformation. When he looks up at Forty, she almost calls the whole thing off. He's begging her with his eyes, and there's something too soft in there to call just concern. It's fear, but unlike the many times she's seen him afraid of her, this look is entirely dedicated to a fear of himself. Forty reaches out and grazes the curve of his cheek. "It's okay," she says. "I've got you."

Thirty-Seven snaps in an instant, grabbing her wrist tightly and digging his fangs in. Forty bites back the surprised wince she almost lets out, too afraid that any movement indicating pain will trigger him to stop. Her entire right hand is going numb, her wrist burning and aching, but it is nowhere near the most hurtful thing she's experienced. Thirty-Seven cradles the back of her hand with his own two, the claws curving gently around the flesh of her palm to keep from scratching her.

His eyes do not leave Forty's face, carefully watching for any discomfort, but she doesn't let him see it. He needs this, and more than that, she needs him to be okay. She's already left too many friends behind to an uncertain future, and leaving Thirty-Seven to suffer the consequences of his own hunger is the last thing she wants to do. All the pain is worth it when Forty can see the color returning to his face, the glow coming back to his skin. She doesn't start feeling lightheaded until five minutes past, and Thirty-Seven immediately stops when he sees her eyes flutter.

"Thank you," he says, and Forty has never been more glad to hear him not say sorry. He presses his palm tightly against the bite mark on her wrist, applying pressure until the wound scabs over. Forty nods at him, the movement making the world spin, and he immediately catches her shoulders before she falls forward.

"I've got you." He leans her against the large oak tree, then darts off. Barely a minute passes before he's returned with a rabbit, still kicking the last of its life out.

Forty is so hungry from the drain that she doesn't even mind eating it. She ignores the awful squeaking of the thing and dispatches it mechanically, much like she did with the chickens at the compound. However, this time feels different. Even though the rabbit is still losing its life to feed her, it feels less like a sacrifice and more like a gift. Thirty-Seven holds the bloody brown thing up for her as she feeds, twisting his head this way and that like a mother hen.

Forty pats his back when she's done, giving him a warm smile. "I'm good now," she says, bringing herself back to her feet. Thirty-Seven nods but doesn't say anything, just watches as she rubs off the remainder of the rabbit blood.

"I can go into the city now," he says, taking one last look around the forest. His breathing is more even, his voice calm, and Forty will never get used to how fast a good feed can fill him out. He looks healthy again.

"I might have a better idea," Forty confesses. She turns to the road, watching the multicolored vehicles streak by.

Growing up, her old monitor had an obsession with true crime stories. She used to recount every morbid detail to Forty, even though the girl was no older than nine. Humans are quite fascinated with death, Forty thinks, and many of the more sensationalized retellings followed a pattern. A pretty girl out late at night, she hitchhikes to get home, and then she's never seen again. "Always the hitchhiking," her monitor would tut. By all means, Forty should be entirely turned off to the idea, but even if whoever picks her up wants to hurt her, they are only a human. Forty can fight them off easily. "We'll get a human to drive us."

Thirty-Seven looks at her like she's grown another head. "Are... are you sure you don't need more blood?" he asks, scanning her for any signs of injury.

"No. It's just that we can cover a lot more ground in one of those things," she explains, pointing at the road. Thirty-Seven watches the cars flit by warily.

"I thought we were avoiding driving. Even more, I thought we did want to be seen by humans," he says, backing further into the woods.

She catches his hand before he can melt into the brush. "It's unavoidable at this point. If we do it this way, we will come in close contact with less humans."

Thirty-Seven looks between her, the town, and the road. He sighs, tossing his head back and groaning. "Fine," he grunts, starting to walk towards the road. "But I think this going to end in a shit show."

Forty laughs, a little bubble of excitement starting in her chest at the chance she'll get to ride in the human vehicle. There's so many questions she has about how it operates, why they use it, why they're all different shapes and colors. Hopefully whoever picks them up will entertain her. "I'm sure it will be great," she says, more chipper now that she has blood in her and Thirty-Seven looks better.

"I really, really hope you're right."

☠️☠️☠️

The truck is much larger than Forty expects it to be. It has a tail made of metal that extends well past its navy blue head, and the human inside of it has to crawl out like an ant on a hill to meet Forty. "Where y'all tryin' to get to?" the driver asks, putting a cigarette out on the ground with his foot. Forty's nose wrinkles at the scent.

"Can you take us to the woods near Cotolla?" Forty calls out, not quite passing over to the outer section of the road where the man parked. Thirty-Seven bristles at her side, coughing when the man talks a little too close to him. He doesn't wear a respirator like the other man, and the ash smell lingers on his breath. He's a middle aged man, potbellied and sweat stained, with just a shock of hair on the crown of his head. he absolutely reeks of gasoline, smoke, and human scent. He's not favorable in any way, but he's the only one who's stopped. Forty has to deal with him if she wants to get her and Thirty-Seven out quickly.

"Whatcha want with the woods over there?" the driver asks, scratching the top of his head. "Folks stay out of the woods nowadays, with the virus and all."

Forty decides to default to her college student excuse. "We're collecting samples for a project at our college," she says, trying to sound as natural as possible. The man raises an eyebrow, looking between Thirty-Seven ready to pounce on him and both of their dilapidated states. "We ran into some car trouble at our first stop and had to camp out," Forty adds quickly.

The man hocks a loogie inches from Thirty-Seven's foot. Forty fists her hand in the back of his shirt where the driver can't see. "This your boyfriend?" the man suddenly blurts, pointing a broken nail at Thirty-Seven.

"I don't see why that's important," Forty answers, tightening her grip on Thirty-Seven's shirt. Why would this man care if they're courting or not? Would it affect his ability to drive?

"It's important to me, girly," the man practically spits, and now Forty's senses are on high alarm. She's never been in a situation like this, but there's something itching in the back of her head and telling her to get away from this man. However, she knows she can handle herself, and he really is their only option.

"No, he's just my friend," she says, making the driver laugh. He waves them over to the truck.

"Rough bit, huh buddy?" the man laughs, slapping Thirty-Seven on the back. He whirls on him, ready to snap, but Forty gestures for him to nod at the last moment. He looks ready to claw his own eyes out.

They crawl into the truck one by one, with Forty in the middle between the driver and Thirty-Seven. "Sorry, A.C.'s been broke for a while," the driver says, grabbing hold of a lever and pushing it around roughly. He tosses a couple looks over his shoulder, then Forty's stomach drops as she feels the whole thing moving. Thirty-Seven grips her arm and the handle of the door, eyes wide.

"What's your name anyway?" the driver asks, shoving some brown substance from a can into his mouth with one hand and steering with the other. The powerful sweet smell from the can makes Forty nauseous, and she takes a deep swallow before replying.

"My name is Phoebe, and this is Mick." She gestures at Thirty-Seven, who currently has his face pressed against the window like he can melt into it.

The truck marches on steadily, the landscape along the sides turning into a blur. Forty feels seconds away from throwing up, so she focuses on all the little trinkets in the cabin. There's a few magazines spread out everywhere, a newspaper rolled up and shoved in a pocket attached to the door. A figure with a rotating head and a rotund, naked chest bobs to the motion of the vehicle.

"Mick don't talk much, huh?" the driver comments, though Thirty-Seven is much too busy trying to camouflage into the seat to care.

"No," Forty says quickly, desperately wanting for a subject she's rehearsed. "What's your name?"

"Trent Wilson, but just call me Trent, none of that mister crap." He works something into a ball in one of his cheeks, then picks up an opaque glass bottle and spits into it. The sweet smell becomes thicker.

"Thank you for giving us a ride, Trent," Forty says, watching as the man fidgets with a screen. Suddenly, loud noises fill the cabin, and Forty races to clamp her hands over her ears.

"Oh, my bad. I like my music loud," Trent mumbles, turning a dial. Blissfully, the ruckus goes quiet. It sounds no where near the smooth notes of Thirty-Seven's record. This music is covered by static and intermittent piercing yells. "Now, you gotta tell me what y'all are really doin' out there in the woods at Cotolla." He looks over at Forty, giving her a huge, sleazy grin. Shivers race up her spine.

"It's like I said. Research." She watches him warily as he continues to mess with random things around what seems to be the control panel. The bobble head looks ready to topple over from how top-heavy she is, and as the speed increases and the road gets bumpier, she's all Forty can focus on.

"Nah, don't try that with me girly," Trent grunts, slapping a hand down on Forty's knee. She jumps, gripping his wrist tightly to push him off. "Ope, my bad," he says, returning the hand to the wheel. "I know what kinds like y'all do out in these woods. The hippie types, tryin' to do some magic shit to get rid of this damn virus."

"It's geological research," she says, remembering Andres' enthusiasm on the subject.

"Sure, okay," Trent mocks, still sounding totally unconvinced. "I'll tell ya though, whatever you got planned, you were in some dangerous territory over there." He tosses his thumb over his shoulder, pointing back in the direction of Vaine. "They say that's ground zero, and everyone thinks there's still some Suckers out in the woods."

Forty decides to get as much out of this stinky man as she can. "It's bad around here?"

"Yeah. Folks don't get infected like they used to in the '90s, but we still get random bastards bustin' in tryin' to bite people. Of course, you know, we take care of them," Trent laughs, patting the side of his blue jeans. Forty's blood runs cold when she sees the outline of a gun holster on his waistline.

"Ah... yeah," she says nervously, trying to discreetly show Thirty-Seven the gun. He glances down from where he hides behind her shoulder and immediately grips Forty's shirt tighter. His eyes scream what have you gotten us into? 

"Y'know, I killed one of them before," Trent continues, unaware that Forty is slowly edging away from him. "Young guy, I used to see him in the bar. Came in one day and tried to take a chunk out of me. I plugged him 'fore he could jump."

"You... you didn't try to restrain him first?" Forty asks, struggling to remember a time when the monitors would shoot on sight. It rarely happened unless a Chupa actively had their teeth sunk into someone, and a pounce was treated as natural behavior instead of an attack.

"Nah. That's the thing 'bout 'em. If you see the signs, take them out. Otherwise you'll just be breakfast for them." Trent clicks the button of his holster, exposing the hilt of his gun. "But you ain't gotta worry. I got you covered."

"Th– thanks," Forty grits out, desperately wanting to launch herself through the windshield. "How far are we?"

"Meh... five, maybe ten minutes." Trent flicks the skull of the bobble head. Forty catches him casting a sideways glance at Thirty-Seven, then he returns his hand to Forty's thigh. She jumps, knocking it away, and Thirty-Seven growls. "Whoah, whoah, you're gonna let this guy get all possessive over you? Ain't you an independent girl?"

"That doesn't fucking mean you can touch her," Thirty-Seven snarls, his voice deep with anger. Trent laughs bitterly.

"Well, what's the lady got to say about it?" he spits, this time moving the hand far up on Forty's leg, almost her hip. "I bet she knows nothing comes for free, and I went off my route for you disrespectful brats."

Forty snatches his wrist, squeezing as tight as she can. She feels his bones groan under her palm, and Trent swerves towards a dip on the side of the road. Forty doesn't let go until she feels a crunch, and Trent's wrist hangs limply at the end of his arm. "What the fuck?!" he screams, letting out a wet cry as he cradles the broken hand against his chest.

Forty throws the lever into park, already having picked up on how to control the thing by watching Trent's movements. The truck lurches, unable to right itself before sliding off the road. Thirty-Seven grips Forty's shirt and keeps her against the seat, holding tightly to his seatbelt. Forty braces herself against the dashboard, nausea racking through her as she feels her joints compress.

The truck finally flips over, rolling into the ditch and tossing Forty's head back violently. The windshield splinters and Thirty-Seven covers them both with his arms, the sound of an airbag deploying alerting them before the thing bursts out on the passenger and driver side. Forty watches Trent's body gyrate violently, then his head smacks into the air bag and goes still. The truck stops shaking, now completely on its side, and Forty vomits onto the dash.

"Are you... okay?" Thirty-Seven huffs, his voice echoing in Forty's ear. She feels his hand on her shoulder blade, then registers the feeling of the seatbelt digging into her stomach.

"Yeah... yeah," she answers, clicking the button to release her from her suspended position. She jumps when she lands on Trent's body, his face covered in blood.

"I think... I think he's dead." she whispers, trying not to look at the crumpled hand at his side. Thirty-Seven forces his door open, then pulls Forty out by her underarms. The sun outside is too bright, the sounds of birds in the trees bouncing around in Forty's head.

"We need to leave," Thirty-Seven says urgently, tugging on Forty's hand to lead her towards the woods. Her feet feel rooted to the ground, stuck between watching the steam roll off the truck and trying to absorb the scenery around her.

"W– we're in Cotolla," she says, taking notice of the thick oaks surrounding either side of the road.

"Yes, we are. Now let's go." Thirty-Seven bodily pushes her towards the trees.

"Did I kill him?" Forty asks, peering through the broken windshield to Trent's closed eyes. Pieces of glass stick out of his hairline, his body at an awkward angle. Then, miraculously, his eyes shoot open, and Forty has barely a second to react before a gun is in her face.

"What the fuck have you done?" Trent snarls, spitting blood onto the spray of broken glass. The gun shakes where he holds it sideways, his shoulder slightly bent. "I can't... I can't feel my fucking legs!"

"I... I'm sorry," Forty whispers shakily, finally registering the scope of the scene.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, you bitch," Trent screams, but it's cut off in a gurgle. Forty whips around to find where Thirty-Seven was standing empty, but the sound of crunching glass tells her exactly where he is. With his legs sticking out of the passenger door and his claws currently piercing through Trent's hand, Thirty-Seven buries his fangs into the man's throat, ripping the tendons with a ferocious bite. Trent drops the gun, his body giving one last wet quiver before going still. Forty watches in a mixture of awe and horror as Thirty-Seven spits Trent's flesh out, a tatter of a plaid shirt sticking to his lip. He crawls backwards out of the window, spitting the blood into the grass.

"Now he's dead," he murmurs, then gently grabs her wrist and leads her into the woods.