The children were scared, and who could really blame them? They were all very young, and no one had ever seen something like this before. Except maybe from a movie, which the adults would not let their kids watch.

Jordan, of course, had always found a way to sneak in those kinds of movies, the kind parents would frown upon. But even Jordan was shaken now, his usual defiance replaced by an uneasy silence. The weight of the situation pressed on everyone, regardless of age.

Jackson moved carefully, his hand steady as he pushed open the heavy door leading to the stairwell. The creak of the hinges echoed faintly, making some of the group flinch. The elevator was out of commission, its stillness adding to the oppressive atmosphere. Not that anyone would have chosen to use it—its noise could easily draw the wrong kind of attention.

The stairwell stretched downward into shadows, its concrete walls cold and unwelcoming. The group descended cautiously, the steps beneath their feet creaking slightly. The air carried the faint smell of mildew, and every sound seemed amplified by the silence around them.

The plan was simple: make it to the 8th floor, check for survivors, and gather any supplies they could find—anything that might last them a week. A week, Richard had assured them, was all they needed. But as Buck trailed behind, his sharp eyes watching Richard’s every move, it was clear he wasn’t sold on the businessman’s promises. His grip on the shotgun tightened, his distrust palpable.

Behind the men, the women stayed close to the children. Allison held Angela and Ben near, her voice low but firm as she leaned down to address them.

“Alright... no matter what, you stay in front of me,” she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Never go past the men.” Her eyes flicked to Timothy, who walked a few steps ahead, offering her a brief nod of understanding.

Angela did her best to put on a brave face, though her trembling hands betrayed her. Ben, however, clung tightly to his mother’s arm, his small body trembling with every step. His wide, frightened eyes darted around the stairwell, taking in every shadow and creak.

The group knew time wasn’t on their side. Every moment spent waiting or hesitating only made things more dangerous. But fear was a heavy weight to carry, and the stairwell seemed to stretch on forever.

"Hold my hand, Ben," Angela said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to calm her younger brother. A sad smile tugged at her lips, an attempt to soothe his fear even as her own hands trembled.

In that fleeting moment, Ben remembered how much he loved his sister—not the version of Angela who had ignored him for months, dismissing him like a pesky little brother, but the sister who cared deeply, spent time with him, and always ensured he was okay. The warmth of her hand in his felt reassuring, a tether to the life they once had.

Allison, walking just behind them, didn’t notice the exchange. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit hallway, her mind racing as she scanned for shadows, for movement, for any hint of the lurking danger that could be around any corner.

"Alright... we knock on the doors, check inside, and grab as many supplies as we can find. If anyone's left here, we bring them with us," Jackson said in a low but firm voice, nodding to the group.

Richard tensed slightly, his jaw tightening. It was clear he wasn’t thrilled about someone else taking charge, especially someone he'd only just met. Still, Jackson carried himself with the kind of confidence that made it hard to argue. It was as if he’d been preparing for this moment long before it came, and Richard couldn’t help but feel a twinge of suspicion.

Had some people known this was coming? The thought nagged at him. He remembered how some of the higher-ups at his company had taken extended vacations over the past month, their absences uncharacteristic. He had brushed it off as coincidence at the time, but now? Now he wasn’t so sure.

Richard shook the thought away, focusing on the present as Jackson pushed open the stairwell door. Behind him, Andrew muttered uneasily.

"I don't think this is a great idea... What if the dead are up here? Some of these people were sick before. We’ve got enough supplies; why risk it?" Andrew’s voice was tinged with frustration as he glanced back at the families huddled behind them.

He hoped Timothy would back him up, but Timothy’s expression was unreadable. His focus seemed entirely on the bat in his hands, gripping it tightly as if preparing for the worst.

“Allison,” Timothy said, his tone calm but firm, “stay with the kids at the end of the hallway. Buck, you guard them with your life.”

It wasn’t lost on anyone how much trust Timothy was placing in a man they barely knew, a man still reeking of alcohol from the night before. Buck simply leaned against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Alright, that works with me,” Buck muttered. His thoughts drifted to his family back home in Oklahoma—a quiet little town, probably untouched by the chaos gripping the cities. He pictured them, worried sick about him, but then shook his head.

“Worried about me... yeah, right,” he muttered under his breath, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Bet they’ve got their own problems to deal with right now.”

He shivered at the thought, biting his lip. As much as he wanted to believe they were safe, he knew better. For now, sticking with this group was his best chance at survival, even if it meant swallowing his pride.

Nearby, Julie kept a close eye on her son. “Jordan,” she said sharply, her tone carrying a hint of warning. “Now is not the time to do anything stupid. Let the men handle this.”

Jordan opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it. He knew better than to argue. The previous night’s dreams still lingered in his mind, vivid and haunting, sapping any trace of his usual bravado.

“I won’t, Mom,” he said quietly, holding out his pinkie. “I promise.”

Julie hesitated, then smiled faintly as she hooked her pinkie around his. Despite the gravity of their situation, the small gesture felt grounding, a reminder of simpler times. She ruffled his hair gently, something he’d usually complain about, but this time he didn’t seem to mind.

Jordan’s gaze followed his father as Andrew moved toward one of the first doors, his shoulders squared as if bracing himself for battle. “Please be careful, Dad,” Jordan whispered to himself, his chest tightening with worry.

He wanted to shout something, to say he loved him, but the words caught in his throat. Somehow, saying it out loud felt like tempting fate. So instead, he stood there, silent, as his father disappeared into the room.

"Can I hold your hand too, Angela?" Tyler asked, his voice cracking slightly, his fear evident. Angela glanced at the boy, caught off guard by the question.

Her first instinct was to dismiss him—he wasn’t her brother, after all, and she barely knew him. But the look on his face stopped her. Tyler’s wide, tear-filled eyes mirrored the same fear Ben had shown only moments ago. She sighed and nodded.

"Sure... go ahead," she said, extending her hand. Tyler latched on quickly, his grip tighter than she’d expected. At first, Angela felt a twinge of discomfort. She wasn’t used to holding hands with strangers, especially not boys. But as the seconds passed, she began to relax, realizing how much the small gesture seemed to comfort him.

"So... how did you get into this situation?" she asked, her voice quiet as she glanced down the hallway. The adults were busy searching the rooms, their voices muffled behind the closed doors. Angela just wanted to break the heavy silence between them, even if she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Tyler hesitated, his brow furrowing as he looked at their joined hands. "Well, my mom kind of... went a little crazy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "So my dad picked me up from my friend’s house. We were supposed to stay here until my mom got better... but then all this happened."

Angela felt a shiver run down her spine. His story hit closer to home than she wanted to admit. It made her think of Evan, of how easily everything could fall apart. She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. Her father’s words from the night before echoed in her mind: Hold your family close. You never know when it’ll be the last time.

Tyler’s small hand trembled in hers, and she tightened her grip slightly, hoping to reassure him. She was about to say something comforting when Jordan’s voice cut through the silence, bringing her back to reality.

"Your mom's dead then," he said flatly. His tone wasn’t cruel or mocking, but eerily calm, as if he were simply stating a fact.

Angela turned to him, her jaw tightening. Jordan’s face was blank, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. He didn’t seem to realize how his words might have sounded—or maybe he just didn’t care. Tyler flinched, his eyes darting to Angela for reassurance.

"Jordan!" Angela snapped, glaring at him. "You can’t just say stuff like that!"

Jordan shrugged, his gaze distant as he leaned against the wall. "It’s true, though," he muttered. "People don’t just get better from stuff like this."

Angela opened her mouth to argue, but no words came. Deep down, she feared Jordan might be right.

Tyler didn’t want to hear what Jordan had said. The words lingered in his mind, heavy and sharp, cutting deeper than he thought possible. Though Jordan was younger than him, his bluntness carried a cruel weight. Tyler’s face crumpled, his emotions spilling over as tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to hold them back, but it was no use—soon he was quietly sobbing.

The sound drew the attention of everyone nearby. Buck, leaning against the wall, shook his head in frustration and let out a loud sigh. His voice carried down the hallway, sharp and irritated.

"Jackson! Can you control your son a little bit?" he barked, his tone echoing far too loudly in the stillness. The women flinched, their eyes darting nervously down the corridor.

"Quiet, Buck," Allison hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re going to bring them right to us."

Buck gave her a dismissive glance but said nothing more, his jaw tightening. The silence lingered for a moment before Julie, clearly upset, turned her attention to Jordan. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder, her grip enough to make him flinch.

"Jordan," she said, her voice sharp with reprimand, "what did we tell you about leaving others alone?"

Without waiting for an answer, she pinched his arm just enough to make him wince, ensuring his focus was entirely on her. Jordan’s face twisted in annoyance, but he didn’t dare pull away. Instead, he nodded begrudgingly, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"Yeah, yeah... sorry," he muttered, though there wasn’t much sincerity in his tone. His eyes flicked toward Tyler, still crying softly. "I’m just telling him the truth... anyone who got sick from this is going to die."

Jordan’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried just enough for Tyler to hear. The older boy’s sobs grew quieter, but his trembling didn’t stop. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white as he tried to convince himself that Jordan’s words weren’t true.

Angela stepped in, her voice firm but calm as she addressed her brother. "Jordan, that’s enough. You’re not helping." She glared at him until he looked away, muttering something under his breath.

Tyler, still holding Angela’s hand, gripped it tighter. His tears slowed, but his shoulders continued to shake. Angela glanced at him, her expression softening. "Don’t listen to him," she said gently. "He doesn’t know everything."

Her words, though simple, seemed to provide Tyler with a sliver of comfort. He sniffled and nodded, though the fear in his eyes remained.

Tyler felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He couldn’t believe he’d let a little kid’s words reduce him to tears. Swallowing hard, he wiped at his face, smearing the dampness away with trembling hands. He forced himself to take a deep breath and tried to pull together what little strength he had left.

"Thanks, Angela," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He glanced up at her with a small, grateful nod. Angela returned his words with a sad, fleeting smile, her eyes still clouded with concern.

She turned her gaze back down the hallway, where the men were now emerging from the farthest rooms, near the stairwell. Richard was the first to step out, his shoulders tense and his face set in a look of quiet frustration. He lingered by the doorway for a moment, his hand resting on the frame, as if debating whether to go off on his own.

The thought had crossed his mind more than once. He hated not being the one in charge. The group deferring to Jackson grated on him, but he knew better than to let his ego take over. He needed these people—for now, at least. The world outside was too dangerous to navigate alone. He sighed heavily and finally moved to rejoin the others, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

The other men emerged behind him, their expressions just as weary. Timothy looked back at the empty rooms with a resigned shake of his head, while Andrew seemed lost in thought, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Well... this floor's cleared," Richard announced, his voice tinged with irritation. "A lot less productive than the last one. All I found was an old Android phone and some cough drops." He held up the phone briefly before shoving it into his pocket, shaking his head in frustration.

Timothy, leaning on his bat, nodded in agreement. "Yeah... nobody on this floor either," he said. His tone was measured, but there was a subtle edge of disappointment. "I guess the other group must have gotten to anyone here before us, and they probably scavenged most of the supplies too."

Andrew joined them, his expression grim as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Well," he said, letting out a heavy breath, "if the next floor’s the same, I say we take whatever we can and get the hell out of here." He nodded toward the group, his words carrying the weight of both practicality and desperation.

The kids stood huddled nearby, watching the adults with wide eyes. Their young minds didn’t fully grasp the gravity of the conversation, but they could sense the tension. Angela kept a protective arm around Ben, while Tyler stared at the floor, lost in thought.

Jackson, standing near the back, frowned. The idea of moving on without gathering enough supplies didn’t sit well with him. He stepped forward, his brow furrowed as he addressed the others.

"Are we sure that’s a great idea?" he asked, his voice calm but firm. "We need enough food and water to last at least a week. If we leave without securing that, we’re just setting ourselves up for trouble later."

The adults exchanged uneasy glances. Jackson’s words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the precariousness of their situation.

"I’ve got supplies at my place by the beach," Richard said firmly, his voice carrying a note of determination. "They’ll last us much longer than anything we’ll scrape together here. Let’s just get there first. Then, we’ll head to Pilot Mountain, and we’ll be okay." He glanced around the group, his eyes lingering on each face as if trying to reassure them—or himself.

Jackson, standing with his arms crossed, seemed to relax slightly. He gave a faint nod, his face still etched with weariness. However, Buck didn’t look convinced. He shook his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Uh... no," Buck said, his tone dismissive. "I think once we get the hell out of here, I’m hitting the long highway and heading back home." His voice carried a hint of finality, like someone who had already made up his mind and didn’t care what anyone else thought.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. No one voiced any objections, but it was clear that Buck’s decision didn’t bother anyone. If anything, most of them seemed relieved that he might go his own way. The tension in the air remained thick, each person lost in their own thoughts as they began tidying up their bags.

Timothy broke the silence, his voice steady but firm. "Alright. We go down to the last floor below us, and then we head to the first floor. We need to get out of here before it gets dark." His words carried an edge of urgency, and his eyes met Allison’s as he spoke.

Allison nodded in agreement, her expression resolute. Right now, helping others was the last thing on her mind. Her focus was entirely on her family—on ensuring their survival. Once they were safe, maybe then she’d allow herself to think about anything beyond that.

"Alright then," Jackson said, his gaze shifting to the stairwell door. "Let’s get to it." He stepped forward, his posture tense but purposeful.

"We should be able to get out of here in less than 30 minutes if we’re lucky," Richard muttered, though his tone betrayed his lack of faith in luck. His eyes darted to the hallway behind them, as if half-expecting something to leap out from the shadows.

Jackson took the lead, moving cautiously but deliberately. His head turned side to side, his sharp eyes scanning for any signs of danger. The group followed closely, the weight of their footsteps echoing faintly in the stairwell. Every creak of the steps, every shuffle of movement, seemed amplified in the suffocating quiet.

Finally, after about a minute of tense silence, they reached the door that led to the 7th floor. The number was etched into the metal in faded, peeling paint. Jackson paused, his hand hovering just above the door handle.

He glanced back at the group, his expression serious. "Alright," he said quietly, "we don’t know what happened to the other group... so stay cautious. Let’s do this."

With one final nod, Jackson pushed the door open, the faint creak of the hinges sounding like a scream in the silence.

As the door opened, Jackson instinctively stepped back, his breath catching in his throat. From somewhere beyond the dimly lit hallway, faint voices echoed. The cadence was unmistakable—people were talking. But who? Or worse... what?

Jackson's stomach churned as a shiver ran down his spine. He had seen footage online of the infected mimicking human speech before attacking, their eerie groans and fragmented words a mockery of the living. He tightened his grip on the door, unsure if he wanted to find out what—or who—was making the noise.

The door began to swing closed, and Jackson didn’t stop it. Instead, he stood there, frozen in place, his eyes staring blankly ahead.

“What are you doing? Are we going or not?” Timothy’s voice broke the tension, laced with both confusion and frustration.

Jackson didn’t respond immediately. He remained still, his expression blank. His chest rose and fell heavily, as though he was forcing himself to stay grounded. Timothy exchanged a glance with Richard, the tension thick between them.

Finally, Jackson blinked, shaking himself from his stupor. "There’s something down there," he said, his voice low and uneasy. "I can hear talking. People... talking."

The group collectively stepped back, their unease palpable. The very idea of encountering the dead that could talk, that could mimic life, sent a wave of fear through everyone. Jackson glanced back at his son, noting how tightly Tyler clung to Angela's hand. The sight momentarily softened him, a small smile creeping onto his face. But the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, his focus snapping back to the door.

Without warning, Buck pushed his way forward, his frustration evident. He shoved past the others, heading straight for the door.

"If there are people talking, then that means they’re alive!" Buck growled, his tone sharp with impatience. "What the hell are you all thinking, just standing here?"

“Wait—” Richard called, reaching out to stop him, but Buck was already through the door, his determination unwavering.

The door slammed shut behind him with a hollow thud, leaving the group momentarily stunned. The sound of Buck’s heavy boots echoed down the hallway, each step growing fainter.

Julie, her voice trembling slightly, broke the silence. "Well? Are we just going to let him go, or are we going to help him?" She tilted her head, her piercing gaze challenging the men to make a decision.

Richard, Andrew, and Jackson exchanged glances, their expressions conflicted. None of them wanted to venture further into danger if they could avoid it. But Timothy’s resolve broke through their hesitation.

"Yes," he said firmly. "We’re going. Kids, you stay behind, just like before." He turned to Allison, who gave him a silent nod of approval, her hands already reaching to guide Angela and Ben to safety.

Timothy pushed open the door, the tension among the group almost palpable. With two of their own now in the hallway, the rest had no choice but to follow. Jackson stayed behind with the children, his fatherly instincts compelling him to remain close to them.

The moment the group entered the hallway, the voices became clearer. The faint murmur transformed into distinct words, carried on the stale, sterile air. A young woman’s voice rang out, sharp and reprimanding, cutting through the eerie quiet.

“Christ! You scared the hell out of all of us! What were you thinking?”

The voice struck a chord of familiarity. Timothy's brow furrowed in recognition as he turned to Andrew. It was Geneva—the darker-skinned cheerleader they had seen before. Her tone was filled with fear and irritation, and it was clear she wasn’t speaking to the group.

“Alright,” Andrew said, turning to the kids. His voice was steady but stern. “You stay here until we figure out what’s going on. Do not move.”

Angela and Ben nodded quickly, their wide eyes betraying their fear. Tyler shuffled closer to Angela, gripping her hand even tighter.

As the adults began to move cautiously down the hallway toward the source of the voices, the oppressive silence pressed down on them, broken only by the occasional shuffle of their feet and the faint murmur of Geneva’s voice ahead.

As Timothy and Andrew approached the group, Timothy’s eyes swept across the unfamiliar faces. Buck stood in the center, gesturing animatedly as he explained the situation to the young adults who had gathered here.

None of them were children, that much was clear. They all looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, as if they had been plucked straight from a college dorm or party.

“So... I assume these are the people that went down without us,” Andrew muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with disdain. “Guess they didn’t last very long.” He rolled his eyes, his skepticism evident as he glanced between them.

“No... If you’re talking about Josh, Katherine, and the others... They left a bit ago,” said a young Japanese man, his slight frame and wide eyes giving him an almost boyish appearance. He hesitated, glancing nervously at the others before continuing. “We all stayed back for the sick man... who... well...” His voice trailed off as his words hung heavily in the air.

A sudden screech pierced the tense atmosphere, making everyone flinch. The noise echoed down the hallway, drawing all eyes toward the bathroom door at the far end. It rattled slightly as if something inside had shifted, and an oppressive silence followed.

“Great... So you couldn’t figure out that the sick man had been bitten?” Richard snapped, his frustration spilling over. He crossed his arms, glaring at the group as if their choice to stay behind had personally inconvenienced him. “You stayed with someone clearly dying, who—what a shocker—turned into one of those things?”

Hannah, one of the cheerleaders, stepped forward, her voice defensive but tinged with regret. “Oh, we knew,” she admitted, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. “He asked us to lock him up... and we did. But he broke through that.” Her gaze flicked toward the bathroom door, now an ominous presence at the end of the hallway.

Before anyone could respond, the bathroom door creaked open. The sound was slow and deliberate, sending chills down the spines of everyone present. Instinctively, they all stepped back, weapons tightening in their grips.

An older Indian man stumbled out of the bathroom, his shoulders hunched and his breathing heavy. His deep brown eyes darted around the room, wide with fear. His face was lined with wrinkles, and his clothes hung loose on his frail frame, stained with sweat and small patches of blood.

“I thought you said there was a sick person inside,” Timothy said, his brows furrowing as he eyed the man. Confusion mixed with caution as he gripped his bat tighter, ready for anything.

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The old man raised his trembling hands, his voice quivering as he spoke with a thick Indian accent. "Whoah good sir! I am not sick! I was just!" He began to say, but quickly stopped.

Murali stood frozen, his breaths shallow as the echo of the zombie’s gurgling filled the tense silence. The noise was unnatural, wet and guttural, sending chills down the spines of everyone in the room. The group turned to the bathroom door, each person’s expression painted with dread.

"Uh... That’s not good..." muttered Buck, already stepping toward the door. His hand hovered over the handle, unsure if he should slam it shut or prepare for an attack.

Without warning, the door burst open. The sick man-turned-zombie launched itself out of the confined space with unnatural speed. Its hollow eyes burned with a primal hunger as it slammed Buck to the floor in one fluid motion. Buck grunted in surprise as the creature pinned him, its teeth snapping mere inches from his face.

"Get it off!" Buck roared, struggling beneath its weight.

The zombie’s head twisted unnaturally as it turned its gaze toward Murali, the one it remembered trying to end its existence. With a snarl, it lunged toward the old man, but before it could reach him, Timothy swung his bat with all his strength. The blow struck the back of the zombie’s head, sending it sprawling to the floor with a sickening thud.

The creature let out a shriek so piercing it echoed through the halls, bouncing off the walls like a horrifying alarm. A chorus of answering wails erupted outside, each one chilling and relentless. The sound was deafening, signaling that the horde was now aware of them.

“Great,” Buck muttered bitterly, scrambling to his feet. “Looks like we’ve called on the entire goddamn army. Getting outta here’s gonna be a real picnic now.”

Before anyone could respond, the creature on the floor twitched, its limbs convulsing grotesquely as it pulled itself upright with unnatural speed. Its sunken eyes locked on Ashton and Ashley. This time, there was nothing in its path to stop it.

It charged.

Ashton barely had time to react. He shoved Ashley behind him and took the full force of the zombie’s impact. The two crashed to the ground, the creature’s claws tearing into Ashton’s arms as he desperately tried to push it back.

“No! Ashton! No!” Ashley’s scream cut through the chaos as she reached out for her husband, tears streaming down her face.

The group surged forward to help, but a deafening BANG froze them in their tracks. The sound reverberated through the hallway, silencing even the zombie’s frenzied snarls. Time seemed to slow as the creature slumped lifelessly to the floor, its head jerking violently from the impact of the bullet.

Everyone turned toward the source of the shot. At first, they expected to see Buck holding his shotgun, but the weapon still lay discarded on the ground. Instead, their eyes fell on Richard. He stood a few paces away, a grim expression etched onto his face, his arm still extended with the pistol aimed at where the zombie had been.

Smoke curled lazily from the barrel of the gun as Richard lowered it to his side. His jaw was set, his gaze unreadable, but there was no mistaking the weight of the moment. The group stared in stunned silence, each person grappling with the reality of what had just happened.

Buck’s voice broke the stillness. “Guess you do have it in you after all, Richie.”

Richard didn’t respond. He holstered the pistol with a practiced motion and turned his back to the group, staring down the hallway. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air as the chapter closed with the distant echo of approaching shrieks.

Richard had used to fire guns with his brother when he was younger. Back then, it was nothing serious—target practice on cans or old junk in the backyard. But even with that experience, this felt different. The weight of the pistol in his hand, the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air, and the metallic tang of blood pooling on the floor—it was almost too much to process.

He stared at the fallen creature, its body still twitching faintly. He let out a slow, unsteady breath, slipping the pistol back into his pocket and making sure the safety was on. He couldn’t shake the thought that the shot had been pure luck. A few inches off, and it could’ve been someone else lying on the ground.

The room remained silent, the tension thick enough to cut through. Finally, Buck broke the stillness, his voice booming. "Good shooting, Business Man! More like trained assassin, huh?" He walked over, clapping Richard on the shoulder.

Richard flinched slightly but forced a small, uneasy smile. "I used to shoot with my brother," he said simply, his voice calm but distant. "Just... muscle memory. Nothing special."

Across the room, Ashton was slumped against the wall, his skin pale and clammy. Ashley clung to him, her tear-streaked face twisted in anguish. "My God! He’s been bitten! He’s seriously injured! Somebody help him!" she cried out, her voice trembling as her eyes darted desperately around the group.

Murali stepped forward, his face heavy with regret. "Madam... I am not a doctor," he said, his thick accent soft but apologetic. "I wish I could help. I have some herbs in my car, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Ashley’s sobs grew louder as she held Ashton tighter. "No! There has to be something you can do! Please!" she pleaded, her voice cracking.

"Ma'am... When we get to the cars... Or find supplies... We will help your husband... But for now... We need to keep moving..." Jackson said, his voice even but laden with a grim undertone as his gaze lingered on the couple.

Everyone in the group exchanged uneasy glances. They all knew exactly what Jackson’s words implied. While Ashley appeared perfectly healthy, they all understood her husband’s fate was sealed. Though none of them said it aloud, the dread was palpable.

Buck, however, didn’t have the patience for such diplomacy. He took a step forward, his weathered hands gripping his shotgun tightly, and leveled it against Ashton’s chest. His stern voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Hell no! We can't have this man wandering around! That last sick bastard nearly killed us all! I’m not taking that risk again—we deal with him now!" His finger hovered just over the trigger, his eyes flickering with a mix of nerves and resolve.

Ashley gasped and instinctively stepped between her husband and the barrel. "No! This is my husband! I will not let you shoot him!" she cried, her voice raw with emotion. Her trembling hands pressed against Buck’s weapon, deflecting it away from Ashton.

Buck scowled, lowering the shotgun slightly but keeping a wary eye on the couple.

"Bucky boy," Yoshimoto interjected, his voice steady yet clearly irritated. "I think you need to relax. The man’s not dead yet, and we need every hand we can get to make it to the cars safely. Shooting him now helps no one." His sharp gaze met Buck’s, unflinching.

The room fell into an icy silence, only broken by Buck’s derisive laugh as he spat on the floor. "Watch your tone, Ching Chow," he sneered, his words dripping with venom. "I’ll send you so far past hell you’ll end up back in your precious Chinatown."

"I'm Japanese," Yoshimoto snapped through gritted teeth. His fists clenched tightly, and though he knew better than to escalate the situation, Buck’s ignorance and disrespect struck a deep nerve.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Yoshi," Buck retorted with a mocking grin. "Maybe if you toss me some magic mushrooms, we’ll get out of here a little faster."

Yoshimoto’s face reddened with anger, but he refused to back down. Instead, he squared his shoulders and fired back. "You might think you’re some big tough guy, but you’re nothing more than a lonely drunk who thinks he’s invincible. Maybe this world is perfect for you—a man with nothing left to lose." His tone was sharp, each word a calculated strike.

Buck’s mocking demeanor faltered. His smile disappeared as he stepped closer, jabbing a finger in Yoshimoto’s direction. "You don’t know a damn thing about me, Sushi Boy!" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Before the tension could boil over, Richard raised his voice, cutting through their argument like a whip. "Enough!" he barked, his authoritative tone silencing both men. "We’re wasting time we don’t have arguing like children. Focus up—we need to get out of here alive."

The group fell silent, their petty squabbles forgotten in the weight of Richard’s words. He turned his attention to Andrew, silently urging him to back him up. The towering man stepped forward, his imposing presence enough to make Buck take a step back.

"Alright, alright," Buck muttered, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine. Let’s just get this over with."

"Aww, come on! We were enjoying the drama!" Hannah quipped, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she feigned a yawn.

Geneva chuckled, nudging her friend. "You’re terrible," she said, shaking her head. But even their lighthearted banter couldn’t shake the unease that hung heavy in the air.

---

You're absolutely right. Let me fix that and adjust accordingly. Here's the corrected version:

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of the hallway, much further from where the commotion had taken place, the children huddled together, their small frames trembling with fear from the gunshot that had echoed through the floor.

"Stay down! Stay down!" Allison whispered urgently, her voice trembling as she pushed Angela and Ben down behind a low piece of furniture. Julie crouched next to her, her eyes darting around the dimly lit corridor, searching for any sign of danger. Beside them, Jordan and Tyler stayed close, their faces pale, their breaths shallow as they clung to each other for reassurance.

Allison's gaze flicked toward the distant door where the sound had come from, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios. She tightened her grip on Ben’s shoulder, her knuckles white. "Don’t make a sound," she whispered to all the children, her tone edged with both fear and determination.

Jordan’s voice broke the tense silence, his usual bravado now replaced with unease. "Do you think they’re okay? Dad? Uncle Tim?" he asked, his words hesitant, almost a whisper. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest, glancing at Julie for answers.

Julie’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She had no answers, no reassurances to offer. Instead, she turned to Allison, her expression tense and uncertain. "Do you think I should go check? See what’s going on?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Allison glanced at her, torn between the instinct to protect the children and the gnawing worry for the men who had stayed behind. After a moment, she shook her head firmly. "No... We stay here. Let them handle it. It was just one shot... Maybe it was an accident," she said, though her own voice wavered with doubt.

The whispers from the distant room grew louder, faint but distinct enough to make the tension in the hallway unbearable. Tyler huddled close to Angela, his small hands gripping hers tightly for comfort. "Do you think they’re fighting in there?" he asked, his voice soft and quivering.

Angela, though just as scared, tried her best to stay strong for the younger kids. She gave Tyler’s hand a reassuring squeeze. "I don’t know, but they’ll figure it out. We just need to stay quiet and let the grown-ups handle it," she said, her voice shaking slightly but carrying an undertone of resolve.

The oppressive silence returned, broken only by the faint whispers and the occasional creak of the building settling. Ben clung to Allison’s arm, his eyes wide and glistening. "Mom... do you think Dad’s okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Allison’s heart ached at the sight of her son’s fear. She forced herself to smile softly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "He’s okay, sweetheart. He’s strong, and so are the others. They’ll be back soon," she said, her voice gentle but strained. She hoped her words would soothe him, even if she wasn’t sure she believed them herself.

Julie kept her eyes on the hallway, her muscles taut and ready to spring into action if needed. "What if it wasn’t just one of them? What if..." she began, but quickly cut herself off, shaking her head as though to dispel the thought.

"We can’t think like that," Allison said firmly, though her voice was still hushed. "We stick together, and we wait. That’s all we can do right now."

The children nodded, though the unease in their expressions didn’t waver. Angela pulled Ben closer, her arm protectively wrapped around him. Jordan and Tyler sat huddled nearby, their faces etched with the kind of fear that no child should ever have to endure.

The whispers from the other side of the hallway continued, faint but steady, leaving the group in a tense, uncertain silence. Every second felt like an eternity as they waited, hoping for a sign that the worst hadn’t already come to pass.