Jackson squinted through the narrow cracks of the door, his breath shallow as his eyes scanned the dimly lit lobby beyond. Shadows of the dead stood motionless like statues, their rotted forms frozen in unnerving stillness. Tyler’s small voice whispered from behind him, barely more than a murmur but loud enough to send a shiver crawling up Jackson’s spine.

“Dad... What if they see us?” Tyler asked, his voice trembling with the weight of his fear.

Jackson froze, his hands steadying against the doorframe. He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to stay calm. The sound of his son's fear was almost enough to break him. He let out a slow, measured breath before turning and gently closing the door behind him, careful to avoid even the slightest noise. The faint click of the latch seemed deafening in the oppressive silence, but, mercifully, the dead remained still.

“They won’t see you, Tyler,” Jackson whispered, his voice low but firm, trying to project a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “You’ll be safe. Andrew will take care of you.”

He glanced toward the big man, Andrew, who stood further back, one large hand resting protectively on his own son’s shoulder. Though Andrew’s face was stern, his eyes betrayed a softness as he watched Jordan, silently reassuring him. Andrew gave a small nod in Jackson’s direction, his expression grave. They had discussed this plan in whispers and half-breathed words, and though it was far from ideal, it was the only one they had. Andrew had promised to keep Tyler safe, and Jackson had no choice but to trust him.

“Yeah... I hope so,” Tyler murmured, glancing up at Andrew. The boy’s wide, uncertain eyes reflected the turmoil inside him. He wanted to trust the man—he really did—but fear clung to him like a shadow. He was surrounded by strangers in this nightmare, and the father he barely knew felt just as unfamiliar as the horrors beyond the door.

Richard’s voice cut through the tense quiet, breaking Jackson’s thoughts like the crack of a whip. “Alright, Jackson. Let’s do this.”

Richard was the only one standing upright, his figure tense and ready. His sharp eyes flicked between the others, his impatience practically radiating off him. Unlike the rest of the group, who huddled close to the walls or clung to one another for comfort, Richard seemed unshakable. But Jackson knew better. That façade of control was as fragile as the barrier between them and the dead.

Richard’s gaze lingered briefly on Buck, who sat slouched against the wall, his head bowed low. The brash, impulsive man from earlier seemed deflated, as though the weight of the situation had finally crushed whatever bravado he once had. Richard’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, refusing to let himself dwell on it.

Jackson straightened, his heart pounding as he reached out and clapped Richard’s shoulder. The weight of the moment pressed down on them both.

“Let’s make it count,” Jackson said, his voice steady but low. His eyes locked with Richard’s, a silent understanding passing between them.

The dead wouldn’t stay oblivious for long.

Richard gave a faint smirk, clapping Jackson on the shoulder in return. “Yes... Let’s do this!” he said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. But inside, his stomach churned. Fear clawed at him, a nagging, persistent beast he couldn’t shake.

He always fancied himself an alpha—a leader in any room. Yet here, surrounded by strangers and their terrified families, he felt like an imposter. The weight of survival pressed down on him in ways no corporate negotiation ever could. This wasn’t a battle of wits or numbers. This was life and death.

Richard shoved those thoughts aside, focusing on the present. He noticed Jackson watching him, the older man’s eyes sharp and calculating, assessing Richard as though trying to gauge his resolve.

“Alright,” Jackson began, his voice steady but low. “I see a narrow path we can take. If we’re fast enough, we can make it. But we have to move at the same time.”

Richard gave a curt nod. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn’t help but admire Jackson’s calm under pressure. The man spoke with clarity, his plan simple but sound. Jackson wasn’t a corporate strategist or a professional leader, but right now, he carried himself like one.

“Ready when you are,” Richard said, tightening the bloodstained straps of the backpack slung over his shoulders. He tried not to think about the crimson streaks or how the bag’s previous owner had met their end. It was just another grim reminder of the world they were now trapped in.

Jackson returned the nod. “Alright... Let’s do this,” he said, gripping the door handle. He eased the door open with deliberate care, cringing as it groaned faintly on its hinges. Mercifully, the sound didn’t seem to stir the dead.

Beyond the threshold, the lobby stretched out before them, bathed in eerie silence. The dead stood scattered across the space like grotesque mannequins, their movements sluggish, almost nonexistent. It was as if they were dormant, waiting for something to rouse them from their trance.

Jackson didn’t waste the opportunity. Without hesitation, he bolted into a sprint, his steps surprisingly quiet against the cold tiles of the floor.

Richard froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the suddenness of it all. But Jackson’s words echoed in his mind, snapping him into action. He gritted his teeth and took off after him, his long strides quickly closing the distance between them.

The stale, metallic scent of decay filled the air as they ran, the oppressive atmosphere pressing in on them from all sides. Jackson kept his eyes locked on the narrow pathway ahead, weaving through overturned furniture and scattered debris.

As the stairwell door clicked shut behind them, the sound seemed to pierce the silence like a blade. The dead turned, their lifeless eyes locking onto the two men sprinting through the lobby.

“They see us!” Richard hissed through clenched teeth, his heart pounding in his chest.

Jackson didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The growing chorus of guttural groans and the sound of shuffling feet told him everything he needed to know.

This was it.

As the men sprinted through the lobby, their heavy footsteps echoed against the walls, mixing with the groans and guttural sounds of the dead. The zombies, previously scattered in aimless stances, immediately snapped into motion. It was as if the men's sudden appearance had flipped a switch, igniting a ravenous frenzy. The undead began to converge, shambling at first but quickly transitioning into full sprints, their decaying forms moving unnaturally fast.

"Well, it looks like the dead already broke the glass for us," Richard muttered, his voice tinged with irony as he and Jackson barreled through the shattered remains of the hotel's front entrance. The jagged edges of the glass caught faint glimmers of light as they passed, an eerie reminder of how little stood between them and the chaos outside.

The fresh air hit them like a slap, but there was no time to appreciate it. The cars and the truck sat across the lot, silent and lifeless, like beacons of salvation they couldn't yet claim. Richard, younger and in far better shape, began to pull ahead of Jackson, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.

His hand instinctively reached into his pocket, fumbling for the car keys. As he neared his vehicle, he pressed the unlock button, hearing the satisfying but muted beep of confirmation. It should have been enough. But nerves got the better of him, and his thumb jabbed the button a second time.

The car emitted a much louder beep this time, shattering the relative quiet of the street like a gunshot.

Richard froze for a split second, realizing the enormity of his mistake. From the shadows of the surrounding buildings and distant alleys, zombies that had previously been out of sight turned their decaying heads toward the sound. Their hollow, milky eyes locked onto him with an unsettling intensity.

"Shit! Shit!" Richard hissed under his breath, breaking into an even faster sprint toward his car.

Meanwhile, Jackson kept his focus on his truck. The large vehicle loomed ahead, a silent promise of safety. He reached it, unlocked it with a single press, and flung the door open. His mind was racing, but he forced himself to stay calm, methodically checking for anything out of place inside.

As Richard finally reached his car, he threw himself into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. The satisfying click of the locks engaged, but it did little to quell his panic. He could already see the dead surging toward him, their grotesque forms illuminated by the dim parking lot lights.

"Come on, come on," Richard muttered, fumbling with the keys. He jammed them into the ignition, twisting until the car roared to life.

"A solar-charged car... They'll all be wishing they had one of these in a few months," he muttered under his breath, a weak attempt at humor to distract himself from the dread curling in his chest. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

He could see Jackson in the distance, climbing into his truck with the same urgency. The undead were splitting their attention now. While most of them veered toward the rumble of the truck's engine, a significant number were still honing in on Richard’s car. He swallowed hard, steeling himself for what was to come.

---

Jackson hopped inside the truck, his breath quick and shallow as he heard the weak puff of Richard's car starting up over the groans and moans of the dead. His hands trembled slightly as he slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the chaos. He made sure it was sealed tight—every second of breathing room was precious.

The truck was tough, built for the kind of rugged endurance Jackson had relied on many times before. It could handle the relentless pounding of the dead, but he knew it wouldn’t last forever. The clock was ticking.

The first slam against the truck startled him, and Jackson jumped, muttering a curse under his breath. He shoved the key into the ignition, turning it with a sharp twist. The engine roared to life, and a rare grin spread across his face.

"Sweet! We are out of here, baby!" he said to himself, slamming on the brake as he scanned his surroundings for the clearest path out.

But his excitement was short-lived. As he adjusted to look out the back, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A man—covered in blood—was slumped in the passenger seat. Jackson’s heart skipped, and for a terrifying moment, he thought the figure was one of the dead.

Then the man groaned, shifting slightly. "Wha... where am I? Who are you?"

The man, darker-skinned with a broad, muscular frame, instinctively reached for his holster, only to realize his belt was gone. His movements were sluggish, his eyes bleary, and Jackson quickly pieced together what must have happened.

"You passed out in my truck last night, pal," Jackson said sharply, keeping one eye on the man and one on the growing horde outside. "Don’t have time to explain more than that."

The Lieutenant winced, rubbing his temple as he struggled to sit up straighter. He glanced at Jackson, then out the window, his groggy expression quickly hardening as he saw the swarm of dead surrounding them.

"You just let anyone sleep in your truck?" the Lieutenant muttered, his voice dry but laced with tension.

"Usually, no," Jackson shot back, gripping the wheel tightly as he maneuvered the truck out of the lot. His jaw clenched as he spotted Richard's car, the dead pounding relentlessly on its solar panels. He needed to draw them away, fast.

The truck rumbled forward, and Jackson gave a low laugh as the dead shifted focus, shambling after him instead. "Huh... maybe they’re not as smart as we thought."

The Lieutenant’s head snapped toward him, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. "No. They’re smarter," he said darkly. "They don’t use words, but they’re connected... somehow."

Jackson shivered at the eerie tone in the man’s voice. "Christ," he muttered under his breath, staring straight ahead. "We’re all dead, aren’t we?"

"No," the Lieutenant said, sitting up straighter. His voice carried a heavy weight of authority. "We’re not dead. Not yet."

Jackson spared him a sideways glance, his hands still white-knuckled on the wheel. "The hell are you doing getting comfortable in my truck, soldier? You don’t exactly look like you’re planning to stick around."

The Lieutenant shrugged, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Road ahead’s dangerous. And you don’t strike me as the type to toss someone out in the middle of it."

Jackson grumbled, knowing the man had a point. He turned a corner sharply, ensuring the dead stayed on his tail and away from the hotel.

"Maybe you don’t really know me, pal," Jackson muttered, his voice barely audible.

The Lieutenant leaned back, catching the words but choosing not to address them. Instead, he adjusted his posture and spoke again. "I’m a pretty good judge of character. Learned that serving overseas."

Jackson glanced at the bloodied badge on the man’s uniform. After a moment, he nodded slightly, his tone softening. "Sorry if I came off disrespectful... and thank you—for serving."

The Lieutenant’s features relaxed slightly, though the tension in his shoulders remained. "Don’t serve anymore," he admitted. He held up his comms device, a battered walkie-talkie that crackled faintly. "Heard enough on these to know the chain of command is gone."

Jackson swallowed hard, gripping the steering wheel tighter. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this man—this Lieutenant—knew far more about what was going on than anyone else he’d met.

For the first time, he wondered if following Richard's plan to head for the mountains was the right call.

---

"Well... it looks like the plan worked," Yoshimoto said, his voice carrying a spark of hope as the sound of the truck rumbled in the distance. His eyes lit up, a rare moment of relief washing over him as he glanced at the group.

The others seemed to share his optimism, their collective trust in Jackson solidified by the booming engine and the diminishing growls of the dead.

"If that's true, then that means we’re good to go, right?" Hannah said, her voice rising slightly as she stood, brushing off her jeans. She leaned against the wall, one arm draped protectively around Geneva.

"Not necessarily," Julie interjected, her tone measured and cautious. She gave Hannah a pointed look before turning to the rest of the group. "Richard went out there too… and who the hell knows what exactly is going on?"

Her words acted like a bucket of cold water, dousing the spark of hope. The group hesitated, their fleeting relief replaced by a renewed sense of unease.

Buck, however, seemed oddly calm—different from how he’d been hours ago. He stood straighter, his gaze steady as he looked directly at Geneva.

"No," Buck said firmly, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs. "I’m going out there first. And not to be greedy, but if there are any more of the dead still in this hotel, I’ll draw them out." He paused, scanning the group. "Who wants to come with me?"

His words hung in the air, met with a tense silence. The group exchanged uncertain glances, the weight of his question sinking in.

"I will come," Yoshimoto said suddenly, breaking the silence as he rose to his feet. His expression was resolute, though his hands trembled slightly as he spoke.

Buck raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. Given how he’d treated Yoshi earlier, he hadn’t expected the younger man to volunteer. After a moment, he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Alright then," Buck said, his tone softer. He glanced at the rest of the group, addressing them all. "Wish us the best of luck. I wish you all the same."

The kids huddled closer to their parents, their wide eyes filled with both fear and admiration.

"Thank you, Buck," Julie said, her voice warm as she stepped forward slightly. "I was wrong about you at first."

Buck chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah… and I guess I was wrong about myself," he replied, his tone carrying a hint of self-awareness.

He turned back to Yoshi, his expression becoming serious again. "Alright, Yoshi. You ready for this?"

Yoshimoto swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost audible as he nodded. "Yeah... ready as I’ll ever be."

They approached the door cautiously, their movements deliberate. Buck reached for the handle, but just as he was about to open it, Geneva’s voice rang out.

"Wait!"

Both men froze, turning to look at her. Geneva stepped forward, her face determined. "I would like to go with you!"

Her declaration stunned the group into silence. Even Yoshi blinked in surprise, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed her words.

"Geneva! What? Are you crazy?" Hannah exclaimed, her voice filled with disbelief. She grabbed Geneva’s arm, shaking her head vehemently. "You can’t go out there! It’s dangerous!"

Geneva pulled her arm free, her expression unwavering. "Hannah, I have to do this. We all need to do our part. I can’t just sit here and wait while everyone else takes risks."

"But—" Hannah started, but Geneva cut her off.

"No buts, Hannah," Geneva said firmly. "If we’re going to survive this, we need to stop hiding and start helping. It’s what real survivors do."

The conviction in her voice left Hannah momentarily speechless.

Buck studied Geneva for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, if you’re sure about this… but you follow my lead. Got it?"

Geneva nodded quickly. "Got it."

Hannah’s face fell, her frustration evident, but she didn’t stop her friend again. Instead, she stepped back, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Alright," Buck said, gripping the door handle once more. He glanced back at the group, his expression hardening. "We’ll make sure it’s safe. Stay put until we come back."

With that, he pushed the door open, the sound of the hinges creaking loudly in the tense silence. The three of them stepped out into the unknown, the door clicking shut behind them.

The remaining group huddled closer together, the weight of their absence settling heavily in the stairwell.

Just as the stairwell door creaked shut, Hannah darted forward, her breaths sharp and shallow. "Wait, Geneva!" she called out, her voice edged with desperation. She had no plan, no weapon, just an overwhelming instinct to stay close to her best friend.

Geneva, oblivious to Hannah’s sudden pursuit, turned to Buck and Yoshi with a smile that seemed almost out of place in the chaos. "Wow! Jackson really did a good job!" she said, her voice bright, though her steps faltered as she approached the shattered glass at the lobby entrance.

Hannah was just behind her, her sneakers slapping against the floor as she moved past the front desk. That was when it happened.

A decayed hand shot out from beneath the desk, skeletal fingers gripping Hannah's ankle with unnatural strength. She barely had time to react before she was yanked off her feet, her scream piercing the air.

"Ah! Help me!" Hannah’s shrill cry echoed through the empty lobby, cutting through the eerie silence. Geneva froze mid-step, her heart pounding in her chest as she turned toward the sound.

Behind her, Buck barely glanced back, his focus fixed on his old, beat-up car waiting just beyond the glass doors. "Keep moving," he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to push forward.

But Yoshi skidded to a halt, his head snapping around to locate the source of the scream. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the dead Sally clawing at Hannah’s leg, her bloodied mouth snapping hungrily as she tore into flesh.

"Geneva!" Yoshi shouted, panic lacing his voice as he darted toward Hannah. Geneva shook herself from her stupor, her body moving before her mind could process the sight.

Hannah thrashed wildly, her hands clawing at the floor as she screamed in agony. "Get it off me! Oh God, help me!"

Yoshimoto grabbed the bat Timothy had handed him earlier, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly. With a sharp cry, he swung it down with all his strength, the dull *thwack* of wood meeting decayed flesh reverberating through the lobby.

Sally's head snapped to the side from the impact, but the grotesque thing didn’t stop. Her milky, lifeless eyes locked onto Yoshi, her growl guttural and primal.

She lunged.

"Yoshi, watch out!" Geneva yelled, sprinting toward him. Her voice jolted Yoshi back into action, and he stumbled backward, raising the bat defensively.

Sally lunged again, her movements unnervingly fast. Geneva grabbed a shard of broken glass from the floor, her hands trembling as she positioned herself between Hannah and the relentless creature.

"Leave her alone!" Geneva screamed, plunging the jagged shard into Sally's back. The undead woman snarled, her body convulsing as she twisted to face Geneva.

The distraction was enough.

Yoshi swung again, this time aiming for the head. The bat connected with a sickening crunch, and Sally crumpled to the ground, motionless.

Geneva dropped the glass, her breaths ragged as she turned to Hannah. Blood was pooling beneath her friend’s leg, her face pale and drenched in sweat.

"Hannah," Geneva whispered, kneeling beside her. Tears welled in her eyes as she pressed her hands against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. "You’re going to be okay. Stay with me."

Hannah’s lips trembled, her eyes glassy as she looked up at Geneva. "I… I’m scared," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Yoshi crouched beside them, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his jacket, tearing off a sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage. "We need to stop the bleeding," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Geneva nodded, her tears falling freely now. "Help me lift her," she said, her voice trembling but determined.

Yoshi hesitated, glancing at the front entrance where Buck had disappeared. The sound of groans and shuffling feet was growing louder.

"We don’t have much time," he said, his voice tight.

Geneva gritted her teeth, her resolve hardening as she slipped her arms under Hannah’s shoulders. "Then we move now."

Hannah screamed in pain and agony. The bite was deep, the kind that sent shockwaves of fire through her leg, but the pain felt almost otherworldly. It wasn’t just physical—it felt as though something inside her was tearing apart.

Her mind reeled as she stumbled forward, clutching Geneva’s arm for balance. Maybe I just have a low pain tolerance, she thought, trying to rationalize it. Hannah hadn’t really experienced much physical pain in her life—some bruises and sprains from cheerleading, sure, but nothing like this.

"This is next level..." she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling as she limped forward. She didn’t dare stop, her survival instinct overpowering her fear.

Geneva paused in the middle of the parking lot, turning her head sharply toward the hotel. Richard sat in his car, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, scanning the area like a hawk.

"Shit... we used an Uber," Geneva muttered, her voice laced with frustration as realization dawned. Her car was hours away at her campus at NC State.

Hannah groaned loudly at that, her face pale and drenched in sweat. Geneva turned to her, concerned. "Hannah? You okay?"

"I’m fine..." Hannah lied, though her trembling voice betrayed her. The burning sensation in her leg was spreading.

Yoshimoto stepped closer, holding up his key fob and clicking the unlock button. His small Toyota chirped in response. "I’ve got room in my car," he said, glancing between the girls. "You’ll be packed in, but it’ll work."

Geneva’s head snapped toward him, her eyes widening with gratitude. "Thank you, Yoshi," she said earnestly.

Yoshimoto smiled back at her, his expression softening. "Of course. Us humans... we’ve got to stick together," he said, his words holding an edge as his gaze shifted briefly toward Buck.

Buck had already jumped into his old, beat-up car. Without so much as a glance back, he started the engine and sped out of the lot, leaving the others behind without a word.

Yoshi shook his head in disappointment but said nothing. He climbed into his Toyota, motioning for the girls to follow. Geneva helped Hannah into the backseat before sliding in beside her, the door slamming shut with a dull thud.

The parking lot was eerily quiet, the moans of the dead absent. It seemed Jackson’s distraction had worked—the horde had been drawn far enough away to buy them time.

"Well," Yoshimoto said, exhaling a shaky breath, "we’re safe for now, I guess."

Hannah, slumped against the seat, let out a weak groan. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy as she stared at the roof of the car. "I’m not safe... I’m... I’m gonna die, aren’t I?"

Her voice cracked, the words heavy with dread. She wasn’t a fan of zombie movies, but she knew enough. She had seen Ashton turn—his skin growing pale, his strength draining with every passing hour. She knew what came next.

Geneva’s hand tightened on Hannah’s shoulder, her touch gentle but firm. "Don’t think like that," she said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We’ll get you out of here. We’ll figure something out."

Hannah’s lips twitched into a weak smile at Geneva’s reassurance, but the hope didn’t last. A gnawing hunger was beginning to take hold, twisting her stomach into knots. Her eyes flicked to Yoshimoto, watching as he adjusted the rearview mirror. He looks... tasty, she thought, horrified at herself.

Geneva noticed Hannah’s trembling and leaned closer, her voice soft. "We’ll make it through this, okay? You’re strong, Hannah."

Hannah closed her eyes, trying to drown out the thoughts, the hunger, the pain. This world is so cold... and fucked up, she thought, tears slipping down her cheeks as she slipped into a restless, uneasy silence.

---

"Are they okay, Dad?" Ben’s voice trembled as he broke the silence, his wide, fearful eyes locked on his father. The faint echoes of distant screams still lingered in the stairwell, haunting and unrelenting.

Timothy knelt beside his son, placing a steady hand on Ben’s shoulder. "Everything will be okay," he said softly, though the weight of his words felt heavy even to him. "Not everything is going to go perfect... but I promise, we will make it out of here."

His voice wavered just slightly, but he quickly masked it with a deep breath. For all the chaos swirling around them, this small moment with Ben felt grounding. Despite the horrors of the day, Timothy couldn’t ignore the sliver of warmth blooming in his chest. I’m finally getting to know him.

Andrew’s voice cut through the silence. "Whatever it was… looks like it’s gone now," he said, peering cautiously into the dimly lit lobby. His eyes darted to the bloodied, motionless figure sprawled on the floor—a grotesque reminder of how quickly things could turn.

The sight made him shiver involuntarily, though he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He stepped back into the stairwell, quietly shutting the door behind him.

"Alright," he said, turning to his family, his tone sharp but measured. "Julie? Jordan? Tyler? Are you all ready?"

Julie nodded immediately, her face pale but composed. Jordan looked up at his father, his expression defiant yet tinged with fear. Tyler stood silently, his small frame stiff, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

Andrew’s gaze lingered on Tyler for a moment longer. That kid… he’s not my responsibility. But Jackson asked. He pushed the thought aside and addressed them again, his tone firmer this time.

"We need to move quickly. Jackson’s out there, and he’ll be back soon, but the dead won’t be far behind. Let’s not waste time."

Julie knelt to Jordan and Tyler’s level, her motherly instincts kicking in. "Jordan, Tyler," she said gently, yet firmly, "I want you both to hold hands and not let go. Do you understand me?"

Jordan recoiled at the suggestion, his brows furrowing in indignation. "No way, Mom! I’m not gay!" he snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

The words hung in the air, stinging Tyler like a slap. He stared down at his scuffed shoes, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Andrew’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward. "I don’t care what you are or aren’t," he said, his voice sharp and commanding. "You’re holding his hand. This isn’t up for debate, Jordan."

Jordan opened his mouth as if to argue but quickly thought better of it. He clenched his fists, grumbling under his breath as he reluctantly extended a hand toward Tyler.

Tyler hesitated, glancing up at Jordan nervously before reaching out. Their hands met briefly, the grip loose and awkward.

Timothy stepped forward, extending his hand to Andrew. "Be careful out there," he said, his voice low. "And good luck."

Andrew took the offered hand, gripping it firmly. There was an unspoken understanding between the two men—a silent acknowledgment of the dangers ahead and the fragility of their situation. For a brief moment, the weight of what could happen hung heavily in the air.

"You too," Andrew replied, his voice steady. He released Timothy’s hand and turned back to his family.

"Alright," he said, his tone softening as he addressed Julie, Jordan, and Tyler. "Stay close to me. Stick with Julie."

Julie stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Jordan’s shoulder and guiding him closer to Tyler. The two boys exchanged uneasy glances but didn’t protest further.

Andrew inhaled deeply, his eyes scanning the stairwell one last time. "Let’s go," he said, his voice a mixture of determination and quiet dread. He pushed open the door, leading his family into the unknown.

As Timothy watched Andrew’s family disappear through the door, the faint echo of their hurried footsteps lingered for a moment before fading into silence. The door clicked shut, leaving the stairwell eerily quiet once again.

The absence of the others weighed heavily on Timothy’s shoulders. They were gone now—all of them. It was just him, Allison, Angela, and Ben. His family.

Angela sat on the cold concrete floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, trembling as she stared at the ground. She hadn’t spoken much since the story time earlier, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of Evan. She had mentioned him several times throughout the day, but now, after the terrifying moment when they thought they’d lost Ben, she had gone silent.

Her gaze shifted to her younger brother, who sat nearby with wide, frightened eyes. A mix of emotions bubbled up within her—anger at him for being so reckless, guilt for her own panic, and a fierce urge to protect him.

She wanted to yell at him for being stupid. She wanted to grab him and hold him close. But before she could make a decision, her mother’s voice broke through the silence.

"Alright... let’s do this," Allison said, her tone firm but laced with an undercurrent of fear. She stood, brushing the dust from her jeans before extending her hands toward her children.

Ben blinked a few times, hesitating as he processed her words. He didn’t want to go out there. He didn’t want to face the horrors that waited on the other side of that door. All he wanted was to find a safe, dark place to hide until it was all over.

But as much as he wanted to refuse, something in his mother’s eyes compelled him. Swallowing hard, he reached out and grabbed her hand with both of his small ones, clutching tightly as she pulled him to his feet.

Angela watched her little brother rise, her stomach twisting with guilt. He’s only five… and yet he’s the one finding the strength to stand. She knew she couldn’t let him be braver than her. She couldn’t let him carry that burden.

Taking a shaky breath, Angela pushed herself off the ground. Her legs felt weak, her body trembling with fear, but she forced herself to meet her mother’s gaze. Allison offered her hand, and Angela took it, squeezing tightly.

"That’s my girl," Allison said softly, giving her daughter an encouraging nod.

Timothy stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Angela’s shoulder. "You’re doing great," he said, his voice low and steady. He turned to Ben, crouching to meet his son’s frightened gaze. "Both of you are."

Ben’s lip quivered, but he nodded, clinging tightly to Allison’s hand. Angela bit her lip, feeling a swell of determination rise within her. She had to be strong—for Ben, for her parents, for herself.

"Alright," Timothy said, straightening and glancing toward the door. "We’re going to stick together. No running ahead, no falling behind. Stay close, and we’ll get through this."

Allison nodded, her eyes meeting Timothy’s. There was an unspoken understanding between them—a shared fear, but also a shared determination. They had to get their kids out of this alive.

Angela took a deep breath, her grip tightening on her mother’s hand. "We’ll be okay," she whispered, as if trying to convince herself.

Allison smiled faintly, though her expression betrayed her worry. "That’s right. We’ll be okay," she echoed, her voice firm. "Now let’s move."

With one last glance around the stairwell, Timothy led the way toward the door, his family close behind.

Murali had stayed silent, his usual serene demeanor now tinged with a quiet resolve. He stood at the back of the group, following closely behind Angela and Ben, his sharp eyes darting between the children to ensure they were safe. He hadn’t shared his plan with anyone—not that he thought it would matter. Murali wasn’t a leader, and he didn’t want to be. His joy came from lifting others up, making them smile even in the face of despair. 

But right now, smiling felt impossible. 

The oppressive quiet of the lobby wrapped around him like a shroud as they moved forward. He glanced ahead, watching Julie guide her children toward the exit. Andrew and his family had already disappeared into the chaos outside. Timothy was up ahead, his face tense with concentration as he scanned the parking lot. The familiar chirp of his car unlocking broke the silence, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like their plan might actually work. 

Murali’s breath hitched as the tension in his chest tightened. Not yet, old man. One step at a time. 

Timothy stepped through the shattered glass frame of the hotel’s front entrance, his movements cautious but determined. Just as his foot touched the cracked pavement outside, a piercing scream split the air. 

"Ben! No!" Allison’s voice rang out, raw with terror. 

Timothy’s head snapped around just in time to see it—the zombie that had attacked Hannah earlier, the one Yoshimoto thought he’d finished off, rising like a specter from the shadows. Its grotesque, bloodied face twisted in mindless hunger as it lunged, tripping Ben and sending him sprawling to the floor. 

"Ben!" Timothy shouted, his heart hammering in his chest. 

The boy’s eyes widened in sheer terror, the world around him blurring as the undead monstrosity loomed closer. For a split second, time seemed to slow. The groans of the dead echoed in his ears, and his life—brief and innocent—flashed before his eyes. 

But then, like a thunderbolt, Murali surged forward. 

The old man moved with a speed and strength that defied his age, slamming into the zombie with all his might. The two bodies hit the ground in a sickening thud, and Murali’s voice rang out, clear and commanding. 

"Ben! Go with your family! Run!" 

Ben froze, his small frame trembling as he stared at Murali. The Indian man struggled against the weight of the zombie, his hands gripping its shoulders to keep it at bay. 

"But what about you?" Ben cried, taking a hesitant step forward. 

Murali turned his head, his dark eyes soft and kind despite the strain etched into his face. "I’ve lived my life," he said, his voice calm, almost like a whisper carried on the wind. 

Timothy grabbed Ben’s arm, his grip firm but not harsh. "We have to go, Ben. Now!" he said, his voice cracking with urgency. 

Ben struggled against his father’s hold, tears streaming down his face. "No! We can’t leave him! We can’t—" 

Timothy didn’t wait for him to finish. He scooped Ben into his arms, holding him tightly as Allison and Angela ushered them toward the exit. 

Behind them, Murali’s voice rang out one last time. "Go! Keep them safe!" 

Ben twisted in his father’s arms, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Murali’s figure. The old man was pinned beneath the zombie now, its gnarled teeth sinking into his flesh. Blood pooled around them, the crimson stark against the dull lobby floor. 

But Murali didn’t scream. 

Instead, he smiled—a sad, peaceful smile—as if he had made his peace with the world and its horrors. His body twitched as the zombie tore into him, but his gaze remained steady, fixed on the family he had helped save. 

Ben’s cries filled the air as Timothy carried him through the broken glass. Allison and Angela ran close behind, their faces pale with grief and terror. 

The hotel doors loomed ahead, the sunlight casting jagged shadows across the blood-streaked floor. As Timothy burst into the open air, the sound of Murali’s struggle faded into silence, leaving behind only the haunting image of his sacrifice.