The roads stretched endlessly before him, the darkness swallowing up the long strips of asphalt, illuminated only by the stark beams of his headlights. The town’s name, the exact street, the address—it had all been given to him before. But Jackson had never cared to commit it to memory. Why would he? Normally, he’d just pull out his phone, tap a few buttons, and let technology do the thinking for him.

Now, there was no service. No connection. No guiding blue line on a digital map. Charging his phone did nothing but remind him that none of it mattered anymore.

"I should’ve never agreed to go with that man," he muttered, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. His knuckles whitened, the leather groaning under his grip. He knew it was a waste of breath to keep dwelling on it, but the thought refused to let go.

He had led the Lieutenant to the base.

That had been his mistake. Maybe the biggest one yet. He had no reason to trust that man. No reason to believe that an abandoned military compound was any safer than where they had been. And yet, he'd gone along with it. Because it had seemed like the best choice at the time.

Jackson let out a long breath, his chest rising and falling as he tried to settle the war inside his head.

His grandfather had served in World War II—hell, the man had even been one of the young boys who ran messages between trenches in World War I. What were they called again? Jackson couldn't remember. Runners? Messengers? Whatever the term was, those kids had been the first to die when bullets started flying. His grandfather had been one of the lucky ones.

Too bad that luck didn’t seem to run in the family.

"Too late now," he muttered, shivering as his headlights illuminated a single corpse standing by the side of the road.

Its head twisted unnaturally toward the light, slow and deliberate. The vacant, lifeless eyes locked onto his vehicle, following his movement. But it didn't chase him.

Jackson’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t normal. He had expected it to charge, to shriek, to throw itself at the truck in a blind frenzy. But it just stood there. Watching.

Jackson's foot hovered over the brake for a second. What the fuck was that?

His gut told him to keep driving. To pretend he hadn’t seen anything at all.

"None of this makes sense to me..." he whispered, his breath fogging against the cool windshield. "I have to be living in a goddamn nightmare."

But he wasn’t.

This was real. Every goddamn second of it.

He had known it when the hospital had called him. He had ignored that call at first—didn’t think much of it. Some hook-up from a year ago had gotten sick, probably looking for someone to pin it on. He had been willing to let that go.

Then the police had called.

That was when he had realized it wasn’t just some random scare. They had threatened him—told him he could be held accountable if he didn't cooperate. That was all it had taken. One push. One threat. He had gotten into his truck and driven all the way from Nashville to North Carolina, speeding the entire way.

Funny. He was running from the law just two days ago. Now, the law didn’t exist.

And now, he had left his only son with strangers.

Jackson’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. His only son.

He had other kids—at least, he thought he did. Maybe a few. Scattered across different cities, different lives. He hadn’t seen any of them in years, longer than he had even seen Tyler. But now, Tyler was the only one that mattered. And Jackson had abandoned him.

"What the hell would they do to him?" he muttered, shaking his head. "They’re families too..."

He repeated it, like some kind of mantra. Families. That meant they’d take care of him. Right?

But Jackson had seen Richard. The man didn’t care about the kids. He only cared about the next step, the next strategy. And Andrew? Andrew had enough to worry about. The man hadn’t asked for more responsibilities.

Jackson shivered. He needed to get there. Fast.

Another corpse drifted into view at the edge of his headlights. Then another. A small group. Five, maybe six of them. They didn't rush at him, didn’t react beyond slow, unnatural turns of their heads.

Jackson pressed the gas harder. He didn’t need to see more of that shit.

"He’s my responsibility now," Jackson told himself, gripping the wheel tighter. His hands shook, but he ignored it. He bit down hard on his teeth, his jaw aching from the tension.

For the briefest moment, a terrible thought entered his mind. He could run one of them over. Just to see what would happen. See if they’d react, if they’d fight back, if they’d scream.

But something deep in his gut told him not to.

He had a bad feeling.

And Jackson always listened to his bad feelings.

---

The night had settled in like a thick fog, suffocating and silent, save for the occasional creak of the old beach house settling against the wind. The clock on the wall read 9:50 PM, the dim light of the room casting long, eerie shadows across the floor. The house was too still.

By now, the kids should have been asleep.

But no one was sleeping tonight.

Even Ben, who was always the first to surrender to exhaustion, sat stiffly on the couch, his wide eyes darting around the room. His small fingers clenched the blanket draped over his legs, twisting the fabric into knots. He wasn't just refusing sleep—he was terrified of it.

He had dreamed last night. Horrible dreams. Dreams of the dead clawing at his skin, of his mother screaming, of his father bleeding. But that was before he saw the horrors in real life. Before Murali.

Now, closing his eyes meant reliving it all over again.

And what if one of them got inside while he was asleep? What if he woke up to teeth sinking into his flesh, cold hands pinning him down, the wet sound of chewing in his ears?

Ben swallowed hard. He would not sleep tonight.

The living room was their temporary bunker, where the kids had been gathered for safety. Richard’s beach house was nice, but not built for this many people—only three bedrooms for the adults, leaving the kids to huddle together on couches, pillows, and makeshift sleeping spots.

It wasn’t ideal, but it was safe. For now.

The back porch was the only real vulnerability, a glass door leading to the wooden deck, lined with a fence that had seen better days. If the dead found their way back here, if they heard something—

Richard exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the windowsill as he stared out into the darkness. The beach beyond was a black void, the waves whispering softly against the shore. No movement. No figures. No shambling silhouettes in the moonlight.

It looked safe.

But Richard wasn’t stupid enough to trust appearances anymore.

Behind him, Timothy’s voice broke the heavy silence.

"Is the food about ready, Allison? The kids should be asleep soon."

There was a weight in his voice, something unspoken, but tense. He knew what they had planned before things had spiraled into frustration. Before tempers flared and the only thing to break the silence had been Allison offering to cook supper as a distraction.

Richard didn't turn around, his eyes still locked on the porch, but he listened.

Allison, standing at the stove, stirred the canned soup they had managed to find. The smell was faintly metallic, salty, artificial—but warm. That was all that mattered.

She didn’t answer Timothy right away. Instead, she sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Yeah… it's almost done," she muttered, her voice carrying the exhaustion of the day.

Timothy nodded but said nothing. The tension in the room was thick, the kind that clung to your skin, the kind that whispered of unfinished arguments and unspoken fears.

The kids were too tired to ask what was wrong. But they felt it.

Ben swallowed again, staring at the floor.

Somewhere outside, the wind howled, rattling the glass ever so slightly.

And Richard, still standing at the back window, didn’t like it one bit.

"Good... Those snacks aren’t enough to fill a hungry man’s belly," Richard muttered, eyeing the can of soup Julie had pulled from one of his cabinets.

Despite having an impressive stash of water and mechanical supplies, Richard had barely stocked any food. This beach house wasn’t meant for long stays—it was a retreat, a place to bring colleagues for a quick getaway, not to hunker down in the apocalypse. He never imagined he’d need to stockpile perishables.

“It’ll be done soon enough,” Julie shot back, stirring the soup with sharp, agitated motions. Her patience was already wearing thin. She didn’t want to be here, even if it was safer than the hellish hotel they’d barely escaped. The walls felt too close, the air too still. She wanted to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between them and the horrors she’d seen.

Her hands instinctively found Jordan’s shoulders, gripping them with a protective squeeze. He had barely spoken since they’d arrived. Normally, her son had an opinion on everything, but now he just sat there, staring into space, his expression unreadable.

"Mom..." Jordan finally spoke, his voice quiet, unsure. "Do you think this is a good idea? Do we even know where we’re going?"

Julie sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face. "It’s a better plan than your father and I had." She cast a glance toward Andrew, who sat with Tyler. The boy had curled up beside him, arms crossed, anger simmering beneath his small frame.

Andrew, who had been the first to resist taking Tyler with them, now seemed determined to ease the boy’s pain. His large hands rested gently on Tyler’s back, trying to offer some kind of comfort.

"There was a man in your father’s truck," Andrew said after a moment, his voice low. "Maybe he didn’t have much of a choice."

Tyler’s head snapped up, his dark eyes glinting with barely contained fury. "He had a choice, and he made it. The same one he made over ten years ago."

The words hung in the air, heavy, bitter. When he should have been afraid of the monsters outside, all Tyler could feel was anger. His father had left him—again. And this time, there was no telling if he’d ever come back.

Andrew hesitated, then sighed. "He might come back... We told him the address."

Tyler scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Yeah. And one day, humans might fly."

From across the room, Angela spoke up, her voice light but carrying an amused edge. "Well... Actually, humans have already flown."

Tyler turned, locking eyes with her. The way she looked at him made his stomach twist, and for a moment, he almost forgot why he was mad. He swallowed hard, trying not to let his voice shake.

"Well... The planes flew. Not humans," he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

Angela smirked, crossing her arms. "No. We were in the planes. So we were definitely flying along with them."

Tyler opened his mouth to respond but then thought better of it. He could tell by the way she was looking at him—she had won this argument. Defeated, he turned away, mumbling under his breath.

The room fell silent again, the unspoken weight of everything pressing down on them all. Outside, the world had fallen apart, but inside, they sat, waiting—waiting for something, anything, to happen.

"Well, everybody! It isn’t much, but the food is ready!" Allison called out, setting the wooden spoon down with a small sigh. She turned off the solar-powered stove, rubbing her aching wrist.

The beach house wasn’t exactly what people imagined when they thought of a luxurious coastal retreat. Solar panels littered the roof, covering the lawn in an almost mechanical sprawl. It wasn’t pretty—hell, it was hideous—but it meant Richard hadn’t paid an electric bill in years. A wise investment. Not that bills or the economy meant much anymore.

She began ladling out portions of soup into mismatched bowls, the scent of warm broth filling the air. Richard, already seated at the dining table, tapped his fingers against the wood and spoke up.

"It should be enough to fill our bellies for the trip tomorrow. So long as nothing gets in our way, we should make it before noon," he said, more calculating than reassuring. The words were spoken like a man confirming logistics rather than comforting his companions.

Timothy, sitting opposite him, let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes narrowing. "And I guess we’ll have to hope for food when we get there," he said, suspicion lacing his tone.

Richard met Timothy’s gaze but said nothing. He had no idea what they’d find in the mountains. No promises could be made, and Timothy knew that.

"We’ll worry about it when the time comes," Allison interjected, cutting through the tension with a firm but even tone. She shot both men a glance, a silent warning not to turn this into another debate. "For now, let’s just enjoy the safety we have here."

Timothy scoffed under his breath, staring into his bowl. "Yeah... safe," he muttered, cooling his soup with a few quick blows.

The kids shuffled in, taking whatever seats they could find at the oversized dining table. It wasn’t large enough for everyone, forcing some of the adults onto the couch just a few feet away. Still, no one was isolated from the conversation.

Andrew shifted in his seat, glancing toward Richard. "We’re gonna need to top off the gas in the morning. We won’t make it another sixty miles on what’s left in the tank," he said, scratching his chin.

Julie tensed beside him, her fingers tightening around her spoon. The thought of getting back on the road, staring at the empty highways littered with the dead, made her stomach twist. She wanted no part in it, but she kept quiet.

Richard nodded slightly, acknowledging Andrew's concern. "There’s a gas station a couple of miles from here. We’ll have to be quick about it," he said.

Timothy let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah? And what happens when it's already been picked clean?"

"We’ll deal with that if it comes to it," Richard replied smoothly, not looking up from his meal.

Julie exhaled slowly, trying to push away the unease settling in her chest. She wasn't thrilled about any of this, but of all the plans floating around, Richard’s made the most sense.

She just wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

---

“I think we need a better plan than that,” Timothy said, his voice firm but lacking direction. “There has to be somewhere better we can fill up on gas.”

But even as he said it, he knew he didn’t have a solution. He was out of his element here—this wasn’t his terrain. The coast, the humid air, the flat stretches of land that led into nothingness. He was a mountain man through and through, and now he found himself agreeing with Richard, the very man he’d spent the last several days doubting.

Richard let out a slow breath, his gaze cold and calculating. “We’ll find somewhere, Timothy. If we don’t, we’ll consolidate into one vehicle, drive carefully, and make it work.” He leaned forward, staring Timothy down. “We are not going to sit around arguing and waste more time.”

Timothy exhaled sharply through his nose but nodded, albeit reluctantly. He didn’t like being cornered into someone else’s plan, but at this point, Richard’s plan seemed like the only viable one. The last thing he wanted was to be crammed into a car like sardines, but survival wasn’t meant to be comfortable.

Andrew sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Alright. That plan works for me, I suppose.” He didn’t sound convinced, but there was no fight left in him. They had bigger concerns.

Silence fell over the group again, the only sound being the occasional slurp of soup from the kids. Manners had taken a backseat to hunger, but no one had the heart to correct them. It was almost comforting, the sound of something normal amidst all the chaos.

Jordan, of course, was the one to break the silence.

“So,” he said, leaning forward with a smirk, “how exactly do we win a war against zombies?”

The adults exchanged uneasy glances. There was no easy answer to that. The world had crumbled in less than a month. No armies, no governments, no strategy for reclaiming what had been lost.

“I don’t know if it’s a war we can win,” Allison admitted, staring down into her soup as if it held the answer. She sighed, pushing her spoon around aimlessly. “I don’t even know if it’s one we can fight.”

Richard, however, lifted his head and looked at each person around the table. “It’s not a war we have to win,” he said firmly. “It’s a war we have to survive.”

Angela, who had remained mostly quiet throughout the conversation, straightened in her seat. “And surviving starts with going to the mountains.” She turned to her parents, her voice steady, confident. “Mom. Dad. Richard’s plan is our best option.”

Timothy’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t used to his daughter speaking out like that. But the way she looked at him, unwavering, sure of herself—it reminded him too much of Allison when she’d made up her mind about something. He sighed, exchanging a look with his wife before giving a slow nod.

“Alright,” he relented. “We’ll go to the mountains.”

Richard nodded, his expression unreadable. “And you’ll live,” he added simply.

The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy blanket. No one spoke. For a moment, there was peace—a fragile, fleeting peace.

Except for Tyler.

The little boy’s quiet sniffles grew into soft sobs as he hunched over his bowl, his small shoulders shaking. He had been silent the entire conversation, but now, as the talk of survival and plans settled, reality hit him harder than before.

Andrew reached over, resting a large hand on the boy’s back, offering what little comfort he could. “It’s okay, Tyler,” he murmured. “We’ll take care of you. You’ve got friends here. You’re not alone.”

Tyler shook his head, pushing his bowl away. His tears fell onto the table, mixing with the remnants of his meal. His father had left him. Again. And no matter how much these people tried to reassure him, they weren’t the one person he wanted.

He wanted his dad.

And deep down, he already knew.

His dad wasn’t coming back.

---

Jackson’s eyes locked onto the street sign up ahead, his pulse quickening.

"That's it. That's the road."

He eased off the gas, letting the truck roll forward at a slow crawl, his eyes scanning both sides of the street for any signs of movement. The dead were unpredictable. Some ignored cars entirely, while others chased after any sound or movement like moths to a flame. He wasn’t about to take any chances.

Turning onto the street, he was met with an eerie silence. The streetlights were out, casting the neighborhood into deep shadows, the darkness stretching endlessly down the empty road. Every house stood silent, lifeless. No lights flickering in the windows, no movement in the yards.

"Please tell me he made it."

Jackson didn’t care about Richard. He didn’t care about the others. Right now, the only thing on his mind was his son.

His grip tightened on the wheel as he drove past rows of abandoned houses. Some had their front doors wide open, signs of hasty retreats—or worse. Others stood eerily pristine, untouched by the chaos, making them feel even more unnatural.

Then, at the end of the street, he spotted it.

A hideous, solar-paneled monstrosity of a house.

Jackson might have laughed at the sight under different circumstances, but what caught his attention weren’t the panels or the house itself—it was the two cars parked out front.

One of them, without a doubt, was Richard’s ridiculous solar-powered car. The same one he had been bragging about earlier.

"Funny that he’d be bragging at a time like this," Jackson muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

More importantly, the dim glow of lights inside told him something crucial—this house wasn’t abandoned.

"Tyler is there… He’s safe."

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. That other car had to belong to Andrew. That meant the families had stuck together, just like they had planned.

Still, he wasn’t about to let his guard down.

Pulling his truck up along the side of the house—If Richard’s worried about the grass, he can go fuck himself—Jackson cut the engine. He sat still for a moment, listening. Watching.

Nothing stirred.

Satisfied, he slowly pushed open the door, stepping out as quietly as he could. The night air was thick with the scent of salt and decay, and as he scanned the road one last time, his breath misted slightly in the cold.

Everything was still.

He made his way toward the front door, his boots crunching lightly against the pavement. His fingers hovered over the doorbell, hesitation flickering through his mind.

"Better than knocking," he muttered to himself.

Still, as soon as he pressed the button and the chime rang out—loud, sharp, unnatural against the silence—he immediately regretted it.

---

“Well… looks like we’ve got a visitor,” Jordan muttered, though his voice held an odd, forced excitement that didn’t match the dread creeping into the room.

No one else shared his enthusiasm. The air in the house turned heavy, tense. Eyes darted from one person to another, silent questions lingering between them.

Then Richard spoke, his voice firm, edged with fear.

“No one opens that door.”

His gaze swept over the room, daring anyone to defy him.

Andrew frowned, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. We don’t even know who it is.”

“I’ll open it,” he declared, pushing himself up from the table with a resolve that was met with immediate resistance.

“No!” Richard’s voice was sharp, laced with panic. “Are you crazy? The dead are smart, Andrew. Smarter than we thought. They track scent… they learn. What if they’ve figured out we’re in here?”

Andrew hesitated, his fingers twitching at his sides. Richard wasn’t the type to be paranoid—calculating, yes, but not prone to blind fear.

Slowly, Andrew sank back down.

“So we’re just going to sit here?” Julie shot Richard a glare, unimpressed with his hesitance. “What, we just pretend no one’s at the door and hope it goes away?”

Richard clenched his jaw. He had a plan. A plan that didn’t involve opening doors for whoever—or whatever—was outside.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then—

“It’s me! Jackson!”

The voice was muffled through the thick door, but unmistakable.

“Please, let me in! I don’t know how much longer I can make it out here with the dead!”

Tyler bolted from his chair so fast it sent his bowl clattering against the table. His face lit up with pure relief.

“Dad! I knew he’d come back for me!”

Richard flinched at the boy’s words, his gut twisting. His eyes darted to the door, then to Tyler—who was already there, hands fumbling at the locks.

“No!” Richard’s voice cracked with desperation. “It could be a trick!”

His bowl slipped from his grasp, spoon clattering onto the floor, but he barely noticed. He lunged forward, trying to stop Tyler, but the kid was too quick.

By the time Richard reached him, the door was already swinging open.

“Shit!” Timothy was on his feet in an instant, standing protectively in front of his wife and children, bracing for whatever was on the other side.

Then—Jackson.

Calm. Whole. Alive.

Tyler didn’t hesitate. He threw himself into his father’s arms, holding him like he never wanted to let go.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me… I knew you’d come back!”

Richard exhaled sharply, tension still crackling through his muscles. His hands curled into fists, but it was too late to argue now.

“At least close the fucking door,” he snapped, shoving it shut behind Jackson and locking it tight.

Neither father nor son even acknowledged him.

They had their reunion.

Richard, however, was already thinking ahead. Because now, everything had changed.