Jackson stared at the front of the store, his breath coming out in a rough, controlled exhale. His fingers drummed idly on his thigh as his eyes darted across the darkened windows. A quiet tension lingered between the two men, thick like the humid morning air.

Richard shifted beside him, letting out a small grunt. "Well... we’re here," he said, his voice flat but observant. He wasn’t just stating the obvious—he was waiting. Watching. Studying Jackson’s reaction.

Jackson didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still fixed on the storefront, lost in thought. The streets were dead quiet—eerily so. It was the kind of silence that made the skin on his arms crawl. Something about it felt unnatural. He blinked a few times, snapping himself out of it before turning to Richard.

"Yeah... yeah, let’s do this," he muttered.

Richard cocked his head. "You sure? You look like you’re about to start seeing ghosts."

Jackson scoffed, shaking his head. "I’m fine."

Richard didn’t buy it, but he let it go. "Alright," he murmured under his breath. "Here we go."

They stepped out of the truck, their movements careful, controlled. Jackson led the way, eyes scanning the street before he made his way up to the shop entrance. His hand gripped the door handle and pulled.

It didn’t budge.

Jackson yanked it again. Still locked.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, jaw clenching. He exhaled sharply, trying to keep calm, but Richard could already see the tension creeping up in his posture.

"Figures," Richard muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Didn’t exactly expect a ‘come on in’ sign, did you?"

Jackson didn’t answer. His eyes darted around, searching. A rock, a brick—anything heavy enough.

Richard immediately caught on to what he was thinking. "Whoa, whoa, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed, stepping in front of him. "Are you serious?"

Jackson ignored him, already reaching for a fist-sized rock near the curb.

Richard threw up his hands. "Jesus Christ, Jackson! Just unlock the damn door!"

Jackson froze mid-motion. His eyes flickered to Richard, then to the door, then—slowly—down to the very obvious lock near the handle.

He blinked. His fingers slackened around the rock.

"Oh," he muttered.

Richard gawked at him. "Are you kidding me?"

Jackson sighed, dropping the rock and rubbing his face. "I’m just... not thinking straight right now."

"Yeah, no shit," Richard muttered, rolling his eyes as he twisted the lock and pushed the door open. "Good thing I’m here to keep you from giving every dead freak in a mile radius an invitation."

Jackson let out a slow breath, forcing himself to regain composure as they stepped inside.

The air was stale, tinged with dust and something faintly metallic. The shelves stood mostly intact, though a few had been ransacked already—signs of previous looters.

"Alright," Richard said, lowering his voice. "We make this quick. Grab what we need, and we’re out."

Jackson nodded but kept scanning the room like he was expecting something to lunge at them.

Richard narrowed his eyes. "You still look like you saw a ghost."

Jackson huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just... got a bad feeling."

Richard smirked dryly. "Join the club."

Jackson didn’t laugh.

Richard's eyes scanned the shelves, his fingers skimming over the rough edges of instruction manuals and utility guides. Plumbing. Electrical work. Car repair. He never thought he'd need to learn this kind of thing, but Jackson had a point. They’d have to be self-sufficient now.

"I guess that's what the books are for…" Richard muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Jackson, who had been shifting through a pile of wrenches, shot him a glance. "You good over there, Dick?" His voice carried a hint of amusement, but there was a sharpness to it too—like he was testing Richard’s nerves.

Richard exhaled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just talking to myself."

Jackson didn’t pry, returning his attention to the tools. He was picking out different sizes and shapes—things he knew he didn’t have in the truck yet. A good hammer. A crowbar. A set of screwdrivers. The basics. Anything that could be useful in a world without hardware stores.

Then Richard's voice rang out.

"Ah! Look at this! A full county map!" He pulled a thick fold-out map from a dusty shelf, his expression brightening for the first time in hours. "Every single city and backroad marked down! Just what we need!"

Jackson turned his head just as a few books tumbled off the shelf, clattering loudly onto the floor.

"Careful there, Richard!" Jackson warned, his voice low but firm.

Richard barely acknowledged him, his attention locked onto the map. His fingers traced over North Carolina’s layout until he found Surry and Yadkin counties. His stomach sank.

"Great… It's one of those cities." He groaned, shaking his head.

Jackson furrowed his brow. "One of what cities?"

Richard sighed, rubbing his temple as if a headache was creeping in. "Pilot Mountain is split between different counties. That means the community could be in one of three different areas. We could spend hours driving in circles looking for the right place."

Jackson, still sorting through the last of the tools, barely looked up. "You good over there, Dick?" He was using that tone—the one Timothy and Andrew always used when they were trying to get his full attention.

Richard clenched his jaw but nodded. "Yeah, all good… just realizing how much of a bitch it’s gonna be finding this place."

Jackson finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "I had to go through a bunch of roads just to find the beach house. This town isn't that complicated. We’ll figure it out."

Richard wasn’t convinced. "Yeah, well… Pilot Mountain’s a hell of a lot bigger than this town. And I don’t know the roads. We could end up burning gas we don’t have."

Jackson shrugged. "We’ll find it. It might take some time, and yeah, it’ll be a pain in the ass, but we’ll find it." There was no hesitation in his voice—just raw certainty.

Richard let out a slow breath, leaning against a nearby counter, his grip tightening on the folded map. "Yeah… we will." His voice lacked the same confidence. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Jackson or himself.

Because the truth was, he had no idea what the hell they were walking into.

Suddenly, a faint thump came from a small locked closet near Richard. It wasn’t loud—not loud enough for Jackson to notice—but to Richard, it might as well have been a gunshot.

Richard shot up from his chair, his heart slamming against his ribs. His eyes snapped toward the closet, pupils dilating with adrenaline.

"Jesus Christ!" he blurted out, stumbling back a step. "That scared the hell out of me!"

His breath came sharp and fast, fingers twitching slightly. He wasn’t even sure what had startled him so much, but he knew—deep in his gut—something was wrong.

From the other side of the store, Jackson barely glanced up from rummaging through supplies. "Goodness, Richard! What the hell is up with you?" His tone was half-amused, half-irritated.

Richard swallowed, eyes still glued to the closet door. "There was… noise." His voice was quieter now, edged with something close to unease.

Jackson let out a slow exhale, finally turning his full attention to him. He scanned the store quickly, brows furrowing when he saw nothing out of place.

"Yeah… you probably knocked something over again," Jackson muttered, shaking his head. "Just be careful, man. We can’t be making ruckus around the dead."

His voice was firm, a reminder more than a warning. Noise was death out here.

But Richard barely heard him. His body was tense, muscles locked in place as his gaze stayed fixed on the closet. He could feel it—something was behind that door. Something wasn’t right.

He licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry. "It wasn’t me that made the noise…"

His voice came out flat, almost childlike—offended, even. Like a kid accused of something he didn’t do.

Jackson squinted at him, skepticism clear on his face. "Richard…" he started, tone laced with warning.

But Richard didn’t turn to him. He was still staring at the door. Still listening.

Because now, he was certain.

That sound hadn’t come from them.

"There's something in that closet..." Richard muttered, his voice barely above a whisper—but just loud enough for Jackson to hear.

Jackson’s focus snapped away from the tools, his hands stilling mid-motion. He looked up, his gut twisting.

"Richard… don't."

His tone wasn’t commanding—it was pleading.

But Richard wasn’t listening. His gaze remained locked on the closet handle, his breath coming in shallow, uneven draws.

Jackson moved—fast. He crossed the store in a few long strides, reaching out, fingers brushing against Richard’s sleeve in a last-second attempt to stop him.

Too late.

The closet door swung open.

Richard froze. His breath caught in his throat. Jackson stiffened beside him, his entire body locking up as he peered inside.

It was a little girl.

No older than eight.

Or at least—what was left of her.

Her small frame was withered and rotting, her skin grayed and splitting open in places. Her once-white dress was stained dark with dried fluids. But it wasn't the decay that sent a cold rush through the men’s veins.

It was the restraints.

Thick ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, tying her tightly to the back wall. A strip of cloth was wound around her mouth, gagging her. This wasn’t a random infection. This wasn’t the work of the dead.

Someone had put her here. Alive.

Jackson swallowed hard, his stomach twisting.

"Jesus fucking Christ…" Richard staggered back, pressing a hand to his mouth.

The girl twitched. Her bound arms jerked against the ropes, her head snapping toward them, lips peeling back in a soundless snarl.

Jackson exhaled through his nose. "Someone locked her in here."

Richard barely managed to nod, his throat working up and down as he tried to process what he was looking at.

"She—she must’ve gotten sick. Maybe they didn’t know what else to do…" Jackson offered, but the words felt hollow. His instincts gnawed at him. Something was wrong.

Then he saw it. 

No bite marks. 

His pulse spiked. He took a sharp step back. "Wait."

Richard turned to him, eyes still wide in horror. "What?"

Jackson forced himself to look closer. No torn flesh. No gaping wounds. No sign that she’d been attacked.

His mouth went dry. "She wasn’t bitten."

Richard blinked. The realization sank in.

"But… that means…" His voice trailed off, his brain scrambling to find another explanation.

Jackson exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He didn’t have the answers. Didn’t want the answers.

One thing was certain.

They couldn’t leave her like this.

Richard saw it in Jackson’s eyes before he even spoke.

"We put her out of her misery." Jackson’s voice was firm, but not unfeeling.

Richard’s stomach turned. "Jackson—"

But Jackson had already picked up a heavy hammer.

Richard recoiled. "Jesus—

Jackson swung.

The first hit landed with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone fracturing beneath steel. 

The girl convulsed, her head jerking to the side—but she didn’t stop.

Jackson tightened his grip. Brought the hammer down again.

And again. 

And again. 

The fourth strike caved her skull. The fifth splattered the remnants against the wooden wall.

By the seventh, she stopped moving.

Jackson stood there, his chest rising and falling, the hammer slick in his grip. His face was unreadable.

Richard felt sick. He turned away, bracing himself against a shelf, swallowing the bile in his throat.

Jackson finally spoke, voice low, breathless.

"These things are strong. Even in the head."

Richard didn't answer.

He was too busy wondering if this was only the beginning.

Jackson didn’t seem to be in the same mental space as Richard. Seeing one of the dead locked up like that… he just wanted to get back to Tyler, to make sure his son was safe.

"Come on, Richard… let’s get back to your beach house," Jackson muttered, his voice low and rough. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he shot a glance at Richard.

Richard blinked a few times, still rattled from what they had just witnessed. His mind was spinning, but he forced himself to focus. They had a destination. A plan.

"Yeah… let’s do this," Richard finally said, nodding stiffly. Though he hesitated before getting into the truck, his stomach twisted at the thought of sitting beside Jackson after what he had just seen him do.

Jackson gave a curt nod and moved toward the exit, pausing for a moment at the doorway. His eyes scanned the streets, his body tense as he checked for any movement.

The air was still.

The dead hadn’t been close enough to hear anything. If any were wandering nearby, they hadn’t caught the scent of fresh blood yet. The little girl hadn’t made enough noise to call more of them.

For now.

Richard exhaled slowly, his nerves on edge. His fingers twitched toward the pistol tucked into his waistband as he hesitated by the door.

"Do I really want this guy with us?" The thought crept in again, sinking its claws deep into his mind. He didn’t know a damn thing about Jackson’s past. Just that the man had abandoned his kids once before… and that he was far too comfortable with violence.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time to start questioning alliances.

"Yes… but he’s keeping us safe. For now."

With that, Richard clenched his jaw and stepped out into the open air, following Jackson toward the truck.

They climbed inside quickly, doors slamming shut.

Jackson turned the key.

The engine roared to life.

And as they pulled away from the store, neither of them noticed the shadows shifting at the far end of the street.

Something had heard them.

Something was coming.

---

"Eat up! All of you!" Allison's voice had a sharpness to it as she eyed both of her children, frustration creeping in. Neither of them were eating, and it didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

They had barely eaten the day before. They should’ve been starving.

But she knew why.

Deep down, she understood. They were in a dark place—all of them were. Their world had crumbled in a matter of days, and there was no picking up the pieces.

Still, Allison wanted to fix it. She wanted to shake them, tell them to snap out of it, to eat, to stay strong.

But how could she tell them to do something she couldn’t even do herself?

She wasn’t even sure what was happening anymore.

Everything they were doing—packing, eating, listening—was because Timothy wanted them to. And Timothy was just listening to another man.

And that man?

That man was a businessman.

Allison knew how businessmen operated. They followed power. They followed whoever made the best offer, whoever could keep them in the best position.

Richard wasn’t the type to follow—no, he was the type to lead—but who was he leading for?

She shivered. Not now. Focus.

"Sorry, Mom… I'm just not really that hungry…" Angela finally muttered, poking at her scrambled eggs with her fork.

Allison’s lips pressed together. She stared at her daughter, watching her push food around her plate, watching her drift further away from the world around her.

She wanted to say something. She wanted to comfort her.

Before she could, Timothy approached the table, his voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade.

"It doesn’t matter whether you're hungry or not, Angela." His tone was firm, cold. "We need you at full strength for this journey ahead… all of us."

His gaze flicked to Ben, narrowing slightly.

Ben at least had tried. He had eaten most of his eggs and pancakes, even if it was clear he wasn’t enjoying any of it.

"I think I'm done, Dad," Ben said hesitantly, pushing his plate back just a bit. "I don’t really like hash browns…"

Timothy’s jaw tensed. A flicker of irritation passed over his face before he exhaled sharply.

"Fine. I'll finish it up then," he muttered, pulling the plate toward himself.

Allison stiffened. This again?

Timothy did this all the time—eating food the kids didn’t finish, proving a silent, stubborn point.

But now wasn’t the time for it.

"Tim… come on," Allison said, shaking her head. She could hear the frustration rising in her voice. This isn’t about the food. This is about control. And I won’t let him do this again.

Timothy’s head snapped toward her, his expression unreadable, but the weight of his stare was suffocating.

"The food is going to go bad," he said slowly, squinting his eyes at her.

Allison’s breath caught in her throat.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to fight back.

But something in his tone made her stop.

Ben and Angela exchanged a quick glance, confusion flickering in their eyes.

They had seen their parents argue before.

But this?

This wasn’t normal.

Something was shifting.

And none of them were sure what it meant.

Allison and Timothy’s family remained quiet, not wanting to add any fuel to the tension in the air. No one had the energy for an argument, not after everything they’d been through.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Andrew and Julie sat with Jordan and Tyler. Jordan eyed Tyler with curiosity, tilting his head slightly.

“You’re kinda weird, Tyler… You don’t talk much, do you?” Jordan asked, half expecting no response.

Tyler shifted uncomfortably under the sudden attention. He wasn’t used to people focusing on him, and it made him nervous.

Julie glanced at the boys from the corner of her eye while she washed the dishes, a habit she had never quite shaken. Even in a world falling apart, she still found herself scrubbing plates as if life would go on as normal.

Tyler finally mumbled, “No.”

It was barely a response, but it was something.

Jordan sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “You’re kinda lame… But don’t worry, I’ll fix that.”

Tyler ignored him, too focused on devouring his food to care about Jordan’s teasing. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with it.

Andrew raised an eyebrow as he watched the kid scarf down his meal. “Damn, looks like someone was starving,” he joked with a small grin, hoping to put Tyler at ease.

Tyler slowed his chewing and smiled a little. “Yeah… We did a lot of running yesterday. Guess it caught up to me.”

It was the longest sentence he had said since story time the night before.

Julie nodded, sensing an opportunity to lift his spirits. “Well, don’t worry. Where we’re going, the only running you’ll be doing is for exercise. We’re heading to a safe community.”

She wasn’t sure if that was true, but it was the hope she clung to. If she allowed herself to think otherwise, she’d fall into the same hopeless pit her husband and son seemed to be in.

“I sure hope so,” Andrew muttered, his tone flat and unconvinced.

His gaze flicked toward Timothy, lingering on the small bandage on his finger—the minor cut from earlier while cutting the potatoes. A simple wound, nothing serious, but it still made Andrew uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite put into words.

A heavy silence settled over the room, an unspoken tension that no one dared to acknowledge.

Then—

Knock.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make everyone turn their heads toward the front door.

Everyone froze at the sound, their breaths caught in their throats. The tension in the room thickened, like a storm cloud ready to break.

Except for Tyler.

"Dad is back!" he shouted, a wide grin spreading across his face as he bolted toward the door.

Andrew reacted instantly, stepping in front of the boy and blocking his path with a firm but steady grip. "No, Tyler. That’s not your father," he said, his voice low but sharp with authority. "We would’ve heard the truck."

Tyler’s excitement shattered in an instant. His wide eyes darted from Andrew to the door, realization dawning on him. His small hands clenched into fists, his breathing quickening. "Then... then what was that?" His voice wavered.

Angela’s gaze flickered toward the front of the house, her stomach twisting. She didn’t want to ask, but the words slipped out before she could stop them. "What if it’s someone else? What if—"

"The dead," Julie whispered, her face pale as she gripped the edge of the counter. She turned her head ever so slightly, peering out toward the porch. Her body tensed.

And then she saw them.

The dead had turned. Their hollow eyes locked onto her.

Julie’s breath hitched, and she quickly ducked back, pressing her back against the counter, as if that alone could keep her hidden.

"The dead? They’re here?" Angela’s voice cracked.

Timothy’s head snapped toward the back porch. His heart pounded as he took in the wide, open view of the backyard—the massive glass doors stretching nearly twenty feet across.

If the dead figured out they could just walk through that…

"Quick! Get the kids to their rooms!" Timothy barked, his voice leaving no room for argument. His gaze darted to Andrew and the mothers, silently telling them to move now.

The women didn’t hesitate. Allison and Julie each grabbed one of the younger children, their movements quick but careful as they ushered them away.

A low, guttural groan rumbled from outside, followed by a sudden thud against the front of the house.

Then another.

And another.

The sound of bodies slamming into the walls sent a chill down Jordan’s spine. He turned to his father, panic flashing in his eyes. "How did they find us?! What happened?!"

No one had an answer.

Not yet.

But the bigger question wasn’t how they got here.

It was whether anyone inside would make it out alive.

---

"Well... We're almost here. Almost time to start the big journey," Richard muttered, swallowing hard as he stared ahead.

"Yeah... The big and long journey..." Jackson echoed, but his voice was eerily hollow, lacking any real conviction.

Richard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, stealing a glance at the older man. Something about Jackson was off—his grip on the wheel, his expression, the way his jaw stayed tight like he was clenching back something he didn’t want to say.

"You okay, Jackson? Something you need to get off your chest?" Richard asked, his tone laced with concern.

Jackson stayed silent for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel as he turned onto the road leading to the beach house. Finally, he exhaled and turned his head just slightly toward Richard.

"I'm fine... Why wouldn't I be? I've got my son." His voice was flat, his eyes unreadable—black pools of something Richard couldn't quite put his finger on.

Richard frowned, unconvinced. "I don’t know… You’re acting strange."

Jackson didn’t respond. He just kept driving, his expression unreadable, his fingers loosening on the wheel now that the house was in sight.

"And... we're back," Jackson muttered, his tone still distant, though his grip finally relaxed.

Richard, however, wasn’t feeling any relief. His eyes narrowed, spotting three figures lingering near the front porch.

"What the hell? They're already getting ready to leave..." he murmured, but something didn’t sit right with him.

As they got closer, Richard's stomach dropped. The figures weren’t moving like their people. His breath caught in his throat as realization set in.

"Oh shit! That isn’t them!" he shouted, sitting forward in his seat.

Jackson's heart pounded as he scanned the porch. The way the figures stood—slouched, swaying slightly—sent a shiver down his spine.

"We need to draw them away," Jackson said quickly, his mind racing. His son was inside that house. The others, too.

Richard hesitated, staring at Jackson like he wasn’t sure how to process the situation. "I... I've got this," he finally said, reaching for the window controls.

Jackson’s hand shot out instinctively. "Wait, what the hell are you doing?!"

But before he could stop him, Richard rolled the window down.

Jackson almost lunged to roll it back up, expecting the dead to lunge for the open space. His muscles tensed—he was ready to slam it shut if he had to—but then he saw the gun in Richard’s hand.

His throat went dry.

The memories came flooding back—his childhood in Norway, the sounds of gunfire in the rough parts of town, the way those weapons had been used to make people disappear. He shook his head sharply, snapping himself back to reality just as Richard took a deep breath.

"Here we go, motherfuckers!" Richard barked, raising the gun and squeezing the trigger.

Click.

Nothing.

Richard’s face twisted in confusion. He squeezed the trigger again.

Click.

Again.

Click.

A deep silence hung between them. Richard’s expression morphed from confusion to sheer panic as he frantically clicked the trigger over and over.

Jackson’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You didn’t check if it was loaded?!"

"I did! It's loaded! It's just firing blanks!" Richard snapped, gripping the gun tighter in frustration. His heart pounded as he flicked open the chamber once more, confirming what he already knew. The rounds were live.

Jackson gritted his teeth, eyes darting between Richard and the dead closing in on the house. The tension was thick, suffocating.

"Is it on safety?" Jackson barked.

Richard blinked, caught off guard. His gut twisted as realization hit him like a truck. His fingers scrambled over the gun, tracing the sleek metal until he found the tiny switch.

"Fuck, I'm a dumbass..." Richard muttered under his breath, flicking the safety off with a sharp click.

Just then, the first of the dead hurled itself against the fence. The metal groaned under the weight, bending slightly but holding firm.

Then another.

The fence buckled, wood splintering under the repeated force. The creatures weren’t mindless—no, they were testing the weakness, exploiting it.

Richard didn’t hesitate this time. His fingers curled around the trigger, and the gun roared to life.

The shot rang through the air like a thunderclap.

Jackson flinched, hands instinctively slamming to his ears, but the damage was already done. His skull vibrated with the aftershock of the deafening blast.

The dead snapped their heads toward the source of the noise. Then, they sprinted.

Richard barely had time to process before four of them charged from the street, their hollowed-out eyes locked onto the truck.

And that’s when the real mistake became apparent.

The gunshot had carried.

A warning.

A beacon.

Every corpse within earshot would now be turning its rotten head toward this very location.

"Go! Go! Go!" Richard screamed, yanking the window up just in time as a decayed body slammed into the glass, sending jagged cracks through its surface.

Jackson didn't wait. His foot slammed down on the gas, the tires screeching against the pavement as the truck lurched forward.

The dead were on their tail, but the scent of blood inside the house... that was still lingering.

And now, more were coming.

---

"They're here! They're here!" Tyler shouted, perhaps a little too loudly, as he spotted the truck approaching the beach house. His voice carried through the tense air, making several people in the room flinch.

"Shut up, Tyler!" Jordan hissed, rushing over and clamping a hand over the younger boy’s mouth. His eyes darted toward the windows, scanning the shadows outside. "You’re gonna bring them straight to us!"

Tyler shoved Jordan’s hand away, glaring at him. "Hey, what the he—" He started, but the moment he caught sight of the adults' terrified expressions, his words died in his throat.

Too late.

"They already know we’re in here," Ben muttered, keeping his eyes locked on the window. His voice was eerily calm, but his small hands were trembling against the floor.

"Ben! Get down!" Timothy snapped, lunging toward his son and yanking him away from the window. His grip was firm, protective, almost suffocating.

Outside, the dead had taken notice. Their lifeless eyes peered through the glass, heads tilting as they registered the warmth, the scent of fresh blood, the unmistakable presence of the living.

A few of them pressed their decayed faces against the glass, leaving smears of congealed blood and grime. But the barrier held.

For now.

"They're moving," Julie whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "They’re—" She paused, watching in horror as the dead turned, shambling away from the window.

"Where the hell are they going?" Andrew asked, still standing in front of Jordan, shielding his son with his broad frame.

"They’re heading around the house," Geneva answered grimly, swallowing hard. "Looking for another way in."

Tyler turned back to the window just in time to see his father’s truck pulling up in the driveway. Relief surged through him.

"They’re trying to draw them away," Andrew said, his voice tight with understanding. His grip on Jordan's shoulder tightened as he instinctively pulled his son closer.

Julie scoffed, shaking her head. "I hope they don’t expect us to just waltz outside right now!"

"They’re buying us time," Richard muttered, almost to himself.

The truck’s engine revved loudly, the sound cutting through the thick, humid air. But outside, the dead barely reacted. Their hunger was focused elsewhere.

A sickening crack rang out from behind the house, making everyone in the room jump.

"They’re getting past the fence!" Allison cried out, standing so abruptly that her chair nearly toppled over. She pressed a hand to the wall, breathing heavily, as though bracing herself for a fight.

And then—

A gunshot.

The sound was deafening. A sharp, piercing bang that silenced the entire house.

Tyler's heart pounded in his chest as he whipped back to the window. His breath caught in his throat when he saw his father and Richard still inside the truck, heads shaking back and forth, looking as though something had just gone terribly wrong.

"What the hell was that?!" Tyler gasped, gripping the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"A gun," Andrew said darkly. His voice was steady, but there was something heavy in the way he spoke—something cold. He didn't just recognize the sound. He knew the type of gun, the caliber.

Growing up where he had, these sounds had been familiar. The kind of knowledge he once wished he'd never needed.

But now?

Now, that knowledge might just keep them alive.

Outside, the dead had turned. The gunshot had done its job.

Tyler watched as the undead figures that had been creeping toward the house suddenly changed course, shambling toward the truck instead.

Their plan had worked.

"It’s working!" Tyler cried out, pressing his hands against the glass as if that would somehow bring his father back to him faster.

Andrew exhaled slowly, his gaze hardening as he kept his focus on the scene unfolding outside.

The real question was—

Would it be enough?

"I think it's time to move..." Timothy muttered, though he didn't budge from where he stood.

Instead, it was Allison who took the initiative, standing up and looking around at everyone in the room. Her expression was firm, commanding.

"Stay behind the men. You all know which vehicles you’re getting into," she said, her eyes lingering on the kids to make sure they understood.

Tyler stiffened but gave a quick nod, already knowing he had to go with Andrew. His father was driving the truck, and there was no other way around it. The thought made his stomach twist.

Everyone rose at nearly the same time, tension thick in the air.

"This will work," Andrew said, trying to reassure himself more than anyone else. His voice was steady, but his body language betrayed him. He moved to the front door, hesitating for just a second before reaching for the lock.

The house was still intact, the dead hadn't broken through, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close. They had been at the steps, practically scraping at the walls just minutes ago.

Andrew swallowed hard. He was supposed to be the strong one, the unshakable wall. The problem was, he felt anything but. Right now, he just wanted to disappear, to be as small as Ben, curled up and shaking in the corner.

His fingers hovered over the lock.

"Come on, honey," Julie whispered beside him, suddenly gripping his hand. Her warmth startled him, anchoring him back to reality.

Andrew turned his wide eyes to his wife. Her grip was tight—steady. She was scared too, but she was moving forward. That meant he had to as well.

"Okay..." he exhaled, letting out a heavy breath as though forcing all the fear out of his body.

He wasn't sure if it worked, but there was no more time to think. The families were all behind him, waiting. Expecting him to move.

With one last deep breath, Andrew unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of salt, damp earth, and something far fouler beneath it—the lingering stench of decay.

No one hesitated. They spilled out onto the driveway, each person rushing toward their assigned vehicle.

Julie had a death grip on Jordan’s wrist, practically dragging him. Ben stuck so close to Timothy he was practically stepping on his father’s heels. Angela kept an arm around Tyler, trying to keep him calm, but the boy’s breathing was fast, erratic.

Jackson’s truck was already barreling down the road toward them. Richard had one foot braced against the dashboard, his fingers gripping the handle on the door.

The second Jackson slowed, Richard flung the door open, barely waiting for the truck to come to a full stop before jumping out.

"Go! Go! Get in the damn cars!" Richard barked, fumbling with the locks as he ran toward his own vehicle.

His fingers found the handle, relief washing over him when he felt it give. He wasn’t stupid enough to lock it at a time like this.

Every second mattered.

And right now, every second was a second too long.

Because the dead that had been trailing Jackson’s truck?

They were now tearing down the street, sprinting toward them at a horrifyingly fast pace.

Tyler looked at his father’s truck as it sped down the road, the engine’s low hum fading into the distance. But something felt off. The dead weren’t all chasing after Jackson’s truck anymore.

At first, it seemed like they would. But then, as if some unseen force had shifted their attention, the bulk of them turned back toward the house. Their hollow, rotting eyes locked onto the two other vehicles.

They saw the children. The smaller, weaker prey.

A cold shiver ran down Tyler’s spine as he scrambled into Andrew’s car, slamming the door behind him.

"Go, go, go!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear.

Andrew jammed the key into the ignition, twisting it so hard he nearly snapped it. The engine sputtered, coughing like an old man gasping for breath.

"Shit! Shit! We don’t need this right now!" Andrew cursed, his knuckles turning white against the steering wheel as he tried again.

"Come on, come on," Julie muttered under her breath, clutching Jordan’s arm tightly.

Just when it seemed like the car might fail them, the engine roared to life. Andrew didn’t hesitate. He slammed the gas, the tires screeching against the pavement as the car lurched backward out of the driveway.

Richard, watching from his rearview mirror, waited just a second longer before he pulled out after them. But that second cost him.

The dead swarmed his car.

With a sickening thud, their bodies slammed against the sides, clawing and beating their decayed fists against the metal. A few latched onto the solar panels, their weight causing them to shift slightly.

"FUCK! Get off my car!" Richard shouted, slamming his foot on the gas.

The vehicle groaned under the strain, its underpowered engine struggling to push through the sheer weight of bodies clinging onto it.

Inside, Timothy looked around, his head snapping between Richard and the rest of his family.

"What’s happening? Why aren’t we moving?" Timothy demanded, his voice filled with panic.

Richard gritted his teeth, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "They’re too fucking heavy! I can’t build momentum with all of them on top!"

The car lurched, struggling to push forward. The smell of rot and death seeped in through the vents, making Angela gag in the backseat.

Ben clutched onto her arm. "Angela… I’m scared," he whispered.

She swallowed hard, her own hands shaking, but she squeezed his hand anyway. "We’ll be okay, Benny," she whispered back, even though she wasn’t sure if that was true.

Richard snarled, pressing the gas pedal to the floor. The car inched forward.

One of the dead lost its grip, tumbling off the hood and rolling under the tires with a sickening crunch. The car jerked forward, slightly faster.

Then another fell. And another.

The vehicle finally picked up speed, shaking off the remaining corpses as Richard pushed it past its limit.

"We’re moving!" Timothy exhaled in relief.

Andrew’s car had already cleared the dead and was speeding down the road. They were going to make it.

Or so they thought.

Just as Richard’s car reached the open road, a shadow moved from behind one of the abandoned houses.

A hulking figure stepped forward.

Not one of the mindless dead.

But a man.

A man covered in blood. His clothes tattered, his face gaunt with hunger and exhaustion.

And in his shaking hands, he held a rifle.

The barrel lifted, aimed directly at Richard’s speeding car.

And then—

BANG!

The shot rang out, echoing across the quiet neighborhood.

Richard’s car swerved violently.

Angela screamed.

And the last thing they saw was the man lowering his gun, a twisted smile on his face.