Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nicolas “Nick” Russo
Age: 35 | Hometown: Unknown

Nick doesn’t talk about his past—not because it’s too painful, but because it’s no one’s damn business. A born hustler with a silver tongue and a pistol to match, Nick’s the kind of guy who walked into the apocalypse wearing a white suit and somehow kept it clean. He’s all sharp lines and sharper words, the kind of man who sizes people up before they’ve even said a word, and usually walks away the winner.

Standing at 6’1”, Nick cuts an imposing figure. He’s athletic, but in that smooth, deliberate way—every move efficient, calculated, confident. His tailored white suit jacket hangs open over a crisp, slightly unbuttoned blue shirt, like he just walked out of a high-stakes poker game and straight into hell. And he did, more or less.

His dark brown hair is immaculately styled, never a strand out of place, and even in the middle of a zombie siege, Nick finds time to fix his cuffs. His bright green eyes burn beneath heavy brows—always watching, always judging—and his jaw, shadowed with stubble, is perpetually clenched like he’s one bad hand away from flipping the table.

Nick is sarcasm given form. He doesn’t believe in luck, people, or happy endings. He’s the pessimist in the room, the cynic in the back corner, the man who’s always got a backdoor plan in case things go south—and they always do. He’s self-centered and blunt to a fault, and he’ll tell you flat out that he’s not in this to make friends.

But somehow, underneath the sharp tongue and expensive clothes, there’s something else—something colder. Regret, maybe. Or something like it. Because for all his griping, Nick keeps showing up. Keeps fighting. Keeps saving lives when he swears he couldn’t care less. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of him still hoping he can win one bet that matters.

Chapter Text

Ellis McKinley
Age: 23 | Hometown: Savannah, Georgia

Ellis is the kind of guy who grins even when the world’s burning. Born and bred in the heart of Savannah, Georgia, Ellis carries the Southern sun in his spirit—warm, wide-eyed, and just a little wild. He’s the youngest of the group, but what he lacks in age, he more than makes up for in heart.

With bright blue eyes that always seem to be lit up with mischief or awe, and a crooked smile that never quite fades, Ellis is the kind of person who talks to strangers like they’re old friends. His short, slightly curly light brown hair is usually stuffed beneath his late father’s battered baseball cap, and no matter how long they’ve been running, there’s always something youthful in the way he carries himself—hopeful, like maybe this whole mess will turn out okay after all.

He’s tall—about 5’11”—with a lean, muscular build shaped by years under the hood of cars and grease-stained days at the garage. His t-shirt bears the faded logo of the “Bull Shifters,” and he wears his mechanic’s overalls tied around his waist like a badge of pride. Heavy-duty boots scuff the ground with every step, and there’s always some part of him smudged with engine oil, as if the apocalypse couldn’t strip away what made him him.

Ellis is the group’s beating heart. Naive, maybe, but not dumb—he believes in people, even when they don’t believe in themselves. He tells stories that go nowhere, laughs too loud, and never hesitates to risk everything for someone he barely knows. Because at the end of the day, Ellis doesn’t just want to survive—he wants everyone to survive. Together.

Chapter Text

Rochelle Abrahams
Age: 29 | Hometown: Cleveland, Ohio

Before the world fell apart, Rochelle was chasing headlines. Smart, sharp, and driven, she was an up-and-coming field reporter from Ohio. She’d followed the early whispers of the infection to Savannah looking for a story. What she found instead was the end of the world—and no time for a closing segment.

Standing at 5’7”, Rochelle moves with the confident ease of someone who knows how to keep it together. Her brown eyes are clear and observant, constantly scanning her surroundings—not out of fear, but instinct. Her black hair is slicked back into a practical ponytail, and there’s a no-nonsense grace in the way she carries herself, as though she’s balancing both a sidearm and everyone else’s sanity.

She wears a pink Depeche Mode t-shirt that’s more than just a band logo—it’s a reminder of who she was before. Her grey skinny jeans and sturdy black boots are scuffed from the road, but she wears them like armor. There’s nothing flashy about Rochelle, but she doesn’t need to shout to be heard—her presence alone is grounding.

Rochelle is the calm in the chaos. While the others bicker, panic, or joke their way through the nightmare, she’s the one thinking two steps ahead, guiding the group back to focus. She can be sarcastic when she needs to be, and her wit is sharp when it counts, but more than anything, Rochelle is nurturing. She keeps people together. She’s the voice that steadies the shaking hands, the hand that pulls you back from the ledge, the reminder that humanity hasn’t completely burned out.

She didn’t sign up to be a hero. But every day she survives, every person she helps protect, she becomes one—quietly, steadily, and without asking for credit.

Chapter Text

Darnell “Coach” Williams
Age: 47 | Hometown: Savannah, Georgia

If the world had any sense left, Darnell would still be pacing the sidelines of a high school gym, whistle in hand, shouting encouragement over the sound of squeaking sneakers. But the world doesn’t have any sense left—and now Coach is leading a very different kind of team.

A Savannah native through and through, Coach is as much a part of the city as the moss-covered oaks and the humid summer air. Towering at 6’3” with a broad, solid frame built from years of football drills and weight training, he’s the kind of man who commands presence without ever raising his voice. His strength is obvious, but it’s his heart that stands out most—big, open, and always looking out for the people around him.

Coach wears his old gym uniform like a badge of honour : a well-worn purple polo with light sleeves and the school’s logo stitched across the chest, paired with tan chinos and his favourite beat-up trainers. His hands, strong and steady, are covered with black fingerless leather gloves—more practical than stylish. He has a bald head and a rounded face marked by a kind of weary warmth, the kind of expression that makes people feel safe, even with a chainsaw in his hands.

Beneath the tough exterior is a man built on belief—belief in hard work, in second chances, in lifting others up when they fall. Coach is the father bear of the group, a voice of calm when the panic hits, the kind of guy who’ll drag you to your feet and tell you you’ve still got one more round in you, even when you swear you don’t.

Optimistic and fiercely protective, Coach leads with heart first, fists second. He may not have all the answers, but he’s never short on encouragement—or firepower. And when he says “we’re gonna make it,” you believe him, because if anyone can get you through hell with a smile and a plan, it’s Coach.

Chapter Text

The neon glow of the Savannah Royale casino bled into the humid night like a bleeding artery—hot pinks, deep reds, and golds flickering over the polished hoods of parked Cadillacs and run-down Chevys alike. Music thumped behind the heavy glass doors, a blend of synth and laughter and ringing slot machines—life clinging on with chipped nails and whiskey breath.

The glass doors burst open with a bang.

Nick stumbled backward onto the sidewalk, his heels catching on the uneven concrete. Two walking refrigerators in tight security polos flanked him, each with one meaty hand clamped on his arms. Nick wasn’t exactly resisting—but he wasn’t going quietly either.

“Easy, fellas,” he drawled, wincing as he waved his right hand, still aching from impact. “It was a friendly disagreement. You ever heard of a conversation?”

He rubbed his left hand across his jaw, grimacing when his fingers came away slick with blood. His lip throbbed, freshly split, the taste of iron pooling on his tongue. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, spat a thin stream of red into a drain, then reached smoothly into the breast pocket of his tailored white jacket.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, pulling out a crisp white handkerchief and dabbing delicately at the wound. “Not the suit. Anything but the goddamn suit.”

One of the guards, a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a look that said he’d rather be anywhere else, gave him a light shove in the direction of the parking lot.

“Move along.”

Nick looked at him sideways, handkerchief still pressed to his mouth. “You know, you really should smile more. You’d look less like a prison toilet.”

The second guard snorted. “You’re lucky we’re not charging you, jackass.”

“Lucky?” Nick turned, walking backward now with a dramatic spread of his arms. “I’m lucky? Oh, no, no—you’re lucky I didn’t take that weasel at the poker table and fold him in half. That guy was stacking the deck like a Vegas magician. I was doing you a favor.”

“Keep walkin’, slick,” the first guard growled.

Nick finally turned, muttering as he limped across the pavement toward the flickering streetlights. “Man lays down five straight flushes in twenty minutes and I’m the bad guy? Unbelievable.”

He reached the edge of the lot, where the buzzing of a faulty streetlamp cast long, twitching shadows over the cracked asphalt. The night was hot, thick with that late-summer Southern air that stuck to your lungs and left your shirt damp. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A car alarm screamed, short and sharp, then fell silent again.

Nick stopped, adjusted his cuffs, and took a long, slow breath. The handkerchief, stained now with a drying smear of red, fluttered in his fingers like a white flag refusing to surrender.

Behind him, the casino’s sliding doors sealed with a hiss, drowning out the thrum of music and life.

Ahead of him, the city stretched out in darkness and faint orange streetlights, quietly beginning to rot.

Nick ran his tongue across his teeth, hissed at the pain, and grinned anyway.

Nick took a moment to steady himself, letting the sting in his jaw remind him that Savannah didn’t care for his kind—and the feeling was mutual. He looked up and down the street, eyeing the humid city with a curled lip.

“Shit, hell of a night” he muttered, surveying the chipped neon, the gleaming puddles, the way the air seemed thick with cheap perfume and regret. “What’s a man gotta do to find civilisation in this mosquito-ridden backwater?”

His gaze landed on a neon sign humming a dull, electric blue just a block down—Maggie’s Place, a bar squeezed between a pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. The bar’s sign flickered, losing the ‘g’ every few seconds, so it read Ma ie’s Place half the time. Nick sighed, pressed the handkerchief to his mouth again, and started toward the promise of bad whiskey and air conditioning.

As he strolled down the uneven sidewalk, a young couple pressed themselves into the shadows of a graffiti-tagged alley, locked in a sloppy, hungry embrace. Their bodies tangled, oblivious to the world. Nick rolled his eyes, couldn’t help himself.

“Easy there, lovebirds,” he called as he passed, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Well if it ain’t the prom king and queen of the family reunion.”

The girl gave him the finger; the boy, red-faced, looked ready to lunge before thinking better of it. Nick smirked, tossing his hand up in mock surrender as he kept moving.

Half a block further, a homeless man pushed a battered shopping cart full of plastic bottles into his path. “Hey, mister,” the man croaked, voice rough as gravel. “Got a little change to spare? Just tryin’ to eat tonight…”

Nick paused, patting his jacket pockets theatrically. “Sorry, pal. Casino cleaned me out. Hell, I’d ask you for a loan if I thought you’d trust me to pay you back.” He flashed a lopsided, half-true grin and sidestepped the man, pushing through the sticky air and up the steps into Maggie’s Place.

Inside, the bar was a different world—dim, smoky, smelling of stale beer and overcooked onions. Christmas lights ran around the ceiling, blinking lazily above battered dartboards and a jukebox stuck on some old country song. The walls were plastered with yellowed posters: Lynyrd Skynyrd, local high school football, a faded “Karaoke Night” sign.

The regulars were a rough crowd—middle-aged men in trucker hats hunched over their bottles, a couple of women with big hair and bigger laughs, a biker gang crowding the pool table in the back. The air buzzed with low voices and the occasional shriek of laughter, but the place felt close, safe in its own way—everyone minding their business, everyone half-watching the door.

Nick stood out like a martini at a tailgate. His white suit practically glowed under the flickering lights. Heads turned as he sauntered to the bar, and he relished it.

Behind the bar, a young woman with a mass of dark curls tied back in a messy bun poured shots with practiced ease. She had sharp cheekbones and a nose ring, and she met Nick’s approach with a look that dared him to try something.

Nick gave her his best crooked grin, one hand smoothing his lapel. “Well, evening, beautiful. Hope you saved your best bottle for a man of discerning taste—by which I mean, whatever won’t peel the enamel off my teeth.”

She raised a single eyebrow, not even pausing in her work. “You here to drink or audition for stand-up night?”

Nick laughed, sliding onto a creaking barstool. “Depends. How many free drinks does the winner get?”

She smirked, grabbing a squat glass and setting it down with a sharp clink. “What’ll it be, fancy man?”

Nick leaned in, voice dropping to his trademark cocky drawl. “Your finest whiskey, neat. And if the bottle says ‘moonshine’ on it, just wave it near my glass and throw the rest out back.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she poured, amber liquid catching the light. “Big talk for someone who looks like they just lost a fight with a closet door.”

Nick touched the split in his lip and winked. “Door’s still in the hospital. But you should see the other guy.”

The glass hit the bar in front of him, a finger of rich gold. Nick picked it up, swirling the contents as if he actually cared about aroma. He lifted the glass in a mock-toast to the barmaid, to the crowd, to Savannah itself.

“Here’s to me”

The bottle sat on the counter like a monument to poor decisions—half empty and sweating in the stale bar air. Nick slouched on his stool, one elbow propped on the bar. The handkerchief had been folded and refolded into a blood-crusted little square now abandoned beside his drink.

“You know,” he slurred, pointing vaguely at the barmaid as she wiped down a section of the counter with rhythmic disinterest, “I don’t usually fall for the ones who can throw me out, but… I’m starting to think you’re worth the risk.”

She didn’t even look up. “And I’m starting to think you’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a damn.”

Nick chuckled, unbothered. “See, that edge—that bite—I respect that. A woman who knows how to say no. Rare these days.”

“Not that rare,” she said dryly, stacking a pair of washed glasses. “You’ve heard it four times just from me tonight.”

He raised his glass in mock salute. “And every time, it’s music.”

The bar’s background noise had shifted. Less laughter now. More coughing—harsh, phlegmy bursts that echoed off the walls like popcorn in a microwave. Nick’s brow furrowed, and he glanced around blearily. One man at a nearby table was hunched over, hacking into his sleeve. Another woman rubbed her temples, face pale and damp with sweat. The biker at the pool table sneezed violently and cursed.

Nick wrinkled his nose, leaning back slightly as if it would shield him from the germs floating in the smoke-thick air.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling a small, travel-sized bottle of hand sanitiser from his inner jacket pocket.

He squirted a generous glob into his hands, rubbing them together like he was prepping for surgery. “No offense, sweetheart,” he said to the barmaid, “but your clientele is making a strong case for infectious disease control. Do people in Savannah know how to wash their damn hands, or is hygiene still a foreign concept down here?”

A few patrons—already drunk and irritable—turned in their seats, scowling. One of the trucker-hat guys muttered something under his breath. A couple at the end of the bar gave Nick matching dirty looks.

The barmaid raised an eyebrow, smirking as she leaned closer and spoke low enough to keep it between them. “If you like having teeth, you might wanna call it a night, city boy.”

Nick followed her glance toward the now-glaring customers and lifted his hands like a peace offering. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave before they break out the pitchforks and torches.”

He downed the last of his whiskey in one smooth swallow, grimaced as it burned its way down, and slapped the glass on the counter.

“Alright, darling,” he said, standing with a slight wobble. “Point me to the nearest hotel before I end up spooning a trash can behind this place.”

She sighed, clearly ready to be rid of him, but pointed out the window. “Two blocks down, take a right. You’ll see the sign—The Garden Inn. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss it.”

Nick gave her a crooked grin. “A beautiful woman and a helpful one? Careful now—I’m gonna start thinking Savannah’s not a total write-off.”

“You’ll be asleep in a dumpster in ten minutes,” she said flatly, but there was a flicker of a smile at the edge of her lips.

Nick tipped an imaginary hat, turned with just enough flair to wobble on his heels, and made for the door. The bar’s heat gave way to a blast of night air as he stepped out, the neon flickering across his face like a broken halo.

He lit a cigarette with shaky fingers, coughed once—not from sickness, but from cheap tobacco—and started his slow, unsteady walk toward the hotel, whistling a low tune to himself under the flicker of the streetlamps.

Behind him, the laughter faded. The coughing didn’t.

The night was calm. Not a cloud in the sky, just an ink-black canopy studded with distant stars, and a breeze that cut through the humid air like a long-overdue apology. Nick’s polished shoes clacked against the pavement, his stride loose and casual, the whiskey softening the edge of his usual swagger.

He followed the barmaid’s directions, humming tunelessly, passing dim streetlamps that buzzed like dying flies. Halfway down the block, just as he turned the corner, the sudden wail of sirens shattered the stillness.

One.
Two.
Three police cruisers came screaming past him, lights strobing red and blue across his suit. The cars tore up the road, each one veering off in a different direction as they reached the intersection—like ants scattering after their hill had been kicked in.

Nick stopped in his tracks and watched the lights vanish into the dark.

“…Jesus,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “This place really is more unhinged than I thought.”

He shook his head and continued on, the fading sirens still echoing down the alleys. A minute later, he reached the hotel.

The Garden Inn.

Nick tilted his head back, examining the building with one arched brow. Four stories of faded stucco, cracked windows, and a blinking vacancy sign that looked like it might give up and die at any moment.

“Well, it ain’t the Hilton,” he muttered to himself.

He pushed through the glass doors, which gave a protesting creak as they swung open. The lobby smelled faintly of bleach and something older—dust, maybe. Or mildew. It was dim inside, the lights overhead flickering slightly, casting everything in a pale yellow haze. A cracked tile floor stretched to a scratched reception desk, behind which sat a dusty fake plant, a lamp, and a small brass bell.

The wallpaper was peeling in spots, revealing plaster beneath. An ancient vending machine hummed in the corner, full of faded chip bags and expired candy. A flickering television mounted to the wall played a local news broadcast on mute—

Nick approached the desk and looked around.

No one.

He reached out and tapped the bell.

Ding.

Waited.

Nothing.

He tapped it again. Then again. Ding ding ding.

“Anybody work here, or did the last guy get eaten by the roaches?” he called out. “No offense, but this place looks like the kind of establishment where people check in and ghosts check out.”

Just as he was about to hammer the bell a fourth time, a figure materialized beside him without a sound.

Nick jumped back half a step, his hand twitching toward his jacket on reflex. “Shit!”

The woman was tiny—barely taller than the desk—dressed in a faded cardigan and long skirt, with enormous round glasses magnifying her eyes. Her grey hair was a cloud of curls that seemed to defy gravity, like cotton candy rolled in mothballs. She stared up at him, expression unreadable.

Nick blinked at her. “Jesus lady, are you a ghost?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. Instead, she shuffled around the desk, her movements slow but deliberate, as if she’d been doing this since before elevators existed.

Nick leaned forward, resting his cheek lazily on his hand, elbow on the desk. “I’d like your finest room, please. Or, you know… the closest thing you’ve got that doesn’t come with a complimentary rat infestation.” He glanced around. “Not that I’m expecting the Ritz in this charming little shit shack.”

Still silent, the woman turned her back to him and began rummaging through a drawer full of old-fashioned keys—metal ones, each attached to worn plastic tags. The drawer groaned with age, and her fingers clinked noisily against them like bones rattling in a sack.

She selected one without a word and turned, jabbing it in Nick’s direction like a weapon. Her voice, when it came, was thin and scratchy, like a record player stuck on its last groove.

“Room four-oh-three. Elevator’s ‘round the corner. Don’t break anything. Don’t yell. Don’t make a mess.”

Nick took the key, raising both brows. “Charming. Truly. Southern hospitality’s really alive and well in this place.”

She was already turning away.

He pocketed the key and gave the desk one last glance. “I’ll try not to track in any of the class from outside.”

He turned and headed for the elevator, which was indeed tucked around the corner behind a stained armchair and a vending machine that buzzed with ominous energy. The elevator doors were painted a strange mustard colour.

Nick jabbed the call button and waited, the hum of the TV behind him now joined by more distant sirens, faint but persistent.

“Jesus,” he muttered, glancing back toward the lobby. “Next time I get tossed from a casino, I’m sleeping in the damn car.”

The elevator dinged with a sad chime and the doors creaked open.

Nick stepped inside, the key heavy in his pocket, the taste of whiskey still warm in his throat.

The elevator groaned as it ascended, lurching slightly between floors like it was rethinking its life choices. When it finally jerked to a halt and the doors rattled open onto the fourth floor, Nick stepped out with a slow exhale and loose-limbed swagger.

The hallway was long and narrow, lined with faded red carpet that had lost its pattern somewhere in the ’80s. The overhead lights flickered intermittently, casting long shadows across peeling wallpaper and cracked room placards. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and stale air conditioning.

As Nick strolled down the corridor, he passed a rickety housekeeping cart abandoned outside one of the rooms. Towels were heaped like casualties on top of it, along with a cluster of tiny soap bars and complimentary coffee fixings. Without slowing, Nick snatched up a handful of sugar sachets and stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

“Breakfast of champions,” he muttered to himself.

He reached his room—403. The key clicked in the lock after a brief jiggle, but the door itself refused to budge. Nick grunted, stepped back, then threw his shoulder against it once… twice…

CRACK.

The door burst inward with a reluctant screech, nearly throwing Nick off balance as he stumbled into the room.

It smelled like old furniture and mildew. The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the hallway light bleeding in from behind him. A tired double bed sat crooked in the middle of the room, its mustard-yellow bedspread tucked unevenly over a sagging mattress. One nightstand stood at the bed’s left side, supporting a small ceramic lamp with a bent shade.

Opposite the bed, a miniature television was mounted crookedly on the wall, bolted just above a battered set of drawers. To the right, a narrow door opened into a bathroom barely larger than a closet—white tile streaked with age, a chipped sink, and a shower that looked like it hadn’t seen actual water pressure in a decade. To the left, behind thin floral-patterned curtains, was a sliding glass door that led out to a miniscule balcony.

Nick dropped the key and sugar packets onto the dresser with a soft clink, pulling out his hand sanitizer yet again and giving his palms a generous squirt.

“Place is one blacklight away from a crime scene,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands as he slipped off his jacket. He draped it carefully across the foot of the bed—crumpled but not creased, still salvageable.

Crossing the room in a few lazy steps, Nick pulled back the curtains and slid open the glass door. The metal handle stuck slightly before giving way with a rusty squeal. He stepped out into the warm night air, pulling a crumpled cigarette pack from his trouser pocket and fishing one out with his teeth.

With a flick of his lighter, the flame danced briefly, catching the tip of the cigarette as Nick took a long drag. He leaned his elbows on the railing and gazed down.

Below him sat the pool—oval-shaped, lit by one dull underwater bulb that gave the whole thing a swampy glow. The water shimmered with vague movement from the breeze, disturbed only by a few floating leaves and an abandoned inflatable ring drifting near the deep end. Plastic lounge chairs sat scattered around the edges, some stacked, others askew. A lifeguard stand stood empty, looking more decorative than functional.

Nick raised an eyebrow and exhaled smoke through his nose.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky,” he mumbled, watching the ghostly reflections. “Catch some early morning tourist in a bikini, pretending Savannah’s a real vacation spot. God knows why anyone comes here on purpose.”

His thought was cut short as a thunderous roar tore through the sky overhead. A formation of helicopters—five, maybe six—swept past in a tight V, their searchlights cutting across buildings, trees, and momentarily blinding him in their glow.

“Shit!” Nick flinched, dropping his cigarette over the balcony rail. “Can’t give a guy a warning?”

He shook his head and turned back inside, sliding the glass door shut behind him with a heavy thunk.

Back in the room, he flicked on the TV with a jab of the remote. The screen flared to life in a blue glow, resolving into a garish sitcom with canned laughter and overacted chaos. Something about a clumsy dad trying to cook pancakes. Nick didn’t care.

He grabbed one of the sugar sachets from the dresser, tore it open with his teeth, and poured the contents into his mouth like a child shotgunning candy. Tossing the empty wrapper onto the floor, he kicked off his shoes—one landing squarely, the other bouncing off the base of the lamp—and flopped backward onto the creaky mattress with a dusty sigh.

The springs groaned in protest beneath him, but Nick didn’t care. One arm flung lazily behind his head, the other resting over his stomach, he let his eyes fall closed, the gentle drone of the television filling the room with meaningless white noise.

Behind the studio laughter and zany music, the screen suddenly shifted—flickering once, then cutting to black before a piercing tone filled the airwaves.
An Emergency Broadcast System warning lit up in red, the voice of a shaken announcer beginning to deliver the message.

But Nick was already gone.

His breathing slowed, deepened.
A faint, rhythmic snore rose up from the bed.

Chapter Text

Sunlight pierced through the thin slit between the curtains, a sharp line of white-hot brightness falling directly across Nick’s face. It was relentless, the kind of sunlight that didn’t just wake you—it interrogated you.

Nick groaned softly, squinting against the blaze as his dry eyes struggled to adjust. His vision pulsed in and out of clarity, the heat baking into his skin while the fuzzy blur of the room slowly solidified.

Nope.
Not a dream.
Still Savannah.

He exhaled like a man defeated, his voice a gravelly rasp, “God. Still here.”

With a heavy stretch, Nick’s limbs extended like a lazy cat—fingers splaying, back arching. Bones popped in his shoulders as he shifted upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet met the rough carpet with a dull sound, and he sat there for a moment, rubbing at his temple before pushing himself to his feet.

Dragging his body to the bathroom, he fumbled for the light switch, but the flickering bulb overhead only gave him a few dim pulses before dying out completely. Great. He muttered something under his breath about this hotel being held together with duct tape and prayer.

After relieving himself, he turned toward the mirror above the cracked sink. His reflection stared back—eyes bleary, hair a mess, his lip still healing from the previous night’s scuffle. He ran a hand down his stubbled jaw, smirking faintly.

“Well,” he said, leaning in. “Still got it. God bless symmetry.”

He gave his face a slap for good measure before brushing his teeth using one of the complimentary travel packs —flavoured like mint and floor cleaner. As he rinsed, his stomach gave a deep, hollow groan.

Nick dried his face with a towel and stepped back into the main room, shaking the last clinging strands of sleep from his bones. He glanced around with disdain.

Maybe this hellhole has a buffet, he thought. One thing rednecks can do is food. Bacon might just save this place.

He strolled toward the balcony door, pulling it open with one hand, the early morning air—warm already, with the scent of ash and exhaust wafting faintly through the breeze.

Before he could grab his cigarettes from the dresser, a sudden, violent pounding on the door made him jump.

BAM-BAM-BAM.

Nick froze. His first instinct was annoyance.

“Housekeeping?” he called, rolling his eyes. “I’m good, thanks. Come back never.”

He turned away, stepping toward the dresser for his smokes. But the pounding didn’t stop.

It got worse.
More aggressive.
The door rattled in its frame, as though someone was throwing their full weight into it.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM.

Nick spun around, frowning deeply. “Jesus Christ, I said no thanks! What the hell, do you get paid by the bruise?”

The banging was frenzied now, paired with the sound of scraping—nails?—dragging against the cheap wood veneer.

Grumbling under his breath, Nick stomped across the room, each step louder than the last. “Okay, okay, enough! I swear, I’m going to shove that vacuum right up your—”

He unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp clack, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open with the fury of a man prepared to scold someone into next week.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

A blur of limbs tackled him, slamming into his chest and sending him crashing backward onto the floor, wind knocked clean out of him. He hit hard, the back of his head thumping against the carpet with a dull crack.

He blinked, stunned, the world spinning around him. Arms flailed. Teeth snapped. A girl—no older than twenty—was crawling on top of him, eyes wild and glowing with an unnatural amber hue, pupils swallowed by inhuman light. Her clothes were shredded, one shoe missing, the other foot trailing blood as she clawed at him with filthy nails.

“Get—off me!” Nick rasped, trying to push her back, her blood-slick fingers tearing at his shirt, grabbing at his throat, her mouth opening wide with a choked, growling hiss.

She reeked of iron, rot, and desperation.

Nick scrambled backward, her hands locking around his ankle, dragging herself forward with sickening speed. He kicked at her chest, wriggling free, his palms slipping as he tried to stand. She was on him again, nails raking his leg, her face just inches from his, her teeth gnashing for his throat.

Panicking, Nick’s hand flailed out—reaching, grasping—until it closed around something familiar: his shoe.

With a sharp grunt, he brought the heel crashing down on her temple.
Once. Twice.

She reeled back, stunned. Blood—her blood—splattered across the carpet.

When she lunged again, he timed it. Feet braced, arms locked. He let her momentum carry her.

He flipped her with everything he had—his muscles screaming, adrenaline burning hot in his veins.

She crashed through the open sliding door with a sickening CRACK, her body pinwheeling over the balcony rail like a rag doll. A shriek ripped from her throat—high, feral—before it was silenced by the wet thud of impact below.

Nick lay on the floor for a long second, chest heaving, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. His heart thundered in his ears.

What the fuck just happened.

He rose slowly, limbs shaking, and walked—barefoot, blood-splattered—out onto the balcony.

The breeze hit him like ice this time.
The sky above was cloudless, cruelly beautiful.
But the horizon—
The horizon was burning.

Thick columns of black smoke billowed up from the city, snaking into the sky like claws. Sirens howled in the distance, dozens of them, overlapping in chaotic rhythm.

Nick moved to the railing and looked down.

The pool was a massacre.

The once-blue water was stained a murky, congealed red. A body floated facedown near the deep end, a trail of blood spiraling from a gaping wound in his back. Another body lay sprawled across the diving board, arm twisted unnaturally, throat torn out. The tiles were smeared with red handprints, with drag marks, with chaos frozen mid-motion.

Lounge chairs overturned. A towel hung from the lifeguard stand like a white flag soaked through.

He stared, eyes wide, mouth dry.

“…This is not a hangover,” he whispered.

Behind him, the room was silent. The TV still glowed faintly in the corner. His shoe sat abandoned near the doorway.

Savannah was no longer just falling apart. It had already fallen.

Screams echoed from the hallway—raw, unfiltered, human—ripping Nick straight out of his stunned silence.

He spun toward the open doorway, heart hammering, and bolted across the room. His bare feet slapped against the floor, slipping slightly on the blood still wet on the carpet. He slammed the door shut with a grunt, the wood vibrating in its frame, and threw the bolt back into place with trembling fingers.

CLUNK.

Nick stumbled back from the door, adrenaline crashing into him like a wave. His legs gave out beneath him, and he hit the floor with a thud, catching himself on one elbow. For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like a piston.

His mind was racing—fractured thoughts spiraling out in all directions.

What the fuck was that?
Was she high? Rabid? Dead?
No. No, she was alive. Right? Alive enough to try to rip my goddamn throat out.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his hands to stop shaking as he crawled toward the bed and used it to haul himself up. The mattress creaked under the weight, blood from his hands smearing faintly onto the sheets.

He started pacing, one hand on his head, dragging his fingers through his hair. His mouth was dry, his lungs tight.

“Okay. Okay. Think, Nick. Think.”
He stopped, turned, and then bolted for the bathroom.

He flicked the light switch. Nothing. The bulb had long since given up. But enough daylight filtered through the balcony to illuminate the grimy mirror.

He twisted the cold tap. The pipes groaned, coughed, then delivered a spurt of icy water into the sink.

Nick splashed it onto his face with both hands, rubbing hard, trying to wash away the panic. He exhaled, water dripping down his nose, onto his chest.

Then he looked up.

His reflection stared back: wide eyes, jaw clenched, his face streaked with water, flecked with—

He froze.

Specks of red. Tiny droplets, scattered across his cheekbones, down his neck.

He blinked. Took a step closer.

And then he saw it.

Not just his face.
His shirt.

His pristine, tailored shirt was now stained across the chest in thick smears and splatters of deep, wet crimson. A fan of blood was sprayed across the collar, one dark trail leading from the base of his neck down to the buttons.

He looked like a crime scene.
No, worse. He looked infected.

“Goddammit!” he shouted, slamming both palms down on the edge of the sink. “That crazy bitch! What is this, some backwoods vampire sorority initiation?!”

He tore open the buttons with frantic movements, yanking the shirt off and flinging it out onto the floor like it had personally betrayed him. It landed with a soft slap, folding in on itself like wet paper.

He stared down at his chest, heart pounding, half-expecting to see bite marks or something worse—but no, no broken skin. Just sweat. Cold, sharp fear.

Nick backed away from the sink, one hand still pressed to his bare chest, the other dragging down his face.

It hit him.

This wasn’t just a bar fight gone sideways.
This wasn’t drugs or some freak accident.
This was something bigger. Something very wrong.

Nick slapped himself across the face.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time—harder.

“Focus, dammit,” he growled, rubbing his cheek, which was now stinging more than his pride. His heart was still pounding, sweat soaking his hairline. He stared at his reflection one last time and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Alright, Nick. Time to get out of this shitty hotel… and out of this even shittier city.”

He turned, leaving the bathroom behind and bursting into the main room. The chaos he’d left was exactly where he’d left it.

He tripped putting on his socks, swearing as he tumbled sideways onto the bed, rolled gracelessly onto the floor, then scrambled to shove his feet into them. The socks stuck slightly from the dried sweat and panic. He jammed his shoes on next, fingers fumbling with the laces.

Nick paused, shirt in hand, and let out a breath. The fabric was stiff where the blood had dried, the collar stained a deep, ugly red. Still, he slipped his arms into the sleeves with an odd sort of care, buttoning each button precisely from the bottom up. His movements were mechanical—designed to keep his brain from spiralling.

He glanced down at his trousers. Somehow, impossibly, they were still spotless.

“Huh,” he muttered. “I’ll never get this shirt clean again. But these pants? Pure goddamn miracle.”

He picked up his matching jacket from the floor where it had slipped off the bed sometime during the night. He gave it a quick shake, brushing off lint and imaginary judgment, then shrugged into it. He adjusted his cuffs with practiced flair, as if he were walking into a cocktail lounge rather than a bloodbath.

He snagged his cigarettes from the dresser, tapping the pack gently against his palm before slipping it into his pocket.

“Alright,” he whispered to himself, eyes scanning the room, “time to make a grand exit. Preferably in one piece.”

He stepped onto the balcony again, the early morning sun harsher now, casting everything in an almost surreal brightness. He leaned over the rail, peering down at the carnage surrounding the pool. The scene was no less horrific. If anything, it was worse.

Nick looked down at the ground, then back at his legs, calculating the height.

“…Fuck that,” he said aloud, backing away quickly. “I’m not jumping off the fourth floor for a free continental breakfast.”

He let the sliding door fall shut with a thunk, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room.

Turning back to the entrance, he approached the door. His polished shoes made soft thuds against the carpet with each step. He stopped just in front of it, placing one palm flat against the worn wood, the other hovering near the bolt.

He leaned in, pressing his ear against the surface.
Silence.
A tense, unnatural silence.

“It’s now or never, Nicolas.” He muttered.

He slowly turned the lock. The click was loud in the stillness.

Gripping the handle, he cracked the door open inch by inch, the hinges stiff. He had to yank it again to force it fully open.

The hallway was a war zone.

Blood painted the walls in long, splattered streaks, some dry and brown, others fresh and glistening. The air was thick with the stench of blood and flesh, nearly making him gag. Severed limbs and torn clothing littered the floor like confetti after the worst parade in history. The carpet squished wetly beneath his shoes.

Nick swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he stepped out.

Every door he passed was open—each one revealing its own version of hell. Some rooms had shattered glass, overturned furniture, claw marks gouged into the walls. One door still creaked faintly as it swung open and closed in a lazy rhythm.

“How the fuck did I sleep through this?” he whispered, his voice hollow.

He moved slowly, cautiously, stepping over a dismembered arm near the ice machine. The overturned housekeeping cart lay across the hallway, its contents spilled everywhere. Towels, mini shampoos, packets of powdered coffee and—

Crunch.

Sugar sachets. The ones he’d stolen the night before.

Nick looked down as he stepped over them. “Hell of a last meal.”

Ahead, the elevator came into view—its mustard-yellow doors still open.

Relief flickered in his chest. He quickened his pace.

Just as he stepped up to it, about to enter, instinct pulled him short.

There was no elevator.
Only a dark, yawning shaft.

Nick’s foot stopped just inches from the edge. He lurched forward, hands clawing at the doors to keep from falling, his breath catching in his throat.

“Shit!” he gasped, staggering backward, palms sweaty. “Holy shit.”

His heart was hammering again, pounding against his ribs like a prisoner in a cage. The empty shaft stared back at him, a vertical abyss. Nothing but shadows and cables and a distant gleam of something metallic way, way below.

He stepped away from it, shaking his head. “Right. No elevator. No problem.”

The hallway trembled with sound—an awful, inhuman sound.

It began as a distant howling, like a pack of wolves caught in a wind tunnel. Then came the thunderous beat of footfalls. Fast. Heavy. Many.

Nick’s head jerked toward the end of the hallway, toward the sound.

He inched forward, keeping to the wall, and peeked around the corner.

They were coming.

A swarm of them.

Rabid, feral bodies tore down the corridor—dozens of them. Sprinting on instinct. Some wore shredded clothes, some wore nothing but blood. Their eyes burned with that same amber glow as the girl who’d tried to rip his throat out. Their limbs flailed in unnatural strides as they crashed into walls, tripped over each other, scrambled over one another like animals fighting for meat.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Nick hissed, staggering back.

He spun on his heel, eyes wide, and dove toward the stairwell door next to the empty elevator shaft. His hands slammed against it.

Locked.

“Come on—seriously?!” He started banging his shoulder into it, teeth gritted, voice rising in desperation. “Open, you piece of shit—come on!”

Suddenly, a sound stopped him cold.

A shriek.

But not from the hallway.
From the elevator shaft.

It started low, almost like a metal groan. Then came a guttural growl that rolled up through the darkness below, vibrating the air. Nick froze, every hair on his arms standing upright. Goosebumps rushed across his skin like a cold wave.

He turned, slowly, back toward the shaft.

Peered over the edge.

Down in the blackness, he saw them—eyes—two glowing orbs, locked onto him like a predator spotting prey. They blinked once. Then, impossibly fast, the figure began climbing the interior wall of the shaft—crawling with ease, its clawed hands scraping against the metal, the sound more bone-chilling than nails on a chalkboard.

“What the fuck is that?” Nick gasped, stumbling back.

The thing let out another shriek, then launched itself from one wall to the other, rebounding like a pinball—left, right, up, up again—each bounce bringing it closer to the surface.

“NOPE.”

Nick threw himself at the stairwell door again, ramming it with his shoulder over and over.

BOOM.
BOOM.

Behind him, claws scraped against the metal edge of the shaft. A hand—grey and bony, ending in black talons—curled over the ledge.

“COME ON!” Nick shouted.

With one final, desperate shove, the door gave way. He fell forward through the frame, crashing hard to the ground.

WHAM.

He hit the stairwell landing hard, then tumbled down the stairs in a rolling mess of limbs and curses.

THUD. CRASH. THUMP.

His back slammed against the concrete wall at the bottom, knocking the breath out of him. He lay there in a twisted sprawl, coughing, one leg kicking out involuntarily in pain, his arm wrapped tight around his ribcage.

He groaned, breathless.
“I fucking hate Savannah.”

Above him, the stairwell door shuddered violently. Something slammed against it—again. And again. Nick looked up, panic twisting in his chest. He didn’t have long. The door wasn’t built to hold against whatever that thing was.

He gritted his teeth, pulled himself upright, wincing with every movement. His ribs ached—maybe cracked—but he had no choice. He limped down the remaining flights, one hand gripping the railing for balance.

At last, he burst into the lobby.

What was once quiet and dead was now ruined.

The front desk was overturned, the fake plant now splintered and smeared with blood. The vending machine had been smashed open, candy bars scattered like shrapnel. A body—part of a body—lay sprawled near the breakfast area, one lifeless hand resting in a bowl of spilled cereal.

Bloody footprints streaked the tile. Something terrible had happened here, and not long ago.

Nick crept toward the glass entrance doors, heart hammering.

Outside… was a war zone.

The street was a painting of chaos.

Corpses lined the sidewalks, some burnt, some torn apart. Fires burned from overturned cars and shattered storefronts. Smoke coiled up into the sky like ghostly fingers. Screams rang out in every direction—people running, some dragging others, some being dragged.

Those things— were everywhere. Sprinting after survivors. Tearing into them. One lunged at a man by a bus stop, tearing his throat open as he screamed. Another smashed through a shop window, crawling out seconds later with blood all over its face.

Barricades had been set up down the far end of the street—makeshift checkpoints of barbed wire, sandbags, and army vehicles. A few soldiers fired wildly, but it was no use. They were overwhelmed. Screams and gunfire overlapped until it became impossible to tell who was winning—if anyone.

Nick ducked low, jaw clenched.

He slipped out the hotel’s shattered door, crouching beneath the windows, keeping himself low and quiet.

He crossed the street, keeping to the shadows, and ducked behind a parked sedan. His breath came fast, shallow, his jacket soaked through with sweat and fear.

From here, he scanned the street. His eyes locked onto an alley across the way, squeezed between a parking garage and a crumbling liquor store.

He stared at the liquor store sign.

“Could really use a drink right now.”

He was about to move when suddenly.
A truck—full-sized, fast, and totally out of control—came screaming around the corner. Nick barely had time to step out of its path before it barreled past him, missing by inches.

He hit the ground hard, rolling away from the impact zone.

The truck veered, hit the curb at full speed, and launched sideways.

CRASH!

It slammed into the wall of the parking garage and tipped, flipping violently onto its passenger side with a deafening metallic CRACK, concrete and glass shattering on impact. Flames burst from beneath the hood.

Nick lay on the pavement, heart in his throat, coughing from the dust and exhaust.

“Well,” he rasped, “guess somebody didn’t yield.”

Chapter Text

Nick stared up at the overturned truck, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breath. The vehicle lay on its side like a dead animal, wheels still spinning weakly, engine sputtering out its last breath in stuttering puffs of smoke. One headlight flickered against the wall of the parking garage it had slammed into, casting erratic shadows across the chaos-stained street.

The world around him was still a war zone.

Flames licked at the curb a few feet away, crackling under the remains of a toppled newspaper box. Somewhere down the block, someone screamed—a single, raw cry that ended abruptly. Sirens moaned distantly. Smoke curled through the air in greasy black tendrils, stinging Nick’s eyes and throat as he coughed into his sleeve.

Dust and concrete grit coated the ground. Through the haze, Nick’s pulse pounded in his ears like war drums.

Then—BANG.

The driver’s door of the truck suddenly flew open with a violent clang, metal groaning under its own warped weight.

A body tumbled out of the cab and hit the asphalt hard.

Nick tensed, hand reaching for a weapon he didn’t have, dragging himself back against the side of the car he’d used for cover. His vision was still blurred from the shock, the grit in his eyes making it hard to focus.

The figure stirred.

Started crawling toward him.

A hunched silhouette, limbs moving unsteadily, one arm dragging across the ground as it pulled itself across the road like a broken animal. Nick squinted through the smoke, heart spiking.

“Shit…” he muttered, his back flattening harder against the metal. “Not again…”

But then—

The figure stopped, raised its head, and spoke.

“Whoa, whoa! Hey, man—y’all alright?”

The voice was young. Southern. Warm and jarringly cheerful, considering he’d just flipped a truck.

Nick blinked. He’d been ready for teeth and claws. Not a thick accent and concern.

“Thought ya might be one’a them crazies. Hell, you’re pale enough—look like you just saw a ghost or somethin’.”

The figure pushed himself up off the asphalt and stood. He moved with a slight limp, but otherwise looked shockingly intact. As he stepped closer, emerging from the smoke and backlit firelight, Nick could finally see him clearly.

The kid couldn’t have been more than his early twenties.

Slim, but wiry—mechanic’s muscle. Covered in grime, dust, and blood that didn’t look like his. He had short, slightly curly light brown hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat, and a face too open for the world it was in—blue eyes wide and kind, even now.

He was wearing a light-colored T-shirt with a bold, grease-stained logo across the chest: BULL SHIFTERS AUTO. His mechanic overalls were tied around his waist, and he wore heavy-duty work boots, laces frayed and scuffed.

A crowbar clattered to the ground beside him as he knelt, his hand reaching out.

“Hey—here, lemme help ya.”

Nick blinked again, still half-convinced this was some kind of post-concussion hallucination. But the kid’s grip was strong and real as he grabbed Nick’s arm and gently helped him sit up, resting his back against the cool metal of the sedan.

“You’re not lookin’ too hot, mister,” the boy said, crouched beside him now. “No offense or nothin’. That fall must’a rung your bell real good.”

He spoke with the casual rhythm of someone used to talking through disasters—and maybe laughing at them. There was no trace of fear in his voice, just a kind of innocent optimism that made Nick deeply suspicious.

“Name’s Ellis,” the boy said, brushing the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. “I was comin’ down 9th when everything went to hell, saw some folks gettin’ torn apart outside the diner. I tried hittin’ reverse but, uh… the truck didn’t take kindly to curbs, turns out.”

Nick winced, rubbing his side, ribs screaming in protest. “You call that drivin’? Kid, you hit that wall like you were tryin’ to prove gravity wrong.”

Ellis laughed—a short, unbothered chuckle, like Nick had just complimented him.

“Yup. That was definitely not my best park job, I’ll admit,” he said with a shrug, still smiling. “But hey, if I didn’t flip that truck, I wouldn’t’a found you, huh?”

Nick stared at him.

The smile didn’t falter. Not even a little.

“…Great,” Nick muttered, wiping more dust from his brow. “I get rescued by a one-man demolition derby.”

Ellis just beamed like it was the highest praise.

Ellis extended a hand, as he leaned down beside Nick. “Here ya go, partner—lemme help ya up.”

Nick took the hand reluctantly, only to immediately shake him off once he was upright. He brushed himself off with precision, flicking away debris from his lapels and tugging the hem of his jacket straight. His ribs ached, his pride even more so.

Ellis adjusted his baseball cap, tilting it back slightly as he gave Nick a curious once-over. “Y’ain’t from around here, huh?”

Nick didn’t look at him—just brushed a piece of gravel off his shoulder and sighed. “Wow. What gave it away? The fact I’m not barefoot and gnawing on roadkill?”

Ellis blinked, clearly missing the hostility. “Nah,” he said cheerfully, “it’s ‘cause you smell real nice. Like them fancy candles. Folks round here usually smell like motor oil, bug spray, or barbecued somethin’. Not whatever that is.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “And here I thought this town’s charm was in the abandoned gas stations.”

Ellis laughed like it was a compliment. “Shoot, yeah! We got loads o’ those! There’s this one station ‘bout ten miles outta town—place’s been closed since ’97 but they still got a soda machine outside that works if you hit it just right.”

Nick stared at him. “You’re not actually trying to bond with me, are you?”

Before Ellis could answer, a sudden snarl ripped through the smoke.

Two infected burst from the alley behind the wrecked truck—sprinting, eyes glowing with that same amber fire, mouths wide and slavering. One of them let out a guttural screech, stumbling as it barreled through the debris.

Nick’s reaction was instant: panic.

“Shit!” he barked, stumbling backward.

But Ellis?

Ellis grinned.

With the ease of someone swatting flies at a barbecue, he snatched his crowbar off the ground and charged.

“Y’all picked the wrong damn day to come crawlin’ outta hell!” he shouted.

CRACK!
The crowbar slammed into the first infected’s jaw with a sickening crunch, sending it reeling sideways into a lamppost. Without missing a beat, Ellis pivoted and drove the hooked end straight through the temple of the second one, dropping it in a heap of gore and bone.

Nick stared, half-shielding his face from the blood spray.

Ellis stood over the fallen bodies, catching his breath, crowbar hanging from one hand. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead, then grinned at Nick.

“Zombies, man,” he said, shaking his head. “Ain’t got no damn manners.”

Nick stared, unimpressed, lips pressed into a thin line. “Well,” he muttered, “remind me not to piss you off.”

Ellis turned back to say something—
But Nick was gone.

Down the alley, hidden in the shadows, Nick crouched behind a row of trash cans, ducking low. His shoulder still ached from the fall, his ribs were screaming, and his patience had long since died.

He watched carefully, eyes narrowing as he scanned for movement. The sounds of chaos echoed— distant shrieks, metal crunching, more gunfire.

He reached into his jacket and fumbled out a crumpled cigarette, but the moment the lighter clicked open—

“Whatcha doin’ over here?”

Nick jolted so hard he dropped the lighter.

He turned, jaw clenched, and there was Ellis—right behind him, crouched low like they were playing hide and seek.

Ellis grinned, completely unfazed by Nick’s glare. “Man, you’re fast! I looked back and you were just gone. Thought maybe you got ate, but nope—here ya are, hidin’ behind garbage like some kinda sneaky possum.”

Nick blinked slowly, exasperated. “Do you ever stop talking?”

Ellis tilted his head. “Not really. So where we goin’?”

Nick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not going anywhere. I’m going this way, you’re going to… wherever cheerful hillbillies go when they’re not flipping trucks or smashing zombies.”

Ellis didn’t budge. “Well, I mean… we could stick together. Strength in numbers, right? Plus, I saved your life—sorta. That earns me at least, like, five blocks.”

Nick raised his eyebrows, stunned by the persistence.

“…God help me,” he muttered. Then turned back to the street. “Fine. Just… keep your boots quiet and your mouth quieter.”

Ellis nodded solemnly.

Then whispered, way too loud, “Got it.”

Nick glared at him, deadpan. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Ellis beamed. “Little bit, yeah.”

The alley was tight and dark. Nick moved first, pressed low, shoulders hunched, every step placed with practiced precision. Broken glass crunched underfoot despite his efforts, and the stink of garbage clung to the air like a curse. He barely breathed.

Behind him, Ellis followed—but quiet wasn’t exactly in his nature.

“Y’see them rats we just passed?” Ellis whispered way too loud, keeping pace behind Nick with all the subtlety of a marching band. “One of ‘em was missin’ a tail. I had this pet rat named Nugget, right? Lil guy used to ride around in my shirt pocket—‘til he got into a bag of nacho cheese powder an’ turned bright orange for two whole days—”

Nick held up a hand to shut him up. “Shhh.”

Ellis froze mid-step, mouthing “sorry,” but still smiling.

They reached the corner where the alley turned sharply left. Nick crept forward, hugging the wall, and peered around the edge.

There—just a few feet away—a lone infected stood with its back to them, its fingers scraping endlessly against the brick wall like it was trying to remember why it was there. Its head twitched every so often, and its skin glistened with sweat and rot.

Nick stopped cold, motioning for Ellis to hold.

But behind him, Ellis’s foot nudged something.

Clink.

The tin can rolled forward with a hollow rattle.

The sound was deafening in the silence.

The infected snapped its head around violently, its glowing eyes locking onto them with predatory focus. Then it screamed—a high, gurgling screech—and charged.

“Shit—” was all Nick got out before it barreled past him, shoulder-checking him into the wall.

Nick grunted and hit the ground, skidding on the concrete.

Ellis barely had time to react before the thing slammed into him, pinning him to the wall with full force. He groaned as the infected snarled in his face, teeth gnashing inches from his nose. Ellis gritted his teeth and shoved his crowbar up between its jaws, barely holding it back as the infected chomped at the metal, twisting and fighting to sink its teeth into him.

“Little help?!” Ellis shouted, muscles straining. “Anytime’s good, man!”

Nick scrambled to his feet, dizzy, vision swimming—until his hand landed on something solid: a loose brick.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed it and lunged forward, swinging wide.

CRACK!

The brick smashed into the infected’s temple with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered against the alley wall. The infected collapsed like a sack of meat, dead weight slumping over Ellis, who pushed it off with a strained grunt and dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

“Whew,” Ellis panted, trying to catch his breath. “Man, I… I mean, thank you. You just—hell, you saved my ass. Like, proper saved it.”

Nick wiped blood from his hand and looked down at him, unimpressed. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re even now.”

Ellis chuckled, still winded, but sincere. “Fair’s fair, I guess.”

Ellis started pushing himself off the ground—when his eyes widened. “Nick—duck!”

Nick turned just as another infected came sprinting up the alley, shrieking.

Before Nick could move, Ellis launched his crowbar across the alley like a javelin.

WHUNK.

It embedded clean into the infected’s forehead, dropping it mid-stride, its momentum carrying it a few more steps before it crumpled onto the ground in a twitching heap.

Nick stared, then turned to Ellis, who was grinning ear to ear.

“Bullseye,” Ellis said proudly, like he’d just won a carnival game.

Nick didn’t say a word. He simply turned, storming further down the alley with tight shoulders and a muttered curse.

“Try to keep up,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Or better yet—get lost.”

Ellis, unbothered, trotted after him, still chipper.

The alley eventually spat them back out onto a quieter stretch of road, just off the main chaos. The air was thick with smoke and the coppery stench of blood, but for the moment—just a moment—it was quiet.

Nick and Ellis crouched behind the wreckage of an overturned SUV, eyes scanning the street. Crashed sedans lined the curb, some burned out, others with doors flung open like their owners had fled mid-escape. A few corpses lay motionless across the asphalt, but none of them were moving. Yet.

The real noise came from farther down the block—distant screams, the sharp burst of a car alarm, and the thunder of infected stampeding toward the sound like moths to flame.

“Looks like they’re busy,” Nick muttered, peering over the hood of a car to double-check the street.

They moved fast but low, weaving between vehicles, careful not to make noise—well, Nick was careful. Ellis wasn’t exactly built for stealth. Every time his boot scraped gravel or his crowbar tapped against a bumper, Nick’s shoulders tensed like a man trying to will himself into a heart attack.

They ducked behind a dusty pickup truck, and Ellis leaned over, panting slightly.

“So,” he whispered, “where we headin’?”

Nick didn’t look at him. “The casino.”

Ellis’s face twisted like he’d just heard someone say they were headed to prom during a house fire. “The casino? Y’mean the one back by the main strip?” He blinked. “Now’s really not the time, Mr. Gamblin’ Man.”

Nick turned to him, deadpan. “I left my car there last night.”

Ellis looked blank.

“My car,” Nick repeated, enunciating each syllable. “As in: vehicle, wheels, engine, salvation. And unlike you, I don’t plan on wandering the South barefoot with a smile and a crowbar till something chews my face off.”

Ellis raised his eyebrows, unfazed. “You think your car’s still there? Shoot, them streets are on fire, man. Might be all crispy by now.”

Nick didn’t miss a beat. “Then I’ll drive the ashes straight out of this inbred zombie cesspool and count it as a win.”

Ellis gave him a lopsided grin, completely unbothered. “Well hell, long as it’s got a passenger seat, guess I’ll be ridin’ shotgun.”

Nick shot him a sharp glare. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Oh, sure I am,” Ellis said cheerfully, ducking behind a parked sedan. “We make a good team! You do all the scowlin’, I do all the killin’.”

Nick exhaled through his nose. Hard.

“You’re enjoying this.”

Ellis looked around at the blood-slick streets, the burning buildings, and the quiet hum of distant screams. “Well… not this,” he admitted. “But y’know. If I gotta be stuck in the end of the world, you ain’t the worst company I could’ve drawn.”

Nick gave him a long, narrow-eyed look. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Ellis shrugged. “Kinda.”

Nick groaned, turned away, and started moving again.

“Let’s just get to the damn car,” he muttered. “And if I lose you somewhere on the way, just assume it was fate doing us both a favor.”

Ellis didn’t miss a step. “Aww, c’mon, Nick! I ain’t that easy to get rid of.”

He followed after Nick, cheerful as ever, crowbar swinging loosely at his side—oblivious to every sharp glance Nick threw his way.

And despite everything— Ellis kept talking.

“Hey, did I ever tell you ‘bout the time my buddy Keith drove a lawnmower straight through the Dairy Queen drive-thru? Man, that was somethin’…”

Nick kept walking.
Ellis kept rambling.
And the city kept burning behind them.

They moved like shadows now—low and quiet, weaving between burnt-out cars and broken lampposts. The air was thick with the lingering smell of gasoline and scorched rubber, but the street itself was still. The last stretch of road sloped gently downhill, and through the lingering smoke and half-collapsed signage, Nick could finally see it.

The Savannah Royale Casino.

Neon flickered on its front, letters buzzing faintly in the haze. A giant electric martini glass glowed pink and green above the entrance, blinking. Nick stared at it like it was holy.

“There it is,” he muttered. “The last chance at salvation. Or at least my car.”

But Ellis had stopped walking.

His head jerked to the side, toward a narrow offshoot road lined with dumpsters and broken fencing. A crash rang out—metal clanging hard against metal—followed by a woman’s voice shouting something unintelligible, panicked and breathless.

“Y’hear that?” Ellis whispered, eyes widening. “Someone’s in trouble!”

Nick didn’t stop moving. “Nope. No. No you don’t. Ellis. Look. Casino. Neon. Salvation. I can practically hear my engine running.”

“But—Nick, c’mon! That sounded real bad!” Ellis already had one foot turned toward the noise.

“I am not risking my ass when I can see the finish line.”

Ellis didn’t even argue.

He just grabbed Nick’s wrist.

“What the hell—”

“Hold on!”

Ellis yanked him forward and took off in a sprint.

“Son of a bitch!” Nick growled, stumbling after him as they rounded the corner.

The side street was chaos.

Three infected were swarming around a pair of survivors—one tall, broad man swinging a metal baseball bat wildly, shielding a shorter woman with his sheer size. She was crouched behind a toppled recycling bin.

The man roared as he swung the bat in a wide arc, smashing one infected in the ribs hard enough to crack bone.

“Come on then, ya ugly bastards! You want a piece?! I got pieces!”

The man looked like a damn linebacker—barrel-chested, bald, wearing what had once been a gym uniform, now drenched in blood and sweat. His face was scruffed, rounded, eyes fierce under thick brows. If the apocalypse had a bouncer, this guy was it.

The woman was lean, dark-skinned, and focused despite the chaos.
Even from across the street, Nick could see the blood smeared down her pink shirt, one sleeve torn. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her face sharp with urgency, sweat gleaming on her brow.

Ellis didn’t hesitate.

He charged forward, raising his crowbar. “HEY! Over here!”

The first infected turned—and Ellis cracked it straight across the skull. The sickening crunch sent it reeling to the ground, motionless.

“Two for one special!” Ellis whooped, just as the second infected turned its attention to him with a screech.

It lunged. Ellis ducked, knocked it off-balance with a sweep to the knees, and shouted, “Your turn, big guy!”

The stranger didn’t miss a beat—he stepped forward and obliterated the fallen infected with a two-handed swing of the bat, sending skull fragments flying across the pavement.

“That’s how we do it!” the man shouted, chest heaving.

The third infected turned away from the others and locked eyes with Nick.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Nick muttered, backing up fast.

It charged—fast, snarling, arms outstretched.

Nick ducked low just as it lunged, the thing sailing over his shoulder. He turned—heart pounding—just in time to see something flying through the air toward him.

Ellis’s crowbar.

Nick caught it on instinct.

And in one fluid motion, he swung.

CRACK.

The infected’s head flew clean off, bouncing once on the pavement before landing in the gutter.

Nick stood there, stunned, breathing hard. The crowbar hung loosely in his hand.

Ellis was grinning from ear to ear. “Whew! Hell yeah, That was awesome!”

The tall man and the woman approached cautiously, still tense, eyes on the two strangers.

The man gave Ellis a grateful nod. “Y’all showed up just in time, we owe you one.”

The woman glanced at Nick, then down at the crowbar in his hand. “Nice swing. That one owe you money or somethin’?”

Nick handed the crowbar back to Ellis. “Just… had a bad morning.”

Her eyes flicked to his suit, wrinkled and stained. “Nice outfit, You wear that just for us?”

Nick adjusted his jacket, brushing a smear of blood from the lapel. “Believe it or not, this was clean this morning.”

Ellis, chipper as ever, stepped forward. “Name’s Ellis! This here’s Nick—don’t let the scowl fool ya, he’s real nice once he stops threatenin’ to leave you behind.”

The woman smirked. “Rochelle. This is Coach.”

Coach gave a firm nod. “Y’all just earned yourselves some backup. Safety in numbers right?”

Chapter Text

They were still catching their breath when Nick took a few steps back from the group, brushing his palms off like he was finished with a bad job.

“Well,” he said, glancing toward the glowing casino sign in the distance, “looks like you’ve found yourself a new family, Ellis.”

He turned to leave.

“Hey! Suit!” Rochelle called after him, hands on her hips. “I don’t care how sharp your collar is, you’re not gonna survive out here alone. It’s safer if the four of us stick together.”

“Yeah!” Ellis chimed in, grinning, already fully buying into the group dynamic.

Coach gave a firm nod. “Lady’s right. Safety in numbers. I ain’t about to let anyone get picked off.”
Nick didn’t respond. He just kept walking, heels clicking against the pavement with deliberate calm.

The street was deathly still.

The chaos from earlier felt like it had burned itself out, leaving only the remnants. Overturned cars lined the street like corpses in a parade, some scorched, others blood-smeared. Glass littered the asphalt in glittering patches. The sky above was dull grey, the smoke-haze turning the sunlight into a sickly yellow. Farther down, the Savannah Royale Casino loomed like a dying shrine, its neon sign flickering faintly over the entrance, buzzing with half-dead electricity.

Nick walked toward it, hands in his pockets, eyes locked ahead. Determined.

Behind him, hurried footsteps. Then Ellis appeared, jogging to catch up before falling into step beside him.

“Hey—wait up, man!” Ellis said breathlessly. “Where you goin’? We’re a team, remember?”

Nick came to an abrupt stop, turning so fast Ellis nearly walked into him. The casino was just behind Nick now, pulsing faintly in the haze.

“We’re not a team,” Nick snapped, jabbing a finger into Ellis’s chest. “I didn’t sign up for a buddy system, I’m not your pal, and I don’t need you—or them. I’m fine on my own.”

Ellis blinked, thrown but still smiling weakly. “Well, y’don’t gotta be mean about it…”

“Cut the macho lone wolf bullshit, Suit,” Rochelle called from down the street, her voice sharp. “You’re not the only one having a rough day.”

Nick looked past Ellis, toward her, eyebrows raised.

“Easy, doll,” he said, voice flat with sarcasm. “Here’s the plan—I’m gonna get in my car, drive the fuck outta this shit show, and you, the fat man, and the kid can take your time gettin’ yourselves killed however you damn well please.”

Coach’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah? Which car’s yours?”

Nick didn’t even glance toward the lot. He just thumbed over his shoulder with one hand.

“The white one. Parked right outside the entrance. Classy, fast, and unlike you people, reliable.”

Ellis grimaced like he’d just watched a puppy get run over. Rochelle snorted.

“You mean the one crushed under the giant R from that neon sign?”

Nick blinked.

He turned.

And froze.

There it was.

What had once been a sleek, gleaming white Cadillac now sat crumpled in front of the casino—half the front end completely crushed beneath a twisted, flaming piece of neon signage. The towering letter R from ‘Royale’ had snapped from its moorings and come down like the finger of God, landing squarely on the hood. The windshield was a mess of broken glass and bent metal. One headlight was dangling by a wire, and smoke hissed up from under the bent steel frame. A pool of fluid—coolant or maybe just spite—leaked slowly beneath it.

Nick stared.

“…Motherfu—”

He stopped himself, just barely. Took a long, slow breath, then muttered:

“God. Damn it.”

Behind him, Ellis tried to hold back a sympathetic chuckle and failed.

Rochelle crossed her arms, deadpan. “Guess you’re walkin’ with us after all, Suit.”

Nick closed his eyes. Just for a second.
He was going to kill someone.
Probably Ellis.

Ellis lingered beside Nick, still watching the crumpled Cadillac like it had just been flattened by a falling sky.

“Hey,” he said gently, nudging his elbow. “Sorry ‘bout your ride, man.”

Nick didn’t respond.

Instead, he snatched the crowbar right out of Ellis’s hands without a word, turned, and started stomping toward the wreck like a man on a mission.

Ellis’s eyes widened. “Whoa, hey now, hold up! You don’t gotta beat it to death, it’s already down, man!”

Coach stepped up beside Rochelle, watching with concern. “Son, that ain’t necessary. Goin’ at that car’s only gonna make noise. We need to stay quiet—real quiet.”

Nick whirled on them, eyes sharp, voice hot. “Oh, calm the hell down. I’m not about to start swingin’. I just need to pry the trunk open and get what I left in there last night.”

Rochelle raised an eyebrow. “And what’s in there that’s worth getting us killed?”

“Things,” Nick said, turning away

“Where are your keys?” she called after him.

Nick paused mid-step.

Shrugged.

“Might’ve… left ‘em in my hotel room,” he muttered under his breath.

There was a beat of silence. The group all stared at him.

Rochelle’s brow shot up to her hairline. “You what?”

Nick didn’t look at her.

She folded her arms, unimpressed. “How exactly were you planning on driving your fancy getaway car without the damn keys, had it not been crushed by a five-ton light-up letter?”

Nick fidgeted slightly, eyes fixed on the smashed vehicle. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

A groan passed through the group like a collective eye roll.

Still, Nick knelt beside the car and carefully angled the crowbar into the seam of the trunk. He adjusted it, planted his foot against the rear for leverage.

With a grunt, he shoved the crowbar downward.

BEEEEP.

The car alarm erupted.

A high-pitched, blaring wail split the air like a siren from hell—relentless, pulsing, and absolutely deafening in the quiet street. The Cadillac screeched its mechanical death rattle for all to hear, echoing off every surface for blocks.

“God DAMN it, Nick!” Rochelle snapped, clapping her hands over her ears.

“You tryin’ to get us killed?!” Coach bellowed.

Ellis ducked instinctively, grimacing. “Okay, that… that is definitely not helpful!”

The alarm kept screaming.

And from the distance—like wolves stirred by the scent of fresh blood—the howls began.

One to the west. Another to the south. Then more. Dozens.
Close.

Nick straightened slowly, crowbar still in hand, the alarm shrieking behind him like a death sentence.

“…Whoops,” he muttered.

The alarm continued to blare, pulsing in shrill, grating waves across the ruined street. The sound bounced off buildings, ricocheting through the smoke-filled air like a flare screaming we’re here.

Nick didn’t flinch.
He jammed the crowbar down again and popped the trunk.

Behind him, Ellis, Rochelle, and Coach quickly huddled into a tight formation, weapons raised, eyes on the smoke-drenched street.

“Nick—hurry the hell up!” Rochelle hissed, her voice tense with urgency. “Now is not the time to reorganize your luggage!”

“I’m working on it!” Nick snapped, already rummaging through the trunk’s scattered contents. His designer duffel was half-buried under the crushed frame, torn open and spilling neatly folded shirts and a couple cigarette boxes.

The howls were growing louder, surrounding them from every angle. But they still couldn’t see the infected—the smoke hung thick in the air, a choking blanket of grey. It coiled like snakes around the wreckage, crawling between the cars, turning the street into a shifting maze of shadows.

Ash floated down like dirty snow. Somewhere nearby, a car engine backfired, distant and muffled. The neon sign buzzed violently overhead, casting jagged flashes of pink and blue through the haze.

Then—they broke through.

The first of the infected came barreling out of the smoke like a bullet—limbs flailing, mouth open in a blood-slick scream.

Coach didn’t hesitate. He roared, swinging his bat in a perfect arc, catching the runner in the temple with a crack loud enough to echo. Blood sprayed in a fan, and the infected dropped hard.

“Let’s go, Coach!” Ellis whooped, already stepping forward.

Another infected charged.

Ellis met it with a full-body swing, his crowbar crunching into the side of its face. It hit the ground, twitching.

Then more came.

Dozens.

They poured out of the smoke like a flood, shrieking, stumbling over debris and each other. The pounding of their feet and the gasping of their breath filled the air like a war drum.

“Shitshitshit—” Rochelle gasped as one lunged from the smoke, heading straight for her.

The infected got close—too close—teeth bared.

Then it was tackled off its feet.

Ellis came flying in from the side like a linebacker, slamming into the infected and rolling across the ground. They crashed hard. Ellis landed on top, drove his crowbar down into its skull with a sharp crack, then looked up at Rochelle with a big, stupid grin.

But more were already on him.

Three infected swarmed out of the haze, piling on.

“Ellis!” Rochelle cried.

He was buried instantly—arms and legs flying as he wrestled on the ground. To Rochelle, it looked absurd, like something out of a Looney Tunes sketch: limbs flailing, yelling, bodies getting thrown left and right.

Nick didn’t look up.

He had pulled a small black case from the trunk and opened it with care, almost reverence.

Inside: a gleaming silver Magnum pistol, polished to perfection. Nestled in red velvet. He lifted it slowly, almost lovingly, his eyes flicking over every flawless surface.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, lifting it to his lips. “Daddy missed you.”

Rochelle leaned in over his shoulder and hissed, “Are you kidding me?!”

Nick loaded the Magnum with a smooth click, still cool as ever. “Please. You didn’t think a guy like me wouldn’t be packing?”

Rochelle opened her mouth—closed it again—then snorted. “Of course you have a gun in your trunk. Why wouldn’t you?”

Without another word, Nick reached back into the trunk, grabbed a smaller matte black pistol, and shoved it toward her.

“You shoot?”

Rochelle raised both hands like he was offering her a live snake. “Do I look like I shoot?!”

Nick rolled his eyes, grabbed her wrist, and slapped the gun into her hand. “It’s easy. Point it at the ones trying to kill you. Pull the trigger. Don’t shoot me.”

She gripped it awkwardly, hands trembling slightly.

“Great,” she muttered. “No pressure.”

Nick turned smoothly, his jacket fluttering behind him as he raised the Magnum.

The next infected burst through the smoke.

BANG.

Its skull exploded in a burst of red mist.

Another charged.

BANG.

Down.

Nick didn’t flinch. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times—each shot smooth, efficient, straight to the head. No wasted movement. No wasted ammo.

Rochelle stood frozen for a beat—then snapped out of it. She raised her pistol, aimed at the chest of an incoming infected, and fired.

The shot hit.

The thing staggered.

She shot again. Another body shot. Still standing.

“Why won’t it go down?!” she yelled, squeezing the trigger again.

BANG.

Finally, it crumpled.

Nick didn’t stop shooting. “Head, doll. Always the head.”

“Yeah, I got that now, thanks!”

Behind them, Coach shouted over the chaos, “They just keep comin’!”

“Keep ‘em off me!” Nick barked. “I am not dying in this goddamn city!”

From the pile of flailing limbs, Ellis shouted out, still wrestling under a dogpile of infected: “Y’all… doin’ great, by the way!”

The street was littered with the broken bodies of the infected—still twitching, some twitching less by the second. The car alarm finally died with a weak, static-laced click, leaving a sudden silence that felt louder than the gunfire.

Coach turned, panting, bat in hand, scanning the haze. Then he saw Ellis, buried under the pile of infected limbs, pinned and still fighting somewhere under the mess.

“Ellis!”

Without hesitation, Coach charged—a human battering ram in motion. He slammed into the pile with the full weight of his body, swinging the bat wide and knocking two of the infected off like bowling pins. The others rolled back with snarls and screeches, collapsing in broken heaps as Coach stepped over Ellis and brought the bat down hard, again and again, until the groaning stopped.

Ellis lay flat on his back, coughing, blood on his forehead, panting through his grin. “Whew,” he rasped, “that… that was a whole lotta teeth…”

He blinked up—and saw Nick standing over him, his silhouette haloed by the last sputtering sparks of neon. Nick extended his hand, still holding his smoking Magnum in the other. Without a word, he grabbed Ellis by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet, one-handed, just as he raised the gun and fired twice more with the other—clean headshots that took down the last two shambling infected in their path.

Ellis staggered upright, winded but laughing. “Thanks, man—seriously! That was real badass—”

Nick shoved him.

Ellis stumbled directly into Rochelle, who caught him on instinct.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” she said with a breathless laugh, steadying him. “Thank you. You saved my ass.”

Ellis, still dazed but beaming, gave a little shrug. “Well, I did say we were a team…”

With the immediate threat silenced, Nick turned and returned to the trunk of his mangled Cadillac. He reached in and pulled out a black thigh holster, the leather worn in all the right places. He crouched slightly, strapping it securely around his right thigh with smooth precision, then slid the gleaming Magnum into place, the weight settling perfectly against him.

Without breaking stride, he reached into the trunk again and pulled out a second holster—a smaller hip rig, more practical.

He held it up toward Rochelle with a flick of his fingers. “C’mere.”

She raised an eyebrow but stepped over, wiping sweat from her brow.

Nick gestured at her belt. “Turn a little.”

Rochelle hesitated, then turned. Nick attached the holster quickly, without a word, buckling it snug against her hip. When he was done, she looked down at it, fingers brushing the leather.

“…Thanks,” she said, quieter now.

Nick gave a noncommittal grunt and turned back to the trunk. He grabbed the half-unzipped duffel, heavy with whatever else he’d stashed inside, and yanked it out. He turned, spotted Ellis just adjusting his hat, and chucked the bag directly at his chest.

“Bag duty.”

Ellis oof’d as the weight hit him, then laughed as he adjusted it. He slung the leather strap over one shoulder, slipping an arm through it like it was the most important mission in the world.

“I got it! Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to this bag. Not while Ellis is on watch!”

Nick didn’t even look at him. “Good. ‘Cause if it comes down to you or the bag, I’m saving the bag.”

Coach let out a booming laugh, slapping Ellis on the back as they fell into step.

They turned down the next street—blacktop cracked and stained, lined with burnt-out husks of cars and the skeletal remains of what used to be normal life. Shop windows were smashed, a streetlight hung bent and twisted over the intersection, sparking faintly.

As they walked, Nick moved ahead, taking point.

He didn’t turn around when he called back, but his voice carried loud and clear:

“Keep up, Overalls. We don’t got all day.”

Ellis lit up like someone had given him a trophy.

“Aw man, he gave me a nickname!”

Coach just chuckled again.

The four survivors pressed forward—worn, bleeding, limping—but alive, and moving together into the smoke and silence of the city beyond.

Chapter Text

The city had settled into a slow, eerie quiet—the kind that made your skin itch.

It wasn’t peace. Not really. It was the hush that came after violence, like the world had paused to catch its breath. The survivors walked single-file down a crumbling residential street, weaving past rusted-out pickups, bent stop signs, and front yards swallowed by weeds.

Nick led the way, keeping a solid twenty feet ahead of the rest. He didn’t say a word. His pistol hung loosely at his side, swinging with each step, his sharp white jacket now smudged with dirt and blood. His eyes stayed forward, like the mere idea of conversation was a personal offense.

Ellis trailed behind him like a loyal shadow, boots crunching softly over broken glass. Despite everything, he still had a lightness in his step—a sort of casual bounce, like he was on a hike with friends, not walking through the remnants of a fallen city. He hummed quietly to himself.

Rochelle followed, steady and alert. Her eyes scanned doorways, windows, rooftops—anywhere something could lurch from. Her shirt, once pink, was now stained and frayed at the collar, but she moved with precision. She was tired, but wired.

Coach brought up the rear, bat over his shoulders like a soldier at rest. His footsteps were heavier, slower, but he kept his head on a swivel, turning every so often to check behind them. His size and presence filled the empty street like a silent warning.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. No one had the energy—or the appetite for it.

Until Coach’s stomach let out a deep, echoing growl—loud enough for the others to hear over the silence.

He slowed, clutching at his gut with a groan.
“Damn. I’d do just about anything for a bacon BBQ cheeseburger right now. One of them sloppy ones. You know.”

Rochelle turned toward him with a tired smile. “Coach, stop. That’s just cruel.”

Ellis grinned. “Y’all ever had those bacon-wrapped onion rings at Big Billy’s Barbecue Pit just off Route 9? Man, Keith and I used to drive forty minutes just for a plate”

Rochelle blinked. “Who’s Keith?”

Nick didn’t even turn around. “Don’t ask.”

But Ellis carried on, oblivious and proud. “Keith’s my best bud! Known him since kindergarten. First time I met him, he stole my green crayon ‘cause he said it smelled like sour apple. I told him it was wax. He said, ‘So’s cheese,’ and then bit the end off like it was a snack. Choked on it, turned bright red. Teacher had to hold him upside down and shake him like a soda can till it flew out. We’ve been through a lot together—explodin’ lawn chairs, an accidental firework incident at a weddin’, and that time with the raccoons…”

Rochelle raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Raccoons?”

“Oh yeah,” Ellis said, eyes lighting up. “Keith brought a jar of peanut butter on a campin’ trip and left it open in his tent. Middle of the night, whole family of raccoons barged in like they owned the place. One of ‘em ripped open his sleeping bag, one sat on his chest starin’ him down like a sheriff in a saloon. He tried to shoo ‘em off with a flashlight, and they jumped him. Like, full-blown ambush. He was screamin’, they were screechin’, tent was flyin’… we didn’t get the peanut butter back.”

Rochelle laughed out loud, covering her mouth.

“Next day we found him sittin’ in a creek wearin’ half a shirt and one sock. He smelled like fear and trail mix.”

Nick groaned loud enough for all three of them to hear.

Rochelle smirked. “Nick, you good up there?”

Nick muttered, slowing just enough to throw a glare over his shoulder. “This is why we don’t ask Ellis questions.”

Ellis just chuckled, completely unaffected. “Y’all really missed out. That was one hell of a trip.”

They walked in silence again for a few steps—until the sky growled, a low, thunderous rumble rolling overhead.

Rochelle looked up, her smile fading. The golden haze of late afternoon was gone, replaced with heavy, dark clouds that swallowed the sun whole. The air shifted—cooler now, dense with the promise of rain.

She came to a stop and raised her voice. “Hold up. Everyone stop a second.”

Coach slowed beside her, and Ellis tilted his head curiously. Up ahead, Nick came to a dramatic stop with a sigh so heavy it might’ve cracked pavement. He turned and walked back toward them with the posture of a man attending a funeral—his own.

The four of them stood in a loose huddle in the middle of the road. Rochelle gestured upward. “Look at that. It’s gonna rain. We should find shelter. Somewhere safe to sleep, dry off, regroup. We can’t keep walking into nightfall with no plan.”

Ellis nodded enthusiastically. “Yep, that sky’s got ‘wet socks and regret’ written all over it”

Nick rolled his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Fine.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his half-crushed pack of cigarettes, flicked one out, and lit it with a quick, practiced spark. He inhaled slowly, then blew the smoke out with a sigh.

Ellis side-eyed him. “You know them things’ll kill ya.”

Nick didn’t look at him. “Get in line.”

Ellis grinned. “Still,” he said with a shrug, “bad habit, man. Can’t save the day if your lungs are wheezin’.”

Nick turned to him slowly, cigarette in hand.

“Ellis,” he said dryly, “kiss my ass.”

Then he turned and stalked off again, smoke trailing behind him in a perfect curl.

Rochelle snorted and shook her head. “Man’s a real people person.”

Coach chuckled. “He’s consistent, I’ll give him that.”

Ellis jogged after Nick, still smiling.

The group drifted cautiously into a stretch of commercial street, where rows of once-busy businesses now stood silent. The air felt heavier here—thick with moisture, rot, and the ghosts of everyday life. Broken shop windows yawned open like missing teeth, signs hung half-torn from rusted poles. A barbershop pole lay shattered across the sidewalk, streaked red—but not with paint. Mannequins stood in a cracked boutique window, their faces smeared with ash.

Abandoned cars clogged the curbside—some burned out, some still idling quietly in death, headlights dimmed. Trash fluttered in the wind. The only sounds were the soft hiss of the approaching storm and the low, endless growl of Coach’s stomach.

The sky above groaned, slate-gray and swelling with rain. Thunder rumbled low and mean, a sound that seemed to vibrate through their ribs.

They turned a corner—and stopped cold.

The intersection ahead was swarming. A crowd of infected filled the wide street, easily two dozen, maybe more. Some were hunched over mangled bodies, tearing at what little meat was left. Others fought amongst themselves, shrieking as teeth met flesh and claws raked skin. A few simply stood, swaying gently, eyes glowing faintly in the dimming light, staring at nothing.

Nick cursed under his breath. “Shit.”

He dropped low behind a delivery truck, his back pressed to the rear wheel well. The others joined him in a heartbeat, crouching down out of sight, every breath held tight.

So far, they were lucky. The infected hadn’t noticed them. Maybe the wind carried their scent elsewhere, maybe the things were too busy tearing each other apart. Either way, the survivors were hidden—for now.

Ellis peeked around the truck, eyes wide, and whispered:
“Well damn… that’s a whole lot of zombies.”

Nick whipped his head toward him, shooting Ellis a look that could peel paint.

“Shh.”

Rochelle’s whisper followed, sharp and anxious. “Jesus. What the hell are we supposed to do? We’re right in the open!”

Coach, calm but low-voiced, leaned in beside her. “We don’t panic. We think. We move smart.”

Nick slowly crept forward and peeked around the front of the truck.
His eyes scanned the street.

There was a busted street lamp, bent nearly in half. A police cruiser sat up on the sidewalk, its doors wide open, lights long dead. An alley off to the left looked too narrow, maybe blocked. Then—a convenience store, just across the street. Its security shutter was halfway down, hanging like a metal mouth left ajar. Inside, Nick could make out broken shelving and dark silhouettes.

He was still assessing when he felt pressure against his shoulder.

Ellis.

The idiot had rested his chin on it.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Nick?” Ellis whispered, like they were sharing a secret and not inches from death.

Nick rolled his shoulder hard and shrugged him off. “Don’t breathe on me.”

Then he pointed toward the store. “There. Shutter’s half open. We book it across, get inside, pull it down behind us.”

Rochelle leaned to peek. “You think it’s unlocked?”

“Only one way to find out,” Nick said, turning back and grabbing Ellis by the collar, dragging him backward as he retreated to the huddle.

“Convenience store, across the street. If we move fast and quiet, we get inside before they see us. We lock it down, sit tight. It’s better than standing here till my suit falls apart.”

Coach nodded. “It’s a plan. Better than waitin’ for them to sniff us out.”

Ellis gave a thumbs-up. “Let’s do it.”

They all tensed, ready to make the dash.

And then they froze—again.

A screech split the air, loud and jagged, like metal being torn in half.

Nick stiffened instantly.

He knew that sound.

His hairs stood on end, every muscle in his body locking.

The four of them spun around, heads darting, eyes scanning.

Then—it leapt.

From the roof of a nearby laundromat, a figure shot through the air like a shadow in fast-forward. It landed on top of an overhead traffic light, claws digging into the rusted metal with a sharp, grating SCREECH, swinging around before hanging from it, by one arm.

Its limbs were long and sinewy, its skin stretched tight over muscle and bone. Its face was mostly teeth. Its chest heaved, jerking like it was barely breathing. Glowing yellow eyes locked straight onto them.

“What the fuck is that?!” Ellis whispered sharply, eyes wide with awe and fear.

The creature let out another scream—longer, louder, wilder.

And every infected in the street turned at once.

The creature let out one last screech from its perch—and kicked off, launching itself through the air like a missile.

It landed effortlessly on all fours, hitting the pavement with a spine-jolting thud. Its limbs splayed unnaturally wide, its long fingers curled against the concrete like it was meant to crawl. Its head turned slowly from one survivor to the next, eyes glowing, breath hissing out in ragged, animalistic pants.

Then it began to circle them. Low, slow. Like it was choosing. Measuring. A predator among prey.

“Don’t move,” Rochelle breathed. “Don’t—”

Ellis moved.

With a shout, he charged forward and swung his crowbar like a baseball bat.

“HEY! Ya ugly freak!”

“Ellis, No!” Rochelle screamed.

But he was already committed. The crowbar sliced through the air—
—and hit nothing.

The creature darted into a tight forward roll, slipping under the swing like water, and Ellis stumbled past it, losing balance. His weapon clattered against the pavement with a sharp clang! that echoed down the street like a gunshot.

The sound agitated the horde.
The crowd of infected at the far end of the block jerked to life like a disturbed beehive. Dozens of heads turned.

Coach moved next. “Get BACK!”

He charged with a roar, lifting his bat high above his shoulder and bringing it down in a brutal arc.

The creature jumped.

It vaulted cleanly over Coach’s swing, landing on top of the delivery truck with the lightness of a cat. Coach’s bat instead smashed through the truck’s side window, sending shattered glass flying in a cascade of glinting shards.

Rochelle barely had time to look up.

The creature spun on the roof and locked eyes with her— and then it leapt again, body stretched midair, claws outstretched like spears.

Nick lunged sideways and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her out of the creature’s path just as it sliced through the air where her throat had been a second earlier. The thing landed behind them in a roll, immediately whipping around to face them, letting out another ear-splitting scream.

It was only distracted for a heartbeat—but that was enough.

Coach barreled in from behind and cracked the creature in the back of the skull with his bat. The sound was a wet thunk, the creature staggering forward with a choked cry.

But it recovered fast.

With a snarl, it lashed out blindly, its long arms swinging wide— one massive claw catching Coach across the chest. Coach stumbled back, his footing slipping on the broken glass, his knee buckling as he hit the ground hard.

The creature towered over him, snarling. Its claws rose again.

Behind them, the stampede had begun. The infected came in a wave—sprinting, shrieking, teeth flashing as they tore across the street toward the survivors, drawn by the noise.

“Shoot!” Nick shouted.

He and Rochelle turned in sync, raising their weapons and opening fire.

Nick’s magnum thundered with each pull of the trigger, precise and punishing—each shot dropping an infected in its tracks with surgical accuracy. Rochelle, gritting her teeth, fired off fast, tight bursts. Her aim wasn’t perfect, but she hit bodies, arms, chests—anything that slowed them down.

Behind them, the creature raised its claws to finish Coach—

And was suddenly tackled from the side.

Ellis came out of nowhere, a blur of motion and adrenaline. He slammed into the creature with his full bodyweight, knocking it off-balance. They hit the pavement hard, rolling together in a tangle of limbs and fury.

But the creature was too fast, too strong.

It used Ellis’s momentum against him, and flipped, pinning him to the ground in one savage movement. Straddling his waist, it reared back and slashed downward, claws raking across Ellis’s chest with a brutal rip.

“Agh—!” Ellis cried out, arching under the pain. Blood soaked into his shirt in an instant.

Nick turned at the sound, just as the creature raised its arm again—claws gleaming, poised to cut deeper.

Nick spun on his heel and raised his Magnum.

He fired.

The shot hit the creature’s hand with perfect accuracy—two of its long, razor-like fingers snapped off, the rest of its palm bursting in a splatter of bone and dark blood.

The thing screeched, reeling back in agony, momentarily stunned—

Nick fired again.

This time, he aimed directly at the center of its skull.

The bullet slammed straight between the glowing eyes with a brutal crack.

The creature’s body seized for half a second—then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, crumpling lifeless on top of Ellis.

Ellis lay flat, chest heaving, blood soaking through his shirt, arms trembling beneath the creature’s weight.

Nick ran over and shoved the corpse aside, gripping Ellis’s arm, his jaw tight with tension.

“You alive?” he asked.

Ellis coughed. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. That thing was real ugly up close.”

Nick stared at him for half a second.

Then stood, turned back to the street.

The infected were still coming.

The moans and screams of the horde were getting louder—closer.

“Shit—” Rochelle spun around, eyes scanning the group. “Coach!”

He was still on the ground, hunched against the side of the truck, his bat lying nearby. One hand clutched at his knee, his face twisted in pain but determined.

Rochelle dropped beside him, ignoring the blood-slick pavement beneath her. “Talk to me. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Coach grunted, waving her off with a heavy hand.

He tried to push himself upright, bracing against the truck, but the moment his left foot took any weight—his knee buckled, sending him back down with a sharp hiss of pain.

“Damn it—!”

“No, you’re not,” Rochelle snapped. “Nick!”

Nick had already returned to the other side of the truck, firing clean headshots into the approaching infected with calm, efficient rhythm. His Magnum barked with each pull of the trigger, sending bodies crashing into the pavement.

“What?” he shouted back, without looking.

“I need you over here—Coach’s hurt!”

Nick cursed under his breath, loud enough to make it feel personal. “Of course he is.”

He turned and spun back around, eyes darting across the group. He spotted Ellis, still on the ground but sitting upright now, chest heaving. His shirt was soaked in blood, but his expression was as bright as ever—like getting mauled had been a minor inconvenience.

Nick raised his voice. “Overalls!”

Ellis perked up immediately. He looked over at Nick, eyes wide.

Nick just gave him a silent thumbs-up, a clear signal.

Ellis grinned through the pain, nodded back, and forced himself to his feet. “I’m good! I’m good!” he muttered to himself as he jogged over to grab the duffel bag and his crowbar, which he slid over his shoulder and into his grip.

Nick turned back to Coach. “Alright, let’s get your big ass up.”

He reached down and gripped Coach under the arm, hauling him up with a grunt.

Coach winced but let him. His weight sagged heavily into Nick’s side, one massive arm draped over Nick’s shoulders, nearly dragging him down by sheer size.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Nick muttered, shifting to brace under the weight.

“I look heavy,” Coach replied, through clenched teeth.

Rochelle helped steady him from the other side, bracing Coach’s other arm across her shoulder. “Easy, we got you.”

With Coach sandwiched between them, Nick used his free arm to keep firing, expertly aiming past Rochelle’s shoulder, dropping another runner that came barrelling from the alley across the street.

“Let’s go!” Rochelle barked. She took point, pushing forward fast but careful, clearing the path in front of them with quick bursts of fire from her pistol.

Ellis brought up the rear, spinning and swinging at anything that got too close. His crowbar cracked into skulls with brutal efficiency, leaving broken bodies in their wake.

The street around them was chaos—flashing teeth, blood-slick pavement, the shriek of the horde closing in. Rain started to fall, light at first, cold and thin, speckling their clothes as the clouds finally opened.

The group moved fast and tight.

Nick grunted as he fired again, taking out a straggler trying to climb onto the roof of a car

Rochelle ran harder, skidding over a blood-slick patch of sidewalk before catching herself. Her hand reached out and pointed—

“There! The store! Go, go!”

Coach limped heavily, every step a battle. Ellis kept yelling encouragement from behind. “We’re good! We’re almost there! Just a few more!”

Nick’s arm ached under Coach’s weight, but he didn’t slow. He fired again. Another infected dropped.

Behind them, the roar of the horde grew deafening.

Nick gritted his teeth and dragged Coach the last few feet.

The neon sign above the convenience store flickered erratically, casting stuttering light across the storm-washed pavement. Rain now fell harder, slapping against metal, skin, and the broken glass littering the sidewalk.

They reached the storefront, breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat and rain.

Nick dropped to one knee, shifting his weight under Coach’s massive frame. “Down you go, big guy,” he muttered, voice strained.

With a shove, he pushed Coach under the half-open shutter and through the open doorway.

Coach landed hard on the cold tile inside with a grunt and a thud.

“Shit!” he cursed.

Nick turned on a heel and ducked halfway back under the shutter, kneeling on the wet sidewalk to resume firing.

BANG—BANG!

Two more infected dropped before they could close the distance.

Rochelle was already inside, crouched behind a knocked-over snack display. She popped back out just long enough to yell, “Let’s go! Get your asses in here—NOW!”

The horde was flooding the street now—dozens, maybe more. Pouring from alleyways, crashing around cars, shrieking like a tidal wave. The sound of it was deafening.

Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Overalls! Move your damn feet!”

Ellis was running toward him, soaked to the bone, his boots splashing through puddles as the rain drenched them both. But before he could reach the safety of the doorway—

He was hit.

An infected crashed into him from the side, tackling him to the slick pavement. Ellis hit the ground hard, the duffel and his crowbar flying from his hands, skidding across the flooded sidewalk.

“Son of a—!” Ellis choked, his back hitting the concrete with a wet smack.

Nick cursed under his breath. “Goddamn it!”

Nick dashed from under the shutter and closed the distance. He kicked the infected off Ellis, sending it rolling with a cracking thud against the curb.

He raised his Magnum.

BANG!

The infected’s head snapped back as the bullet hit, and it collapsed instantly, motionless.

Nick reached down and grabbed Ellis by the front of his shirt, yanking him halfway to his feet and shoving him toward the door.

“Go, get inside!”

Ellis scrambled forward on all fours, boots slipping on the tile as he crawled under the shutter—

But then he stopped.

Nick was already turning to cover him again when he noticed Ellis turning around.

“What are you doing?!” Nick shouted.

Ellis stretched out, his arm reaching past the shutter, hand trembling, fingers soaked.

The duffel lay just out of reach, its leather strap glistening with rainwater.

Ellis strained—his fingertips just barely hooked the handle.

Nick’s eyes widened.

Ellis gave one final tug and snagged the strap just as Nick yanked him backward—the two of them toppling inside in a tangle of limbs, soaked through and panting hard.

They crashed down onto the cold tile, Ellis landing square in Nick’s lap, his back against Nick’s chest, arms clutching the soaked duffel bag like a newborn. Nick sat upright against a shelf, gun still in his hand, shoulders heaving.

Both men were breathing hard, water dripping from their hair and coats, boots tracking mud across the once-white floor.

Ellis, chest rising and falling, finally looked down at the bag clutched against him, then glanced behind at Nick with a crooked, breathless grin.

“Almost forgot the bag,” he said cheerfully. “That woulda been bad, huh?”

Nick glared at him, soaked, bruised, furious.

Rochelle, who had just pulled the shutter down and slammed it closed with a heavy rattle, turned and saw them crumpled on the floor in a heap.

She snorted.

Then full-on laughed, the sound bursting from her chest like it caught her off guard.

“Jesus Christ, y’all are something else.”

She locked the door behind her, deadbolt clicking shut. The store was dark, flickering from the faulty ceiling lights, and for the first time in what felt like hours… they were inside. Safe.

For now.

Chapter Text

The storm outside was relentless.

Rain hammered the metal shutter like a siege, echoing through the thin walls of the convenience store. Thunder cracked again and again, each blast sharp enough to jolt the shelves. Wind howled through the roof vents, shrill and mournful, like the world itself was howling in grief.

But inside, for now, the four survivors had found a moment’s calm.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting everything in a pale, sickly wash. The store was more intact than anywhere they’d seen since the outbreak began—its aisles mostly upright, snack displays still partially stocked, the coolers humming like nothing had changed. A few dark blood streaks marred the tiled floor. A greeting card rack was overturned, its cards scattered like fallen leaves, one of them featuring a cartoon cat dangling from a tree branch that read: “Hang in there!”

Coach was seated in a battered office chair they’d hauled from the manager’s office, his bulky frame resting heavily into it, his injured leg stretched out and propped on a low shelf stacked with cereal boxes. He looked tired, like the weight of the day had settled deep into his bones, but he hadn’t lost that solid presence. Even now, battered and bruised, he looked immovable.

Rochelle sat on the floor nearby, arms wrapped around her knees, her chin resting against one wrist. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, shifted from one face to the next. Her ponytail had frayed and fallen loose, strands sticking to her jawline, her skin still damp from the rain. Her jeans were stained at the knees, one boot tapping absently on the tile.

Ellis was perched on the store’s front counter, sitting just a few feet from Nick. He’d claimed the edge near the corner, his back leaned casually against the dusty lottery ticket sign, legs swinging slightly. His shirt was still torn from where that thing’s claws had raked across his chest. The blood had dried, dark and stiff across the cotton. He hadn’t let anyone clean it yet. Maybe he didn’t want to slow down long enough to feel it.

Despite everything, he wore a quiet, lingering smile—not forced, not manic, just… there. Like part of him still believed this could all turn around.

Nick lounged at the opposite end of the same counter, sprawled out in a plastic chair behind the register with his legs kicked up, his chair tilted just enough to suggest he might tip over at any moment if he gave a damn. His white suit was rain-soaked and smeared with dirt. A cigarette, unlit, dangled between his fingers as he stared at the ceiling, his eyes half-lidded like he was waiting for it to cave in and put him out of his misery.

No one spoke for a while.

The silence between them was filled by the storm—a constant, heavy presence pressing against the building like it was trying to get inside.

Then Coach spoke.

“So… what do y’all make of this?” he asked, voice low but clear. “Any of this makin’ sense to anybody?”

Ellis answered first.

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish but thoughtful. “I always kinda figured those zombie movies were non-fiction.”

Rochelle turned her head toward him with a raised brow. “Non-fiction?”

Ellis nodded sincerely. “Yeah. I mean, maybe they knew somethin’ we didn’t. You don’t just make up that much weird stuff unless you’ve seen it somewhere, right?”

Nick snorted. “Right. And Bigfoot’s just camera shy.”

Ellis didn’t seem bothered. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. They weren’t that far off.”

Coach gave a tired laugh. “Hell, maybe you’re onto somethin’. Sure as hell feels like the end of the world out there.”

He looked over at Rochelle. “What about you? You hear anything before things went sideways?”

Rochelle straightened slightly, rubbing the edge of her damp sleeve between her fingers. “Yeah,” she said, voice lower now. “I’d come down to cover a story. I was following a tip—trying to get ahead of it before the news broke. I figured it was going to be another flu strain that fizzled out like SARS or swine flu.”

She shook her head, gaze fixed somewhere far away. “They were calling it the Green Flu. That’s what the early documents said. Nobody expected it to spread this fast. And once it started, the government tried to smother it before the public caught on. But it was already too late.”

Nick sighed through his nose, muttering, “Classic.”

Coach leaned forward slightly in his chair. “And that thing we saw? The one that tried gutting Ellis like a fish—what the hell was that?”

Rochelle hesitated, then exhaled. “I don’t know everything. But I saw a few files—barely. There were reports of mutations. Ones that changed. Got smarter. Stronger. More… feral.”

She looked toward the dark bloodstain still smeared across Ellis’s side. “I think that one was what they call a Hunter.”

Ellis tilted his head. “You a cop or somethin’?”

Nick barked a quiet laugh behind his cigarette. He didn’t bother hiding it this time.

Rochelle threw him a sharp look, then answered, “No. I’m a news reporter.”

She caught herself a second later, her expression flattening.
“Was, anyway.”

Ellis blinked. “So, you ain’t from ‘round here neither, huh?”

“Nope,” she replied. “Ohio.”

Ellis squinted at her, thoughtful. “I figured.”

Rochelle raised a brow. “Yeah? How?”

Nick groaned softly behind her. “Oh, here we go…”

But Ellis just gave her a thoughtful look. “You talk real steady. Don’t mumble. And you’re calm, like the kind of calm you get from growin’ up around tornadoes and casseroles.”

Rochelle chuckled. “Damn. That’s not wrong.”

Nick muttered, “Somebody please shoot me.”

Ellis grinned and glanced over at Coach. “So how’d you two meet anyway?”

Rochelle answered. “We met at a supermarket, this morning. I was there with my crew, trying to get footage. Document the panic. But things escalated fast. People turned before we could get out.”

She paused, swallowing tightly. “I got backed into a corner. Thought that was it. Then Coach busted in swinging a bat.”

Coach gave a modest shrug. “Did what I had to.”

From behind the register, Nick spoke. “Let me guess—you were looting for doughnuts.”

A chocolate bar hit him in the head.

It bounced off his temple and landed on the counter with a dull plastic thud.

Nick didn’t move for a beat. “Really?”

“Watch your mouth,” Rochelle said, smirking.

Nick picked up the bar, examined it, then set it down.

Rochelle leaned back against the shelf behind her. “Alright, funny guy. What about you two? How’d you meet?”

Ellis lit up. “Okay, so I was drivin’ my truck out near the—”

“He nearly ran me over,” Nick cut in.

Ellis winced. “It was smoky! You popped outta nowhere!”

“You swerved like you were avoiding a deer. I thought I was gonna end up as hood art.”

“But then,” Ellis said quickly, raising a finger, “I saved his ass. Which totally makes up for the near-crushing.”

Nick let out a groan. “You really think that cancels out?”

Ellis grinned. “You’re still alive, ain’t ya?”

Coach laughed—loud and real, the first time all day. “Sounds like destiny to me.”

“Sounds like bad luck,” Nick muttered.

And for the first time since the outbreak began, their laughter didn’t feel like a flinch—

The wind outside wailed like a siren as the storm rolled on, the shutter rattling violently against the storefront like it might rip off any minute. Lightning flashed behind the glass, illuminating the dust-specked shelves and casting the survivors in momentary blue-white silhouettes.

Inside, the four of them lingered in the glow of the humming fluorescents, the lull between chaos filled now by the sound of Ellis telling another story.

“—so Keith grabs the sleeping bag, right? And he’s yellin’ ‘I got it! I got it!’ and he don’t even realize he’s zipped up inside it. So now he’s just rollin’ across the campsite like a damn burrito while this angry-ass raccoon chases him!”

He laughed—loud, carefree, a wheeze at the end. But the moment the breath caught, so did he. His smile faltered for just a second. He reached a hand up and pressed it to his chest, his fingers curling slightly around the gash beneath his shirt.

It wasn’t a dramatic gesture. But Rochelle saw it.

“You good sweetie?” she asked, nodding toward his side.

Ellis blinked, as if surprised to be asked. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—got a stitch.” He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Nick watched from the other end of the counter, arms folded. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered.

Rochelle tilted her head. “You should clean that up. Bathroom’s in the back. There’s still some first aid stuff in there.”

Ellis hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Alright. Probably a good idea.”

He slid off the counter with a slight grunt, landing lightly on the tile. He steadied himself, gave a reassuring smile to the group.

“I got it.”

Rochelle stood partially, as if to follow. “You want some help?”

Ellis shook his head quickly. “Nah, I’m alright. Don’t wanna be a pain. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

And with that, he turned and headed toward the rear hallway, boots squeaking faintly with each step. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him with a dull finality.

The second it did, Rochelle’s head whipped around.

“Nick.”

Nick raised a brow, still slouched back with his cigarette in one hand.

“Go help him.”

He scoffed. “The hell for?”

“Because he’s bleeding, dumbass. And he’s trying to hide it.”

Nick shrugged lazily. “He said he’s fine.”

Rochelle gave him a sharp look. “He also said a raccoon attacked his best friend because they stole its lucky spoon.”

Nick exhaled through his nose. “Why me? Why not you? Or Coach? He’s got the whole team-dad thing going.”

“Because Ellis likes you,” Rochelle shot back.

Nick sat upright, blinking. “What?”

“He likes you,” she repeated. “He follows you around. He listens to you. You’re his friend.”

Nick scoffed. “We’re not friends.”

Coach finally chimed in, his voice deep and calm. “That boy’s got heart. He’s puttin’ on a brave face. If anyone’s gonna help him drop it for a minute, it’s you.”

Nick turned to him, deadpan. “Shouldn’t you be eating?”

Rochelle stood slowly, arms crossed. “Nick, if you don’t get your ass back there and help him, I will climb over this counter and beat you with a can of SpaghettiOs.”

Nick groaned and swung his legs off the counter like it physically pained him. “Jesus.”

Muttering under his breath, Nick stood and dragged himself down the aisle, passing a partially broken shelf of first aid supplies. He snatched a white box with a faded red cross on the front and tossed it under one arm, then stalked toward the bathroom like a man being marched to execution.

The storm wailed behind him as he disappeared into the hallway, the flickering light casting his shadow long across the floor.

The hallway beyond the storefront was dim, lit only by the flickering wall sconce above the employee bathroom. The hum of the storm outside felt muffled here—muted by cinderblock walls and cracked tile floors, but still present, like a drumbeat pressing in from all sides.

Nick stood in front of the bathroom door, first aid kit tucked under one arm.
He stared at the doorknob.

For half a second, he considered knocking.

He didn’t.

Instead, with a tired sigh and a shake of his head, he pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked loudly.

Ellis was perched on the closed toilet lid, hunched forward slightly. He was frowning down at a crinkled plastic packet of gauze, fingers struggling to tear the sealed edge with short, chewed nails. His skin glistened faintly with sweat.

The moment Nick stepped in, Ellis looked up like a deer caught in headlights.

His blue eyes widened. His lips parted. His cap sat forgotten on the counter next to the sink—he grabbed it immediately and tugged it back on, sheepish and embarrassed, as if Nick had just walked in on him naked.

“Uh… hey,” Ellis said, blinking quickly. “You, uh—you need to use the bathroom?”

Nick didn’t answer at first. He just walked past him wordlessly, dropped the first aid kit onto the counter with a solid thud, and started flipping it open, peeling through its disorganised contents.

“Rochelle thinks you need help,” he muttered eventually, not looking at him.

Ellis blinked. “Oh. I mean… I’m alright. Just—”

Nick grabbed the gauze packet from his hands without warning, tore it open with one quick rip, and tossed the wrapper into the trash.

“She’s right,” he added flatly.

Ellis blushed a little. “Thanks. I, uh—I could probably do it, though, if I just—”

“Shut up,” Nick said, already pulling more supplies from the kit. “Sit on the counter.”

Ellis opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. With a shrug, he obeyed, standing with a quiet grunt and moving to sit on the edge of the chipped porcelain sink counter. The cool surface made him flinch slightly.

Nick didn’t look at him, “Take your shirt off, Overalls.”

Ellis blinked, a little pink in the cheeks again. He tugged his damp T-shirt over his head, revealing the full extent of the Hunter’s damage for the first time. He winced when the fabric pulled at dried blood, tossing it to the side with a soft, wet slap against the floor.

Nick looked up. And froze for just a second.

Ellis’s body was lean and strong, all sun-warmed skin and wiry muscle beneath it. His chest rose and fell in a soft rhythm, breath a little shallow, either from pain or from nerves. The wounds were bad—three slashes carved across the right side of his chest, claw marks from shoulder to ribs, jagged and red, angry and raw. Dried blood clung in dark smears, still tacky in places.

Nick exhaled slowly through his nose.

He set a bottle of antiseptic on the counter. His movements weren’t rushed.

He stepped in close—closer than he needed to be—his legs brushing lightly against Ellis’s knees as he uncapped the antiseptic. Ellis smelled like rain and sweat and something metallic, something masculine. Not cologne—Nick doubted he owned any—but skin, heat, and something boyishly familiar. Like engine grease and fresh laundry.

When Nick’s fingers brushed against Ellis’s ribs, testing the edge of one wound, Ellis twitched.

“Your hands are cold,” Ellis said, smiling through the flinch.

Nick didn’t respond. But he noticed how warm Ellis was— like his body hadn’t stopped burning off adrenaline since the moment they met. His skin was soft in places, slick with sweat, but firm beneath it—taut with tension, nerves, pain.

Nick soaked a cotton pad and pressed it gently to the torn skin.

Ellis hissed but didn’t pull away. His body tensed under Nick’s touch, every muscle twitching like a coiled spring beneath those fingertips.

“I had to patch up Keith once,” Ellis said, voice quieter now. “Fell out of a tree during summer and landed right on a rake. Whole side of his ass was torn open. Took me half a box of band-aids and some duct tape, but I did it.”

Nick made no sound, kept cleaning the blood away in slow, careful circles.

Once the blood was cleaned, Nick unwrapped a fresh roll of gauze and stepped even closer, fitting it gently over Ellis’s side and pressing it into place with his palm.

His hand lingered for a second too long.

He caught the way Ellis looked at him then—eyes bright, mouth soft, the trace of a smile at the corners.

“What?” Nick muttered.

Ellis shrugged, grinning faintly. “Nothin’. Just didn’t expect you to be this gentle.”

Nick snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ellis’s smile widened. “I thought you hated me.”

“I do.”

Nick looped the bandage around Ellis’s chest, guiding it across his back with slow, practiced hands.

Ellis tilted his head. “So why’re you helpin’ me?”

Nick looked him dead in the eye.

“Rochelle. She’s scary.”

Ellis laughed—a real one this time, breathy and light.

Nick finished the wrap, tied it off, and let his hands fall away. He stepped back, giving Ellis space again, though not too much.

He turned for the door.

“Nick,” Ellis said, quietly.

Nick paused with his hand on the handle. Looked back, just slightly.

Ellis was still sitting there, bare-chested, bruised and bandaged, smiling like Nick had done something kind instead of just tolerated his existence.

“Thanks.”

Nick looked at him—really looked at him—for a long second.

Then gave a single, silent nod.

And walked out.

Nick returned to the front of the store with a slow, steady stride, brushing a damp lock of hair back from his brow. The storm still howled faintly beyond the shutter, but in here, it was quieter. Almost domestic. Almost.

He rounded the counter and dropped back into his makeshift throne behind the register with a grunt, slumping into his chair like gravity had tripled in his absence.

Rochelle eyed him immediately, arms crossed over her knees, one brow lifted high.

“Well?” she asked, lips quirking into a smirk. “He still alive back there?”

Before Nick could respond, Coach joined in with a chuckle. “Did you gag him or somethin’? It’s gotta be the quietest Ellis has ever been.”

Nick rolled his eyes, leaning back until his head thudded against the support beam.

“The kid’s fine,” he muttered, voice dry.

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

The soft creak of the hallway door caught his ear, followed by slow, booted footsteps against the tile. Nick glanced up.

Ellis emerged from around the corner, and for a split second, Nick forgot how to blink.

He was still shirtless, his freshly bandaged chest wrapped tight with clean white gauze, the end tucked neatly at his ribs. His skin was flushed slightly from the warmth of the bathroom and the attention, still glowing faintly with sweat. The gashes on his side were framed now—visible but protected.

Ellis had his crumpled T-shirt balled in one hand, the other swinging at his side as he walked with his usual casual bounce, like he wasn’t aware that his chest was on full display, all lean muscle and Southern sun.

His overalls hung loosely from his waist—straps down, tied around his hips—and the defined V of his torso drew Nick’s eyes before he could help it.

He looked like every bad decision Nick had ever made, wrapped up in a damn smile.

Rochelle stood quickly and crossed the room to meet him, brushing her palms off on her jeans.

“You look better,” she said, giving him a once-over.

She leaned in, inspecting the bandages with a little smirk.

“Not bad, suit. You wrap knees as good as you wrap ribs.”

Nick let his head thunk louder against the beam this time.

“Christ,” he muttered.

Ellis chuckled. “He was real professional ‘bout it. Didn’t even cuss at me once.”

“That’s personal growth,” Rochelle said, tossing Nick a grin over her shoulder.

Nick scowled and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

Ellis looked down at the shirt in his hands, still soggy and streaked with dried blood.

“This is still pretty soaked,” he said. “Think I’ll hang it up to dry or somethin’.”

Rochelle nodded, already reaching behind the counter. “Here. Found this in the manager’s office earlier. It’s a little big, but it’s clean.”

She held out a soft navy-blue sweatshirt, well-worn but intact. Ellis took it like it was a gift, holding it up briefly before tugging it on over his head. The hem hung a little long, but it hugged his frame just fine.

“Appreciate it,” he said, smiling with genuine warmth.

Then, like nothing had happened, he reached into the front pocket of his overalls and produced a battered deck of playing cards, grinning like he’d just found gold.

“Found these,” he said, waving them toward the group. “Figured we could do somethin’.”

He hopped back up onto the edge of the counter, landing with a soft grunt, legs swinging slightly over the side. He held up the deck and flashed Nick a grin.

“You playin’ Nick? No cheatin’.”

Nick didn’t answer at first. He just stared at him for a beat—that same stupid grin, eyes bright and too blue for a world like this.

Nick looked away and muttered, “Deal me in.”

Chapter Text

The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead. Yellow and flickering, it made everything feel sort of unreal, like he was in a dream that hadn’t decided whether it was good or bad yet. The tiles were cold beneath his boots, the little wall mirror above the sink cracked in the corner. It smelled like bleach and old mop water and whatever had died in the air vent a long time ago.

Ellis sat on the closed toilet lid, bent forward, elbows on his thighs, trying—and failing—to tear open a plastic packet of gauze. The edges wouldn’t catch, his hands were still damp, and the pain flaring in his ribs every time he leaned forward wasn’t helping.

He hated this part. Not the bleeding. Not even the pain.

The sitting still.

The being alone with it.

He’d set his cap on the edge of the sink without thinking. His hair clung damp to his forehead, curls flattened with sweat and rain, and the wound beneath his shirt pulsed dully with every breath. The scratchy gauze packet refused to tear.

He sighed, half amused, half annoyed.

Then the door creaked open.

Nick.

He stood in the doorway like he’d owned it his whole life, first aid kit under one arm, suit jacket still wet at the collar. His shirt clung to him just enough to make Ellis swallow down a breath. His eyes scanned the room once—expression unreadable—then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Ellis froze, wide-eyed like he’d just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. His breath caught in his throat. Then, with a sudden jolt of embarrassment, he snatched his cap off the counter and shoved it back on his head, quick and clumsy.

“Uh… hey,” he stammered. “You, uh… need to use the bathroom?”

Nick didn’t answer. Just walked to the counter and dropped the kit with a dull thud. His fingers moved fast, flipping it open, rifling through the contents like he didn’t really want to be doing this.

“Rochelle thinks you need help,” Nick said flatly, not looking at him.

Ellis flushed, “Oh. I mean… I’m alright. Just—”

The gauze vanished from his hands in a blink. Nick tore the packet open with one swift motion, like it was nothing, like Ellis was a kid fumbling with his candy wrapper.

“She’s right,” Nick muttered.

“Thanks. I, uh—I could probably do it, though, if I just—”

“Shut up,” Nick cut in, not even looking at him as he rifled through the kit like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Sit on the counter.”

Ellis blinked, mouth halfway open to argue… but the words didn’t come.
There wasn’t much point.

With a small shrug and a half-hearted sigh, he pushed himself up, letting out a quiet grunt as he stood and shuffled over to the sink. The edge of the porcelain was cold against the backs of his thighs as he sat down, the chill making him twitch slightly.

Before he could say anything else, Nick’s voice came again—low, direct, and tired.

“Take your shirt off, Overalls.”

Ellis hesitated just a second, more from nerves than anything else. But he didn’t want to seem weird about it. So he grabbed the hem of his soaked shirt and pulled it over his head, careful of the wound.

He felt Nick’s eyes on him.
And maybe that was the part that made him warm—not the steam in the room or the lingering adrenaline—but the way Nick was looking at him. Not laughing. Not teasing.

Just… watching.

The Hunter’s claws had torn clean through the right side of his chest. The cuts were deep, jagged, still swollen at the edges and ringed with bruises. Blood had crusted down to his ribs in thin, brown streaks.

Ellis sucked in a breath and looked away, jaw tight.

Then Nick stepped in closer.

His legs brushed against Ellis’s knees as he opened a bottle of antiseptic. The scent stung Ellis’s nose a second before Nick’s fingers ghosted across his ribs, and that made him flinch.

“Your hands’re cold,” Ellis said, with a nervous little smile.

Nick didn’t reply. His eyes were focused now, sharp and silent. He worked with a kind of quiet efficiency that Ellis didn’t expect—no unnecessary movements, no extra words. His touch wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t harsh either. It was careful. Intentional.

Ellis tried to distract himself.

“I had to patch up Keith once,” Ellis said, voice quieter now. “Fell out of a tree during summer and landed right on a rake. Whole side of his ass was torn open. Took me half a box of band-aids and some duct tape, but I did it.”

Nick didn’t say a word.

He kept wiping the blood away in slow circles, dabbing the worst of it clean. Ellis felt each press like a pulse—heat building beneath skin, his chest rising and falling harder than it should.

The silence settled between them like humidity.

When Nick finally started wrapping the gauze, he stepped even closer—guiding it across Ellis’s chest, around his back, their bodies nearly touching now. Ellis could smell the faint spice of cigarette smoke on Nick’s collar, the clean scent of rain still clinging to him beneath it.

He looked up. Nick’s brow was furrowed slightly, jaw tight in concentration.

And Ellis smiled.

He didn’t mean to. It just happened. This version of Nick—quiet, focused, here—was different. Not the sarcastic voice, not the rolling eyes, but something steadier.

Nick caught him staring.

“What?” Nick asked, eyes narrowing.

Ellis grinned faintly. “Nothin’. Just didn’t expect you to be so gentle.”

Nick scoffed. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I do,” Nick said.

Ellis’s smile grew. “Then why’re you helpin’ me?”

Nick looked him dead in the eye. “Rochelle. She’s scary.”

Ellis laughed, breathless and easy now, despite the ache.

Nick finished the last loop and tucked the bandage into place. Then, without a word, he turned for the door.

Ellis watched him reach for the handle.

“Nick,” he said.

Nick paused, his back still to him. He turned slightly—just enough for Ellis to see the angle of his face.

“Thanks.”

There was a second of silence.
Then a nod—barely more than a dip of his chin. Small. Honest.

And then Nick was gone.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Ellis stayed where he was for a minute longer, shirtless and smiling, hands resting on the edge of the sink like he wasn’t quite ready to move.

His ribs ached. His body throbbed.

But for the first time all day, he felt warm for the right reason.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, but the chill it left behind clung to the air inside like a second skin. The hum of the building had quieted—no thunder, no groaning metal, just the creak of worn floor tiles and the whisper of wind slithering through cracks in the walls.

The group had huddled near the front counter, passing the time with the deck of playing cards Ellis had produced triumphantly from his overalls like a magician with a rabbit.

Coach sat on his chair, hunched slightly over his hand of cards. Rochelle perched on a crate, knees bent, casual but alert. Nick, of course, lounged behind the counter with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a half-bored expression. Ellis had claimed his perch back atop the counter, legs swinging childishly off the edge as he grinned at everyone—a boy thrilled to be part of something, even if it was just cards in the apocalypse.

They were a few games in now, and Nick had won almost every one.

“Aw, come on!” Ellis groaned, tossing his hand of cards dramatically onto the counter. “That’s the third time! You’re cheatin’. I know you’re cheatin’, man. Ain’t no way you’re winnin’ this clean!”

Nick didn’t even look up. “If I was cheating, you’d be losing faster.”

Coach chuckled, collecting the scattered cards with wide, steady hands. “You’re just predictable, Ellis. Easy to read.”

“You play like a man with nothing to hide,” Rochelle added, smirking.

Ellis flopped backward across the counter with a groan.

Nick smirked faintly and leaned back.

The laughter quieted slowly. And then Rochelle’s expression changed, eyes flicking toward the shuttered front of the store.

“You guys hear that?”

The others paused.

It took a second to notice—the absence.

No wind. No moaning. No distant cries. The silence was thick and full, like the air had been vacuum-sealed around them.

Rochelle stood slowly and stepped toward the shutter. She crouched beside it, peeking through the narrow gap where moonlight sliced through the slats.

Ellis was right behind her, hopping down from the counter with the same light-footed energy he always had. He joined her, eyes pressed to the same seam.

The street beyond was eerily still.

No infected in sight. Just the ones they’d already taken down, sprawled and limp across the pavement like forgotten mannequins. Pools of rainwater shimmered silver beneath the moon, scattered across the asphalt like oil slicks. A soft mist curled above the sidewalk in places, caught in the low glow of a flickering streetlamp.

A neon sign down the block blinked lazily, casting long, pulsing shadows over the buildings around it.

“…It’s kinda beautiful,” Ellis whispered. “Quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Rochelle murmured. “Doesn’t feel right.”

They lingered for a beat longer, then returned to the group.

“It’s dead out there,” Rochelle said. “No infected, no movement. Nothing.”

Nick, slouched deeper in his corner, muttered dryly, “Guess it’s past zombie bedtime.”

Ellis laughed.

Rochelle glanced around. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Anyone got a watch?” she added.

Nick let out a long-suffering sigh, tugging back the cuff of his shirt.

On his wrist gleamed a gold Rolex, clean even in the grime of the day, its polished face catching the moonlight like a mirror.

Ellis let out a low whistle. “Whoa. That’s real, ain’t it?”

He leaned in to get a closer look, eyes wide. “Man, that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever seen since. You steal it or somethin’?”

Nick glanced at him, unamused. “It’s mine.”

Ellis blinked. “Damn. You fancy.”

“It’s 1:25,” Nick said, ignoring the comment.

Coach yawned loudly, stretching his arms until his back cracked. “Well. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m about ready to pass out.”

Nick frowned. “You really think it’s a good idea for all of us to sleep at once?”

Rochelle waved toward the shutter. “We’re secure. Doors are locked. We’re warm, armed, and not bleeding. That’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

Ellis nodded. “She’s right. I mean… I say we take the chance while we can.”

Nick didn’t look convinced.

But he didn’t argue again.

Nick and Ellis had moved two metal shelves in front of the shutter, dragging them slowly across the tile. Neither of them spoke during the task, but there was a shared understanding in the weight of what they were doing—more noise would bring attention, and more barricade might buy them time.

Once the last shelf was pressed tightly into place, Nick stepped back, brushed his palms off on his trousers, and let out a quiet grunt of approval.

Behind them, Rochelle and Coach had already started settling in for the night. Rochelle curled into a ball near the candy aisle, arms wrapped tight around herself, face half-buried. Just a few feet away, Coach lay flat on his back with his bat nestled beside him, snoring gently like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Nick lingered at the edge of the counter for a moment, arms crossed, his breath visibly curling from his lips in the cold.

He looked down at Rochelle again and let out a quiet sigh. Rolling his eyes, he shrugged out of his jacket and crouched to drape it gently over her.

She shifted in her sleep, barely, and pulled it tighter around her without even opening her eyes.

Nick straightened up just in time to catch a glimpse of Ellis watching him from across the store. The kid was sitting on an overturned crate, tugging off his boots. When Nick looked over, Ellis quickly turned away.

Nick stared for a moment longer, then turned and disappeared behind the counter.

The tile was colder than he expected. Even through his clothes, it leached the warmth out of his bones. He stretched out on the floor with a slow, reluctant exhale, settling one hand behind his head and letting the other rest flat over his chest. The moonlight spilled through the slats in the shutter, laying stripes of silver across the ceiling above.

He watched the shadows flicker.

Listened to the low sound of Coach’s snoring.

And let his eyes slip closed.

His body ached in a dozen places, but the silence was soothing. The kind of quiet he hadn’t heard since the world went to hell.

Until—

shff. scuff. pad.

Nick’s eyes cracked open, narrowed, already annoyed.

Soft footfalls crept across the tile, careful but not quiet enough to go unnoticed. He didn’t need to guess who it was. He turned his head.

Ellis was creeping toward him, barefoot now, sweatshirt sleeves pulled over his hands, his boots tucked under one arm like he thought that made him invisible.

Nick sat up fast, glaring daggers. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Ellis stopped in his tracks, blinking like a raccoon caught in headlights. “I’m… uh… goin’ to sleep.”

Nick squinted at him. “Not here, you’re not.”

Ellis gave a nervous little shrug and scratched the back of his neck. “Well… I mean… I don’t wanna bother Coach and Ro, and the other side’s all drafty. I promise you won’t even know I’m here.”

“I’m real quiet, honest. Like a possum.

Nick glared, deadpan.

Ellis hesitated, glancing around at the dim shapes. “I don’t wanna be sleepin’ alone. Not after today… y’know.”

Nick was still glaring, jaw tight.

Then, finally, he dropped back down onto the floor with a long, dramatic exhale and rolled over onto his side—facing away from Ellis.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Ellis smiled—genuinely, warmly—and tiptoed the rest of the way over. He laid down a careful distance behind Nick, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the presence between them. The tile was cold under his shoulder blades, but his chest was still warm beneath the borrowed sweatshirt.

They both lay there in silence, back to back, the hush stretching between them like thread pulled tight.

A few seconds passed.

Then Ellis whispered, soft and sincere, “G’night, Nick.”

There was no answer.

Another beat of silence.

Then, with a reluctant grumble: “…’Night.”

Ellis smiled into the dark, closed his eyes, and let the quiet carry him toward sleep.

The store was silent—but not still.

Somewhere far off, a metal sign clattered against a lamppost in the wind. The shelves creaked. The air was sharp with cold.

Nick’s eyes snapped open.

He lay stiffly on the tile floor, the cool press of it biting into his side. His breath came fast and shallow, fogging softly in the slats of moonlight spilling between the shutter. The shadows on the ceiling danced and warped.

He didn’t know what had woken him.

A sound. A flicker of memory. A flash of something from the inside—a nightmare, maybe. But whatever it was, it was gone now, and only the cold and quiet remained.

Until a whisper broke the stillness.

“Nick?”
The voice was low, tentative. Muffled by sleep.
“You awake?”

Nick didn’t turn.

“No,” he muttered.

Ellis hesitated, then murmured, “Sorry.”

Nick rolled his eyes and exhaled slowly. “What do you want, Overalls?”

A pause.

“I dunno,” Ellis whispered. “You were breathin’ real heavy. Thought maybe you were havin’ a bad dream or somethin’.”

Nick’s voice came slower this time. Still dry, but softer at the edges. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

Another moment passed. The floor creaked slightly under Ellis’s shifting weight.

Then: “Nick?”

Nick groaned. “What.”

Ellis’s voice was quieter now. “…You think this is it? Like… the end?”

Nick didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.

Ellis’s words came again, hopeful, hushed. “Maybe it won’t last. Maybe they’ll find a cure or somethin’. Patch things and we can go back to normal.”

Nick sighed, the sound long and tired. He rolled slowly onto his other side, the movement careful, deliberate.

Now they were facing each other.

Close. Too close.
Their faces were only inches apart in the dark.

Moonlight spilled across Ellis’s features—his eyes half-lidded but bright, his cheek pressed against his forearm, curls of damp brown hair tucked under his crooked cap. The sweatshirt Rochelle gave him hung loose around his shoulders, exposing the thick white bandages wrapped around his chest. His breath was warm in the cold air, sweetened by something faintly cinnamon—probably the stale gum he’d been chewing earlier.

Nick could feel it—Ellis’s breath—soft against his mouth.
He could smell him, too. Sweat and soap and something faint like engine oil that never quite washes out. Familiar. Human.

Their eyes met for the briefest second—Nick’s tired, guarded. Ellis’s wide and open.

Nick’s voice came low, rough in the quiet.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

Ellis blinked. His lips twitched into a small, crooked smile. “Feels like we’ve been runnin’ for days.”

Nick let out a soft, half-choked laugh.

“Get some sleep, Overalls,” he murmured.

Ellis didn’t move—didn’t say anything right away.

Then, just before he closed his eyes, he whispered, “Night, Nick.”

Nick stayed still, watching him just a second longer before letting his own eyes fall shut.

Their breath lingered in the narrow space between them, warm and shared.

Chapter Text

Once the last shelf was dragged into place, Ellis pressed his palm flat against it to test how steady it was. It didn’t budge. He stepped back with a satisfied nod, brushing his hands on the thighs of his dirt-stained overalls. Beside him, Nick did the same—brushed off his crisp white trousers like a man still trying to pretend he wasn’t in the middle of the goddamn apocalypse.

The store had quieted. Behind them, Rochelle and Coach were already settling in. Rochelle was curled up on the floor near the candy aisle, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself like a kid trying to make herself small. Not far from her, Coach had passed out, flat on his back with his arms splayed and that dented metal bat tucked beside him like it was a stuffed animal. He was snoring already. Deep, peaceful.

Ellis sat down on a crate he’d dragged over near the counter and started untying his boots. The air in the store was cold enough to fog your breath, and he could still hear the wind rattling outside the metal shutter like a train in the distance. Every gust made the shelves creak and groan.

He looked up just in time to catch Nick watching Rochelle. Or maybe it was what Nick did next that caught Ellis’s eye—quiet, barely anything, but enough to sting behind Ellis’s ribs a little.

Nick sighed, rolled his eyes, and peeled off that sharp jacket of his. He crouched down, draped it over Rochelle real gentle, like he didn’t want to wake her. She shifted a little, pulling it closer in her sleep. Didn’t even open her eyes.

It was probably nothing. But it was the kind of nothing that made Ellis’s heart twitch. He looked away fast, like he hadn’t been watching. Focused on his boots instead. Tried to pretend his fingers weren’t trembling just a little from the cold.

When he glanced back up again, Nick was already moving behind the counter.

Ellis didn’t hesitate long. He was tired too—more than tired, really. Bone-worn. But more than anything, he just didn’t want to be alone. Not after today. Not after what he’d seen. So he picked up his boots and padded over to the counter barefoot, sweatshirt sleeves tugged low over his fingers. He tried to make his steps real quiet.

He thought he was being sneaky—until Nick snapped upright like a damn rattlesnake, eyes hard and voice sharp.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Ellis froze. Caught. He blinked, wide-eyed.

“I’m… uh… goin’ to sleep.”

Nick squinted at him like he was debating whether or not to throw something. “Not here, you’re not.”

Ellis scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Well… I mean… I don’t wanna bother Coach and Ro, and the other side’s all drafty. I promise you won’t even know I’m here.”

He offered a grin—one of the real ones. Not his best move, maybe.

“I’m real quiet, honest. Like a possum.”

Nick just stared, deadpan.

Ellis’s grin faded a little. He shrugged. “I don’t wanna be sleepin’ alone. Not after today… y’know.”

For a second, he thought Nick was gonna keep glaring. Just keep glaring until Ellis slunk off with his boots and his dumb idea.

But then Nick let out this long, irritated sigh. He flopped back down with a grunt and turned his back.

“Fine,” he muttered.

That was all Ellis needed.

He tiptoed the rest of the way over and laid down slow, careful not to touch Nick but close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him like a space heater. The tile floor was freezing under his back, but the sweatshirt Rochelle gave him still held a little body heat.

They were quiet.

Back to back.

Ellis stared at the wall, watching the strips of moonlight shift as the wind rattled the shutter. He listened to the sound of Coach’s snoring and the tiny creaks of old plastic and metal. It was quiet. But not peaceful.

He closed his eyes.

“…G’night, Nick,” he whispered.

Nothing.

Then, just as Ellis was starting to feel stupid—

“…’Night.”

He smiled.

That was enough.

Ellis didn’t know what woke him.

There wasn’t a sound exactly—more like a shift in the air. A ripple. Maybe it was a dream slipping away too fast, or just the sense that something nearby wasn’t quite right. He rolled over in the dark, slow and quiet, and found himself facing Nick’s back. The other man was lying stiff, tense, breathing heavier than before.

Ellis hesitated, then whispered, “Nick? You awake?”

A beat passed.

“No,” Nick muttered.

Ellis smiled faintly. “Sorry.”

Nick rolled his eyes—Ellis could feel it, even in the dark. “What do you want, Overalls?”

”I dunno” Ellis shrugged against the floor. “You were breathin’ real heavy. Thought maybe you were havin’ a bad dream or somethin’.”

A pause. Then Nick’s voice again, slower now. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

Ellis nodded, more to himself than anything.

Then, after a minute: “Nick?”

Another groan. “What.”

Ellis’s voice dropped lower, softer. “You think this is it? Like… the end?”

There was no answer.

“Maybe it won’t last. Maybe they’ll find a cure or somethin’. Patch things up and we can go back to normal.”

The silence stretched out — long enough that Ellis figured maybe Nick had fallen back asleep, or was just pretending to. But he didn’t turn away.

Ellis stayed still, eyes fixed on the back of Nick’s neck, where the shadows softened the edges of his hairline. His heart ticked a little faster in the quiet. He felt the heaviness of the day settle on his ribs—same place the bandages wrapped tight. It was hard to tell if it was the ache or the silence making it harder to breathe.

He shifted slowly—was just about to roll back over—when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Nick, rolling onto his side to face him.

Their faces were inches apart.

The moonlight reached through the slats above, cutting across Nick’s face in pale silver. His eyes were open, tired and unreadable. Ellis could feel his breath on his lips—warm and soft in the freezing dark.

And the smell of him—it hit Ellis sharp and strange. Gunpowder, leather, the lingering hint of cigarettes and something older underneath, like old whiskey and warm cologne. Familiar, in a way that made Ellis ache.

Their eyes met.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Nick said. Low and quiet.

Ellis blinked.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Feels like we’ve been runnin’ for days.”

Nick huffed—a soft sound, almost a laugh.

“Get some sleep, Overalls,” he said.

Ellis didn’t move. Just stared at him a second longer.

Then, before he let his eyes fall shut again, he whispered, “Night, Nick.”

Nick didn’t say anything. But Ellis could still feel the warmth between them. A quiet that didn’t feel so empty.

And slowly, he let it carry him off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Nick didn’t open his eyes at first.

He was awake—barely—but clinging to the last fragile threads of sleep, stubbornly refusing to let go. The chill in the air curled around him like smoke, and for a moment he could almost pretend he wasn’t laying on the cold, hard floor of a convenience store in the middle of Savannah. That there weren’t infected freaks roaming the streets. That he wasn’t curled up beside some overly chipper hick.

He stayed still, face toward the ceiling, arms resting loosely at his sides.

Then he noticed something.

A tug—gentle but persistent—at his wrist.

His brow twitched. The subtle shift of fabric. The slow raising of his arm. He might’ve dismissed it entirely if it hadn’t been for the second tug. Firmer. Bolder. He reached out instinctively, groggy but fast, and caught the hand trying to sneak off with him.

His eyes cracked open.

The world was upside down for a second, then righted itself as his vision cleared—and there, peering down at him with a sheepish grin, was Rochelle.

“Morning,” she whispered, eyes wide like a guilty kid caught stealing cookies. “Sorry. I was just tryin’ to check the time. You looked peaceful.” Her voice was light, almost amused.

Nick didn’t answer. Just blinked at her, unamused, and slowly let go of her wrist.

He pushed himself upright with a groan, the stiffness in his back reminding him exactly where they were. He dragged a hand down his face and over his jaw before combing back his hair lazily with his fingers.

Rochelle didn’t miss a beat. “You sleep okay?”

“No,” he said flatly, rubbing at the corner of his eye.

She chuckled under her breath. “Could’ve fooled me. You and Ellis looked real cozy over here.”

Nick didn’t bother responding. His eyes stayed low, fixed on the spot in front of him as he stood and dusted off his trousers.

“Look at him.” she said quietly, nudging Nick’s arm with her elbow.

Nick turned, reluctantly.

Ellis lay curled on his side, facing the wall, his arms wrapped protectively around the duffle bag like it was his favourite teddy bear. His oversized sweatshirt had ridden up around his waist in soft folds, exposing a flash of warm skin. His face was mostly hidden—just the curve of a cheek, his lips parted slightly, breath slow and shallow, hair a soft mess.

“Adorable,” Rochelle said.

Nick gave her a look, he didn’t answer—just dropped his gaze back down to Ellis for another second.

He gave Ellis’ foot a firm nudge with the toe of his shoe.

Rochelle raised a hand to swat at him. “Leave the poor boy alone.”

Ellis stirred immediately, blinking awake, and blinked blearily up at them like a confused puppy.

“Rise and shine, Overalls.” Nick said, voice rough with sleep.

Ellis yawned, arms stretching tight above his head, sweatshirt sleeves slipping down to his elbows. His grin came slow, still half-asleep. “Mornin’.”

Rochelle’s voice came soft and bright as morning sunlight, warm despite the cold still hanging in the air.

“Morning, Sweetie,” she said to Ellis, her lips pulling into a gentle smile. “You sleep okay?”

Ellis yawned behind his hand. “Like a baby,” he said, grinning, his curls a little flatter on one side where he’d been pressed against the bag all night.

“Well, come on then,” she said, jerking her chin toward the back. “Come get somethin’ to eat before Coach eats it all.”

Nick’s eyes followed the exchange quietly, expression unreadable as he pushed off the counter with one hand. He glanced down at Ellis—just briefly, just a flicker—and then followed after Rochelle without a word.

The store felt quieter than before, like the storm had taken some of the noise with it. Light crept in under the shutter, washed the floor in dull morning grey.

Coach was already up and rifling through a stash of boxes they’d pulled from the shelves the night before. He looked up when Nick approached, grinning like he’d already had a full breakfast and a pot of coffee.

“Well, good mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he said, voice boomimg. “Damn, Nick—you look like shit.”

Rochelle burst out laughing as she passed behind Coach, and Nick just leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over his face with a tired sigh.

“He’s not a morning person.” Rochelle said, mock-whispering like it was a state secret.

Nick rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and slumped back against the counter, legs stretched out, arms crossed tight.

Then Ellis popped up from behind the counter. “Mornin’,” he chirped, making Nick flinch like he’d just been jabbed with a cattle prod.

“Jesus,” Nick hissed. “Don’t you have an off switch?”

Ellis just laughed and jogged over to the rest of the group. “That’s what my momma used to say. Never could find it, though.”

Coach chuckled and held up two boxes. “Alright, boys. What’ll it be?: Pop-Tarts or flapjacks?”

“Pop-Tarts, please,” Ellis said, immediately reaching for the red box. He tore it open like it was Christmas morning and unwrapped one of the foil packs with a happy hum.

Nick groaned. “I need a cigarette,” he muttered, reaching for the pack on the counter.

Before he could light one, Ellis broke one of his Pop-Tarts neatly in half and offered it out to him, smiling like he didn’t expect Nick to take it, but hoped he would anyway.

“Here,” Ellis said, gentle and insistent. “You gotta keep your strength up for all that zombie killin’.”

Nick eyed the frosted pastry like it was poisonous.

But he took it.

Grudgingly, carefully, he brought it to his mouth and took a small bite. It was dry.

Ellis beamed. He sat down cross-legged on the floor, chewing happily.

Nick didn’t say thank you. But he didn’t throw the rest of it away either.

The group settled into a quiet rhythm, each with their makeshift breakfasts. Ellis and Rochelle shared a box of Pop-Tarts and sipped an energy drink, their conversation low and punctuated with soft laughter. Coach munched on a box of flapjacks, his contented hums filling the space. Nick sat apart, back behind the counter, the half Pop-Tart Ellis had given him resting on his knee.

Sunlight began to filter through the shutter, casting golden patterns across the store’s interior. The warmth was a welcome contrast to the night’s chill, and it brought a semblance of normalcy to the otherwise desolate setting.

One by one, they took turns using the bathroom, freshening up as best they could. Nick remained at his spot behind the register, eyes half-lidded, observing the morning’s slow unfolding.

Ellis returned from the bathroom, his steps light. He approached the corner where his t-shirt hung, now dry. With a quick motion, he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, revealing a glimpse of toned muscles and the bandages wrapped around his torso. Nick’s gaze lingered, taking in the curve of Ellis’s spine, the way his skin caught the morning light, the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Rochelle’s voice broke the moment. “Hey, Nick, does the bag have any more space? We might be able to fit a few more supplies.”

Nick blinked, tearing his eyes away. “Should be some room left,” he replied, his voice steady.

Ellis caught Nick’s glance and offered a small smile before picking up the duffle and heading over to Rochelle. “Let’s see what we can fit,” he said, his tone cheerful.

Coach stepped out from the back with a content sigh, adjusting his sleeves. “All yours,” he said, stretching his arms like he’d just wrapped up a spa treatment.

Nick gave him a long look. “Jesus, Coach. You redecoratin’ in there or giving birth?”

Rochelle snorted around a sip of warm energy drink. Ellis cackled.

Coach just waved him off with a grunt, but before Nick could push himself fully to his feet, a deep tremor rippled through the building. A groaning sound echoed in the bones of the walls — not like thunder. Lower, heavier. The floor gave a subtle shudder beneath their feet, the shelves rattling like teeth.

Everyone froze.

Nick’s hand hovered instinctively near his holster. He glanced around at the others, wide-eyed and still — Rochelle mid-sip, Ellis pausing halfway through peeling open another Pop-Tart.

Another creak groaned through the walls.

Nick’s brows lifted as he slowly turned back to Coach. “What the hell did you do in there?”

Coach held up his hands defensively. “Hey now, that wasn’t me!”

Another sound came now — sharp, mechanical — slicing through the lingering silence. A low, rising hum. A static crackle, drifting in like the ghost of a radio frequency lost on the wind.

Rochelle straightened. “Shh.”

They all listened.

The hum swelled, deepened. Became something heavier. Familiar. The chop of rotor wings cutting through humid Savannah air.

Ellis shot up, nearly spilling his drink. “That’s a helicopter!”

He bounded toward the front shutter, clanging against it as he skidded into place. He crouched to peer between the slats, eyes wide and glowing. Rochelle was right behind him, pushing her fingers into the gap for a better view.

Nick moved slower — edging in beside Ellis and nudging him to the side with a subtle press of his shoulder. He leaned in close, cold metal against his cheek, squinting into the street beyond.

Coach hung back behind them, towering above the others, voice low. “What do you see?”

Nick didn’t answer right away. His gaze tracked a glint of silver as it cut across the dark sky — fast, purposeful. A helicopter. Big. Military, probably.

Then a voice came, a distorted but firm broadcast crackling from its speakers:

“Proceed to the Grand Vannah for evacuation.”

Rochelle repeated it under her breath, like she needed to hear it twice to believe it. “Proceed to the Grand Vannah for evacuation…”

Nick blinked slowly, his voice flat. “What the hell’s a Grand Vannah?”

“It’s a hotel,” Ellis said, still crouched, eyes locked on the retreating helicopter. “Real new, just opened a few months ago. Fancy. Real high end business types.”

Coach added with a nod. “Stayed there with my basketball team when it first opened. Got one of them all you can eat breakfast bars. Ain’t far from here.”

Nick’s jaw tightened as he glanced down at Ellis, unimpressed. “So, I spent the night in that grimy shack when there was luxury hotel around the corner?”.

Figures.

Rochelle pulled away from the shutter, eyes wide. “Do you feel that—?”

A low, thunderous rumble — not from above, but ahead. Closer. Grounded.

The pavement outside trembled

Ellis ducked back from the shutter, face pale. “Shit.”

Infected poured from every side street and alley, flooding the main road. Some sprinted, others stumbled. All of them drawn toward the sound of the helicopter like rats to the edge of a sinking ship.

The horde thundered past in a frenzy — a grotesque parade of snarls, screams, and blood. Their shadows blurred across the glass.

Nick stepped, a hand instinctively resting on the grip of his magnum, his jaw clenched tight.

“Time to move.” he muttered.

His voice was calm, but the tension threaded through it was clear. He kept his eyes on the street, watching the last of the stampede blur past, some of the infected still crashing into each other in their frenzy to follow the sound of salvation.

Behind him, Rochelle hesitated, brows furrowed. “I don’t know, Nick…” she said quietly. “That street’s crawling.”

Nick turned halfway toward her, lifting an eyebrow. “Yeah, and that chopper’s not gonna sit around and wait for us to finish brunch. We miss it, we die here. Your call.”

“Nick’s right,” Ellis cut in, his voice earnest, rising with sudden urgency. “We gotta move now, while that whirlybird’s still circlin’. Don’t wanna get left behind.”

Nick slowly turned his head to look at Ellis.

“It’s a helicopter,” he corrected flatly.

Ellis shrugged, grinning like he hadn’t just said anything wrong. “A loud one, too.”

Coach stepped up beside them, his bat resting against his shoulder. “Ain’t far to the Grand. If we hustle, we’ll make it. Better to move while they’re distracted than wait for ’em to remember we’re here.”

Nick nodded once. “Exactly.”

With that, the mood shifted—an electric sort of urgency settling in as the group began moving. Rochelle quickly rolled her sleeves down and adjusted the strap of her holster. Coach gave his knee a stretch and a wince but nodded that he was ready. Ellis jogged off toward the bathroom with a, “Be back in a sec!”

Nick moved to the counter, unzipped the duffle and sorting through the supplies with methodical precision. He refilled both his and Rochelle’s pistols from the loose boxes of ammo, fingers moving fast but practiced. Then, he slipped a fresh pack of cigarettes into his trouser pocket and lit one—just a quick inhale before they had to face hell again.

He was stubbing it out when Rochelle approached, jacket in hand.

“Here,” she said, gently holding it out to him. “Figured you’d want this back. And… thanks.”

Nick took it, slinging it over one shoulder, already moving back toward the duffel.

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” he said, not unkindly.

Rochelle gave a short laugh and rubbed his arm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Coach joined them at the counter, leaning in to help map out their route. The three of them were quietly debating which alley would give them the best cover when Ellis’s voice piped up from behind them.

“Hey!” he called, still back near the bathroom hallway. “Y’all gonna wanna see this.”

“One second, Sweetie.” Rochelle called back distractedly.

“No, seriously,” Ellis insisted, a little more excitement in his voice now. “I found somethin’ real cool.”

Nick was the first to look up, lifting his eyes just over Rochelle’s shoulder—and he froze.

Ellis stood in the aisle like a proud kid at show and tell, grinning ear to ear. In his arms he held a pump-action shotgun, the grip worn smooth, the barrel long and clean. The weight of it looked natural in his hands.

“Found it in the back office,” Ellis explained, eyes bright. “Was stashed behind the file cabinet—guess the manager was worried about looters. Found a box of ammo, too, tucked in the drawer.”

Coach let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Good eye, son.”

Rochelle blinked in surprise, eyebrows high. “Damn, Ellis. Nice work.”

Ellis beamed under the praise and made his way to the counter. He set the shotgun down momentarily, sliding the box of ammo into the duffle with care.

Nick met his eyes briefly across the counter, his face unreadable—until he gave the faintest of nods. Nothing showy. Just enough.

Ellis smiled back—smaller this time, but warm. Quiet. Real.

The kind of look that stuck with you. The kind that made everything feel a little less like the end of the world.

Chapter Text

The group gathered at the front of the store, their breath misting faintly in the cold morning air. The shutter still rattled gently in its frame, stirred by the breeze outside. The street beyond was quiet now—eerily so. The sky had paled into a soft, fog-draped grey.

Nick was already at the front, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of his jacket as he slid his magnum from it’s holster and gave it a quick once over.

Behind him, Ellis stood to his right, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. The kid had his shotgun clutched close to his chest, wide grin painted across his face like he couldn’t quite decide if they were headed into certain doom or the damn county fair.

Rochelle and Coach trailed behind, hanging back a little near the counter, Rochelle staying close to Coach in case he needed the support. His leg still stiff, but Coach had his bat in hand, standing solid.

“You guys sure about this?” Rochelle asked, voice low but firm. Her gaze flicked to Nick. “We could stay. Wait it out a little longer.”

Nick turned, eyes narrowing slightly. “Sure. You can stay,” he said flatly.

Rochelle gave him a long look that said more than any response ever could.

Nick turned back toward the shutter with a sharp exhale through his nose—then stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ellis bouncing with way too much energy for the apocalypse.

“Hey, Ellis,” Nick said, voice dry as dirt, “you forget something?”

Ellis blinked, thrown. “Uh…” He started patting himself down—hat, belt, shotgun—before realisation dawned. “Aw, hell,” he muttered, and spun around, jogging quickly back to the counter.

The duffle bag sat where they’d last left it, still slightly open from when Ellis had stuffed in the box of shotgun shells. He grabbed it with both hands, slipping one arm through the leather strap and swinging it over his shoulder as he rushed back toward the group.

“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly, out of breath and a little pink in the cheeks. “Guess I ain’t much good if I leave all our stuff behind.”

Nick rolled his eyes without looking at him.

He moved to the shutter, curling his fingers around the handle, but paused again.

“Alright. Keep it quiet out there,” he muttered over his shoulder.

Then, more pointedly: “That means you, Overalls.”

Coach and Rochelle both chuckled quietly.

Ellis, ever the optimist, raised one hand like he was swearing into court. “I can do quiet,” he promised earnestly.

Nick closed his eyes and muttered something inaudible under his breath. Then, with a slow, controlled breath, he pulled the shutter up just high enough for them to slip under one at a time.

The air outside hit them immediately—damp and cold, thick with the lingering smell of rain and death.

The group moved quietly down the street, their boots clicking gently against the cracked asphalt, muffled by dust still clinging to the air. The early morning light spilled across the broken pavement in long silver beams, filtered through hanging signs and the gnarled branches of an overgrown tree clinging stubbornly to life in the middle of the sidewalk. Storefronts lined the street, most with shattered glass eyes and charred interiors. A barbershop window hung askew in its frame, swinging slightly in the breeze with a soft creak. Somewhere distant, metal clinked against metal.

They walked in a loose file, Nick up front with his magnum out, ready. Ellis, shotgun slung across his chest, trailed close behind, his bounce subdued but still there — the boy couldn’t fully help himself. Rochelle walked beside Coach, steadying his arm whenever his bad knee gave him pause. They all moved with that shared, silent urgency, ears tuned to the hush that never quite felt safe.

The lack of infected was… promising. But also worrying. Too quiet.

They paused at the edge of a battered post office, crouching behind a mail van whose back doors hung open like a gutted carcass. Nick glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice.

“Alright. Locals,” he muttered, “Where the hell are we actually going?”

Coach rubbed his chin, squinting past the haze. “You wanna cut down Grand Oak Boulevard. Should be just past that bakery on the corner. Make a left. Hotel’s straight shot from there.”

Nick nodded once. “Sounds simple. What could possibly go wrong.”

They moved on again, sticking close to cover. Past a boarded-up thrift store with shirts still dangling in the front window like limp ghosts. Past a flower shop, wilted arrangements in the smashed display cases. More buildings burned out, their bones exposed to the grey sky above.

They reached the edge of the street outside the small bakery — or what was left of it. The sign out front was half-melted, black soot streaking the white brick facade. Through the busted window, a charred counter lay collapsed and twisted. A child’s bike was leaned against the wall just outside, long-abandoned.

Nick crouched, pressing his back to the corner of the building. He glanced around it — then froze.

Dozens of infected.

Not moving with purpose. Not yet. But there were too many. Some of them twitched where they sat on the pavement, backs hunched. A few fought with one another over something unidentifiable. Others just… stared. Still. Breathing shallow, chests rising and falling with a slow, unnatural rhythm. One of them sniffed the air and tilted its head, the motion sharp and birdlike.

Nick cursed under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Shit.”

Ellis crawled up beside him, peering around the corner with a squint. His eyes went wide, then he swore softly. “Aw, hell.”

Rochelle’s voice came low from just behind. “There. Look. That alley—across the street.” She pointed quickly, one hand braced on Coach’s arm.

Across the open stretch of road, between two buildings, a narrow alley stretched in shadow. The back of a dumpster and a chain-link fence visible just beyond. If it didn’t dead-end, it might just snake behind the street and cut around the horde.

Coach followed her gaze, nodding. “Yeah. That might do it. If we’re lucky, it’ll drop us out near the parking deck by the hotel. Worth a shot.”

Nick looked at Ellis. They shared a glance — not quite serious, not quite joking. Nick arched a brow, already deadpan.

“How hard could it be to cross a street?”

Ellis snorted, shouldering his shotgun tighter. “You jinxin’ us, Nick. You remember last time we tried that?”

Nick smirked faintly. “Coach still has the limp to prove it.”

Ellis gave a soft, nervous laugh, eyes already flicking back toward the alley.

It wasn’t far. But it never was.

And still, it always felt like too far.

Coach crossed first. He waved the others over from the shadow of the alleyway, keeping lookout while the they followed his lead.

Ellis was next to go—darting low across the road, shotgun pressed tight to his chest like he was running a football. Rochelle followed close behind, crouched and swift, her boots hitting the pavement with light, precise steps. Both made it across without a hitch.

Nick moved last.

He was halfway across when he saw Rochelle and Ellis freeze. Their eyes grew wide—staring at something behind him.

Before he could turn, before he could draw

A shriek split the air, sharp and alien.

Something wet and strong wrapped tight around his chest.

It yanked him backward hard—the air knocked out of him as his back hit the pavement. His magnum flew from his hand with a clang, skidding out of reach. It dragged him fast, scraping him across the broken asphalt. His jacket and shirt bunched and twisted, exposing bare skin to the unforgiving ground. He could feel gravel tearing across his lower back.

He kicked out violently, clawing at the grotesque, muscular appendage wrapped around his torso.

A tongue.

He threw his head back just enough to catch a glimpse.

The thing was tall—lanky and sickly green, mottled with bulbous boils and sagging skin. Its arms hung low, its legs too thin. Glowing amber eyes burned from a face half-concealed by twisted flesh, its jaw slack as more of it’s tongue coiled toward him.

The pressure on Nick’s ribs grew tighter. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. He could see the horde beginning to stir farther down the street—snapping to attention at the commotion.

Ellis came skidding in from the side, dropping to his knees, grabbing onto Nick’s leg to keep him grounded. His shotgun clattered to the road behind them.

Rochelle was right behind, nails digging into the tongue, trying to pry it loose.

Nick felt his vision tunneling, darkness creeping in from the edges.

Then came a BANG. A sharp, deafening crack like thunder.

The tongue slackened instantly.

The creature let out a low, rattling groan—and exploded in a thick, green mist.

Nick dropped flat to the asphalt as the grip released, coughing as smoke surrounded them.

Ellis choked next to him, waving his hand through the cloud. “Is—hack—is this what your lungs feel like all the time?” he wheezed, giving Nick a crooked grin while offering his hand.

Nick took it, still hunched and struggling to breathe, but alive.

Coach stepped forward through the haze, lowering the shotgun with a satisfied grunt. “This used to be a nice neighborhood,” he said.

Rochelle bent down and retrieved Nick’s magnum, holding it out to him with a wry smirk. “Might want to hang onto this.”

Nick accepted it without a word, holstering it back at his thigh. He gave Coach a short nod, then turned slightly toward Ellis, whose hand lingered a second longer than needed before letting go.

Ellis was still coughing, but laughing through it, eyes bright under his cap.

“You alright?” he asked Nick.

Nick looked at him—brushing his fingers over the smear of blood now stretching across his back—and muttered, “I was.”

The street behind them roared to life with screams.

Coach’s shotgun blast had done more than drop that freak—it’d lit a damn fuse. The horde stirred like a pot boiling over, dozens of infected peeling away from their hunched feasting or twitching silence. Their shrieks rolled down the cracked pavement in a tidal wave of sound.

Nick coughed again, doubled over slightly as his ribs flared with pain. “You just rang the dinner bell, big guy.”

Coach grunted, already moving. “Get movin’, smartass!”

Rochelle snatched up the duffle bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder while Ellis ducked to scoop up his shotgun. Nick’s arm was still tight around his ribs, but he threw his weight across Ellis’s shoulders as they staggered toward the alley. Ellis adjusted quickly, an arm around Nick’s waist, steadying him with surprising strength.

The alley loomed ahead—narrow, choked in shadows and steam rising from busted vents along the wall. They barrelled through the chain-link gate just in time, Rochelle and Coach slamming it shut behind them with a deafening clatter. Ellis helped Coach roll a dented dumpster in front of it, the rusted wheels squealing across the concrete.

The infected smashed into the fence seconds later.

Nick turned, still coughing as he leaned against the wall. His free hand gripped his thigh, trying to hold himself steady while the world spun. Behind the fence, the infected clawed and shrieked, flinging themselves against the mesh. A few began climbing, hands gripping the links—but barbed wire ran ragged along the top, slicing their palms open and sending them tumbling back with snarls.

“Goddamn,” Ellis breathed, darting back to Nick’s side. His hand hovered just beside Nick’s back, not touching—but close enough to steady him if he swayed again. “You good?”

Nick waved him off, not ready to speak just yet. His ribs screamed with every breath.

They moved on, boots and shoes scuffing along the cracked alley floor, shadows thick around them. Ellis stayed close—closer than usual, even for him. He kept glancing sideways, shotgun across his chest like a guard dog.

After a few paces, Ellis called back over his shoulder, “What the hell was that thing?”

Rochelle glanced over from beside Coach. “I think… they’re called Smokers.” Her voice was quiet, serious. “Supposed to use their tongues like whips. Pull people apart.”

Ellis blinked, then looked back at Nick, his expression twisted into something halfway between alarm and mischief. “Well hell,” he said. “If that ain’t a reason to give up smokin’, I dunno what is.”

Nick didn’t even glance at him. He coughed again and kept walking. “I’ll die before I give up my cigarettes.”

Coach let out a low chuckle behind them. Rochelle snorted softly.

Ellis grinned, but it didn’t last long. Nick had stopped walking, one hand braced on the wall again. He was wheezing now, bent slightly, his arm tight around his ribs.

Ellis slowed with him. “You alright?”

Nick didn’t look at him, just waved a hand. “Fine. Keep moving.”

The alley opened up ahead, and the fog began to clear.

The Grand Vannah stood tall and glimmering just beyond the next intersection—ten floors of polished sandstone and glass, rising like a monument above the shattered skyline. The morning sun struck the building’s clean face, throwing golden light across the windows. Silver block letters wrapped around the upper floors, bold and proud:

THE GRAND VANNAH

It looked untouched from a distance. Serene, even.

Nick whistled under his breath, low and impressed.

“Now that’s a damn hotel.”