Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

introduction:
The air in Derek Hale’s apartment felt thicker than usual. No one spoke. The only sound was the TV, set at a very low volume, as if a louder noise might wake something dark and dangerous.
Stiles sat with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clenched around an empty glass. He stared without really seeing it. His gaze was fixed on the TV screen, where images of field hospitals, hazmat suits, and alarming headlines rolled by.
“The World Health Organization has not yet officially classified the virus as a pandemic, but the number of cases is rising rapidly…”
“Great,” he muttered. “This is the part where everything seems under control, and then BAM, apocalypse.”
No one laughed. Not even Peter.
Around him, the pack was silent, almost frozen. They’d been there for half an hour, maybe more. Someone had tried to break the silence with questions, guesses, but every sentence dissolved into emptiness. The reason was obvious, even if no one said it aloud:
Lydia was scared.
Not tense. Not nervous. Not skeptical.
Scared.
And Lydia Martin didn’t scare easily. Not her. Not the girl who had faced Oni, crazy banshees, vengeful spirits, and death itself — and everyone knew there was always a reason if she was scared. But that night, Lydia sat with rigid shoulders and fingers clenched around her phone like it might explode any second. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. She stared at the floor as if the truth was hiding beneath it.
Scott, sitting next to her, never took his eyes off her. It was clear he wanted to say something, ask something, but held back the words on his lips. Allison brushed her arm against his silently, as if reminding him forcing it wouldn’t help.
Derek stood by the window, arms crossed, staring outside, though not a leaf was moving. Malia paced back and forth like a caged animal, while Kira compulsively scrolled through social media updates. None of the posts said anything useful.
Only panic.
Only speculation.
“So, does anyone have any real news?” Stiles finally burst out. “Like, what is this thing? Why does Lydia look so scared? And why are the news talking about a virus without telling us anything helpful?”
“Because no one really knows what it is,” Scott answered flatly. “Not even Deaton.”
“You talked to him?”
Scott shook his head. “I tried. His number is out of service. No one’s answering at the clinic. Braeden disappeared. Even Parrish said they’re getting direct orders not to talk to anyone.”
“That’s worrying,” Chris Argent, who had stayed on the sidelines until then, commented. “If they’re trying to contain the information, it means they know something we don’t. And they don’t want us involved.”
Peter scoffed, lounging casually on the arm of the sofa. “Or maybe they don’t know anything either. They’re just covering their panic with silence. Classic human chaos behavior.”
Lydia barely lifted her head. Her eyes were glassy. “It’s not just panic.”
Everyone turned to her.
“How do you know?” Stiles asked softly.
She lowered her gaze. “Because I feel it. For days now. A presence. Like… an echo. A constant whisper in my head saying: ‘It’s coming.’ But it’s different from anything I’ve sensed before. It’s not supernatural. It’s not human. It’s something in between.”
“In between,” Isaac repeated.
Lydia nodded. “And it doesn’t scream. It doesn’t threaten. But… it watches. It waits.”
—
Her words weighed on the room like molten lead. Peter stood up, for the first time serious. Chris tensed. Even Malia stopped.
Derek turned to her. “Have you had visions?”
Lydia nodded slowly. “But they weren’t images. I heard screams… then, little by little, the screams faded. Actually, they changed. They became gurgling, guttural sounds, like the voice itself was rotting.”
—
The silence that followed was absolute.
Stiles stood up, pacing nervously. “Okay, so we have a virus no one knows. Lydia hears screams that fade and turn into… something else. Monsters. The dead. Or worse. And our trusted banshee is picking up psycho-telepathic-damn vibrations. Perfect. So: what the hell do we do?”
“Stay still,” Derek said.
“Stay still?” Stiles exploded. “Derek, with all due respect, this is the part in the movies where the people who ‘stay still’ get eaten in the first ten minutes!”
“Stay still,” he repeated with icy calm. “Because right now we don’t know what we’re dealing with. Moving blindly won’t help. Not this time.”
—
Scott stood. “He’s right. This isn’t a mission. It’s not an enemy to hunt. It’s a situation to watch.”
“In the meantime, the city’s going to hell,” Malia added. “There are already cases in Beacon Hills.”
“Confirmed?” Allison asked.
“No. But people are starting to talk. A woman bit the cashier at the supermarket. A guy at the car wash attacked a customer. Doctors say panic attacks… but they seem too similar.”
Peter crossed his arms. “And here we are, talking. Perfect.”
—
The group fell silent again. The TV continued to broadcast the same cycle of images. And Lydia… Lydia hadn’t stopped trembling.
—
The silence grew deep again.
Then the phones began to vibrate.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2
At first, it didn’t seem that bad.
Yes, the phones had blared an ear-piercing alarm. One of those “Global Emergency” alerts that no one had ever heard before. The screen was flashing red, with a blunt message:
“Stay indoors. Await further updates.”
And then… nothing.
Silence.
No further warnings.
No news anchors on TV, no reports, no signal.
The network had vanished, broadcasts cut off. The world seemed… paused.
Yet outside, everything looked normal. Cars driving by. People walking on sidewalks. A dog barking in a yard.
But inside the apartment, the atmosphere had changed.
Lydia was sitting on the couch, hands pressed to her temples, her face paler than usual. She trembled, barely noticeable, but anyone who knew her understood it was the most alarming sign.
Scott stood beside her, eyes full of questions he didn’t dare ask. Allison stood nearby, never taking her eyes off Lydia. Her body was tense, as if waiting for something to explode.
Stiles stared out the window, arms crossed, but it was clear he was wrestling with himself.
— “Maybe we should… just check. Find a radio station, someone talking about what’s going on…” he murmured uncertainly.
Derek, near the door, nodded. — “But we do it quickly. And we don’t split up.”
Peter Hale, as always, smiled with that ironic tone that made him as familiar as he was detestable.
— “Come on, really… what could possibly go wrong?”
⸻
Outside, for five seconds, it still seemed like the usual world.
They stepped out together, eyes darting in every direction. The air was strangely still. The atmosphere suspended. Almost… unreal.
A woman walked her dog. A guy smoked leaning on his car hood. An old man was on the phone, irritated by the lack of signal. No one shouted. No one ran.
Everything seemed under control.
For five seconds.
Then everything changed.
The arrival of chaos
A bus suddenly swerved, crashing into a pole at full speed. No attempt to brake. No horn. Just a sharp impact and the sound of crumpling metal.
In an instant, a woman started screaming. A man with gray skin, blotched with blood, had jumped off the bus, attacking her with the fury of a beast. No warning. Just hunger.
Another figure emerged from behind the bus, staggering like a drunk. Then another. And another.
The first infected poured onto the street, drawn by the slightest movement, launching themselves with inhuman violence at anyone nearby.
They weren’t slow.
They weren’t stupid.
They were predators.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Smoke rose from the burning bus. Panic spread faster than any virus.
—
The break
— “BACK INSIDE!” Derek shouted. — “EVERYONE, IN!”
But it was too late.
Two infected had already broken into the building’s entrance. One lunged at Peter, who threw it against the wall with a growl, but the group was exposed. Vulnerable.
A bus exploded a few meters away. Heat and flames raised smoke and debris.
Visibility dropped. Order vanished. The pack split.
It wasn’t a decision.
It wasn’t a strategy.
It was pure instinct.
In the chaos, everyone clung to the closest person. There was only one thought: survive.
—
The separations
-Stiles and Derek
Stiles stumbled, nearly tripping over a body on the ground. That’s when Derek grabbed him by the hood and dragged him away.
— “Move!”
They ran together without looking back, chased by screams, smoke, and the heart-wrenching sound of another infected on the hunt.
They crossed a small path past a parking lot and dove into the trees.
The city disappeared behind the trunks. And it was just breath, running, and fear.
-Allison, Chris, Peter, and Isaac
Peter pushed Allison toward a side alley where he’d spotted the dusty sign of an old hardware store.
Chris covered them, pistol in hand, while Isaac fought an infected, pinning it against a dumpster.
— “Inside!” Chris shouted.
Peter shoved the door open with a shoulder, letting them in. The air inside was damp, but the silence felt like a relief.
A temporary refuge. A moment to breathe.
-Scott, Lydia, Kira, and Malia
Lydia was nearly fainting. Scott carried her on his shoulders while Kira led the way, katana in hand.
Malia guided them toward the entrance of an underground parking lot, whose gate was still half-open.
— “Follow us!”
The group disappeared into the darkness of the ramp, their footsteps echoing alongside the screams above.
Down below, in the shadows. Where everything was silent.
—
In the woods
Stiles stopped only when his legs began to give out. The forest was thick, every broken branch sounding like a gunshot. Every rustle a predator lurking.
— “Derek… what the hell happened?” he whispered, panting.
Derek didn’t answer right away. He stood still, eyes fixed on the trail they’d come from, nostrils flaring at every faint scent.
— “They weren’t like the ones in movies,” he finally said. “Zombies… those are empty. But these… they felt something. They were hunting.”
— “Hunting what?”
Derek turned, his gaze hard.
— “Us.”
A brief silence, broken only by Stiles’s heavy breathing.
Then the boy took a step forward, eyes shining, hands on his hips.
— “So what do we do now? Run until there’s no more forest? Climb a tree? Hope they don’t find us?”
Derek said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders spoke for him.
— “I’m human, Derek. I can’t run forever. No claws. No super sniffing. I only have my brain… and my Jeep.”
He paused, then added quietly:
— “And I have to go get it. We need it to move forward. To find a safe place. To find them.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed, but Stiles didn’t stop.
— “And my dad is at the station. He was supposed to have just a quiet shift. He insisted on going. I told him it was a bad idea to stay there, that he should come to the apartment with me, but that man is stubborn…
I should have pushed harder. He should have come with us…”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t lower his gaze.
Derek just listened, knowing any words wouldn’t fix the mess they were in.
After a long silence, Stiles spoke again.
— “I’m going back. Even just to try. Even just to know.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the distant rustle of the wind through the leaves.
In that pause, another truth became clear: neither of them really wanted to part.
It wasn’t just strategy. It wasn’t just instinct.
It was that deep down, they both knew they didn’t want to be alone.
Not now.
Not in a world that might already have lost everyone else.
Maybe they were the only two left alive. Maybe not. But in that moment, staying together was all that mattered.
Derek closed his eyes for a second, as if fighting every instinct.
Then, through clenched teeth:
— “Five minutes. Then we go. No matter what.”
Stiles nodded. And at that moment, it was clear neither of them would truly keep that deadline.
Underground, in the Shadows
Lydia sat on the ground, still trembling. Kira wiped her forehead with a damp handkerchief, her gaze tense.
Scott paced back and forth, searching for a way out. Malia was still, ears perked.
— “They separated us,” Scott said, almost trying to convince himself. “I don’t know if they’re alive.”
Lydia lifted her gaze. Her eyes were watery, but determined.
— “They are.”
— “How do you know?”
A long silence.
Then her voice, low and icy.
— “Because I can feel them. But not for long.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3
The sunlight slowly disappeared among the branches as Stiles and Derek moved through the trees. Neither of them spoke. No need.
The path was narrow, their feet sinking slightly into the damp mud. Every step was measured, every breath held as quietly as possible. Suddenly the forest ended, opening onto a side street bordering the town.
Beacon Hills ahead was no longer the same.
Abandoned cars, some crashed into lampposts, others with doors wide open. Dark stains on the asphalt — close enough to see they were blood.
Stiles covered his nose. The smell was worse than he’d expected. A mix of burning, blood, and something else. Something rotten.
Derek moved ahead of him, muscles tense, eyes darting from window to window, from shadow to shadow.
Stiles whispered — “We have to be careful not to make noise.”
Derek said nothing but silently agreed.
They spotted the first infected from afar: it moved in jerks, its skin torn in multiple places as if ripped away. It staggered but wasn’t slow. It seemed to be sniffing the air.
They froze behind a car.
The creature made a guttural sound, a mix between a breath and a growl, then spun around suddenly. Something caught its attention and it bolted like a rabid animal.
Stiles trembled. His stomach tightened.
— “They’re not dead,” he whispered. “They’re… pissed off.”
Derek nodded. — “And hungry.”
They continued moving through the silent streets. Occasionally they saw bodies on the ground — some who didn’t make it. In an alley, they crossed paths with an infected sitting on a corpse, tearing something apart with its hands. It didn’t even notice them. They crept past, hearts pounding.
Finally, they arrived at the hardware store, half-closed with the shutter halfway down. On the sidewalk, next to a broken window, lay a rusty wrench.
Derek picked it up, testing the weight. — “Better than nothing.” He tossed it to Stiles.
Stiles realized how much he missed his trusty bat.
Turning the corner, they saw the Jeep. It was still there. Intact.
But they weren’t alone.
Five infected moved slowly nearby, one leaning against the hood like a drunk. Two were tearing at some remains between their hands. The other two circled the car, lunging at every little sound.
Derek crouched. — “We have to take them out.”
— “No, wait… we need a strategy, maybe—”
— “If we wait too long, more could show up.”
Stiles nodded, though skeptical.
While Derek moved to the side looking for a better angle, Stiles bent down and took the wrench from his boot.
Suddenly, a sharp noise made one of the infected turn around.
The “zombie” noticed the sound and let out a scream.
A piercing, high-pitched, non-human scream. The others turned and started running.
The first infected lunged at Stiles like a bullet. Its face was covered in dried blood, lips worn away, eyes bloodshot and alive. Its mouth opened in a distorted grin. It was fast, driven only by rage and hunger.
Stiles barely raised his arms before the creature threw him to the ground.
Rotten hands tried to grab him, the mouth coming closer to his throat. The breath smelled of raw meat and decay.
Panic rose, but in an instant — a beat, a single impulse — something snapped inside him. Pure adrenaline.
Stiles grabbed the wrench still clenched in his fist and drove it into the soft skull of the infected.
The wrench sank with a horrible, wet, crunching sound.
The creature stiffened, then collapsed on top of him.
Blood stained him all over. Warm. Sticky. Real.
Stiles couldn’t breathe.
— “Stiles!” Derek shouted, leaping onto a second infected and smashing its skull with a punch.
— “Get up,” he growled.
Stiles nodded, swaying. His hands trembled.
— “It… was on me. It was about to—”
— “But it didn’t.”
Derek pulled him up and shoved him toward the Jeep. They opened the door and threw themselves inside.
Only then, closed in, Stiles broke down.
— “It was too close.”
— “You did what you had to do. You resisted.”
— “I didn’t resist. I was scared, Derek. I was frozen a second too long and—”
Derek looked him in the eyes, then turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life.
— “And nothing, Stiles. Fear is normal. What matters is how you use it. And you used it.”
The Jeep pulled away, leaving behind blood, bodies, the stench of death.
— “What if we’re the only ones left?”
Derek didn’t answer. But the way he lowered his gaze said enough.

The Jeep stopped just outside the police station. The asphalt was littered with glass, papers, some burned objects. The air was still. No wind. No noise. No life.
Stiles got out first.
He said nothing, but his hands shook. You could tell by the wrench he still gripped. Derek stood beside him, eyes fixed on the building.
The station doors were wide open, as if someone had left in a hurry. Or maybe… had been dragged out.
Blood. Not much. But enough to slow every step.
— “It’s not much…” Stiles muttered, trying to convince himself it was just a scratch. Just an accident. “Maybe he got hurt trying to help someone…”
But Derek didn’t reply. His eyes scanned every corner, every trace. He didn’t like what he saw.
They went in.
Inside, chaos ruled like a physical presence. Overturned chairs. Papers everywhere. Monitors off. One wall stained—not with a splash… more like a sudden, violent spatter.
Stiles stopped in the main hallway. Every step was a betrayal, a sound too loud.
— “Dad?” His voice came low, uncertain.
Then again. Louder. — “SHERIFF STILINSKI!”
An echo. Just an echo. Empty. Indifferent.
Stiles turned to Derek, as if seeking an answer. But the man’s expression was tight, and that scared him more than anything.
Then… a sound.
A dull thud. Slow. Dragging. A growl, brief, like a dry throat.
Stiles started to run toward the noise, but Derek stopped him with an arm.
— “Wait.”
— “It could be him…”
— “Wait.”
A figure moved in the shadow, just outside an office. It was in uniform. Had the right silhouette, the right hair color. It was walking badly. But it was walking.
Stiles looked at it. His eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t breathe.
— “Dad?” he said again, a whisper.
For a moment, Stiles didn’t move. It was as if his whole body forgot how to work.
The figure lifted its face.
And it wasn’t his father.
Its eyes were bloodshot. The face ravaged, as if someone had bitten it. The uniform was in tatters. Its hands clawed the air, desperate.
The zombie growled and lunged at him.
Derek shoved him hard, knocking him against a desk. Then leapt onto the infected, pinning it to the wall.
The creature’s teeth were inches from his face. White foam at the mouth. The throat making inhuman, guttural, angry sounds.
— “It’s not him!” Derek yelled. — “It’s not your dad!”
Stiles’s chest rose and fell as if he couldn’t find air. It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper. Something breaking inside. Even if it wasn’t his father, it could have been—and the feeling wouldn’t leave him.
Derek drove his claws into the infected’s skull with a sharp, precise move. The body fell, dead for good—or whatever was left of it.
There was silence.
A silence louder than before.
Stiles’s breathing was broken, shallow. His gaze fixed on the uniform, the blood, on what he had thought was his father.
Derek knelt beside him, voice calm but firm.
— “There will be. Your dad is tough. If there’s no body, then he’s still alive.”
Stiles didn’t answer immediately.
Then he nodded. Quietly.
It wasn’t a yes. It was just a way of saying: I’m still trying to believe.
He stood up with difficulty, trying to stay clear-headed.
The station seemed darker now. Colder. And inside him, something had gone out.
Hope wasn’t dead. But it was cracked. And there was no room left for illusions.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Scott, Lydia, Malia, Kira

Scott sat on the floor, his back against the wall, hands in his hair. His breathing was uneven. His eyes stared into nothing.

Kira knelt beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder tightly, as if she could anchor him to reality.

Lydia, standing, paced back and forth in the dim, cramped living room, her gaze distant, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Malia was curled up against an overturned car, her knees to her chest, eyes hard.

The silence had gone on too long.

“Scott,” Kira whispered, barely audible. “What do we do now?”

“My mom’s at the hospital,” he replied, his voice broken, still not looking at her. “The last time I heard her voice was this morning. She said everything was under control. That they were isolating the cases.”

Lydia stopped abruptly.

“Scott,” she said, her voice firm but trembling, “you can’t go back there.”

“I’m a werewolf.” He looked up, determined. “I can face them. I can… I can save her.”

“And what if there’s nothing left to save?” Malia said bluntly. “What if… the hospital’s already fallen?”

Scott stared at her, shocked. But he didn’t reply.

Kira lowered her gaze, torn.

“We have to think,” Lydia finally said, her voice low as if the words pained her. “I had a feeling… like something tearing in my stomach. I can’t explain it. It’s not just fear, it’s… emptiness. A void. Something went terribly wrong there.”

Malia scoffed. “Your visions… they’re always vague. Always creepy. But never clear.”

Lydia shot her a glare. “But they’ve never been wrong.”

Scott slowly got to his feet. He swayed slightly, as if the adrenaline holding him up was starting to fade.

“I can’t not try. If there’s even a chance… if my mom is still alive, I have to see her. I have to tell her I’m okay. That she’s not alone.”

“And what if you’re the one who doesn’t come back?” Lydia hissed.

The words hung in the air. Scott swallowed hard and turned away. He didn’t want them to see the uncertainty on his face.

But inside… he was wavering.

⸻

Peter, Allison, Chris, Isaac

The door of the old hardware store slammed shut with a dull thud. The silence that followed was almost worse than the chaos they’d left behind.

Peter slumped against the wall, breathing heavily, his hands still stained with dry blood. But not his own—and that was what mattered.

Chris Argent stood in front of him, gun still in hand, gaze fixed on the door as if that alone would keep the hell outside at bay.

Allison crouched on the floor, trembling slightly. She wasn’t crying—not yet—but there was a tension in her muscles that said everything: she was holding back every emotion through sheer will. She had seen death’s face. She’d seen Peter shove the infected off her. And she’d seen him do it without hesitation. With a snarl. On instinct.

Isaac, leaning against a broken shelf, cradled his bruised arm. It didn’t look serious; it would heal on its own soon enough. But his gaze was distant. As if his mind was desperately trying to go back to a simpler time. Before the blood. Before the screams.

Then Chris’s voice broke the silence.

“You saved my daughter.”

Peter looked up. “I’m surprised you’re saying it.”

Chris stepped closer. His fingers twitched slightly but kept a firm grip on the weapon.

“I don’t trust you. I never really have. But today…” He paused, glancing down. “Today you were something you’ve never been.”

Peter smirked, a tired, bitter expression. “A hero?”

Chris shook his head. “Human.”

Allison looked at him then. And in her eyes there was no fear. Only a painful, silent understanding. The kind that comes when you’re too young to bear the weight of the world but are forced to anyway.

Peter let himself slide down the wall and closed his eyes. “There are no heroes in an apocalypse,” he said quietly. “Only those who survive long enough to face worse choices.”

Isaac looked at the door. “We need to decide where to go. We can’t stay here. Not for long.”

“The hospital,” Peter said suddenly.

They all turned toward him.

“Scott’s impulsive. Too good. If he’s alive—and I believe he is—he’ll look for his mother. And if he finds her, he’ll go there.”

Chris raised a brow. “So you want to follow the scent of good intentions?”

Peter smirked dryly. “I want to follow the pack. No one survives alone—you know that better than anyone. The more of us, the better our chances.”

Allison stood, her face tense but determined. “Scott’s stubborn. But if we find him… he won’t be alone. With him, there’s at least a chance the others are alive too.”

Isaac shook off the numbness, as if his brain finally rebooted. “If they’re alive, we have to find them.”

Chris scanned the group, then nodded.

“Then we move at dusk. We take the safest route. No noise. No hesitation.”

Peter leaned forward, voice low.

“And if they’re not there?”

Chris stared at him.

“Then we find them. Or die trying.”

For a moment, no one spoke. But in the silence this time, there was something different. Not hope—not yet. But resolve.

A decision.

⸻

Stiles and Derek

“So? What do we do now?” Stiles asked.

“If Scott’s still alive… if there’s even the slightest chance he went to Melissa, then we have to go there. Derek, it’s our responsibility!”

“The hospital’s a nightmare, Stiles. You know that. The first infected were taken there. People bitten. People screaming. The doctors had no idea what it was. And now?”

“Now Scott might be inside!”

“Or there could be ten, a hundred infected. In every corridor. No way out. No reinforced glass. Just broken automatic doors and the smell of blood everywhere.”

Stiles clenched his fists. He didn’t want to give up. But he couldn’t argue with the logic.

“But if he’s… if he’s alive…”

“Then he’s doing what we’re doing. Looking for somewhere safe. And if he’s in there… he won’t survive if we charge in blind and get ourselves killed too.” And Derek had no idea how wrong he was.

“If Scott’s alive, he needs us to stay alive too. To find a way to hold out. To meet up. To not become like them.”

“We’re not saying goodbye to Scott,” Derek said quietly.
“We’re just saying we won’t die today. Not there. Not like that.”

Stiles looked at him. His eyes were puffy, but dry.
And in the end, he nodded.
Not because he agreed. But because now he understood the cost of every choice.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

The lights at the station were dead. A pale glow began to creep through the broken windows, but it brought no warmth. Only cold. Silence. The smell of metal and dried blood.

Stiles carefully slid two pistols into the bag. He had insisted, even though the noise could be a problem. “We can’t fight hand-to-hand every time. Sooner or later, one of them will bite us. Or grab us. Or drag us down.”

Derek hadn’t argued. He knew Stiles was right. Without silencers, it was a risky move. But having nothing was riskier. That’s why they’d also taken an emergency axe and filled a bag with everything that seemed useful: water, energy bars, a couple of flashlights, some battered first aid kits, duct tape, and batteries.

When they were ready, they stepped out onto the street. The dawn greeted them with surreal silence. No cars. No birds. Only the faint sound of their footsteps on the dirty asphalt.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Stiles asked, breaking the silence after a while.

Derek didn’t answer right away. He stared ahead, as if searching for something he couldn’t name. Then he said, “No. But we have to find somewhere safe. Something… stable. A base. Then we can think about everything else.”

Then Derek let slip a thought.

“I have no idea where Cora is.”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t know where she is. She wasn’t with me. She didn’t answer her phone. She’s not at the hideout. She didn’t come back to the loft.” A pause. “And that’s not like her.”

His tone wasn’t dramatic. It was contained. But underneath was a tension Stiles knew all too well: the fear of being too late.

“It’s not that I don’t want to find the others,” Derek said, almost defensive. “But we can’t run from place to place hoping they’re there. Not with those things out here.”

Stiles nodded. No need to answer. The logic was clear. But so was the sadness.

“A safe base first. Then we’ll look for them. We’ll look for everyone.” He said it firmly, though inside he wavered.

“You still think we’ll find them soon, don’t you? Scott, Lydia, your dad…”

Stiles bit his lip. “I think if they’re alive, they’re looking for the same thing we are. Shelter. Safety. Time. And maybe… maybe us.” But deep down, Stiles knew he was just lying to himself.

He stopped, then added, “But we can’t look for them now. Not if we have to die to do it. Not without a plan.”

Those words hit Derek harder than he wanted to admit. Maybe because he too was trying to keep control, just to stop himself from falling apart. To stop thinking that maybe Cora hadn’t made it, or that maybe Scott would never see his mother again, or that Sheriff Stilinski might be just another body they’d find along the road.

But Stiles was right.

Survive now. Search later.

And that “later” would only come if they built it, step by step.

⸻

SCOTT, KIRA, LYDIA, MALIA

They had taken shelter in an underground parking garage, the entrance gate lowered and locked with a rusty chain that Stiles would’ve called useless, but right now it felt like the only barrier between them and the chaos. The air was thick with dust and gasoline. The emergency lights flickered weakly, like candles about to go out.

Scott sat with his back against a concrete pillar, eyes staring into nothing, jaw clenched.

“Are you scared for your parents?” he asked Kira, who sat nearby, legs crossed, expression serious.

She nodded slowly, then shrugged. “Yeah. But I know them. My dad doesn’t scare easily. And my mom… well, if there’s anyone who can handle this, it’s her.”

Scott managed a small, strained smile, then stared at the stained floor again.

“I don’t know if it’s worth risking you guys just to look for my mom. Maybe she’s not even there. Maybe she’s already gotten out somehow. And I’m just dragging you all into a nightmare.”

Lydia, sitting a little farther away with her back straight, spoke calmly but without sugarcoating it. “Scott, you’re not the only one who’s lost something. No one’s here out of obligation. No one’s following you because they have to.”

Kira looked him in the eye. “If you move, we all move. We wouldn’t leave anyone alone.”

Scott shook his head. “But if something happens…”

“Then it happens to all of us” Malia said firmly, though the fear in her eyes was plain.

Lydia stood. “We’re not splitting up. End of discussion.”

Scott closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision like a necessary wound. Part of him wanted to feel relieved. Another part wanted to cry.

In the silence around them, each of them understood they were heading into the unknown. But they wouldn’t face it alone.

⸻

CHRIS, PETER, ALLISON, ISAAC

The street was silent, but that silence was just a thin blanket over the constant thrum of danger. It felt too empty to be safe.

“If we’re going to the hospital,” Chris said as they stopped behind an old gas station, “we stop at my house first. We can’t go there with nothing.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You want to make the trip longer when the streets are crawling with those things?”

Chris didn’t flinch. “There are weapons there. Real weapons. And not just for us humans. Even you wolves can’t afford to get too close. One bite is enough.”

Isaac turned to Peter. “He’s right.”

Peter grumbled. “Maybe. But you’re forgetting one thing” he muttered. “We don’t know what’s waiting for us out there. No one does.”

“Exactly why I want to be ready” Chris shot back coolly.

Chris won the argument. They headed for his car, parked under Derek’s loft. But the city had changed. More alive, and yet more dead.

The first sign something was wrong was the smell. Strong. Feral. Metallic. Blood.

They had just reached the corner of a side street when they saw them: four infected, staggering but fast. Too fast. Nostrils flared. Eyes wide, bloodshot. Skin a sickly gray, like a corpse days old. Their mouths hung open, revealing broken teeth and torn gums, and their breath stank of rotting meat. Their clothes were filthy rags, soaked with old blood like a uniform of death.

The group ducked behind an abandoned car, holding their breath. But it wasn’t enough.

One of the infected lifted its head, like a hunting dog. Then it let out a deep, trembling growl. It had caught their scent.

Peter tensed. “It can’t see us…”

“But it can smell us” Chris whispered, already aiming his gun.

Too late. The infected charged like predators. No hesitation. No pause. Hunger in their eyes.

“Go!” Chris shouted.

The fight was brutal. One infected lunged at Isaac, but Allison buried a knife at the base of its skull with terrifying precision (grateful she’d grabbed it the day before, just in case).

Peter fought another bare-handed: he grabbed its head, snapped its neck with an animal snarl, then crushed its skull against the sidewalk with his claws.

Chris fired twice — two infected dropped — but the noise was a fatal mistake. More came from the street’s blind corners, drawn by the gunfire.

“Too many!” Isaac yelled. “Too many!”

“To the car!” Chris shouted.

They ran, hearts pounding. The infected’s footsteps drummed behind them, closer and closer. One leapt at Peter, who flung it against a wall, but another went for Allison. Isaac slashed its back with his claws, barely slowing it down.

Then they saw it. Chris’s car. Parked beneath the loft. The only thing between them and death.

They dove in. Chris started the engine without even buckling up and sped off as at least eight infected hurled themselves at the vehicle. One clawed at the windshield with broken nails before flying off.

When they reached Argent’s house, no one spoke at first. They were alive, but they knew how close they’d come to the end.

Inside, the house was silent and untouched. Chris locked all the bolts while the others scrambled for supplies. Weapons. Ammo. Canned food. Flashlights. Water.

Allison grabbed her old crossbow. Isaac armed himself with a machete and a pistol. Peter took a shotgun. Chris, his usual tactical arsenal.

And yet, now that they were ready… going to the hospital didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

After minutes of silence, Peter sat on the arm of the sofa, still crusted with dry blood, and spoke. “We just nearly got killed. And that wasn’t even the hospital. You really want to go there?”

Chris stared at him for a long moment, then answered quietly but firmly: “We don’t know where the others ended up. But if there’s one place they might’ve gone… it’s there.”

Isaac turned to him. “Peter, you were right. Scott might have gone looking for his mom.”

“And if he did,” Allison added softly, “he wouldn’t have gone alone. Or at least, the others wouldn’t have let him. They could all be there. Maybe hurt, trapped… or worse.”

Peter gave a humorless laugh. “Or worse is pretty likely.”

“I know,” Chris said. “But if there’s even the slightest chance they’re alive, we can’t ignore it. You said it yourself.”

Isaac gripped the machete. “We have the weapons. We’re prepared. It’s risky, but it’s worse to sit here asking ourselves what if until it’s too late.”

Chris nodded slowly. “It’s not the safest plan. But it’s the only one that makes sense. We can’t give up at the first horror.”

Peter looked at them all. His gaze passed over Allison, Isaac, finally Chris. “So we’re walking into a nest of vipers just because maybe the pack’s there?”

“Yes” Chris said. “Because it’s better than sitting here watching the world burn.”

A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the metallic sounds of weapons being checked, loaded, sharpened.

No one felt calm. No one felt sure.
But everyone had decided.

And now their path was clear: the hospital.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The sun had just risen, pale behind unmoving gray clouds. Dawn brought no hope. Only visibility.

Stiles and Derek left their shelter, moving cautiously. The morning air was cold and tense, as if it too was holding its breath with them. They had decided to leave at first light: too dangerous to move at night, and they needed to be at their best for the journey ahead (even if neither of them had really slept). That minimum of natural light gave them an advantage.

Stiles gripped the axe tightly in his hands. His baseball bat—the one he’d always carried through the madness of their supernatural life—was lost somewhere in the chaos. This was different. Heavier. More serious. More real.

Derek walked beside him, silent, alert, eyes scanning every shadow, every open window. Stiles realized he’d been holding his breath without knowing it, and let it out slowly. Ahead of them, the city seemed to be waiting.

The path to the Jeep wasn’t long, but every step felt like a test. Like an ambush waiting to happen.

When they saw it—the Jeep, parked near the police station—Stiles smiled.

“I’m driving,” he said, his voice dry. “She’s my baby.”

Derek looked at him. No explanations needed. He nodded.

“Okay.”

They climbed in quickly. The cabin smelled familiar, but now there was something else: the metallic stink of dried blood, an echo of what they’d seen outside. Stiles turned the key, and the Jeep came to life beneath his hands.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s go.”

The city slid past them, slow and silent. No horns. No voices. Just broken glass, blurred shadows, and silences that felt too deep.

That’s when Stiles began to speak, his voice low, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“Have you noticed how they move? The infected.”

Derek glanced at him briefly, then focused on the road again.

“Yes.”

“They’re not disorganized. They don’t just stumble around. They stay in groups. And when one moves, the others often follow. Like they’re communicating.”

Derek gave a small nod. “Like a pack.”

“That’s what scares me,” Stiles continued. “Not just that they’ll tear your throat out. But that they cooperate. That they have a collective instinct. And then… did you see their eyes?”

A figure crossed the road up ahead. Stiles slowed down but didn’t stop. They passed an infected crouched between two dumpsters. Its skin was olive-gray, its face ruined. Its eyes—bloodshot, deep, alert—watched them with unnatural intensity.

“Red eyes. Almost shiny,” Stiles said. “And the skin… it’s already rotting. Too fast.”

“How fast should it happen?” Derek asked.

“Under normal conditions? The body starts decomposing in two or three days. But these… they look like it’s been weeks. And they still move. Maybe the virus speeds up the decay, but keeps motor functions going. Or maybe…”

He paused, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

“…maybe it only keeps alive the part that knows how to kill.”

They passed through an industrial area. Behind a fence, five infected wandered, but not randomly. They followed one another, touched each other’s shoulders, turned all at once in the same direction.

“They move in groups. But it’s not just instinct. It’s strategy.”

Derek spoke quietly. “They can’t plan. Not if they’re really dead.”

“Maybe it’s not planning. Maybe it’s reaction. Like… a shared signal, a vibration. Like a school of fish. Or ants. Or wolves.”

Stiles leaned forward slightly, scanning the empty streets.

“And then there’s the infection. Is a bite enough? Or blood? Or the air? And what if there are variants?”

Derek stayed silent. Stiles glanced at him.

“And what about werewolves?”

“We don’t know,” Derek answered, his voice hard. “And until I see one of us infected, I’m not going to guess.”

“But what if a wolf gets infected? What if the virus takes control of… of this?” He gestured at Derek, at his strong body, his nature. “What if it makes you faster, deadlier? What if the transformation becomes… something else?”

Derek didn’t reply.

The Jeep turned onto a residential street. There, in front of an elementary school, were two infected. One ran in circles like a crazed animal. The other jerked around, but at the sound of the engine it turned, fast, with a movement too precise for something half-dead.

“They’re fast,” Stiles said, as if he’d just truly accepted it. “They’re dead… but fast. That shouldn’t be possible. The nervous system shouldn’t…”

He trailed off.

A scream echoed in the distance. Stiles accelerated, gripping the wheel tighter.

“We have to figure it out,” he finally said. “How it works. How it spreads. How to fight it.”

“First we find somewhere safe,” Derek replied. “Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

Morning light filtered between the buildings. But it was a new day only on the surface. For the world, night had fallen long ago.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The Jeep coughed once, twice, then died. No dramatic last gasp. Just silence.

Stiles smacked his palm against the steering wheel. “No, no, no… not now!”

Derek glanced at the dashboard. “Empty tank. It’s been saying that for a while.”

“Yeah, thanks, I can read.” Stiles got out of the car, scanning the horizon. The first shadows of late afternoon stretched across the asphalt, creeping along the edges of the road. The sun was still high, but sinking fast.

Derek pointed. “There. A gas station. Maybe two kilometers on foot. If we’re lucky, there’s still something in the tanks.”

The walk wasn’t easy. The road was littered with abandoned cars, some with doors wide open, others with smashed windows. The city seemed dead and yet… waiting.

They passed an overturned van. Blood streaked the glass. Derek pulled Stiles behind a car when he heard a noise. A low growl, ragged and rough. An infected. Alone. It moved slowly, but with jerky, twitchy movements.

Its skin was olive-toned, stretched tight over decaying muscle, and its bloodshot eyes gleamed like shattered glass. Its mouth hung half-open, gums swollen, tongue dark. Even from a distance, its breath carried the stink of rotten meat and rust.

“It’s searching,” Stiles whispered, gripping the axe so tightly his knuckles went white.

But Derek shook his head. “It’s following something. Or someone.”

They waited. The creature lurched on, dragging itself beyond a barrier. When it was far enough, they moved again.

They reached the gas station, hearts still pounding. It looked clear of infected, but the windows were shattered and the air inside was stale. Derek checked the perimeter while Stiles explored the shop.

They found cans. Two still half full. An unexpected stroke of luck. They carried them outside, but now the sky had turned red, the air heavy.

“We’re not going back now,” Derek said. “It’s too late.”

Stiles nodded. “We’ll sleep here. Take turns. No lights.”

⸻

Night fell slowly, as if even the sky was too tired to let the dark all at once.

Stiles and Derek sat behind the counter, legs stretched out, backs against the grimy wall. The gas station shop had become an improvised shelter, but every noise—the flutter of tattered curtains, a distant drip of water—seemed deafening.

Stiles held the axe at his side, the familiar wood against his palm, but it didn’t bring the same comfort as his old bat. That hadn’t been made to kill.

“Come on, Sourwolf,” he whispered at one point, voice thin with tension stretched too long. “Say something. Anything. Before the silence kills me.”

Derek didn’t answer right away. He sat, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the dirty window, as if he hadn’t heard. But Stiles didn’t push. He just sat there, staring at nothing, then spoke anyway.

“Fine. No embarrassing questions. Just… words. Noise. A voice that’s not in my head.”

Stiles swallowed hard. The dark seemed thicker now, and with it, the emptiness.

⸻

“When I killed that zombie…” his voice trembled at first, but steadied. “It felt… strange. Too easy. And I don’t mean physically—though it was horrible—but… inside.”

He pulled his knees up, chin resting on his sleeves.

“It was like part of me, the part I thought I’d buried, raised its hand and said, ‘I’ve got this.’ And I let it. No thinking. No nausea. I just… did what I had to do.”

A pause. Long. Heavy.

“And I know where that part comes from. The Nogitsune. Even though it’s gone, even though we beat it… I don’t think it ever really left.”

He smiled. But it was the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Sometimes I feel it. Under my skin. Like static. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone. When there’s blood in the air. It’s there. Waiting. And if I keep killing, if I keep surviving like this… I’m scared it’ll feel at home.”

Then something shifted. Derek turned. Slowly. His eyes met Stiles’s—not hard, not judging. Just… present.

A beat of silence. Then he said, low, “I get it.”

“It’s not the same,” he added, “but I get what it’s like to feel… tainted. Like there’s something inside you that you can’t shake. No matter how much time passes.”

Stiles tilted his head a little. He didn’t push. Didn’t have to.

“After everything with my family, with Kate, with… everything… I stopped trusting people. Not on purpose. It just happened. Like my brain decided it was safer not to feel anything. For anyone.”

Derek rubbed a hand over his neck, gaze dropping.

“But now there’s Cora. And I don’t know where she is. I don’t know if she’s alive. And every hour that goes by I think: if something happens to her and I’m not there…”

His voice cracked. Just a little. But he kept going.

“I don’t think I could live with that.”

Stiles let his fingers trace the dusty floor in small, invisible circles. Then, almost without thinking, he shifted closer, his shoulder near Derek’s. Not touching. But there. Saying: you’re not alone.

Derek didn’t move away.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Warm. Alive. A silence that held two boys who’d survived too much, sitting in a corner of a world falling apart, remembering—maybe for the first time—that they weren’t the only ones broken.

Just tired.

And alive.

⸻

The sun was already high when they left the gas station. The air smelled of dust and hot metal. They’d slept little, both of them, but enough not to crash into a pole—hopefully.

Stiles yawned, his eyes as red as the infected’s, though for different reasons. His fingers drummed impatiently on the wheel, as if the Jeep might go faster to the right rhythm.

Silence. Then:
“So… where are we going?” he asked, eyes on the road.

Derek, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window, answered without looking at him:
“You tell me.”

Stiles hit the brakes—not because of anything on the road, just pure reflex.
“Wait, what? What do you mean I tell you? I thought we were following you!”

Derek gave him a look—about as confused as Derek ever looked.
“I didn’t say anything when we left. You got in, started the engine, and… drove.”

“Yeah, because you were looking at the map!”

“I wasn’t looking at any map, Stiles.”

“But—” Stiles froze, hands still on the wheel. “—but you’re the silent, brooding type who stares at the horizon like you have a secret plan! I thought you were headed somewhere!”

“I got in the car. You said, ‘My baby, I’m driving,’ and we left. You’re usually the one with the plans, Stiles.”

Stiles sat there a moment, then sighed, resting his forehead on the wheel.
“We’re idiots.”

“One of us is, anyway,” Derek said.

Stiles leaned back, ran a hand through his messy hair, then ducked under the dash, fiddling with a rusty switch.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked.

“Trying the radio. Maybe we’ll catch a signal. Emergency broadcast. Someone who’s… I don’t know, still out there.”

Derek raised a brow. “Optimistic.”

“No. Desperate.”

⸻

Stiles fiddled with the old Jeep radio, fingers turning the scratched dial. They’d been at it for at least half an hour. Static, crackles, snippets of old broadcasts. A garbled country song that nearly broke their sanity. Then nothing.

“Absolutely nothing,” Stiles muttered, leaning back, mouth twisted in a tired grimace.

Derek had stayed silent the whole time. But at some point, he shook his head.
“Turn it off. We’ve wasted enough time.”

“Yeah…” Stiles hesitated, hand moving toward the button. He’d barely touched it when a crackling voice cut through the static.

“…Delta Camp… safe zone… five miles north of Highway 32… controlled access… unauthorized weapons not permitted… medical assistance available…”

Then, static again.

Stiles and Derek exchanged a long look. The silence after weighed like concrete.

“Unauthorized weapons?” Stiles muttered, incredulous.

“You heard it too,” Derek said. His gaze had gone colder, sharper.

“Yeah. But… what kind of safe zone makes you leave your weapons outside?”

“It’s… weird, right? I mean, if it’s full of infected out there, why wouldn’t they want people armed?”

“Because armed people are scarier than the infected,” Derek said. “Panic, hunger, fear… they bring out the worst. And the worst, with a gun in hand, is a bad mix.”

Stiles sighed. “Yeah. But it still feels off. If it’s really a shelter… why all the secrecy? Why a busted radio instead of an official channel?”

“Too organized to be random. And too soon to be believable.”

“Or it was already set up. Maybe the government had containment plans, safe zones. They just didn’t tell us.”

“Or they didn’t think we mattered.”

Derek leaned back. “The kind of place where people snap easily. Where even a gun can be a threat. They’re scared.”

“Yeah, well, I’m scared too. And I don’t feel any better knowing we’re supposed to go in unarmed, surrounded by strangers who might have lost their minds.”

“We didn’t say we’d go in.”

“No, right. But if we don’t find anything else…”

Another silence. Stiles tapped the wheel again.

“Might be a trap,” he said, mostly to himself. “Or a bluff. Or some group of nutcases playing post-apocalyptic militia.”

“Or it was official. Some emergency protocol no one knew about until it was too late.”

“But… too soon, right? This virus showed up, what, days ago?”

“If they knew about it before, they could’ve prepared. But that’s a big ‘if.’”

Stiles raked a hand through his hair, exasperated. “What if they’re just… armed people pretending to be authorities?”

“We can’t know. Not yet.”

More static on the radio, but no message followed.

“Okay,” Stiles said at last. “Here’s the plan: we keep listening. If we don’t hear anything better, anything useful… we approach. Just to observe.”

“From a distance.”

“A big distance. Binoculars ready, engine running, ready to bolt if we have to.”

Derek nodded slowly. “If it’s really a safe place… we can’t ignore it forever.”

“And if it’s not?” Stiles asked, voice low.

“Then we leave. But better to know now than when we have no options left.”

Stiles pressed his lips together, then started the Jeep. “Okay. Delta Camp. We’ll be watching you.”

He steered back onto the road, cautiously, as the sun filtered gray through the clouds.

“And anyway,” he muttered, more to fill the silence, “I’m keeping the axe close. ‘Unauthorized weapons,’ my ass.”

Derek didn’t answer, but the small smile that tugged at his lips said enough.

Chapter Text

Day 1 — Mini Market

The Jeep trudged along a road full of potholes and fallen branches, wrapped in a silence that seemed to devour every sound—except for the constant hum of the engine. Most of the energy bars were gone, and the water was running low.
“If I don’t eat something that doesn’t taste like compressed cardboard within the hour, I swear I’m throwing myself off the roof of the first building I see,” muttered Stiles, eyes fixed on the road.
Derek, in the passenger seat, didn’t look up from the map. “There’s a place nearby. Mini market. Looks small, but isolated.”
Stiles nodded. “Perfect. Quick supply run.”
The dirt road led them to a building wedged between twisted trees and an old, rusted gas pump. The sign read “QuickStop Market,” though half the letters had fallen off.
“Looks straight out of a horror movie,” Stiles murmured, tightening his grip on the axe as they got out.
Derek nodded, eyes sharp. “We stick together.”

⸻

The smell hit them the moment they stepped inside. Dampness, rotting plastic, and underneath it all… something worse. Decomposing flesh.
They moved slowly, silently. Stiles held the axe at the ready, eyes alert but not stiff. This wasn’t the first infected he’d faced. And it wouldn’t be the last.
The first one surprised them from behind the counter—a harsh gurgle, then it lunged at Derek with unnatural speed. Derek took it down with two precise strikes: one to the knee, the other to the skull.
But there were more.
The second emerged from between the shelves, charging straight at Stiles.
It was a tall man, face disfigured by bites, teeth visible beneath torn flesh. It moved in jerks, driven by blind rage.
Stiles stepped back, gauging the rhythm.
He waited.
Then, when it was close enough, he struck hard, the axe carving a clean arc through the air.
The infected’s skull cracked with a sharp sound. The body collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
Stiles stood still. Just for a moment. Breathing fast. He looked down at the bloody axe—no panic, just a thin layer of tension.
He remembered what he’d said the night before. That every strike left something behind.
But hesitation wasn’t an option.
Derek finished the last one with a swift blow.
Then he turned to Stiles.
He watched him. The boy was motionless, staring at the axe. There was no fear in his eyes. Just that quiet look Derek had come to recognize.

⸻

Outside, after packing up their haul—water, canned food, even a couple of instant soup packs—Derek went to the trunk.
He pulled out a rag and some disinfectant.
He walked back to Stiles, who was packing their backpacks. He didn’t say anything. Just handed him the cloth.
Stiles looked at him, then down at the bloodied axe.
“Thanks,” he said softly, accepting it. It wasn’t for the blood.
It was for what it meant. And Derek knew it.

⸻

During the sweep, Stiles had also checked the back room. Among moldy boxes and a few shattered bottles, he’d found an old tape tucked into a pile of forgotten junk.
Frank Sinatra – My Way.
He had smiled. A real smile, for once.

⸻

On the road, the tape crackled through the Jeep’s old stereo.
“And now… the end is near…”
Derek glanced sideways at him. One eyebrow raised. But he said nothing.
“My dad loves this song,” Stiles said, hands on the wheel. “He always says Frank Sinatra was the only man who could demand respect while singing dressed like a penguin.”
Derek gave a small smile. “He’s got a certain style.”
“Yeah. And anyway… if we’re stuck in a pandemic with people trying to eat us alive, we might as well have a decent soundtrack.”
The Jeep kept rolling. The music flowed like a balm, covering the cracks.
Three days. Delta Camp was still far.
But right now, they were alive. Together.
And they had no intention of giving in.
Second Day — The Calm Before the Storm
The night had swallowed them long ago when they switched drivers. Derek took the wheel, eyes locked on the battered road, while Stiles curled up in the passenger seat, trying to sleep. A few hours later, they swapped again.
Neither spoke much: every word felt out of place in that surreal silence that wrapped around them.

They’d been driving for at least fourteen hours without seeing a thing. No infected, no animals, not even the faintest human sound. Only the steady hum of the tires on the asphalt and the wind whistling through bare trees.

And yet, both of them could feel that something was wrong.
They didn’t say it out loud. Neither wanted to be the first to shatter that fragile balance.
But a glance was enough. The way Derek gripped the steering wheel tighter, or how Stiles kept checking the mirror every five minutes. They knew.
Something was coming.
Something was building.

The sky grew darker as the hours passed. Black clouds gathered like omens. Just before sunset, the rain began. First light, then a true downpour, relentless, obscuring everything in front of them. The roads turned slick, the sound of the rain deafening.

Stiles slowed down. “I can’t see anything. We need to stop for a second.”
Derek nodded. His senses were overwhelmed. The smell of rain masked everything, and the noise rendered his hearing useless. For the first time in days, they were practically blind and deaf. Vulnerable.

The Jeep stopped at the edge of what looked like a wooded area. They exchanged a quick glance, then stepped out.
Beneath the downpour, their boots sank into the mud. The air was cold and biting.
Stiles pulled his jacket tight around him and looked up, searching for a reference point. That’s when he spoke, his voice barely audible through the downpour.

“Remember when I said the infected move in packs?”
Derek slowly turned toward him. His gaze was serious. He didn’t need to say anything. He was thinking the same thing.

Stiles turned slightly—more instinct than logic—and froze. His eyes widened. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
There, no more than fifty meters away, stood hundreds of infected. Barely visible through the rain, packed together, unmoving, as if waiting for a signal. Some wandered aimlessly, others seemed to follow a rhythm—like a dark wave ready to crash through everything.

He stepped back, then grabbed Derek by the jacket, hard. The werewolf turned and saw.
They both froze.

It was a herd. A horde. Something they had only speculated about until now. And now it was real. Too real.
They didn’t seem to have noticed them. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was luck.
But it would take so little. One sound. One breath too loud. One wrong step.
Just one.

Derek stepped close to Stiles, speaking in a whisper so soft it was almost nothing.
“We go. Now. Straight to the camp.”
Stiles didn’t move. He shook his head, hesitant. “We don’t know what’s in there. Who’s in there. What if they shoot on sight? We can’t walk in armed.”
“We can’t stay here.”
Derek’s tone was firm, but not harsh. Clear. Cold. Terribly logical.

Stiles closed his eyes for a second. Then nodded.
He stepped to the Jeep, opened the door slowly, and pulled out one of the two pistols. He wasn’t going to aim it at anyone—at least not yet—but he wasn’t entering an unknown camp unarmed.

Stiles stopped suddenly. “Wait.”
Derek spun around, already tense. “What?”
Stiles bent over the backpack and pulled out the axe. He handed it to Derek. “Take it with you.”
The werewolf hesitated. “They won’t let us keep it. If they see us armed, they’ll never let us in—”
“I know. But what if something happens before we get there? What if we get surrounded, or—”
A distant, rumbling thunder interrupted him.

Stiles stared at him. “Just for the walk. Please.”
Derek looked at the axe, then at Stiles’s strained face. He gave a curt nod. “Fine. But once we’re inside, I drop it.”
“Right. That’s fine.”

Derek took the axe, gripping it naturally. As if it comforted him too, though he’d never admit it.
Then they started moving again.

They moved. Through the torrential rain, hearts pounding, careful with every step and every sound. The mud pulled at their feet. Shadows seemed to shift all around them. But they kept low, silent.

They weren’t far. Maybe less than a kilometer.
Behind them, the horde stirred, slow. Not toward them. Not yet.

The rain had been falling for hours, drumming against the rusted hood of the Jeep abandoned kilometers away.
Now, there were only their footsteps, sinking into mud, and the sound of the storm swallowing them whole.

Ahead, a massive structure loomed: concrete, metal, and shipping containers stacked like walls. A fortress built quickly, but with brutal logic.
Their last hope.

Stiles knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.
No response.

Derek turned, sniffing the air. The rain masked everything. But the scent was there. The infected were close.

“We knock again,” Stiles said. But this time louder. Angrier. He shouted, “We’re alive! Let us in!”

Then a sharp sound. The creak of a rusty mechanism. And the door slid open.
At last, a slit. A metallic clang. The door opened—but only slightly. Just enough for a dry voice to slip through:
“Get in. Now. You’re making too much noise.”

As soon as they crossed the threshold, six armed soldiers faced them.
They weren’t in military formation.
They were nervous.
Puffy eyes, trembling hands, glances that searched for things that weren’t there.

Stiles recognized it immediately.
People on the edge.

Chapter Text

Chapter9

“Hands up. Now. No funny business.”

Derek slowly raised his hands. Stiles followed, noting the pale knuckles of a soldier gripping his weapon too tightly. The man was shaking. Not from the cold.

“Sweatshirt. Jacket. Off.”

“It’s just rain,” Stiles tried to say, keeping his voice steady.

“Don’t care. Things hide everywhere.”

Stiles slowly took off his soaked hoodie. Derek did the same with his jacket. The clothes fell with a wet thud, heavy as lead.

One of the soldiers approached Stiles. He was young, maybe twenty.
His right eye twitched slightly, ticking like an exposed nerve. He didn’t say a word.

With a sudden motion, he lifted Stiles’s shirt with the barrel of his rifle, pressing it against his chest.
The metal was freezing. Unpleasant.
Stiles didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.

The soldier didn’t seem to see him. Or maybe he saw him too much. There was something in his gaze: anger, yes, but mostly fear. Of something that wasn’t there. Or that he saw anyway.

Then he froze.
He had seen the gun.

“What do we have here?” he muttered, almost with sick satisfaction.

Stiles raised his hands even higher. His fingers trembled.
“It’s for protection. I’ve never used it on anyone. Never.”

Silence.

But the rifle lifted.
Only a few centimeters, but it was enough. Enough to make Stiles’s heart jump. Enough to make everything feel like it was hanging by a thread.

The soldier didn’t look angry. He looked broken. As if every new discovery was just another piece in the puzzle of his paranoia.

Behind him, another man spoke with a hoarse voice:
“We’ll keep an eye on him. If he’s lying, we’ll know.”

Derek stared, unmoving—but not calm. His muscles under the shirt were taut like cords about to snap. His nostrils flared just slightly.
Stiles knew him well enough to see he was holding back.

One more step. Just one. And he’d act.
And then it would end badly. For everyone.

“Move. Inside.”

Derek went first.
Stiles followed, but turned briefly toward the soldier who had searched him.

The young man was still watching him.
Not with suspicion.
With hatred.
A tired, delirious, empty hatred. The kind of hatred that no longer tells the difference between threat and survivor.

As soon as they passed through the second gate, another door slammed shut behind them with a metallic clang.

They were inside.
But they weren’t safe.
Just locked in with another kind of monster.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

The road to the hospital felt as taut as a bowstring.
The silence wasn’t complete yet, but it was changing. Something in the air was different. No distant cars, no voices—just the wind.
The sky was a uniform gray, heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Scott led the group with determined steps, but his eyes darted nervously at every corner, every window.
Malia walked close to Kira, her fists clenched. Lydia, on the other hand, moved slowly, as if something was holding her back.

Then it was Lydia who stopped first.
“Something’s wrong.”

Scott looked up at the massive, blackened, abandoned building—the Beacon Hills Hospital, or what was left of it. Some windows were shattered, others were boarded up from the inside. No signs of life, no lights, no sounds.

“We’re almost there,” Scott said, trying to keep his voice steady. But his hands were shaking. Not just from anxiety.

The entrance gate had been forced open and stood half-pulled aside. One side of the gate was stained with blood, and large, heavy footprints—some leaving trails from shoes or dragging bodies—led inside.

“Nobody’s guarding it,” Kira whispered.
“I don’t like this,” Malia growled under her breath.

They entered.

The entrance hallway was a cemetery.
The floor was littered with blood and spent bullets. Stretchers had been shoved against doors like makeshift barricades, and flickering neon lights buzzed overhead. The smell of disinfectant, rot, burned flesh, and blood filled the air—so much blood.

Then they saw them.

Bodies. Everywhere.
Slumped in corridors, against walls, on stretchers. Men, women, children—some covered with sheets, some not. All bearing the same injuries: gunshots to the heart or head.

“What… what happened?” Kira murmured.

“A massacre,” Malia said, ice-cold.

Scott approached a body—a frail old man still wearing his ID wristband. His face froze in pure terror. His shirt was soaked in blood, and behind his head was a dark, sticky pool on the floor—a close-range shot.

“They weren’t infected…” Lydia whispered.
“They were patients. Ordinary people.”

Scott stood still, his gaze vacant.
“My mom was here…”
Every word rasped in his throat.

“We need to get out of here,” Lydia said, suddenly rigid. “Now.”

“Something’s out there,” Kira asked.
“I’m not… sure what it is.”

Scott wasn’t listening.
He opened one door. Then another.
Until he opened the wrong one.

A scream. Shouts.
Creaks, moans, hunger.

A formless, animalistic mass surged into the corridor.
Infected. Dozens of them. Red eyes, deformed bodies, broken fingers, mouths full of rotten teeth.

“RUN!” Malia shouted.

Kira grabbed Lydia’s arm and pulled her along. Scott froze, his eyes locked on the monstrous faces hurtling toward them.
Malia yanked him sharply.

“SCOTT!”

They managed to slip into a wing of the hospital and slam an iron door shut. Malia and Kira pushed with all their strength, but the infected pounded with inhuman force driven by hunger.

“You won’t hold them long,” Lydia said, holding her temples as if her head might burst. “They’re coming.”

Scott was restless. He sought air, thought, a plan—but then he turned, and saw a body only steps away from him.
He stepped forward. No.
“No…”

Mom.

She lay on the ground, her uniform stained with blood, a clean shot to the chest. Her eyes were closed. Her face calm. She hadn’t turned. She was just… dead.

“Mom…” Scott whispered. He knelt and took her hand. Cold.

“I can’t leave her here. I can’t leave her alone…”
His voice cracked.

Lydia approached quietly.
Malia and Kira stayed at the door, bracing against it.

**“Scott… you have to listen to me. I know you want to stay. I know the world’s collapsed on you. We both know if you could’ve saved her, you would’ve. You have to understand—you’re not alone. You still have a family out there waiting. You have a pack, a part of you that lives and fights for you.

Your mother… she raised a boy who doesn’t give up. One who saves others even when he’s broken. And now, even if it seems hopeless, it’s not. There is still hope, as long as you stand.

She wouldn’t have wanted you to die in a cold, empty hallway. She would never agree that this be your last moment. You are the best part of her, and every step you take from now on… will be hers as well.

So please… run. Run for us. Run for her. Live for her. And fight for what’s right. Because as long as you are alive… all is not lost.”**

A deafening thud shook the door. The metal bowed.
Malia looked at him. “Scott, we leave now—or we all die.”

Scott closed his eyes. Then slowly nodded.

Kira grabbed his arm. Malia helped him to his feet. They escaped through a side exit into the parking lot.

Behind them, the door was burst open.

“MOVE!” Lydia shouted.

They ran. Harder than ever. The infected pursued them, ravenous, animalistic, feral.

They reached the main exit, slammed the door behind them, and blocked it with everything they could: containers, barriers, even a flipped car.

“It’s not enough!” Kira yelled.
Lydia looked at Scott. “We need to burn it.”

Malia nodded. “If we don’t stop them now, they’ll follow us everywhere.”

Kira found a gas can in an overturned ambulance and doused the entrance and walls. Scott, with trembling hands, produced the lighter his mother kept in her uniform pocket.
He lit it.

The fire roared. Red and orange, it consumed the hospital like a beast. The infected’s screams overlapped the crackle of flames.

Scott stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the burning structure.
He was destroyed. He didn’t cry—but he looked empty—as if something inside him had broken.

Malia exploded. “You knew, Lydia! You knew she was dead! Why bring us here?”

Lydia turned, exhausted. “I wasn’t sure… I’m not sure of anything anymore. I only… sensed something. But it wasn’t enough to keep him from hoping. I warned you it would be dangerous.”

“It was like walking into a tomb, Lydia—you almost got us killed on a false hope!”

Kira stepped between them.
“Malia, enough. None of us are okay. No one knows what to do. But if we start blaming each other… we won’t survive. All we have is each other. And if we fracture, we’re done.”

Malia and Lydia both lowered their gazes. A silent nod passed between them. They were tired—too tired to argue.

Then, in the distance, an engine roared.

A car approached the burning site.
Allison was the first to get out. “Oh my God…”

Peter and Chris stood frozen, shaken. Isaac moved closer to the group.

“You… you’re alive.”

No one spoke at first.
Then Scott turned, his face smudged with smoke.
Tears finally streamed down his face.

Peter stared at the burning hospital.
Chris clenched his teeth.

The pack was (almost) whole again.
But something had snapped.
And it wouldn’t mend anytime soon.