Maybe it was fate, maybe just a coincidence. Liam and Brook might've taken different routes through the sewers, but somehow both emerged in the same place. It could've been because, in that whole tangled maze of streets, this one alley was the only path left where the dead hadn't yet fully claimed the daylight.
In a top-floor apartment overlooking the street, three people stood near a window—Brook, a lanky figure with sharp eyes and a tighter grip on his pistol than most; a young Black man around Jason's age holding binoculars, who had spotted movement below purely out of boredom; and an older man slouched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, silent. There were four of them when they left, but one didn't make it.
"They're out," said the kid at the window. "It's the group with the modded truck."
Brook stepped forward, the pistol he'd just cleaned now in hand. He didn't need the binoculars. Even with the curtains drawn halfway, it was obvious. The manhole was open. Robby climbed out first, then Liam. One by one, more figures emerged.
Roars sounded. A few scattered undead noticed and began shambling toward them. Robby didn't wait—his pistol barked three times. Each shot dropped a target clean. No hesitation, no panic. More undead stirred further down the block, but there were too few to matter.
"Clear. Let's go. Move!" Liam barked.
They climbed out quickly, regrouped on the sidewalk, and began scanning the street.
Inside the apartment, Brook stood still, watching them from the shadows.
"Boss," the younger man muttered, lifting his hand in a throat-slitting gesture. "Your uncle's with them. And those women too. You want us to—?"
Brook didn't answer at first. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't move. He looked down at Liam's group, then slowly shook his head.
"They've got numbers," he said. "Gunfire'll bring more of those things. Let them go… they got lucky."
But his voice faded. He kept staring out the window. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't share it.
...
Out on the street, Liam and the others broke into a run. Northbound. A few more undead came crawling out of alleys and shops, drawn by the noise, but they were too scattered, too slow.
Robby took point again, sticking close to the wall. When they neared a street corner, he pressed to the brick, listened, then peeked out.
"Clear," he signaled.
They cut west into a busier road, flanked by old high-rises. After a few blocks of fast, silent movement, they spotted a convenience store diagonally across the intersection. The metal shutter was half open. Inside, it was a mess—shelves overturned, wrappers and cans scattered, looted clean.
"There," Liam said, pointing.
They dashed across. Once inside, someone yanked the shutter closed. It came down with a rattle and a snap.
The light inside was dim, filtered through dirty windows. Everyone leaned against shelves or walls, catching their breath. Running full-tilt for several blocks wasn't easy, especially not with exhaustion already stitched into their bones.
It wasn't hard to see the store had been raided—maybe multiple times. This was the new reality. Manhattan had fallen to over a million undead, but there were still tens of thousands of survivors left. And every one of them was fighting for the same dwindling supplies. You either scavenged or you starved. Food was life now. Everything else came after.
The store wasn't big, but not tiny either—maybe a hundred square meters. Machines smashed, candy crushed into the tiles, soda bottles exploded, sugar stuck to the soles of their shoes. But there was enough left. Shelf-stable stuff. Junk, mostly. But enough to eat.
"Pack what you can," Liam said. "We're not staying here."
...
Half an hour later, they were twelve stories above ground in a hotel suite that was once meant for penthouse guests. Two rotting corpses had been tossed out the window. The thuds they made on impact were sick and loud.
Liam stood by the open window, then turned to the others.
"This is safe for now," he said. "Rest, eat, do what you need. We're here for the night. Anything else—tomorrow."
He stripped off his bloodstained jacket, tossed it over his arm, and walked into the suite's bathroom.
It was a nice place, or had been. Three bedrooms, a living room with plush sofas and massive TV, private bathrooms in every room. Luxury carpet. Art on the walls. Or there had been. The fish tank was shattered. Blood streaked the couch. The dead had made sure no place felt untouched.
Before coming in, they'd looted a clothing shop for clean clothes. Now, freshly changed and somewhat scrubbed down, the group sat around the living room, eating quietly and talking in low voices. The sky outside had gone dark. Night had fallen.
But two people weren't there.
The western bedroom door was closed. Inside, the air was still.
Christine lay face down on the bed, cheeks flushed, jeans and underwear pulled down just past her thighs. A pillow lifted her hips, exposing a wound on her lower back where stitches had pulled apart during the day's movement.
Liam sat beside her, disinfecting supplies laid out around him. He worked carefully, silently. The wound had started to fester—just a bit—but that was all it took in this world. The air was too dirty, bacteria too rampant. A careless mistake could become a death sentence.
"Does it hurt?" he asked softly as he dabbed at the broken skin.
"Yes," she said. And it did. It stung worse when he asked, as if the words made it real.
"I'll be gentle."
He cleaned, rewrapped. There was no avoiding some closeness in the process. Christine's face was burning red.
"All done," he said, helping her with the bandage. "Take your time getting dressed."
She nodded but didn't move. She watched him as he packed up, sliding gauze and bottles into his bag, tightening straps, folding the cloth he always kept close to his chest. He never once looked up at her again.
And for some reason, that hurt.
If it were Manila, she thought, he wouldn't be so indifferent. Am I really that… unappealing?
Christine pulled up her jeans slowly, wriggling like a caterpillar, careful not to jostle the bandage. She flopped onto her back, curled her legs, shifted her weight to avoid pressure on the wound. Still watching him.
He stood, zipped the bag, turned to go.
"Don't go," she said. Her voice trembled. "Please… stay with me a little while?"
Liam paused. Looked down.
She was staring at him with those eyes—wide, soft, searching for something he hadn't promised. He stepped closer, touched her forehead, checking for fever, then gave a faint smile.
"You need rest. That wound—"
"Please."
He sighed. "I'll send Manila in to keep you company."
"No!"
Her hand shot out, catching his wrist. Tight. A surge of something rose in her throat, something she couldn't name. She wasn't just a woman who liked eyeliner and heels anymore. Right now, she was just a girl. And she was tired of being ignored.
He tried to pull his hand free. She didn't let go.
Her eyes filled with tears.
You don't like me. I get that. But can't you at least stay? Just for a minute?
He froze.
Finally, Liam set the pack down beside the bed. Sat. Let her keep his hand.
"We need to talk," he said.
"You—"
She didn't let him finish.
Christine leaned forward, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
Hard.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't graceful. It was messy and honest and almost knocked him over. He caught the bedframe for balance, wide-eyed, stunned.
Not just by the kiss.
But by how good she was at it.
Like someone who had learned from experience. Or maybe… someone who'd survived more than she ever let on.