Just when Asharab thought he could finally breathe, the radio crackled to life—his cousin's voice, faint but unmistakably alive. Relief was short-lived. The message was clear: they were surrounded, scared, and running out of time. Without hesitation, Asharab stood up, eyes burning with purpose. There was no room for rest anymore. Family was calling—and no wall, no horde, no death trap could keep him from answering. The journey ahead would test every bond, every promise, and every ounce of strength he had left. The rescue mission had begun… and this time, not everyone might make it back.
His heart was heavy—not with fear, but with the weight of loyalty. Asharab had received the call. His cousins were alive. Their trembling voices, though distant, had pierced through the silence that had settled on his soul since the outbreak. He knew what he had to do. Again. Even if it meant risking his life—again.
But this time, something had changed. No one tried to stop him.
Everyone knew Asharab by now. They had accepted that he wouldn't stop, not for pain, not for death. Sacrifice had become his second nature. Every loss only made his resolve stronger. His family, his friends—they were his world, and he was always ready to die for them.
He tied his boots with purpose, every knot he tied had hope pupose and the loved one he cared about slung a backpack over his shoulders, and loaded up with essentials—his pistol, a few rounds, water, a couple of protein bars, and the map he always carried. But before stepping out, he paused. Habiba stood near the door, eyes moist.
Asharab looked at her, holding back emotions. "Maybe this is the last time we talk... so let's make it worth something," he whispered.
Habiba stepped closer and held his hand. "Don't say that," she said, resting her head gently on his shoulder. "You're coming back. I believe in you."
"I'm not scared of dying," Asharab said. "I'm scared of not doing enough."
"You've done more than anyone else, Asharab," she whispered. "You just never see it."
They shared a moment—quiet, soft, filled with the kind of love that didn't need words. Then he hugged his family, kissed his mother's forehead, and nodded toward his elder brother. "Let's go."
The engine hummed softly as they started the car and drove away, waving at their family one last time. Everyone stood in silence, hoping this wouldn't be a goodbye.
The road was quiet—eerily peaceful. A few broken-down cars on the side, some dried blood, shattered glass… but no movement. It was the kind of peace that made your skin crawl.
They stopped at a fuel pump after some time, knowing they'd need enough fuel to get to the village and back. Asharab began filling the tank, his brother keeping watch. He looked around, constantly scanning the horizon. Just then, they noticed something running from a distance—a lone zombie, fast and aggressive.
Asharab didn't hesitate. He grabbed a bat from the back seat and ran toward it. With one swift blow, he smashed its skull in, blood splattering the ground. But then, they heard low groaning… more of them.
"They're coming," his brother said, eyes wide.
"Fill the can—now!" Asharab yelled.
Just as they finished, several zombies broke from the tree line. Asharab swung the bat, cracking open two more skulls, while his brother fired a shot that took down another.
"Enough! Get in!"
They jumped in and sped off.
Ten minutes later, climbing a slope outside the ruins, a shadow stood in the road. They couldn't see it clearly. It didn't sway like a zombie… nor move like a man.
"What the hell is that?" his brother asked.
"I don't know," Asharab muttered. "But we can't stop."
Suddenly, the shadow lunged forward.
"Sh*t, hold on!"
The impact was brutal. The figure crashed into the hood with a thud that shook the car. The windshield spiderwebbed, and the steering lost control as the vehicle veered off the road and skidded to a stop against a bent lamp post. Asharab and his brother were thrown out onto the gravel.
Groaning, Asharab opened his eyes. Blood trickled from his temple. His brother was crawling on his side, coughing.
Then they saw it. The thing. Massive. Seven feet tall. Its flesh was torn, gray, muscles bulging unnaturally. It looked like a mutation—part zombie, part something else. Its eyes glowed red in the shadows.
Asharab fired twice. The bullets hit, but it didn't flinch. It growled—deep and wet—and charged.
"Split up!" Asharab yelled.
They dove in opposite directions as the beast pounded where they stood. Asharab grabbed a crowbar from the wreckage and met its swing mid-air. Metal clanged against bone. The beast snarled and swung its arm again, knocking Asharab across the ground.
"ASHARAB!" his brother yelled and distracted it with a nearby tire iron.
Asharab rose, bleeding from his lip. He looked at the creature and whispered, "You picked the wrong day."
He rushed it, dodged its arm, and shoved the crowbar into its knee. The beast shrieked and fell to one leg. Just then, his brother jammed the iron into its neck. It screamed and lashed wildly.
"We need to finish it!"
Asharab spotted a large iron rod beside a damaged police car. He lifted it and yelled, "Over here, freak!"
The creature lunged again—Asharab ducked and drove the rod through its skull from underneath the jaw. A final roar escaped its throat, and then silence. Its body dropped like a boulder.
They stood, panting.
Asharab checked the car—it was destroyed. "We need another ride."
They limped through the area and spotted a car parked under a tree near the collapsed petrol station. With shaky hands, they checked inside. Keys were there. A miracle.
He opened the trunk, filled it with fuel using the can, and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life.
"Let's go," Asharab said, wiping sweat and blood from his face.
The rest of the drive was silent. The sky had turned to hues of deep amber and fading gold. Night was approaching. As they neared the village, their hearts beat faster—not from fear, but from hope.
Just two yards from the house, they stopped.
Zombies. Dozens of them.
Moving slowly, mindlessly. But they blocked the way.
Asharab drove behind an abandoned house and parked the car quietly. Then he spotted something—inside the house next to them was a bike.
"I have a plan," he said. "Stay inside. Don't move. I'll draw them out."
His brother protested, but Asharab had already climbed out and slipped into the house through a broken window.
Inside, the smell hit him first. Then the sight.
His friend's family.
Once warm, joyful people—now twitching, rotting corpses.
He choked on his breath. His heart ached. But he steeled himself.
He found the bike keys on a hook, rolled the bike out the back, and pushed it to the gate.
Asharab started the bike gently, then revved it loud.
The noise worked. Zombies turned toward him.
He gunned the throttle and shot down the lane.
Dozens followed. He made sharp turns, kept just ahead of them, and then, at a deserted street bend, he jumped off the bike, letting it ride into the distance, still roaring.
He ran back, keeping low, and reached the house.
"Push the car slowly," he whispered to his brother.
They rolled it silently until it was just outside the home where the survivors were hiding.
Then Asharab stepped up to the door and whispered, "We're here. Open up. It's Asharab!"
The door creaked open slowly.
And what they saw inside… was completely unexpected.