The first crash rattled the walls.
Amy's grip tightened on my hand until my bones ached. I could hear them in the stairwell now—feet dragging, jaws snapping, throats groaning like broken instruments. One became three. Three became ten. A tidal wave of rot and hunger climbing floor by floor.
"We can't stay here," I hissed.
Amy shook her head, breath shuddering. "I can't run, Ethan. Not like this." She gestured to her leg, blood soaking through her jeans. I hadn't noticed before—the wound wasn't just her arm. She was worse off than I thought.
"You don't have a choice," I said, slipping her arm over my shoulders. She was burning up, skin clammy. Fever. My stomach twisted.
The pounding came closer—fourth floor now. The scrape of nails on plaster.
We staggered into the hallway, my free hand clutching the shears so tight my knuckles went white. Apartment doors slammed shut around us. Survivors. Hiding. Listening. Not helping.
Cowards.
At the far end of the hall, the emergency fire escape door loomed. My one hope. If we could just—
The stairwell door burst open.
They poured through in a mass of gray skin and snapping teeth, arms clawing at the air. Their eyes locked on us as one, and the sound they made wasn't human.
"Go!" Amy screamed.
I dragged her down the hall, the infected spilling after us like floodwater. My legs screamed, but adrenaline drowned out the pain. I slammed the bar on the fire door and it flew open, a rush of cold night air washing over me.
The metal stairs outside groaned beneath our weight as I hauled her down. Below, the alley was choked with trash bins and overturned cars—but it was clear. For now.
A crash above. Hands clawed at the railing. A face appeared over the edge, teeth snapping inches from my head.
I swung the shears blindly. Metal crunched against bone, and the thing toppled, shrieking as it bounced off the railings and crumpled to the asphalt below.
We hit the ground. I pulled Amy behind a dumpster, pressing my back against the cold metal as shadows writhed above us.
Her breathing was ragged, each inhale wheezing. "Ethan… you should leave me."
"Shut up," I snapped, too harsh, but I couldn't stop shaking. "I'm not leaving you. Ever."
She looked at me then—eyes glassy, lips pale—and gave me a smile so small it broke something inside me.
A sound tore through the alley, jerking my head up. Footsteps. Not shuffling. Not dragging. Running.
For a split second, I thought we were saved.
Then a voice shouted from the shadows:
"Drop her! Now!"
I blinked into the darkness—and saw the gleam of a rifle barrel aimed straight at my chest.
The rifle's barrel glinted under the faint orange glow of a burning rooftop across the street. I froze, shielding Amy with my body.
"Don't move," the man barked. His voice was steady, military sharp. Whoever he was, he'd done this before.
Beside him, another figure stepped into the light—shorter, wiry, her hands gripping a length of metal pipe like she'd swung it a hundred times already. Her dark eyes flicked between me and Amy, quick and calculating.
"She's bitten," the woman said flatly.
Amy stiffened against me, her hand trembling in mine.
"She's my sister," I snapped. My voice cracked, but I didn't care. "She's not—she's not one of them. Not yet."
The man with the rifle didn't lower it. He just studied us, jaw tight. Even in the shadows, I could see the scars on his knuckles, the squared shoulders. Ex-military. Maybe still pretending he was.
"Bitten's a death sentence," he said finally. "You know it. I know it." His finger hovered near the trigger.
Something hot and ugly rose in me. "If you pull that trigger, you'll have to shoot me too."
The woman gave a humorless laugh. "He might." She stepped closer, pipe resting on her shoulder. "We've seen what happens. They turn fast. You dragging her around just gets you killed—and anyone near you."
Amy squeezed my arm weakly. "Ethan… it's okay."
"No," I said through my teeth. "It's not."
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the distant chorus of moans drifting down the alley.