Ethan Miller strode forward, fire axe gripped firmly in hand, cutting down the scattered zombies that stumbled into their path. Behind him, Rachel Carter followed with a supply bag slung over her shoulder. The woman who'd once graced magazine covers and red carpets had transformed into someone sharp and obedient—she understood that one mistake could mean death for both of them.
They navigated around the larger zombie clusters with careful precision. Ethan's enhanced strength and speed made dealing with isolated undead almost trivial, while Rachel matched his pace despite her lack of combat experience. Her breath came hard at times, but she never once complained.
Rachel couldn't tear her eyes away from Ethan's movements. Each swing of his axe was devastatingly efficient—heads separated from necks, limbs severed clean. The fluidity, the raw power, the absolute precision—it was nothing short of masterful. She'd never witnessed anyone handle the undead with such frightening skill.
What should have taken three hours of careful navigation was reduced to a mere forty minutes. Ethan's supernatural abilities played a role, certainly, but Rachel's endurance surprised even him. Despite being physically ordinary, fear never slowed her down. She kept moving, kept surviving.
At last, they reached the perimeter of Chicago O'Hare Airport—the only airport in the city that hadn't been completely overrun. From their vantage point, the square outside the main terminal entrance was a nightmare made flesh. Hundreds of zombies packed the open space, swaying and groaning in an endless sea of decay. And that didn't even account for the thousands more trapped inside the terminal itself.
"Do you know how to drive a truck?" Ethan asked, glancing sideways at Rachel.
Rachel's gaze remained fixed on the writhing mass of undead. "I... I've only ever driven a car," she admitted, her voice trembling slightly as she shook her head.
Ethan considered this. Not ideal, but workable. A large truck operated on the same basic principles as a car—just bigger, heavier, more momentum. If she could keep it steady, she'd manage.
He took her hand and led her to a construction truck parked near the airport's outer fence. It had been abandoned when civilization collapsed. Ethan smashed open the console and exposed the tangle of wires beneath, quickly identifying the ones she'd need.
"Follow my instructions exactly," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Keep the truck moving. Circle the square. Control your speed—don't stop, don't go too fast, don't go too slow. Your destination is that control tower over there." He pointed to a structure several hundred meters away.
Rachel's eyes went wide. "I... I've never done anything like this."
"Obey my orders and you'll be fine," Ethan said, his voice firm but reassuring. A small smile crossed his face. "Drive to the tower, get inside, lock the doors. No zombie will reach you there." He pressed a handgun into her palm. "Just in case."
Rachel's chest tightened. Fear and determination warred within her. The memories of her old life—the fame, the adoring fans, the luxury—felt like someone else's dream now. All that mattered was the next breath, the next heartbeat. Survival.
"I'll do my best," she whispered.
Ethan nodded approvingly. "Good. I'm going into the airport to get my sister. Stick to the plan."
He pulled out his phone and called Emily. "I'm outside the airport, by the construction trucks in the square. Get ready."
Inside the terminal, on the third floor, Emily Miller pressed against the glass window. Her eyes widened as she spotted the trucks below and the zombie horde swarming between them.
The plan was straightforward but dangerous. One truck—Rachel's—would draw the bulk of the horde toward the western control tower. Meanwhile, Ethan would use a second truck to force his way to the main entrance. Emily would leap from the third floor into the truck bed, which they'd fill with sand for cushioning.
Simple. Deadly if anything went wrong.
Rachel climbed into the driver's seat, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Ethan gave her the signal. She twisted the wires together.
The engine roared to life.
The sound shattered the oppressive silence like a gunshot. Instantly, the zombie horde reacted. Hundreds of rotting corpses turned as one, their dead eyes locking onto the source of the noise. They surged forward like a tsunami of flesh and bone.
Rachel pressed the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, gathering speed.
The first wave of zombies slammed into the truck's reinforced front bumper. Bodies crumpled beneath the wheels. Limbs snapped. Heads exploded against steel. Gore sprayed in every direction—thick reddish-brown blood smearing across the side windows, painting the windshield until Rachel could barely see through it. She focused on the narrow strip of clear glass still remaining, her knuckles bone-white on the wheel.
Behind her, Ethan moved like a force of nature. His fire axe swept through the air in perfect arcs, severing any zombie that tried to flank them. He made it look effortless—every strike landed exactly where it needed to, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next.
Together, they carved a path through hell itself. Ethan was the unstoppable blade. Rachel was the driver of controlled chaos.
The airport rescue had begun.
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