Ethan Miller followed in the second truck, watching Rachel Carter tear through the zombie-infested square ahead of him. He'd given her a crash course in driving—emphasis on crash—but watching her now, doubt crept in. How much could she really handle under this kind of pressure?
In the lead truck, Rachel had already mowed down dozens of zombies in just sixty seconds. The horde pursuing her grew exponentially with each passing moment. Hundreds now gave chase, while clusters formed on both flanks and even ahead of her path.
Full speed would've been safer in some ways—harder for the undead to catch up—but that defeated the entire purpose. This wasn't an escape. It was a lure. She had to maintain precise speed control, threading an impossible needle. Too fast and the plan failed. Too slow and zombies would pile under the wheels, stalling the engine and leaving her trapped in a metal coffin.
Rachel's jaw clenched tight, her master's instructions echoing in her mind. Her grip on the steering wheel was awkward, unpracticed. Her foot trembled against the accelerator. The sickening crunch of tires rolling over bones and skulls made her scalp crawl with primal horror. But she drove forward anyway. Determination trumped fear.
The truck rampaged across Chicago O'Hare Airport's central square like a mechanical reaper, drawing nearly every zombie from the terminal's exterior. Ethan maintained a safe distance behind, watching with grim satisfaction as the horde followed Rachel's lead. Some zombies even spilled out from inside the airport hall itself, lured by the engine's roar.
As Rachel approached the control tower, she attempted to decelerate. But inexperience betrayed her—she'd been driving too fast to begin with. Even stomping the brake pedal to the floor wasn't enough. The truck slammed into the tower's base with bone-rattling force, crushing several zombies beneath its wheels. Rachel's head cracked against the side window. Stars exploded across her vision.
Instinct took over. She freed her legs from the pedals, wrenched open the cab door, and threw herself onto the spiral fire escape that wound around the tower's exterior. Zombies clawed at the abandoned truck below, their rotting fingers scraping metal, but the stairs were beyond their reach. Rachel climbed frantically, pistol clutched in one white-knuckled hand, heart thundering against her ribs. The tower door slammed behind her. She twisted the lock.
Safe. For now.
Meanwhile, Ethan aimed the second truck directly at the airport terminal entrance. Unlike Rachel, he handled the vehicle with absolute confidence and surgical precision. The front bumper smashed into the main doors with a thunderous boom, creating an effective barricade that trapped the zombies inside.
"Jump down! Now!" Ethan shouted, leaning out of the cab to guide his sister.
Three floors up, Emily Miller pressed against the reinforced glass panels, anxiety carved into every line of her face. The other survivors had been skeptical of Ethan's audacious plan at first, but watching it unfold in real time sparked something they'd almost forgotten—hope.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were reinforced glass, designed to withstand severe impacts. One survivor grabbed a chair and swung it with desperate strength. Not even a scratch appeared. Fear and opportunity paralyzed them in equal measure.
Ethan seized his black battle axe, spinning it once in a fluid arc before hurling it at the glass. The weapon struck with a deafening crack, embedding itself deep and creating a spiderweb of fractures. He repeated the throw twice more, each impact widening the hole until it was large enough for a person to fit through.
"Go! Jump!" Ethan commanded.
Emily didn't hesitate. She trusted her brother with her life. She leapt through the opening and landed in the sand-filled truck bed below with a heavy thump. One by one, the other survivors followed her lead, dropping into the cushioning sand behind the cab as Ethan cleared away zombies attempting to climb up the sides.
Once everyone was aboard, Ethan slammed the accelerator down. The truck surged forward, its massive wheels crushing undead beneath tons of steel and momentum. Bones snapped like dry kindling. Flesh pulped against the pavement.
"Rachel! Jump in!" he called toward the control tower.
Rachel didn't need to be told twice. She launched herself from the spiral stairs, sailing through the air and landing in the cab beside Ethan. His arms caught her, steadying her impact. Relief and residual fear warred across her features.
"I was so scared!" she gasped, clinging to him like a drowning woman to driftwood. "I thought... I thought you were leaving me behind!"
Ethan's hand stroked her hair gently, a moment of tenderness amid the carnage. "I told you I wouldn't abandon you. You did well. For your first time driving a truck through a zombie horde, you exceeded every expectation I had."
The engine roared as the truck became an unstoppable juggernaut, flattening everything in its path. Even a brief stall would've been catastrophic—they'd have been swarmed in seconds. But with Ethan behind the wheel and Rachel safely beside him, they carved through the remaining horde and cleared the square entirely.
The truck finally pulled up beside a deserted gas station on the highway outskirts, giving them their first moment to breathe.
In the truck bed, Emily and the other survivors sat among the sand, exhausted but alive. The city's apocalypse was far from over—that much was certain. But for now, against impossible odds, they'd survived the worst the horde could throw at them.
Ethan killed the engine. Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing.