The camp stirred with quiet activity as dawn crept over the ruined horizon. Fires crackled low, soldiers sharpened their weapons, and the bitter taste of ashes filled the air.
Survivors moved with weary determination, but beneath the surface was a constant thrum of fear. Everyone whispered of Nathan's moods, the storm brewing within him since the girl's fall.
Ezra stood outside the commander's quarters, spine stiff, heart hammering. He had survived Nathan's rage when Kelvin had not.
Ezra had kept his head down since, playing the part of loyal soldier.
But Nathan had summoned him.
The heavy doors opened, and Nathan emerged in full uniform, his coat billowing behind him. His eyes were bloodshot, shadows carved deep beneath them. Yet his stride was sharp, his presence colder than steel.
"Ezra," Nathan's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Yes, Commander," Ezra snapped to attention.
Nathan's gaze lingered on him, unreadable. Then, slowly, he handed Ezra a sealed file. "You'll lead today's raid."
Ezra blinked. "A raid?"
Nathan's lips twitched—neither a smile nor a sneer, but something darker. "An outpost north of the city. Supplies. Information. Perhaps survivors. A dangerous mission." His tone carried no warmth. "Do not fail me."
Ezra bowed his head. "I won't."
But deep in his gut, a cold dread settled.
The mission team gathered at the gates. A dozen hardened men and women, Nathan's chosen. Ezra scanned their faces, catching brief flickers of something unsettling—avoided eyes, clenched jaws, too-still expressions.
They didn't look at him with camaraderie. They looked at him like a dead man walking.
Ezra swallowed, forcing a grin. "You've got me leading today. We'll bring back more than just scraps."
No one answered.
The gates creaked open, and the world beyond swallowed them.
The streets were ruined skeletons of civilization. Cars rusted in place, windows shattered, dried blood painting walls like forgotten warnings. The air reeked of rot. Every sound echoed too loudly—broken glass crunching under boots, the distant groan of the dead.
Ezra pushed forward, his weapon gripped tight. The soldiers followed in eerie silence.
"Spread out," he ordered, forcing authority into his tone. "Eyes sharp. We're here to sweep and collect."
They obeyed, but their steps lacked urgency. They weren't hunting supplies. They were waiting.
Ezra knew it.
The thought itched in the back of his skull. Nathan's eyes had held something final when he'd spoken. This wasn't trust. This wasn't forgiveness.
This was exile dressed as duty.
Hours passed. The deeper they moved into the northern ruins, the heavier the silence grew. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened with the smell of decay.
Then—movement.
Groans swelled from alleys and broken buildings. Figures staggered into view—dozens, then hundreds. The horde.
Ezra froze, breath catching. "Positions!" he barked, raising his gun. "Form the line!"
The soldiers didn't move.
They stepped back.
Ezra whipped around, eyes wide. "What are you doing?! Get in position!"
One of them, a scarred man named Harlow, met his gaze with flat indifference. "Orders, Ezra."
Ezra's blood ran cold. "Orders? What orders?!"
Harlow smirked faintly, then gave the signal.
The unit broke formation. One by one, they slipped into side streets, vanishing like ghosts.
Leaving him.
"Wait—WAIT!" Ezra shouted, panic ripping through his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching out, but they were gone. Only the echo of their boots lingered.
And the groans grew louder.
The horde descended.
Zombies poured from every crevice—rotting flesh, snapping jaws, clawed hands reaching. Ezra opened fire, bullets tearing through the first wave. Heads burst. Bodies collapsed. But for every one that fell, three more surged forward.
"DAMN YOU!" Ezra roared, firing until the clip ran dry. He slammed in another, sweat pouring down his face, heart hammering against his ribs. "Nathan! You bastard! You sent me here to die!"
The dead surged closer. Ezra swung his blade, hacking through decaying throats, blood spraying across his clothes. Fingers clawed at his arms, tearing skin. Teeth snapped inches from his face.
His mind raced—memories flashing.
Kelvin's desperate plans. Lexi's mocking smirk. Nathan's cold eyes.
Was this it? Reduced to meat in a ruined street?
He fought with everything he had, but exhaustion clawed at him. His arm burned. His legs faltered.
A zombie lunged from behind, teeth sinking into his shoulder. Ezra screamed, driving his blade through its skull. Another slammed him down. Claws tore his flesh, blood gushing hot and fast.
He kicked, punched, slashed, but they swarmed him—climbing, pulling, gnashing.
His screams echoed through the ruins, raw and desperate.
"Please—no—NO!" His voice cracked, torn from his throat. "I don't want to die like this!"
But no one came.
The soldiers were gone.
Nathan had made sure of it.
Back at camp, Nathan sat in his quarters, the faint crackle of the radio on his desk. A voice came through—calm, steady.
"Target neutralized. Mission complete."
Nathan closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. His hand gripped a glass of liquor, knuckles white.
Ezra's death didn't bring satisfaction. It didn't soothe the gnawing ache that Lexi's absence had left.
But it silenced one more traitor. One more voice that had dared to conspire against her.
He lifted the glass, staring into the amber depths. Her reflection swam in his mind—Lexi's eyes, mocking and defiant.
Ezra was gone. Kelvin was gone. Yet Lexi remained, untouchable in his thoughts, her fire burning brighter with every death he dealt.
"Still yours," Nathan whispered hoarsely into the empty room. "Always yours."
He drank, the taste bitter, the silence deafening.
But deep in his chest, his obsession only grew.