They didn't speak much after Justin got Tally inside.
He carried her through the back of the store like she weighed nothing, her arms locked tight around his neck, fingers digging into his jacket as if letting go might send her back into the parking lot. Her blood was already drying—sticky, dark, metallic—on his hands, on his sleeves, on the floor where he laid her down behind the counter. The smell of it followed them inside, sharp and unmistakable, clinging to the stale air of the store, mixing with dust, old grease, and the faint sweetness of spilled soda.
Mari shut the back door softly, then locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed too loud, snapping through the silence like a gunshot. The metal vibrated briefly before settling, as if the building itself was bracing.
No one said thank God.
No one said it's over.
Because none of them believed it.
Justin crouched in front of Tally and cut away the torn fabric around her arm. She didn't cry. Didn't scream. She barely reacted at all except to flinch when his fingers brushed too close to where the child's teeth had almost closed. Her eyes stayed unfocused, fixed on nothing, like she was afraid to look anywhere too closely, afraid that seeing too clearly would make it real again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Justin's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
Mari handed him gauze, antiseptic, tape—her movements sharp, efficient, clipped. She didn't look at Tally. Her hands shook just slightly, betraying how close everything had come to going wrong in a way none of them could undo, how narrowly the night had missed taking something it wouldn't give back.
"You're lucky," Mari said flatly. "That thing missed the artery."
Tally swallowed hard. "I didn't—"
"I know," Mari cut in. "You didn't think."
Justin looked up. "Enough."
Mari's eyes snapped to his. "She almost died."
"And I said enough," he repeated, the tone unmistakable. The same one he'd used earlier, when things went bad fast and there hadn't been time for debate.
Mari leaned back, lips pressed tight, arms crossing over her chest like a barrier, like she needed something solid between herself and what might happen next.
Justin finished wrapping the bandage, firm but careful. "You're not bleeding anymore," he said quietly to Tally. "You're going to be sore. You're going to listen to me. Do you understand?"
She nodded immediately. Too fast.
"Yes," she said. "I promise."
Mari exhaled sharply through her nose. "She also promised not to go wandering."
Justin shot her a look. "Mari."
"What?" she snapped. "She doesn't need to use the bathroom anymore, does she?"
Tally flinched like she'd been slapped, shoulders curling inward, her breath catching.
Justin stood up slowly. "That was unnecessary."
Mari's eyes flicked away. "So was what she did."
"Enough," he said again, firmer now. "Both of you."
Silence settled, heavy and resentful, thick with words no one trusted themselves to say out loud.
They decided—quietly, quickly—to stay.
Moving again in the dark, with noise already made, felt worse than staying put. Justin pulled the Jeep tight against the back door so they could load supplies directly if they had to bolt. He and Mari went aisle by aisle, whispering, filling bags with water, canned food, protein bars, first aid, batteries—anything that didn't rattle, anything that might buy them time. Every sound felt amplified, each clink of metal making Justin pause and listen for movement outside, counting heartbeats until the silence returned.
Kenzie fed Barbie from a bag of dog food she found behind the counter. The little Yorkie ate like she hadn't realized she was hungry until that second, tail wagging weakly, body pressed close to Kenzie's legs, grounding her.
Afterward, Kenzie found a small backpack—pink, ridiculous, probably meant for a child—and lined it with a towel.
"She fits," Kenzie whispered, amazed.
Barbie curled inside immediately, nose tucked under her tail, safe for the first time in hours.
Kenzie cried silently while petting her, shoulders shaking as she tried to be quiet.
They all cleaned up as best they could. Baby wipes. Paper towels. Bottled water poured carefully over bloodstained hands. Tally scrubbed until her skin burned, staring at the red swirling down the drain, her breathing uneven, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, like pain was the only thing keeping her present.
They ate in the dark.
No lights. No talking. Just the sound of wrappers, chewing, swallowing—survival stripped down to its simplest motions.
Outside, the city burned.
Without power, the darkness was complete—thick, swallowing. The only light came from distant fires, orange and flickering, painting smoke into moving shapes against the sky. Sirens had faded hours ago. Now there were only screams, sometimes, and the wet, dragging sounds they all tried not to name.
Kenzie curled up in the corner with Barbie tucked against her chest and fell asleep almost immediately, exhaustion winning. Mari dozed fitfully near the counter, jerking awake at every distant noise. Justin leaned against the wall, eyes open, watching the window, rifle across his lap, counting seconds between sounds.
Tally lay awake.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it.
Small hands. The sound it made. The way Justin's arm shoved her back just in time. The moment she realized she wasn't special. Wasn't untouchable. Wasn't the main character in some story where things worked out because she was her.
Her chest tightened.
Never again, she promised herself silently.
She wasn't going to be a victim.
She wasn't going to freeze.
She was going to be like Justin.
A hero.
That was when she saw movement.
Five figures ran past the front window—fast, desperate. Two men. Three women. They were shouting, stumbling, looking back over their shoulders. One of them tripped and nearly fell.
Tally sat up.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
She could help them.
She should help them.
She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the ache in her arm, the sting of the bandage pulling. She moved toward the glass.
"Justin," she whispered urgently.
Mari stirred. "What?"
"They're alive," Tally said. "There are people out there."
Justin was already standing, moving toward her. "Tal—"
She slapped her hand against the glass and yelled.
"HEY! HERE!"
The group turned.
And then everyone inside the store saw it.
Behind the five—spilling out of the smoke, drawn by her voice—came the dead.
Not one.
Not two.
A horde.
Nine. Maybe twelve.
Running.
Fast.
The look on Justin's face wasn't anger.
It was horror.
And Tally realized—too late—that she had done it again.
The city answered noise with teeth.
And the night wasn't finished with them yet.