Ding. The elevator doors slid open.
Liam raised his left index finger to his lips, signaling silence, and slowly leaned his head out.
The ground floor of the old building opened into a narrow corridor—not a long one—that connected the elevator and the nearby stairwell. At the far end of the hallway was a single iron door that led to the street. This passage wasn't connected to the ground-floor shops or apartments; it was a separate exit.
Liam stepped out, eyes scanning every inch of the corridor, then turned back briefly to Manila. His gaze swept over the hallway again. While the corridor wasn't linked to the shops, it was connected to the staircase that led up to the second floor. And zombies didn't move by logic. You could never predict where one might be lurking—maybe the second-floor landing, maybe the middle of the stairwell. From where he stood, Liam could see that the corridor itself was empty, and the iron door at the end was ajar, probably left that way by a zombie charging out. But he couldn't see inside the stairwell.
The growl of an engine and the screeching groans of zombies spilled through the iron door from the street. Liam needed to get outside before that vehicle was gone. Because once it left, some zombies would lose the chase or simply give up. And the second Liam stepped into view, he'd become the only moving target. Every infected on the street would turn to him. His chance of surviving would drop fast.
Even with a gun, he moved cautiously. First, he wasn't a marksman. Headshots weren't guaranteed. And only a bullet to the brain could put down a zombie. Second, he only had three magazines—this wasn't a video game, and he wasn't mowing down enemies with infinite ammo. Third, he didn't have combat training. No special moves. Once the bullets ran dry, what was he supposed to do—swing a scalpel at them? He'd be dead in minutes.
"No zombies," Liam muttered with relief, eyes finally catching the dark stairwell—no shadows shifting, no limbs dragging.
Just then—tak tak tak—a burst of frantic footsteps echoed from above. Somewhere out of sight.
"Run!" Liam snapped.
He bolted. No hesitation. He flung open the door and burst from the dim hallway into the blazing daylight—and into the chaos.
The second he was outside, the sound hit him like a wave. Groaning, snarling, bones snapping, tires screaming. The Ford E450 was still barreling down the middle of Oak Street, plowing through the undead like bowling pins. Blood smeared the windshield, and the wipers worked overtime, smearing streaks of red. The massive vehicle wasn't moving as fast as it could've—not because the driver was holding back, but because the road was wrecked. Abandoned cars were everywhere. Zombies clogged the path. Visibility was low. But whoever was driving, they knew what they were doing. Not once had they clipped another vehicle.
"Shit, that's still a lot of them," Liam growled, pulling the trigger as he ran diagonally toward the other side of the street. His plan was simple: get to the convenience store across the street, grab as much food as he could carry, then find a car. Somewhere in the lot, a zombie would have a key in its pocket. One kill, one vehicle. That was the plan.
Zombies weren't slow. They didn't run, sure. Their limbs were stiff. But their walking speed averaged around 3.5 meters per second. A normal, untrained person sprinted maybe 8 or 9 meters per second, tops. That's only during a full sprint—and nobody could sprint forever. A reasonably fit adult could keep up 5 meters per second, maybe. It didn't take a genius to see how dangerous it was. Alone, a zombie was manageable. In numbers, they were death.
Liam didn't stop moving. The scent in the air was thick—metallic, rotting, nauseating. Zombies turned as he burst into view, ditching the chase for the van and focusing on him instead. Some were only steps away. Liam raised his gun and didn't flinch. At close range, he could hit the head. A few quick shots—pop pop pop—and the closest zombies dropped, their skulls cracked open.
The distance to the convenience store was around 200 meters—not far. Liam moved fast but smart, ducking when he could, firing only when he had to. His bullets were precious. He wasn't a sharpshooter. Every miss was wasted time and danger.
Six down. Mid-street. He hit the mag release. The empty one dropped from the handle. Liam slowed just enough to grab a fresh clip from his coat, slammed it in, and sprinted forward again.
Manila had been right behind him the whole time. When Liam slowed, she slowed. When he picked up speed again, she did too. But this time, she stumbled.
A scream tore the air. "Ah! Get off me—no, please, help me!"
Liam glanced over his shoulder. Manila was on the ground, a zombie on top of her. She held the bat horizontally across its neck, keeping its snapping jaws away—but not for long. More zombies were coming. Three, maybe four, closing in around her.
She screamed again, eyes wide, staring at Liam's back as he ran.
Liam's jaw clenched. He turned forward again.
He kept running.
Manila's voice broke into sobs. Then—hope.
Liam had slowed.
"Goddamn it!" he hissed, punching the air in frustration. He turned on his heels and sprinted back toward her.
They were only ten meters apart. He shot the zombies around her first, precise, no time for error. Then the one pinning her down. One bullet to the head. Liam reached down, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her to her feet.
"Run!" he shouted, dragging her with him.
The delay cost them. More zombies were closing in now, over fifty at a glance, coming from every angle. Liam fired only when he had to—only at the ones lunging toward them or cutting them off. They reached the convenience store door. Liam's mag was empty again. He'd wasted more ammo than he planned—but saving Manila had required it.
The store was small. It hadn't opened yet when the outbreak hit at 7 a.m. Its metal shutters were still down. Liam popped in another mag, aimed, and fired twice at the padlock. It shattered.
He yanked the shutter up, pulled Manila inside, and slammed it back down.
The shop was dark, with only slivers of light slipping through the edges of the windows. Inside, it was nearly pitch black. Outside, the growls grew louder. The shutters shook violently under the pounding of fists and rotting flesh.
"Quiet. Don't make a sound," Liam whispered, crouching and pressing his foot against the shutter handle to keep it from being lifted. Then he went still.
The store went silent.
Only their shallow, silent breaths remained.
And that crushing, suffocating pressure of being hunted.