Ethan, Chris, Henry, Sean, Big Mike, and Skinny Pete sprinted toward a house just off the side of the road, boots pounding pavement, breath sharp in their throats.
They were barely within reach of the front door when the moaning started—low at first, then rising like a tide. From alleys, behind cars, out of shattered windows, the undead poured in, swarming toward them.
"Get to the stairwell!" Ethan barked, already swinging his barbell bar like a scythe through wheat. The stairwell was still the safest bet—tight quarters, one direction to defend, no surprises from behind.
The six of them hacked and shoved their way through the first wave, the clang of metal on bone echoing off the walls. They burst into the stairwell and immediately turned to hold the line, smashing down the zombies that followed.
For a moment, it worked. The narrow space funneled the horde into a kill zone, and they cut them down with brutal efficiency.
