"Calloway?"
The soldier stepped forward from behind an overturned dumpster, rifle raised, boots splashing in shallow rainwater pooling along the cracked alley floor. "You're supposed to be dead."
Quinn blinked against the haze of smoke and morning fog curling through the alley. The narrow passage was hemmed in by brick walls streaked with soot and fire damage. The voice was familiar—abrasive, East Coast. Then the figure stepped into the gray light between two leaning fire escapes, and the scar down his jaw made everything snap into place.
"Reyes," Quinn muttered.
Reyes, 2nd Battalion. The last time Quinn had seen him was Mosul, just after the convoy got hit. Reyes' Humvee took the blast. The order was to move on. Quinn had assumed he died under the wreckage.
"Funny," Quinn said, keeping one hand tight on the bat, his back brushing the graffiti-stained brick. "I was about to say the same."
Reyes grunted. "We tried to reach you. Figured you were body-bagged with the others."
"Not yet."
From deeper down the alley, between two crushed recycling bins, two more soldiers stepped into view—a broad-shouldered man with a short, copper beard and a smaller, dark-skinned woman with narrowed eyes scanning the rooftops above and the shadowed fire escapes.
"Dobbs," Quinn said, recognizing the bearded one. "And Mace."
"You still breathe," Dobbs said, boots crunching broken glass. "Color me surprised."
Mace nodded once, her back brushing the ivy-covered fence. "We need to move. Rendezvous window closes in thirty."
"Rendezvous?" Quinn asked.
Reyes turned, nodding toward the far end of the alley where faint daylight filtered through another iron gate. "We've got a bird waiting on the Chrysler rooftop. Full evac. You get left behind, you're on your own."
The woman beside Quinn stepped from the shadow of a burned-out sedan, tightening her grip on the axe. "And us?"
Reyes studied her. Then the man standing just behind her—tall, lean, early twenties, streaked with soot and blood, a crowbar gripped tightly in both hands.
"Names."
"Nora. This is Ryan."
"You military?"
"NYPD. Before."
Ryan gave a brief nod but said nothing, his grip on the crowbar white-knuckled. His bare feet shifted on the damp concrete, not with fear, but braced tension—like he was waiting for someone to make the wrong call.
Dobbs glanced toward the mouth of the alley, where twisted scaffolding framed a side street. "You trust 'em?"
Reyes didn't answer. He turned to Quinn. "They with you?"
Quinn nodded. "Yeah."
Reyes considered it. Then gave a single nod. "Fine. But we move silent. No noise. Infecteds are thick out here."
From behind them came a muffled screech—the stockroom door they'd exited now buckled outward. The infecteds inside were testing the lock. Dust and rust flakes dropped from the hinges.
"That's our cue," Mace said.
They pushed through a rusted gate at the back of the alley into a narrow, fenced-in garden boxed by decaying brick and ivy-covered walls. Overgrown planters leaned sideways under dead ferns. Shattered benches were strewn around a dry fountain. A broken angel statue leaned into brittle ivy, half its wings snapped off.
They crossed fast, boots crunching old mulch and cracked stone pavers, then slipped through a torn chain-link fence into another alley—wider, but still boxed in by six-story buildings. A fire escape above creaked gently in the wind.
Ahead, Bryant Park shimmered under a veil of mist. Through the iron bars of its boundary fence, empty folding chairs were scattered across patchy grass like bones. The trees loomed still, too quiet.
"Stay low," Reyes whispered. "Keep to the east wall."
They moved along the outer edge, pressed tight to the cold limestone façade of the library. Debris littered the sidewalks—discarded backpacks, broken umbrellas, burnt signage. They passed overturned news vans with shattered windows and scorched decals. Past bodies—some too fresh. Steam hissed from a broken pipe nearby.
Quinn's eyes caught movement in the trees. An infected, crouched unnaturally atop a low branch like a predator. Watching. It didn't charge.
It waited.
Nora saw it too. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing, eyes fixed ahead.
Reyes raised a fist.
They stopped.
Mace knelt by a lamppost base, unzipped her pack, and withdrew a scoped rifle. She positioned herself behind a low planter for stability. A long suppressor twisted into place with a faint click.
She exhaled. A single breath.
Then—thff.
The infected dropped. No cry. Just a collapse into grass and silence.
"Go," Reyes said.
They reached 42nd and turned east. Midtown lay in ruins. A yellow cab had crashed halfway into a pharmacy storefront. Smoke leaked from open manholes like breath from the earth. A helicopter lay belly-up in the middle of the avenue, its blades snapped like twigs, tail sheared off.
"Three more blocks," Dobbs said, motioning left at an intersection where traffic lights still blinked useless red.
As they passed a diner, movement flickered behind the grease-smeared windows. Two survivors waved from behind the counter—a man and woman, maybe the owners. Eyes wide, pleading.
"We can't stop," Mace muttered.
Quinn nodded, jaw tight, eyes avoiding theirs. They moved on.
They cut through a department store—glass doors already shattered. Inside, clothing racks lay overturned, merchandise half-burnt. Mannequins with missing limbs sprawled across tile. Sunlight filtered through broken skylights above, making shifting shadows on the marble floor.
"Up," Reyes said, pointing toward a fire escape visible through a second-floor atrium window.
A metal staircase had partially collapsed, the lower section bent sideways. But the top half still held.
They climbed.
Ryan slipped halfway up, one bare foot skidding on a greasy rung. He swore under his breath, caught himself on the railing, then cursed again as Quinn reached down and hauled him upright by the collar.
"Almost there."
At the roof, the wind hit them. It carried smoke and the sharp scent of fuel. The Chrysler Building's spire loomed a few blocks ahead, its silver art-deco crown shimmering through the mist like a signal flare.
They dropped to a narrow catwalk behind an old billboard frame, moving single file. Pigeons scattered as they passed. Another rusted ladder dropped to the street behind Lexington.
They descended fast.
"We stick to the wall," Reyes said. "Noise discipline. They hunt by sound."
They moved like shadows. Through a shattered shoe store where laces dangled like vines. Through an abandoned gym—treadmills still blinking 00:00. Dust-covered weights sat in silence. A row of lockers stood open like mouths.
Then, a scream.
Quinn froze behind a column near the exit.
Across the street, a woman ran barefoot, dragging a child along the cracked sidewalk. Her dress was torn, one arm bleeding. Behind them, four infected bolted in pursuit, feet slapping asphalt.
The woman tripped on a curb.
They swarmed her. Ripped into her back with teeth and fists. Blood sprayed onto a shattered ATM beside her.
The child screamed—a high, piercing sound that echoed off the building fronts.
Mace lined up a shot from behind a mailbox.
"No," Reyes said. "Too many."
The child vanished beneath the writhing figures.
Ryan turned his face away, jaw clenched. His throat worked, but he didn't speak. The tension in his grip on the crowbar was rigid—controlled—but his knuckles had gone bone-white.
They moved on.
"One more block," Dobbs whispered.
The building loomed ahead. The side entrance to the Chrysler tower faced a side alley flanked by emergency dumpsters. It was barricaded with steel sheeting, sandbags, and chain. A single reinforced door marked with white paint: RZ-12.
Reyes stepped up to a small keypad hidden behind the sandbags.
He keyed in a code.
Nothing.
"Try again," Mace said, watching the street behind.
He did. The lock clicked, hydraulic bolts retracting with a hiss.
They slipped inside.
A concrete stairwell spiraled upward, damp and echoing. Emergency lights flickered in red and white, casting long shadows on the chipped paint. Somewhere above, a faint rumble.
Helicopter.
They climbed. Floor after floor. Each turn tighter than the last. Sweat soaked through Quinn's shirt. His ribs ached. The smell of iron, oil, and stale smoke hung heavy.
Ryan stumbled on the 44th, catching the railing and pulling himself forward with a sharp breath. Nora gave him a shove between the shoulder blades—not gentle, but not unkind.
At the 61st floor, they reached a steel hatch marked ROOF ACCESS – AUTHORIZED ONLY.
Reyes keyed another code.
This one worked.
The door burst open with a hydraulic hiss.
Wind. Blades thundering.
A Black Hawk hovered above the pad, tethered by a taut cable. Its rotors kicked up dust, shredded paper, and loose gravel. Two soldiers waved them forward, silhouettes against the sky.
They sprinted across the rooftop, clipped into harnesses one by one.
Quinn helped Ryan first, tightening the straps across his shoulders. Ryan gave a tight nod, expression blank, eyes locked on the horizon. Then Nora. Then himself.
They rose.
Below, the city sprawled—broken, burning. Smoke rose from Union Square. The Hudson shimmered with oil. Rooftops sagged. Sirens wailed, faint and fading.
Quinn looked down.
In a nearby alley, half-obscured by rooftop piping and ventilation shafts, a figure stood watching.
An infected.
It didn't run. Didn't hide.
Just stared.
The rot had eaten half its face—jawbone bare—but the other side still held something human.
Quinn felt the hair rise on his arms.
They were getting out.
But the war wasn't over.
Not even close.
And they weren't ready.