Finally, the man lowered the rifle an inch. Not enough to relax. Just enough to show I wasn't about to die here.
"We don't have time for this," he muttered, scanning the rooftops. His stance was rigid, like every second wasted was a sin. "The dead'll be on us in minutes."
The woman rolled her eyes but didn't lower her pipe. "So what? We drag around a half-dead girl and wait for her to sprout fangs? That's your plan?"
I tightened my grip on Amy, who sagged against me, her skin clammy under my arm. "She's not turning. Not yet. And if you're going to kill her, you'll have to go through me first."
The man studied me for a long beat. His eyes—cold, calculating—landed on the shears clenched in my fist. A pathetic weapon compared to his rifle. His lips twitched, almost a smirk, but not quite.
"You've got guts," he said finally. "Stupid guts, but guts."
He glanced at the woman. "We move. Now."
She scowled. "Seriously? You're letting them tag along?"
"Not letting," he said, already turning. "They'll either keep up or they won't."
The woman muttered something sharp in Spanish under her breath, then followed, pipe swinging loose at her side.
I hesitated, looking at Amy. Her eyes fluttered, half-closed, but she managed a faint nod. "Go… please."
So I did.
We followed them out of the alley, weaving through shadows as the moans swelled behind us. The rifleman moved like he'd memorized the streets, checking corners, scanning rooftops. The woman kept glancing back at me, at Amy, like she was waiting for me to fail, to slow down, to prove her right.
We ducked through the side door of a looted pharmacy, shelves toppled, pill bottles crunching underfoot. The man shut the door behind us and finally turned, his rifle lowered but not away.
"Name's Caleb," he said. "Used to be Army. Don't ask me which war—it doesn't matter anymore."
The woman leaned against the counter, still glaring. "Maya. And don't get comfortable. We're not babysitters."
I adjusted Amy in my arms, her head resting against my chest. She was burning up, trembling. Her lips moved, but her voice was too faint to catch.
"I'm Ethan," I said quietly. My throat felt raw. "And this is Amy."
Caleb's gaze lingered on her for a moment—measuring, calculating—before he looked back at me. "If she turns, you put her down yourself. Understand?"
I didn't answer.
Maya scoffed, pushing past us toward the stairwell. "Great. We're all dead."
Outside, the moans rose to a fever pitch. The windows rattled as the first fists slammed against the glass.
Caleb chambered a round, eyes narrowing.
"Welcome to the end of the world," he said.
The pounding on the glass didn't stop.
It came harder now—fists, elbows, even skulls slamming into the pharmacy windows. The safety glass cracked in a web of white lines. Every strike was a reminder: the dead didn't tire, didn't bleed, didn't stop.
Amy whimpered against my chest. Fever sweat soaked her hair. She was slipping.
"Second floor," Caleb ordered, motioning toward the stairwell. His voice was clipped, controlled, like a man still running drills in a war that never ended. "We can hold from there."
Maya scoffed but moved first, pipe clenched tight. "Yeah, because running upstairs with a bunch of meatheads at the door always works out."
The glass shattered behind us.
A rush of bodies spilled through the window frame, crawling over broken shards, faces tearing open as they moaned and snapped. Their eyes locked on us.
"Go!" Caleb barked.
I hauled Amy up the stairs, every muscle screaming, while Caleb took the rear. His rifle cracked, thunder in the dark, skulls exploding one by one. But for every one that fell, two more stumbled through.
We hit the second floor—a dusty storage room lined with toppled shelves and boxes of expired bandages. I set Amy down against the wall, her breathing ragged.
Caleb slammed the door shut, shoving a desk in front of it. "They'll get through eventually," he muttered, reloading.
Maya paced, eyes sharp. "So what then, soldier boy? Die like rats? Or jump out the window and save them the trouble?"
"Shut it," Caleb growled.
I knelt beside Amy, brushing damp hair from her face. Her eyes fluttered open, cloudy but still her. "Ethan…" Her voice was a rasp. "You… shouldn't stay. Don't let me—"
"Don't say it." My throat burned. "I'm not leaving you."
Her lips curved into something between a smile and a grimace. "You always were… stubborn."
The pounding grew louder. Wood splintered. Dust rained from the ceiling.
"They're coming through," Maya hissed, gripping her pipe. "And unless you've got a miracle stuffed in your medical bag, we're screwed."
Caleb took position at the door, rifle raised. His jaw clenched, scarred knuckles white. "We make our stand here."
And in that moment, with Amy fading beside me and the dead battering down the door, I realized something terrifying:
We weren't just fighting to survive the night.
We were fighting to decide what kind of monsters we were willing to become.
The door buckled. Splinters flew.
And the dead came pouring in.