The door clicked shut behind them like a trap resetting.
Daniel didn't breathe right away. The air outside hit him hot and sour — smoke, gasoline, something rotten riding the wind. Somewhere nearby glass shattered again, the sound sharp enough to make his shoulders jump.
Aaron moved first, slipping along the building line, body low, steps measured. Daniel followed because he didn't have a better choice.
The street beyond the alley looked like a war zone that had lost its rules.
Firelight pulsed off broken windows. A sedan tore past the intersection too fast, tires screaming, its bumper dragging something dark that smeared across the pavement before snapping free. Someone ran behind it waving their arms, yelling for help — and then two shapes broke from a doorway and tackled them into the street.
Daniel looked away too late.
The person's scream cut off when teeth found their throat. The sound wasn't cinematic — it was wet, choking, the desperate noise of someone trying to breathe through blood.
Aaron grabbed Daniel's sleeve and dragged him deeper into shadow. "Eyes forward."
Daniel swallowed hard, forcing himself to move.
They ducked behind an abandoned car. Its interior light glowed weakly, illuminating a child's booster seat strapped into the back. A pink shoe lay on the floorboard.
Daniel's chest tightened.
Aaron leaned in close. "We need something big. A van. Shuttle. Box truck. Enough space for everyone."
"Seatbelts," Daniel muttered automatically.
Aaron gave him a flat look. "We need wheels."
They moved again, slipping between parked cars. Every few steps Daniel heard something — a moan, a thud, a ragged breath that didn't belong to the living.
A man sprinted across the street clutching a backpack, glancing over his shoulder. He made it five steps before something slammed into him from the side. They went down hard. The man kicked, screamed, tried to crawl — and more bodies piled on.
Daniel heard fabric tear.
He heard the sound of chewing.
His stomach twisted.
Aaron didn't slow.
They reached a church shuttle van and hope flared — until Aaron gestured silently toward the rear window.
A face pressed against the glass from the inside. Slack. Gray. Eyes barely open.
Daniel felt something inside him sag. "God…"
Aaron shook his head once. "Keep moving."
They passed a burning storefront. Heat rolled off it in waves, bringing with it the smell of melting plastic and something worse — cooked flesh. Daniel gagged and covered his mouth with his sleeve.
A woman crouched behind a dumpster clutching a phone to her ear, whispering prayers. Daniel slowed instinctively.
Aaron's voice cut low and hard. "We don't have room."
Daniel's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep walking.
They turned down a quieter residential street. Parked cars lined both sides, doors hanging open like abandoned mouths. A television blared from a porch until the screen flickered and died with a hollow pop.
Aaron pointed to a minivan in a driveway.
They approached slowly.
The smell hit them first — metallic, stale.
Daniel peered inside and saw a handprint smeared across the seat. Dark. Sticky.
"No," he whispered.
Aaron exhaled sharply. "We don't stay."
Daniel's voice came out sharper than he meant. "You treat everything human like a threat."
"It is," Aaron said flatly.
The argument rose fast, like it had been waiting under their skin all night.
"My kids are back there," Daniel snapped. "You think I'm risking them for nothing?"
"And you think shouting is helping them?" Aaron hissed. "You want to ring a bell louder than the bank already did?"
Daniel stepped closer, anger burning through exhaustion. "You talk like you're the only one allowed to be cold."
Aaron's eyes flashed. "I talk like the dead don't care that you're a father."
The words landed like a punch.
Daniel shoved him.
Aaron slammed into the van door with a metallic crack.
The sound echoed down the street.
Both men froze.
A shape turned at the far end of the block.
Then another.
"Move," Aaron whispered urgently.
They ran.
Footsteps slapped pavement behind them — uneven, dragging, accelerating in bursts. Daniel felt a hand catch his jacket, cold fingers scraping through fabric. He spun, swinging the broken wood he still carried.
The impact landed with a dull, sick thud. The corpse's head snapped sideways, teeth clacking audibly, but it didn't fall.
It lunged again.
Daniel swung harder. Bone gave beneath the strike with a sound that made his stomach turn.
Aaron yanked him forward. "Don't waste hits!"
They cut into an alley.
Daniel's foot caught on a fallen bike.
He went down hard.
Pain exploded through his knee. Gravel tore into his palms. The wood slipped from his grip and skidded away.
Aaron stopped a few yards ahead.
Their eyes met.
Daniel saw it — the calculation. The hesitation.
A corpse loomed over him, mouth opening too wide, breath sour and wet. Daniel grabbed a brick and slammed it upward. The impact cracked bone; something dark sprayed across his sleeve.
The body sagged — then clawed again.
Aaron backed up another step.
"Get up," he said.
Daniel tried. His leg buckled.
More shapes filled the alley behind him.
"No," Daniel rasped. "Don't you—"
Aaron's voice went flat. "Find your own vehicle. Take your family. I'm not dying here."
Daniel stared at him like he'd been struck.
"You're leaving us?" he choked.
"You made noise," Aaron snapped. "You made this worse."
The corpse lunged again. Daniel smashed the brick down, feeling resistance give beneath it. The thing slumped, twitching.
Aaron was already moving backward.
Daniel's rage exploded. "You coward!"
Aaron didn't answer.
He turned and ran.
Daniel's shout followed him anyway, raw and broken: "GO TO HELL, AARON!"
The alley answered with movement.
More bodies turning.
More hungry faces lifting.
Daniel stood there shaking, brick slick in his hand, breath ragged, realizing Aaron hadn't just left him —
He'd left him loud.
And now the dead were closing in fast enough that Daniel could hear their teeth snapping before he even saw their faces.