I knew Aurora was good with a sword. She had been a kendo practitioner for eight years with the trophies and medals to prove it. I had seen her compete once. It was a display of effortless precision where each strike was calculated and controlled. The judges called her a prodigy, and other competitors whispered about her with equal parts admiration and envy.
But this was not humanly possible.
She had cut those things apart with sheer, unstoppable force rather than just technique honed over years of training. These zombies were not shambling horror-movie fodder. They were fast and strong. Their movements were erratic and unpredictable, resembling puppets with half-broken strings. They moved like predators, their silver eyes tracking our movements with a terrible intelligence that should not have existed in the dead.
And she had butchered them.
The silver sword in her hand had sung through the air, leaving only dismembered limbs and gory smears in its wake. With each swing, it left trails of ethereal light like the afterimages of sparklers on summer nights. The sound was otherworldly. It was a high, crystalline note that vibrated in my chest and set my teeth on edge. It carved through them like a blade through mist, as if they were made of something lesser that had no right to stand before her.
One strike had cleaved through three of them at once. Their bodies separated along impossibly clean lines, and the cuts were cauterized by strange silver energy pulsing from the blade. Blood spattered across her face in a fine mist, the droplets catching the flickering fluorescent lights like macabre diamonds. It mixed with sweat and trailed down her cheek in thin rivulets of diluted crimson. Even covered in gore, she looked transcendent, like a warrior goddess dealing judgment with each swing of an impossible weapon.
Yet, Aurora was breathing hard. Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts. Each exhale carried a small, almost imperceptible whimper. There was a faint tremor in her grip, and her knuckles were white against the sword's hilt. For all that power and the ease with which she had cut them down, it had taken something out of her. Her eyes, normally a steady and deep blue, were wide with a mixture of awe and horror. She had limits, and that was all I needed to know.
Survival trumped curiosity. We needed to get out of there immediately. Aurora grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward with an iron-tight grip. I could feel her pulse hammering against my skin, racing in perfect counterpoint to my own frantic heartbeat. She moved like a force of nature as she carved a path through the chaos. Her sword still glowed while it tore through flesh and bone like paper. The blade seemed to anticipate her thoughts, catching light that should not exist in the dim corridor.
Behind us, more of them poured through the doorway. They were former students with silver eyes and porcelain-cracked skin, hungry for whatever life essence still flowed through our veins. The sounds they made were not quite human anymore. It was something between a growl and a scream that scraped against the primitive parts of my brain and triggered every flight response evolution had ever gifted us.
I noticed her fingers shaking. It was not from fear, not yet. She was still running on raw adrenaline, her pupils dilated and her breathing controlled despite its rapidity. But her body knew what her mind had not caught up to yet. This was not just another fight. This was not sparring in a controlled dojo with padded floors and referees. This was real, and she was killing people.
These were people we had sat beside in lectures this morning. They were people who had dreams and families and futures, all erased by whatever cosmic horror had descended upon us. The silver glow in their eyes marked them as something other, but the faces were still recognizably human. Dr. Martinez from the physics department. Jenny from the coffee cart. The quiet guy who always sat three rows back and wore band shirts.
I squeezed her hand hard to ground her. It was just enough to remind her she was not alone in this nightmare and to say what I could not put into words. I see you. I know what this is costing you. Keep going anyway.
She did not say anything, but her grip tightened in return. It was a silent acknowledgment of the bond forged in blood and terror that now connected us more surely than years of casual acquaintance ever had. We pushed through the last wave of bodies and slipped past clawing fingers. The air was thick with the metallic smell of spilled blood and the sharp, electric scent of whatever energy now animated these former humans.
A hand snatched at my jacket. I felt the fabric tear and felt nails scrape against my back, hot and sharp. Aurora pivoted, her sword flashing in a silver arc that separated the hand from its owner. I did not look back to see who it had been.
Finally, we reached the emergency exit. The heavy metal door with its glowing red sign looked like salvation itself. I slammed my shoulder against the push bar, and the impact jarred through my bones. The door flung open under our combined weight and slammed against the wall with a loud clang that echoed down the stairwell like a gunshot. Aurora followed as I took the lead, bolting down the stairs two at a time. My sneakers slipped on the concrete and my hand gripped the railing so hard that the metal bit into my palm.
My lungs burned. Each breath was a desperate gasp. Behind us, the door slammed shut again, cutting off the sounds of pursuit for the moment.
"Basement," I panted, forcing my brain to work through the white noise of terror. "Nobody should be there. No people, no danger."
Aurora did not argue. She just ran. Blood had dried on her face in dark streaks, and her ponytail was half-undone. Even disheveled and terrified, there was a controlled power to her movements. The stairwell was eerily empty. The further we went, the colder the air became, carrying the musty scent of rarely disturbed spaces. The distant hum of the building's generators grew louder, filling the silence where the screams had been just minutes before.
Then we reached a door. It was heavy and industrial with a small, wire-reinforced window. I shoved it open, the hinges protesting with a metallic shriek that made us both flinch. It was dark, empty, and safe. We staggered inside as the sickly yellow light of a single bulb revealed a maintenance room. We slammed the door shut behind us, the solid thunk of metal against the frame sounding like the final note of a funeral dirge. I fumbled with the lock.
The click as it engaged was the most satisfying sound I had heard all day.