"Damn it!"
A second ago, Shane had been wrestling with his conscience—save the man or stay hidden. The moment that idiot screamed "I see you!", every shred of compassion died.
That stupid son of a bitch.
Shane's eyes went cold.
In this world, stupid and selfish survivors were far more dangerous than brainless walkers. That man knew exactly what shouting would do. He just didn't care. As long as he got saved, everyone else could burn.
Save him? To hell with that.
The only question now was how to survive the disaster this moron had just brought down on them—while protecting a kid.
The screams hadn't even faded before the groaning started.
"Urrgh... urrgh..."
It came from everywhere. Every direction. Like sharks scenting blood, the walkers that had been wandering aimlessly suddenly had purpose. They turned in unison, converging on the office building.
The scattered shuffling became a wave. Dozens of feet dragging across asphalt, dense and relentless—like cockroaches swarming across a kitchen floor.
The injured man finally realized his mistake.
"No... no! Open the door!" He slammed his fists against the glass. "Please! Let me in!"
Each impact rang through the building. Each one drew more walkers closer.
You're killing yourself, you idiot.
A walker lunged. The man's back hit the door, and then he was face-to-face with a rotting corpse, its lips peeled back to expose blackened gums.
"Ahhh—!"
The scream cut off wet.
Blood splattered across the glass. The sounds that followed—tearing, chewing, feeding—were worse than the screaming.
Louis watched it happen from ten feet away.
His stomach heaved. His face went white. But his adult soul clamped down hard on the urge to vomit, because panic meant death.
The man was gone. And the blood was drawing more of them.
Walkers surrounded the building now, pressing against every window and door. Bloated hands slammed against glass. Cracks spiderwebbed across panes that were already damaged.
We're trapped.
"Louis! Help me!"
Shane had already abandoned the window. He was shoving against a massive oak desk in the center of the lobby—solid wood, had to weigh three hundred pounds.
Louis snapped into motion.
He threw himself against the desk, bracing his feet, pushing with everything he had. His arms burned. His sneakers slipped on the tile.
"One... two... push!"
Shane's veins bulged. Louis's face turned red. Inch by inch, the desk scraped across the floor until it slammed against the main entrance—now smeared with blood on the other side.
"Not done!" Shane pointed at the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Filing cabinets! Move!"
No time to breathe. They sprinted to the heavy metal cabinets and started shoving. One down. Two. Three—
CRASH.
Glass exploded inward.
A walker forced its way through the breach, upper body thrashing, clawed hands reaching for the nearest target.
Louis.
"Watch out!"
Shane yanked him back, raising his revolver—then stopped.
No. Gunfire draws more.
In that split-second of hesitation, Louis moved.
He'd spotted it earlier: a metal crowbar lying next to a collapsed cabinet. The walker was still struggling to pull its legs through the window frame, movements slow and clumsy.
Now.
Louis lunged. Grabbed the crowbar. Swung.
The metal connected with the back of the walker's knee with a wet crack. The joint buckled. The thing lost its balance and crashed face-first onto the office floor.
Louis didn't stop.
He raised the crowbar high, a cold light in his blue eyes, and brought it down on the back of the walker's skull.
Thud.
The sound was heavy. Final. Like a hammer hitting a watermelon.
The walker's head caved in. It twitched twice and went still.
Louis stood over it, panting, arms shaking from the recoil. The crowbar nearly slipped from his grip.
Shane stared.
He'd expected the kid to freeze. To scream. To be eleven.
Instead, Louis had just caved in a walker's skull without flinching.
But Shane was a cop. He recovered fast.
"Good job, kid!"
He seized the opening, and together they shoved a filing cabinet into the breach, sealing it.
"Upstairs! Now!"
Louis grabbed his suitcase. Shane grabbed Louis. They bolted for the stairwell.
Behind them, the pounding intensified. Glass shattered. Wood groaned. The barricade wouldn't hold forever.
They took the stairs two at a time, bursting onto the second floor. Shane's eyes swept the corridor and locked onto a door at the end.
Manager's Office.
"That one!"
They crashed through. Shane locked the door, and together they shoved a heavy leather sofa against it.
Finally—finally—they stopped.
Both of them slumped to the floor, backs against the sofa, chests heaving. Sweat soaked through their clothes. Neither spoke.
The room was silent except for the muffled sounds from below: groaning, shuffling, the occasional crash of furniture giving way. A reminder that safety was temporary.
Minutes passed. The noise faded to sporadic thumps. The horde was losing interest—for now.
Shane and Louis looked at each other and exhaled at the same time.
"Ha..." Shane's laugh came out broken. He turned to Louis, attempting a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Looks like we're spending the night here, kid."
He clapped a hand on Louis's shoulder.
"Hope you don't have a curfew. Your folks might ground you."
Louis looked at Shane's forced levity. He understood what the man was doing—trying to lighten the mood, trying to be kind.
He could play along. Make up a story about worried parents waiting at home.
But something in him—maybe exhaustion, maybe strategy, maybe just the weight of two lifetimes—decided on a different approach.
"Don't worry, Officer," he said quietly. "I don't have a home."
Shane's smile froze.
"..."