Hugo sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the empty soup bowl in his hands. The warm meal had done little to ease the gnawing feeling in his stomach, both from hunger and the creeping realization that he was running out of time. His supplies were nearly gone. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  It was already late in the day—about the same time he had left last time. That thought sent a chill through him. He had died out there. Fell off the roof, bones shattered against the pavement. The pain had been unbearable, seared into his memory. Even now, he could still feel the phantom ache of broken ribs and splintered limbs.

  He inhaled sharply, shoving the thought away. He didn’t know how or why, but he had come back. And now he knew—he couldn’t rely on the roof as an escape. That route was a death trap. This time, he needed a better plan.

  Standing up, he rolled his shoulders and adjusted his backpack, making sure everything was secure. Salem stirred beside him, opening his yellow eyes to watch Hugo.

  "I have to go out again," Hugo muttered, more to himself than the cat. Salem merely flicked his tail and stretched, showing no interest in stopping him.

  Hugo glanced around his apartment, mentally running through what he still needed. Food was the priority, but if he could grab more supplies—better weapons, medical supplies, or anything else that could improve his chances—he would. He pulled his knife from its sheath, checking the edge. Still sharp. But a blade wasn’t enough.

  His gaze settled on the metal pan he had brought with him before. It wasn’t perfect, but it had weight to it. He gave it a test swing. It would do for now.

  Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the door. The weight of dread pressed against his chest, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate.

  Hugo braced himself and shoved the heavy dresser aside, muscles straining as it scraped against the floor. The noise made him wince, but there was no helping it. He needed the door clear if he had to rush back. Taking a steadying breath, he gripped the handle tightly, hesitating for just a second longer.

  Slowly, he eased the door open, scanning the hallway. The air was thick with silence, the kind that felt too heavy, too expectant. Stepping out cautiously, he pulled the door shut behind him with deliberate care, ensuring it made as little noise as possible. His fingers lingered on the knob for a moment before he finally let go.

  If things went south, he needed to make it back in one piece.

  This time, he wasn’t going to die. Or at least, he was going to try like hell to avoid it.

  There were still three other apartments on this floor. He had already looted 302, so that left two more he hadn’t checked. He moved cautiously down the hallway, stopping in front of the first door. The number plate was faded, but the lock was intact. He tried the handle—locked. Just as he expected.

  His mind flashed back to his previous attempt at escaping. A zombie had lunged at him further down the hall, which meant that apartment’s door had likely been open. If it was still unlocked, he could get inside. The thought made his stomach knot, but it also meant supplies.

  Steeling himself, he crept forward, his breath shallow. He reached the next door and pressed his palm against it. Unlike the first, this one had a slight give when he tested the handle. It wasn’t locked.

  That could only mean one thing—something had already been inside.

  Hugo clenched his jaw. He could turn back now, leave it alone. But he was running out of options. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on the pan in his hand and pushed the door open just enough to shine his flashlight inside.

  He had to be ready for whatever was waiting for him.

  As the door creaked open, Hugo immediately spotted a figure standing in the dim light of the apartment. A zombie. It faced away from him, its posture slack, head tilted slightly forward as if in a dormant state. It hadn’t noticed him yet.

  His heart pounded as he instinctively lowered his flashlight, swallowing hard. The last time he had encountered this one, it had lunged at him when he tried to reach the roof. He had pushed it away—relatively easily, actually. That memory gave him a flicker of confidence.

  Could he take it down now?

  The thought made his grip tighten around the pan. If he was careful, if he aimed right, he might be able to drop it before it even had the chance to react. But if he failed—if he missed or didn’t hit hard enough—he’d have a fight on his hands.

  He exhaled slowly, considering his options. He had to decide quickly.

  Keeping his breath shallow, Hugo took a cautious step forward. Then another. The zombie remained still, its body eerily motionless except for the occasional twitch of its fingers.

  Every muscle in Hugo’s body tensed as he crept closer, gripping the pan so tightly his knuckles turned white. He adjusted his stance, making sure his footing was solid. He needed to swing hard and aim right—one hit, and it had to go down.

  He was close enough now to hear the faint, ragged breathing from the undead’s decayed throat. The stench of rot hung thick in the air, making him want to gag, but he forced himself to focus. One more step. His heart slammed against his ribs. If he hesitated now, he was dead.

  With a sharp intake of breath, he swung the pan with all the strength he could muster. The metal connected with the side of the zombie’s head with a sickening crack.

  The force of the blow sent the creature stumbling sideways, crashing into a nearby table. Hugo barely had time to process before he reared back and swung again, this time aiming for the crown of its skull. The second hit landed with a dull thud, and the zombie crumpled to the ground in a heap.

  Panting, Hugo took a shaky step back, eyes locked on the unmoving body. His arms trembled from the exertion, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He kept his grip on the pan, ready for the thing to twitch, to lurch back to life.

  But it didn’t.

  It was down. For good.

  Hugo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He had done it. He had actually taken one down. It wasn’t clean, and it definitely wasn’t quiet, but it was dead.

  Swallowing hard, he wiped the sweat from his brow and scanned the apartment. He had made noise—too much noise. He needed to be quick. Time to loot and get out before anything else showed up.

  He turned back to the door, easing it shut to prevent anything else from wandering in. The click of the latch sounded too loud in the silence, but nothing stirred. Hugo exhaled, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension before moving further inside.

  The apartment was a mess, though not as bad as the last one. Dust coated every surface, and a faint musty smell lingered beneath the stench of rot. He stepped around the fallen zombie, scanning for anything useful. His first stop was the kitchen.

  Yanking open the cabinets, he worked quickly, pushing aside expired cans and empty boxes. He managed to scavenge a few things—another can of soup, a half-full jar of peanut butter, a box of dry pasta. Not much, but enough to last two or three days.

  Shoving the food into his backpack, he turned toward the refrigerator, hesitating. He already knew most of what was inside wouldn’t be good, but there was a chance something was still salvageable. He steeled himself, reached out, and pulled the door open.

  The stench hit him instantly, an overwhelming wave of sour rot. His stomach lurched, and he staggered back, covering his mouth. Still, through the nauseating smell, his eyes scanned quickly. Most of the food was a lost cause—meat had turned to sludge, dairy was curdled and unrecognizable—but a few things could still be useful. A sealed block of cheese, still firm to the touch, a bottle of water, and a couple of apples that had softened but weren’t completely spoiled. He grabbed them quickly before slamming the door shut, trying to shake off the nausea.

  He moved toward the hallway, searching for other supplies. A set of shelves near the entrance caught his eye. There were a few things scattered across it—old mail, an empty coffee mug, and a flashlight with rusting batteries. He left it, already having his own.

  Just as he turned toward the bathroom, a sharp thud echoed from the back of the apartment. Hugo froze. His breath caught in his throat.

  For a moment, silence. Then—a slow, dragging scrape.

  His pulse spiked. He clenched the pan in his hands, his grip turning sweaty. He hadn’t checked the entire apartment before he started looting—a mistake he now regretted. His overconfidence had nearly cost him. The noise meant something had been in here all along, and he had been blindly rummaging through cabinets without securing the place first.

  He swallowed hard, forcing his feet forward. He had to know what was back there.

  As he approached the hallway, the scraping sound stopped. The door to what must have been the bedroom was slightly ajar. He could see just a sliver of darkness beyond.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached out and nudged the door open wider.

  Something lunged.

  It was small—too small. Hugo's mind barely had time to register the shape before it was on him. A child. Or at least, what used to be one.

  A blur of rotting flesh and clawing hands burst from the shadows. Hugo barely had time to react before he stumbled backward, throwing his weight to the side as the thing crashed into the hallway wall.

  Heart hammering, he swung wildly with the pan, missing as the creature twisted unnaturally, its skeletal fingers reaching for him. It was fast—too fast. That wasn’t fair. There shouldn’t be kid zombies. That was some next-level horror movie nightmare fuel. His brain screamed at the absurdity of it, but his body had no time to react. It shrieked—a piercing, guttural sound that sent ice through his veins.

  His back hit the kitchen counter, and before he could react, the child-sized nightmare was on him. Small but impossibly strong, it clawed at him with frantic, jerking movements, its shrieks reverberating through the apartment. Hugo struggled, twisting his body to shove it away, but the creature clung to him with inhuman persistence.

  Pain flared in his arm. A sharp, burning sensation as its ragged nails tore through his sleeve, scratching deep into his skin. He let out a strangled yell, instinctively yanking his arm back, but the damage was done. His grip on the pan loosened for a split second, enough for the zombie to push forward again.

  Panic surged through him. He threw his knee up, catching the creature in the chest, sending it stumbling back for just a moment—just long enough. With a desperate swing, he brought the pan down hard on its head. The impact sent the thing crashing onto the floor, twitching, but not stopping.

  Hugo didn't hesitate. He lifted the pan again and brought it down, over and over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The wet, sickening crunch of bone giving way made bile rise in his throat, but he didn’t stop until the thing finally went still.

  Gasping, he stumbled back, clutching his bleeding arm. The wound wasn’t deep, but it stung like hell. He stared at the broken form in front of him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

  This was bad. He had made way too much noise. And worse—he was injured.

  He needed to get out. Now.