James’ eyes snapped open to suffocating darkness. The air was still, heavy. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

  Something was wrong.

  They had spent the entire day packing, planning, and running through every scenario before crashing hard. Exhaustion had taken them quickly, their bodies shutting down the moment they hit the mattresses.

  So why was he awake?

  Silence pressed in around him. Then—

  A sound. Muffled. Distant.

  A scream.

  His pulse quickened. That wasn’t just in his head.

  Then came the gunshot.

  James bolted upright, only to be blinded by a sudden burst of light. He flinched, raising a hand to shield his eyes. When his vision adjusted, he found Joel standing over him, flashlight in hand, face carved from stone.

  “Good, you’re up,” Joel muttered, voice tight. No room for hesitation. He turned, moving swiftly to where Ellie lay snoring.

  She startled awake with a sharp inhale, blinking groggily. “Wuh—?” Her confusion was quickly replaced with irritation. “Joel? What the hell—”

  Joel clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes dark with urgency. “Something’s goin’ down,” he said, voice low but firm. “Something bad. We need to move.”

  Ellie’s breath hitched. She nodded, still sluggish but waking fast.

  Joel didn’t waste another second. He stood, moving to their gear. “Grab whatever you can carry. We’re leaving—”

  Gunfire tore through the tunnels.

  Screams followed. Agonized. Desperate.

  Shouted orders echoed through the underground corridors, commands barked out between bursts of gunfire. The hair on James’ arms stood on end.

  No more time.

  He and Ellie scrambled for their packs. Their guns had been confiscated, but they still had their blades. Joel had his machete; Ellie gripped her hunting knife with white-knuckled fingers.

  James reached for his military knife, but his gaze flicked to his inventory. His pistol. Still hidden away, untouched.

  For now.

  He swallowed hard. Maybe—just maybe—they could slip out of whatever the hell this was.

  Ellie’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Is it hunters?”

  Joel was silent.

  He moved toward the exit, motioning for them to follow. The moment they stepped into the hallway, a deafening alarm blared through the tunnels.

  James flinched, hands clamping over his ears as the sound hammered against his skull. The enclosed space made it unbearable, vibrations rattling his bones.

  Thirty seconds. That’s how long it lasted. Thirty seconds of sheer, eardrum-piercing hell.

  Then—silence.

  James exhaled sharply, shaking off the ringing in his ears. “Well, everyone’s awake now,” he muttered.

  Joel didn’t acknowledge the remark. He was already moving. “This way,” he ordered, taking off down the corridor.

  James and Ellie followed without question.

  Joel’s memory guided them, leading them through the maze of tunnels toward Akils office. They ran—footsteps pounding, lungs burning—turn after turn, deeper into the underground.

  Then—

  RAHHH!

  A blur of movement.

  An infected lunged at Joel from the shadows.

  Joel didn’t hesitate. One clean swing—his machete sliced through rotted flesh, the head hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

  James’ stomach twisted. Infected.

  Had the horde found them?

  His thoughts spiraled, but Ellie was already yanking at his arm. “James, move!” she snapped.

  No time to think. He ran.

  The gunfire ahead grew louder, sharper. They were close.

  One last turn—

  James’ breath caught in his throat.

  Bodies. Everywhere.

  The hallway was painted in blood, a battlefield of mangled corpses. Most were infected, but among them were humans—survivors, fallen where they stood. Some of the bodies had their throats ripped open, others their intestines, gore was everywhere.

  And at the end of the corridor—

  Akil and his people were fighting for their lives.

  A pack of infected came sprinting toward them, hunger twisting their grotesque faces.

  James didn’t think. His body moved before his mind caught up.

  He sprinted forward.

  Ellie shouted for him to stop, but he was already grabbing a gun from a fallen body, yanking it free from stiff fingers.

  He took aim.

  BANG.

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  BANG.

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  Two infected dropped. The rest were cut down just as quickly—Joel and Ellie had rushed in, joining the Lanterns in the fight.

  Silence fell over the blood-soaked tunnel, the only sound left was their ragged breathing.

  James turned, eyes locking onto Akil. “Akil!” he called.

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  The man’s head snapped toward him, his expression dark. Anger, exhaustion—pure rage flickered behind his eyes.

  Before James could say another word, Akil stormed forward and shoved him. Hard.

  James stumbled back.

  Joel was in front of him in an instant, stepping between them.

  A beat of silence as they stared at each other. A silent standoff.

  Then Akil pointed a shaking finger at James, voice a furious growl. “You wanna know what’s going on?” he spat. “What’s going on is that horde you stirred up somehow found our base, and now they’re tearing us apart.”

  James’ stomach dropped.

  Akil’s fists clenched at his sides. “I should—”

  A hand landed on his shoulder.

  Peter, the psychiatrist. His expression was grim. “We don’t have time for this,” he said, voice heavy with exhaustion.

  Akil inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. For a moment, he looked ready to explode. But then—

  He exhaled, forcing himself to stand down.

  His eyes flicked back to James, still burning with unspoken fury, but he turned away.

  “Everyone!” Akil’s voice boomed through the tunnel. “If you don’t have a gun, grab one! Stock up on ammo!” His voice was sharp, commanding. “We’re going to back up our people— right now. Every single one of them is fighting for their lives. Move!”

  A chorus of voices erupted in response. Hu-rahs, battle cries, the clatter of weapons being picked up.

  James stood frozen.

  Then—

  Joel’s voice. Low, firm.

  “James.”

  He looked up.

  Joel’s eyes were heavy. Not with anger, not with disappointment—but Exhaustion.

  “You wanna start making up for your mistakes?” Joel asked, his voice steady, even. “Then do everything in your power to help.”

  James swallowed hard.

  Joel handed him a rifle.

  “Grab a gun,” he said, voice grim. “And let’s back ‘em up.”

  .-.-.-.-.-.

  The group of survivors ran toward the main garage section of the Lanterns' home, the stray straggler infected proving no problem for the ten of them to take down with precision and efficiency.

  James’ head was filled with nothing but the desire to kill every last infected in this underground complex. Despite the guilt clawing at his insides, despite the anger flooding through him—toward himself, toward the infected tearing through the Lanterns—he couldn’t help the anticipation building in his chest like a storm. It rose with every step, every echoing footfall, every bloodcurdling scream in the distance.

  He tried to suppress it, to bury it beneath discipline and focus. He told himself this wasn’t about revenge or violence. This was about protecting people. About making up for what he’d done.

  But his hands itched, his pulse quickened, and he couldn’t deny the ugly truth pressing at the back of his mind—

  He wanted this.

  The familiar weight of the rifle in his hands grounded him as they neared the main garage.

  And then—they emerged.

  The corridor opened up into the vast underground parking garage, and they were met with pure carnage.

  Gunfire roared, echoing off concrete walls like thunder in a tomb. Arrows sailed in streaks of black and silver. Smoke clung to the air, thick and acrid, mixing with the coppery stench of blood.

  The garage was a battlefield.

  Bodies of survivors lay twisted and broken across the pavement—some half-eaten, some torn open, entrails glistening in the emergency lights. A young man with a bow still gripped in hand sat slumped against a pillar, his eyes glassy, throat torn wide open. Nearby, a woman screamed for help as she dragged a friend—missing both legs—behind a barricade made of shattered desks and overturned furniture.

  The Lanterns’ stronghold was bleeding.

  Sniper nests built from scrap metal and car doors fired down into the swarming infected. Makeshift barricades, reinforced with rebar and welded steel, strained beneath the weight of bodies—living and dead. The ramp leading down from the surface was crawling with infected, a living flood of claws, teeth, and shrieking fury.

  And still they came.

  The infected were relentless. Clickers slammed into walls headfirst, trying to claw their way over. Runners leapt over corpses, teeth snapping. Stalkers darted between cover, dragging survivors into the dark. The walls ran red. The floors were slick with blood. And it didn’t stop.

  James didn’t hesitate. He raised his rifle, took aim at a sprinting infected closing in on a barricade, and fired.

  Crack

  The bullet blew through the creature’s skull, bone and brain splattering the wall behind it.

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  He loaded another round and moved forward.

  The rest of the group spread out, falling into the chaos with practiced motion. A man beside James slid into cover behind an overturned truck, pistol firing with quick bursts. Another woman rushed to a collapsed sniper, grabbing their rifle and taking their place without a second’s pause.

  James pressed himself against a concrete pillar, breath sharp and shallow. He scanned the mass through his scope, seeing them pile onto each other, clawing over bodies like insects.

  The air was filled with nothing but death and noise—screams, gunfire, the guttural howls of the infected. James moved from cover, rifle raised, firing into the chaos.

  Crack

  A Runner’s head snapped back mid-leap, its momentum carrying it into a barricade with a wet crunch.

  Currency 14(+1)

  Crack

  He aimed at another sprinting infected—but the shot went wide, shattering concrete behind it.

  He adjusted—

  Crack

  Missed again. The infected stumbled but kept coming until someone else put it down.

  James swore under his breath and reloaded, hands shaking slightly. He forced himself to breathe. Focus.

  He sprinted forward through the gore-slicked garage, boots slipping slightly on blood as he fired round after round, reloading on instinct, moving like he’d done this his whole life. And maybe he had—maybe he was always meant for this.

  A survivor—a woman in her thirties with a shaved head and a bow slung across her shoulder—was struggling with a wound to her leg. She limped across the open floor, and James spotted an infected barreling toward her from the side.

  Without hesitation, he lifted the rifle and fired.

  Crack

  The infected dropped instantly, twitching violently before going still.

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  The woman turned toward James, eyes wide, relief painting across her face even through the blood. She opened her mouth to thank him.

  And that’s when they came.

  Three Clickers burst from the smoke behind her, their screams shrill and alien.

  She didn’t even have time to scream.

  They were on her in an instant, ripping, tearing. Blood sprayed upward in thick arcs as they tore into her flesh, the sounds of snapping bone and wet chewing echoing through the garage. Her body spasmed once. Twice. Then stopped.

  James stood frozen for a heartbeat, chest heaving, rifle raised.

  Then rage took over.

  He fired at the nearest Clicker—

  Crack

  The bullet punched through its throat, sending it tumbling backward in a heap of flailing limbs and shrieking fungus.

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  The second Clicker turned toward him and charged.

  He tried to raise his rifle again, but fumbled—

  The shot went wide.

  He barely had time to curse before the beast slammed into him like a battering ram, and the two of them went down hard, crashing into the blood-soaked concrete. The rifle was knocked from his hands, skidding across the floor.

  The Clicker snapped its jaws inches from his face, fungal growths splitting as it screamed, the sound sharp and primal. James grunted, straining to keep it back, his arms locked against its chest. Its claws raked across his shoulder, tearing into the fabric of his jacket.

  He reached for his belt. Fingers scrabbled, slipped on the handle of his knife once—twice—before finally yanking it free.

  He shoved it upward, but the angle was off—

  The blade glanced off the jawbone.

  The Clicker thrashed. He shifted desperately and drove it upward again with everything he had.

  This time, the blade pierced the soft flesh beneath the Clicker’s chin and jammed straight into its brainstem.

  The creature convulsed violently—And then went still.

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  Thick, decayed blood splattered across James’ face, oozing into his mouth. It tasted like rot, like bile and mold, like death. He gagged but didn’t stop grinning.

  His teeth bared. His eyes wild. He shoved the corpse off him, adrenaline roaring through his veins.

  Then—

  A weight crashed into him from behind.

  The third Clicker.

  It drove him into the floor, his breath stolen by the impact. Pain shot through his ribs as the thing clawed at him, screeching. Its fungus-covered hands slammed into his chest, and its teeth came down fast.

  James twisted violently, jamming his forearm into its throat to push it back. He reached for his knife—still slick with blood—but the Clicker batted his hand away. Its claws tore across his forearm, splitting skin open.

  He shouted and slammed his head into its skull. Once. Twice. The fungal plates made it like headbutting a wall, but it bought him seconds.

  The Clicker roared in his face—

  And then its scream was cut short.

  A knife sank into its neck from the side, and it thrashed, choking on its own blood.

  Ellie was there, face twisted in fury, jamming the blade in deeper with both hands.

  She wrenched it free, and the Clicker collapsed beside James, twitching once before going limp.

  James lay there, panting, blood soaking into his shirt. Ellie looked down at him, eyes wide, chest heaving.

  “Jesus, James,” she muttered. “You okay?”

  He looked up at her, coughing as he wiped the black gore from his lips.

  Then he laughed. A low, broken sound.

  “I think I’m better than okay.”

  Ellie raised an eyebrow, breathing hard. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

  James rolled over and grabbed his rifle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, blood dripping from his fingers. “But I’m still alive.”

  James stumbled forward a few steps, blood trailing from his fingers as he gripped his rifle. The adrenaline was still pumping, making his limbs feel light, disconnected. Everything around him was chaos—gunfire, screams, smoke—and yet he felt oddly still, like he was floating above it all.

  Then Ellie grabbed his arm.

  “Wait—hold up,” she said, her voice tight. She turned him toward her and her eyes immediately locked onto the long, jagged gashes torn into his forearm.

  The skin was split open, raw and red, already beginning to swell around the edges. Dried and wet blood mixed in rivulets, seeping into the sleeve of his jacket.

  Her face went pale.

  “Shit,” she whispered.

  James looked down at it. “It’s not that deep,” he muttered, even though he could see the muscle twitching beneath the torn skin.

  Ellie didn’t respond. Her hands were already moving, trembling as she gripped his sleeve and yanked it up higher, examining the wound closer. She looked like she was about to say something—then thought better of it.

  She looked around, eyes scanning the battlefield, and then without a word she pulled him toward a collapsed concrete pillar in a dark corner of the garage, away from the chaos. A broken-down vending machine lay half on its side, shielding them just enough from view.

  “Sit. Now,” she ordered.

  James obeyed. Ellie crouched beside him, yanking her backpack open with fumbling hands. She pulled out a dirty roll of gauze and a half-used bottle of antiseptic.

  “Jesus, you’re shaking,” James said, trying to laugh. It came out weaker than he meant it to.

  “Shut up,” Ellie muttered, biting the edge of the gauze roll as she soaked a pad in antiseptic. She didn’t warn him—just slammed it onto the wound.

  James hissed through his teeth, back arching. “Fucking hell—”

  “I said shut up.”

  Her hands moved fast but unsteady, wrapping the gauze tighter than it probably needed to be. The layers bunched and slipped, her fingers moving too quickly for precision. Her eyes kept darting up, scanning the surrounding shadows, watching the battlefield just beyond their corner of brief safety.

  Once the wound was covered, she grabbed his wrist hard enough to make him wince.

  “You listen to me, alright?” she said, voice low. Urgent. “Scratches don’t always do it. It’s not a guarantee. It’s not like a bite.”

  James looked at her. “You sure?”

  “No,” she said, immediately, “but there’s a chance. A small chance. So you just—pray you're one of the lucky ones.”

  Her voice cracked on the last word.

  For a second, James thought she was talking to him.

  But her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

  Oh, she was talking to herself.

  She pressed her palm flat over the bandage, holding it there like she could stop something from slipping through. Her jaw was clenched tight, her breath shallow.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Because if he did, she might break down.

  So instead, he sat in silence, watching the blood from his arm soak through the gauze, and listened to the sounds of the fight continuing on without them.