Nathan's first instinct was to glare at the man across from him. The sheer blunt look of surprise from the order must have hit the other harder than expected. As if Nathan had just casually stepped over a line Ethan had thought was immovable. He saw the man, the suspect, he told himself, rub at his hand, fingers tracing the strange mark there like it was both a comfort and a curse.
"Back?" Ethan's tone carried no disbelief, only finality. "Back to what? Back to that life, to that cell? I'm not going back."
Nathan felt his stomach twist. "But we can't stay here. I got my daughter to think about. I can't…"
Ethan's sigh was long, tired. "I'll try to get you back, but for me. No way. I'll be locked up for life if I go back."
The words landed like stones in Nathan's chest. He had to ask. "Did you kill that man in the cell with you?"
"No," Ethan said flatly. "But there's no way I can prove I didn't. Even if your buddies back at the station believed me on anything I said, I'd still be locked up. Government doesn't like things it can't explain. They'd keep me somewhere off any official paperwork and I'd either be pulled apart by scientists to figure this out or made to do it like a fucking puppet on strings. No. I'm done following the rules."
Nathan leaned back in his chair, trying to keep his expression neutral. The air between them felt heavier now, like the room itself had taken a side. He was used to criminals bluffing, exaggerating, spinning half-truths. This did not feel like any of that. Ethan was not bluffing. He was telling Nathan how it was, as if the decision had already been made long before Nathan asked.
The thought of his daughter's face pushed in, unwanted but unavoidable. It pressed against every argument, every objection. Staying here meant dying here, whether from starvation or whatever nightmare things roamed the halls. Going back was the only way to see her again. And this man, this stranger who could open doors into hell, or wherever they were had just told him he was not coming with. He could almost live with that, but still…
Nathan realized then that if they got out of this place, it would not be because they worked together. It would be because Ethan let him go. That thought chilled him more than anything they had faced so far.
"I can speak for you," Nathan said, leaning forward. "Tell them what happened. We get back together and we can figure this out."
Ethan shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. You probably mean well, but if I can get you back, you might as well just pretend I knocked you out to escape. You tell people about this and you'll be in the next room over in the psych ward. Me, I'm gonna' take a few days. Rest and recover. Figure this stuff out. Then I'll try to get you back. I mean, how hard can it be to survive a zombie apocalypse, anyway?"
Nathan let the words hang there, nodding as if he understood. Inside, something shifted. If Ethan was not going to go back willingly, or at least make an attempt now, there might not be another chance later.
The problem was the man was not just dangerous in the way cornered people could be. He was dangerous in the way trained people were. The fight with that half-faced zombie thing had proved it. Ethan moved with the kind of economy that came from experience, and he had a weapon.
Nathan's eyes slid to his own service piece resting on the table next to Ethan. He would have to try for it. He could not hope to overpower him barehanded without ending up on the floor, bleeding or worse. Getting close enough to take it without drawing suspicion would be the trick. Maybe while Ethan was asleep. Maybe while he was distracted, eating or checking the hallway.
He would need to pick his moment. One mistake and the man would see it coming, and then it would not be a contest at all.
Nathan forced his gaze back to the man, nodding slightly to himself while Ethan continued to munch on the goods he had wrested out from the old vending machine. Outwardly he looked like a tired man trying to make sense of an impossible situation. Inside, he was already building the steps in his head, rehearsing the moment his hand would close around that grip.
Nathan's attention drifted as Ethan stood, the chair legs scraping the tile. His eyes went to the wall, where a faded map of the mall was pinned beneath a corkboard frame. Ethan picked up the pistol in one smooth motion, letting it hang loose at his side as he stepped closer to the map.
Nathan's gaze tracked the weapon.
Ethan leaned in, studying the colored blocks and labels. "If this is right, we're here," he muttered, tapping a finger against a red You Are Here marker. "First thing is figuring out the quickest route out of the service corridors and out of the mall," His eyes moved along the paths marked in pale yellow. "The Huntin' Shack… huh. Could be useful." His finger traced farther. "Ripper's Blades? Never heard of it… but it sounds…" He trailed off, brow furrowing. "…like I have. But when...where?"
Nathan did not give a damn about any of it. His focus stayed locked on the pistol, watching for when Ethan's attention slipped.
Then it happened. Ethan's head jerked back slightly, as if a memory had snapped into place. "That's it! I know where we—"
Nathan took his chance.
He lunged forward, both hands clamping around the pistol. Ethan's eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before his whole body came alive, twisting to keep control of the weapon. The breakroom erupted into chaos, grunts and the sharp scrape of boots and shoes against tile. Nathan used every bit of his police restraint training he had, trying to torque the gun away while keeping his head clear of the barrel.
Ethan slammed a stiff arm into him, attempting to drive him back toward the tables. Nathan responded with sheer panic-driven force, wrenching at the weapon like it was the last thing keeping him alive.
The gun went off with a deafening crack. The first round punched a hole through the breakroom door, splinters of wood raining to the floor. A second shot tore into the wall, ripping through the center of the mall map and leaving a dark, ragged crater.
Ethan's knee drove into Nathan's thigh, but Nathan bit down on the pain and shoved forward. The third shot blew through the left side body of the vending machine, showering them both in shards of plastic as more candy bars and chips spilled onto the floor.
Ethan's strength was overwhelming, but Nathan caught his boot on one of the fallen chairs. He twisted with it, using the stumble to jerk Ethan's balance just enough. The Ranger went down hard, his back slamming into the floor with a hollow thud.
Nathan ripped the pistol free and staggered back, chest heaving.
Ethan lay on his back, his expression shifting from fury to surprise as he saw the muzzle of the pistol was steady now, aimed squarely at his head. Nathan's finger tightened on the trigger, his own breath loud in his ears.
Nathan's hands were tight on the grip, the front sight fixed on Ethan's forehead. His own breathing sounded too loud in his ears, but he did not let the barrel waver.
"You're going to get us back," Nathan said. His voice was steady but raised. and his heart was pounding hard enough to make his vision twitch at the edges. "Now."
Ethan lay still, one knee bent, one arm flat to the floor. His eyes were locked on Nathan's, sharp and unblinking. "I can't. Not like that. I don't even know how to make it work."
"You said that mark on your hand opens doors to other.... I don't know what. You might get off on this shit, but I don't. Get us back, now!"
"Are you fucking serious? I can't go back yet." Ethan's tone was flat, but the tension in his jaw said he was calculating angles. "This isn't the place I want to be, either. I haven't had a chance to rest since this morning. Just give me a couple days, and I'll figure it out. This doesn't help."
"Incentive to live might be a big help," Nathan said, his voice dropping. "Because if I have to put a round in you, I will."
Ethan shook his head once. "If you shoot me, you'll never see home again. This mark's the only thing I've seen open a doorway. You kill me, you might as well blow your own brains out while you're at it."
Nathan's grip tightened. "Maybe, you're right. I can't kill you, but I can just do one knee." He shifted the weapon down to Ethan's leg.
"Yeah, a bullet in the old knee bone will get the magic juices flowing. Fucking jackass!" Ethan spat. "If I knew how to make it happen, we wouldn't still be in this mall. Think about it. I'm not dragging my ass around here for fun. You want to get back to your kid. I get it. But if you shoot me, you're throwing away the only chance you've got."
For a long moment neither of them moved. Nathan's finger was heavy on the trigger, his mind flipping between the image of his daughter's face and the possibility that the man on the floor was playing him.
Then, faint but clear, something scraped against the hallway door. Both men froze, eyes cutting toward the sound. The scrape against the door came again, softer this time. Then a sound slid through after it, curling into the room like smoke.
A chuckle. Thin, rasping, the edges catching like paper tearing.
Nathan's grip on the pistol shifted by instinct. Ethan's head tilted just enough to listen, eyes narrowing.
Then the voice came. "Little piggies… little piggies…" It sang the words slow, each syllable dragging. The tone was off in every way, high and lilting but cracked like old porcelain. "Let me in! I've got candy…"
The last word stretched, breaking into a wheeze that somehow still sounded like laughter. Nathan's skin prickled. The door was solid, heavy service-grade wood, but he suddenly felt every inch of it as paper-thin. The voice pressed through as if the speaker were already inside.
Ethan shifted his shoulders against the floor, never breaking eye contact with Nathan.
"This won't be good," he murmured.
The voice on the other side giggled, the sound jittery and wet, like bubbles popping in a thick liquid. "Don't be shy, little piggies… I heard you. Nasty little piggies shouldn't squabble. Makes the meat saltier!"
The scrape came again, higher up this time, as if long fingers were trailing along the door's surface. A faint metallic clink followed, then a slow knock.
Nathan did not move the gun from Ethan's head, but his eyes kept darting toward the door.
"Come on," the voice whispered, suddenly close to the wood, the breath almost audible. "Open up. Just a taste. One bite. You don't want me to huff and puff now, do you?"
The knock became a steady tap, each one louder than the last, until it was a flat, deliberate pounding that made the doorframe quiver.
Ethan's voice stayed low. "You want to keep aiming that thing at me, fine. But in about thirty seconds, you're going to wish you were covering that door."
Nathan swallowed, his finger still tense on the trigger, the sound from outside thudding into his bones. The pounding stopped all at once, leaving a silence so heavy it made the vending machine's faint hum seem deafening. Then the chuckle returned, distant now, trailing off down the hallway.
The silence after the retreating chuckle stretched thin and brittle. Every sound in the room seemed too loud. The faint hum of the vending machine, the quiet rasp of Nathan's breath through his nose, and the tick of cooling metal from the pistol in his hands all seemed amplified in the stillness.